Leland’s fancy ride made him keep thinking how life seemed a lot less miserable from the inside of a car that wasn’t even out yet. Staring at the roadside as they made their way uphill, Ivan had a strange feeling while looking at the same pine trees from a million times before. Strange in the sense of being new, which for someone like him was the most disconcerting type of strangeness.

Behind the wheel, Burroughs must have noticed his quiet introspection when he decided to say:

“So?”

“So what?”

He wasn’t really in the mood to pursue the subject, which only instigated Burroughs to keep pressing it.

“You said you had something for me, back there.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Don’t tell me all you had for me was a question”, he said with a tired smile. “You know that’s not how this works.”

“No idea what ‘this’ refers to, sir.”

“Very funny. Well, like it or not, I told you all I knew about J.D.’s circus number.”

“Which was nothing, if I remember correctly.”

“Doesn’t matter. As I said, like it or not, you called me here to ask, and I answered. If you’re satisfied with the answer or not, that’s your problem.”

Ironic as it was, Ivan didn’t really have an answer for that. He wasn’t thrilled about ever telling Burroughs any information he’d keep from the authorities. On the other hand, he had to agree with the lieutenant; the only reason they still met at that point was to keep each other informed.

“Okay, I get it”, Ivan conceded. “You want something worth your while.”

“It’s not that I want it as much as it’s just your part of the deal.”

“Drago.”

An eerie silence took the place of the conversation. For a few seconds, only the hum of the new engine could be heard.

“What about him?” Burroughs asked finally, a shade of annoyance in his voice.

“Your people been keeping tabs on him, lately?”

“Why’s that, all of a sudden?”

“Just tell me what you know about him so far”, Ivan explained. “I wanna make sure we’re on the same page.”

“I mean, what is there to say? Guy keeps to himself, seems like he’s trying to put all that stuff behind him. A clean slate or something.”

“Okay, so this is what you think.”

“What’re you playing at, Ivan?”

“You catch Charlie Howard this week, by any chance?”

Burroughs just looked at him with a puzzled expression that seemed almost like a mix between insulted and amused.

“Do I look like I’m not in my sixties and falling asleep in front of the TV before nine o’clock every single day of my life? No, Ivan, I don’t watch late night talk shows, believe it or not.”

Ivan couldn’t help but laugh softly at his friend’s overly colorful way of simply saying “no”. For some reason, Burroughs’ cynicism about his rapidly-approaching old age amused him in a way few things did at that point.

“Well, then I guess you missed the last guest. You’ll never guess who.”

Burroughs was in silent puzzlement for a short while before letting out:

“Are fucking with me, right now?”

“I wish.”

“Fucking Willard Drago, on Charlie Howard…”, he verbalized to himself. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Promoting his new book, of course.”

“What does a quack like him even have to write about? Self-help? Faith healing?”

“I didn’t quite catch what the book was even about, to be honest. But I could tell it was pretty much in the ballpark of the bullshit he used to peddle at the meetings.”

“Jesus. What did Howard have to say about any of it?”

“Not much, really. I guess he was being paid by the publisher to do one of his softball routines”, Ivan said, and Burroughs snorted as he shook his head.

“Another hack of his own trade”, he then added. “I swear these TV people are as much a part of the problem as anyone. Or anything.”

In a fleeting moment of self-consciousness, Ivan was able to see the irony in spending as much time in front of the TV as he did. Burroughs was right about the TV people making everything worse in their own way. The truth, however, he knew, was that they didn’t achieve it without help.

His brief journey into self-critique was cut short as Burroughs continued:

“I’ll be honest with you, I’m a bit disappointed Drago didn’t decide to veer into whistleblower literature. Now here’s a genre a guy like him would have a lot to bring to the table.”

“Yeah, but what is he gonna do?” Ivan snapped back. “Publish an eight hundred page account of what the government is using taxpayer’s money for? With us and the zoo getting paid to put manpower on, instead of a stop to it?”

“I mean, why not?” Burroughs asked with a laugh. “Willard was always a slimy son of a bitch, but I’d read that exposé.”

“You’re delusional”, Ivan fired back again, this time almost annoyed. He didn’t know what an exposé was, but he didn’t want Burroughs realizing that mid conversation. “Those FSS bloodhounds would be onto him faster than they dropped the hammer on Kasowitz. That slop wouldn’t even get published.”

Burroughs laughed some more. He wasn’t taking the risk seriously, once again, and that frustrated Ivan in a way he was getting tired of expressing.

“I suppose not. The book that did get published, though, you said he was promoting it?”

“Yeah, gonna do signings and shit. He’s really riding that wave, like nothing’s ever happened. That weasel.”

“I’ll have someone keep an eye on him, don’t worry”, Burroughs said reassuringly. “It’ll be easier with him hiding in plain sight like he’s doing.”

Ivan wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say thanks or not. That information was more useful to Burroughs than it was to himself, which was the main reason he picked it for their little show and tell. There was a reason why he felt the need to inform Burroughs of that, however, and it was personal.

“You think this gonna help us find Partridge?”

Burroughs didn’t show any kind of reaction, but the sheer discipline he informed through his brief silence was enough of an answer in itself.

“We’ll see.”