Chapter 2
Friday, December 1, 2017
A/N: Those unfamiliar with military school or college life, especially that of the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia, may not know some of the terms here. At VMI, new cadets are referred to as "Rats" until they have, together with their classmates (Brother Rats) broken out of the Ratline and earned their place at the Institute. Being a rat involves, in essence, a very hard freshman year at college. The Ratline does not last all of freshman year, but it takes up a lot of it. It involves a substantial loss of privileges and a lot of extra hardships compared to ordinary colleges, but VMI graduates are also much more closely linked than typical classmates at ordinary colleges. You get out what you put in.
VMI is almost never called "VMI" by anyone on Post (on campus), usually known simply as "The Institute". Fourth Classmen are freshmen once they have broken out of the Ratline. Third Classmen are sophomores. Second Classmen are juniors, and First Classmen are seniors. The VMI ring, one of the largest college rings there is, is presented at a formal ceremony and dance called "Ring Figure". Although cadets become full members of the Corps on the day they break out, it is not until the presentation of their class rings that they are accepted fully into the brotherhood.
Nicholas Golan was in a fantastic mood today. Never in his life had things been going this well. He was top-ranking cadet in his class this year, and achieving Regimental Sergeant Major put him in position to be an ideal choice for Regimental Commander next year. If he truly liked being the senior cadet noncom, though, he could request to just keep his current position, but Nicholas knew he'd want to keep going onward and upward. That's how he'd always been at Remington, and that's how he was here.
Working hard all his Rat year, learning who the power players in the Corps were, who he needed to make friends with among his Brother Rats and who he needed to avoid, Nicholas had made an excellent impression on his cadre and the VMI staff he came into contact with. He was made a Cadet Corporal for his third classman year at VMI, what was normally sophomore year at more ordinary colleges. Once again, he'd worked tirelessly alongside the friends he'd come here with and the friends he'd made, and wouldn't you know it, Regimental Sergeant Major just happened to fall into his hands come promotion time last year.
Now all that remained was finishing the job. Completing his third year at VMI on the strongest academic and military terms possible. If Nicholas could just do that, he'd be set. Even if he didn't get First Captain- and he would fight for it right up to the moment they posted the rank lists- Nicholas was going to get some top-level officer job at Regiment, where he'd been his whole rank-holding career. It would mean being in the highest echelons of power in the Corps, in the best position to keep getting connected, getting to know people, laying the groundwork for what was coming next- commissioning into the Air Force and beginning a long career.
Tonight, though, all that was being set aside. All work and no play made Jack a dull boy, and while nobody seemed to know if Jack ever took that advice, Nicholas Golan sure as hell had. Between his classmates from RMA and his BRs here at the Institute, Nicholas knew his share of guys at the University of Richmond, a highly prestigious and extremely costly private university in the Commonwealth of Virginia's capital. Guys and girls from Richmond high society went there, and those rich kids lived it up with a particularly good party scene. You had to be "in" with the in crowd to get invited to the best parties available on that campus, though.
How very fortunate, then, that Nicholas Golan definitely was in with the in crowd.
The plan was simple. Take two days' leave, starting tonight. Go to Richmond, pay a visit to U of R, and alongside his best friend and two-time classmate Ryan M.H. St. Esprit, get drunk as shit and just party his ass off. Four other guys in their class were coming to the party, heading out tonight in another car. Nicholas and Ryan had decided to leave a little later, spend some time here in Lexington first. They were very close friends, much as their fathers had been at their age (and still were, as older men) and often liked to share time with just the two of them.
Coming out of his room on second stoop, Nicholas zipped his gray wool jacket up the rest of the way. The cold here was not as bad as it got up in Rhode Island, but damn if it wasn't close, and this year it seemed to be trying particularly hard. New England weather, specially imported to Virginia.
"Hey, Christianson," he called out, spotting one of his fellow party-goers coming his way, "You seen the Ghost?"
"St. Esprit went into town, man. He's picking up his Caddy. Isn't that so nice of our French BR to let him keep it at his host family's house?"
"Nice of de Rocaille's host family."
"Sure," Christianson said, laughing.
A great crashing of metal interrupted them, and both 21-year-olds' heads turned in time to see a hapless Rat, no doubt trying for a speedy and quiet passage down the nearby stairwell, landing sprawled on the floor. Beside him was a steel trash can, empty and very much knocked over.
"Rat!" the two second-classmen shouted as once, moving in to intercept him.
The eighteen-year-old boy quickly jumped up and snapped to the exaggerated, especially strict position of attention known as "bracing", and answered, "Sir, yes, sir!"
"Do you think the trashcan appreciates you running into him with your clumsy rat feet?" Nicholas asked.
"Sir, no, sir!"
"You think he likes you knocking him over and making that friggin' racket?" Christianson demanded.
"Sir, no, sir!"
The two upperclassmen stared at the Rat, shifting glances towards each other. As staff NCO's, they had less authority to punish Rats, ironically, than their specially-trained counterparts on Cadre, the trainers and drill instructors assigned to the companies. But they could still make this Rat push for a while if they wanted to.
Were this any other day of the week, they probably would have. As it happened, though, both young men were just hours away from a weekend of earthly pleasures in Richmond. They had a lot of fun waiting for them, and the longer they messed with this dumb Rat the less time they had to pack.
But they couldn't just let him off, either.
"Rat," Nicholas said solemnly, "I don't even care that you carelessly interrupted myself and Christianson here. At least you didn't run into us and knock us over."
"But the same can't be said of Mr. Trashcan, here. Look at him, Rat. There he is, knocked flat on his ass when he never did anything to you in his life," Christianson added. "It makes me sick to my stomach to see you Rats attacking helpless trashcans like that. I may not be able to sleep tonight."
"Sir, no excuse-"
"Shut up, Rat!" Nicholas yelled. "Now, you may be a careless, bonehead Rat, but you will still act like a gentlemen in my presence. Apologize to the trash can for fucking up his day without provocation."
The Rat came out of his brace, stepping down to pick up the trash can and set it upright. He climbed inside it, bracing again. "Sir," he said in a loud, clearly-pronounced voice, "Mr. Trash Can, sir. Rat Michaelson, J.R., apologizes for knocking you over with neither provocation nor permission, for causing you undue agitation, and for interrupting you in carrying out your duties to the Virginia Military Institute without proper authority!"
It was a flowery, handsome apology, and took both upperclassmen quite by surprise. Hiding their astonishment as the Rat climbed back out of the trash can, they made a show of looking at each other, then at Michaelson.
"That was terrible, Rat," Christianson said.
"Completely insincere," Nicholas declared.
"Lucky for you, we're feeling gracious."
"As forgiving as a gentleman can be."
"So get off this stoop in five seconds, exactly five seconds, and we'll let you go."
"Start moving, Rat," Nicholas said warningly, taking a step forward. "You need some help?"
Michaelson didn't need telling twice. With his motivation, five seconds was nothing. He was gone in three.
The two second classmen watched him go, then looked at each other and laughed.
"Rats are so dumb," Christianson said, grinning. "Lucky they got us around."
"Yeah, somebody's gotta teach 'em proper etiquette for trash cans," Nicholas agreed, and that set them off laughing again.
XX
"You sure you don't want to come straight out to Richmond with us?" Christianson asked, turning back to the conversation they'd been having.
"Nah, man," Nicholas answered. "Me and St. Esprit already made plans for dinner at The Boar's Head at 1800. We won't be that far behind you, trust me. We'll get into Richmond with plenty of time for the good stuff."
Christianson smiled. "Yeah, man. You know my older brother, he says he's been lining this one up for weeks. They got everything. He said that there's definitely some Richmond girls looking to just hook up with somebody good, have some fun for the weekend, and they know some studmuffins from VMI are coming."
Nicholas grinned. "I like what I'm hearing."
"Man, when did you switch preferences?"
"Shut up, First Sergeant," Nicholas said kindly, giving Christianson a good smack on the back of his closely-shaved head.
"Aw, I think somebody's tryin' to tap me."
"Want me to try again?"
"Shit, no. You keep trying, you'll break your fragile wrist, and that'll get in the way of your big master plan for this weekend, won't it?"
XX
Ryan St. Esprit was easily one of the wealthiest guys on Post. His father had was doing well in the Army and even better on the stock market, and had always regarded it as a given that his son should have the best of everything. While Nicholas 'made do' with a one-year-old Caprice, Ryan drove one of the enormous new Elmiraj coupes Cadillac had started making in 2014. With a hood longer than most compacts and a supercharged V8, the sleek red car was a long way from subtle. But Ryan seemed to like owning such a showy, ostentatious car.
"Nobody else has one of these," he'd say. "Everyone knows it's me when I'm driving around."
Not everyone in the Corps approved of such a lack of modesty, and that included some of the other wealthy cadets. Nicholas stayed neutral on that one; how Ryan chose to display his wealth was his business. And besides, there was nothing better for making a big entrance to the U of R party scene- or for getting from Lexington to Richmond as fast as 'slight' bends in the law would allow.
Ryan grunted as he threw Nicholas' suitcase into the Elmiraj's trunk, parked as close to Barracks as they'd been able to get away with. "Damn. What'd you put in this thing? We're gone for a couple days, not a couple weeks."
"It ain't that heavy, man. It's just that you got those thin little girl arms."
The brown-haired Sergeant Major of 1st Battalion smiled sweetly. "Fuck you."
"Thanks," Nicholas grinned, then lifted Ryan's bag and placed it on top of his own. He reached up and brought the trunk lid down, and they both went around to the long, heavy doors, one on each side, and got in.
XX
"You'll never guess who I saw in front of the George C. Marshall Museum this morning," Nicholas said, taking off his service cap and brushing at his stubby blond hair.
"Craig?" Ryan asked, and he started laughing at the idea. "Shithead?"
Nicholas laughed too. He and Ryan had never been happy about narrowly getting passed over for the top post in Honor Corps, Commandant, to that football jock Lucas Craig, back when they'd all been 11th graders at Remington Military Academy. They'd hoped and prayed that a good excuse would come along to oust him, and had gone around to some of the other Honor Corps members from the start of the 2014-2015 year, making alliances- just in case.
By the time that Victor Caroni discovered that the whole business with Christine Sanders had started because Craig was pissed that she wouldn't go out with him, enough of the guys were getting tired of working long shifts harassing this girl that Nicholas and Ryan hadn't needed to convince them much. By the time the meeting happened, the guys had had enough. They'd had enough. Sleep deprivation was starting to take its toll in a big way. Their own grades and personal lives were slipping, and now they'd learned it had all been because Lucas Craig had problems in his romantic life.
And, as shocking as it might have been to Lucas Craig, that was not their fucking problem.
Getting Craig fired as Honor Corps Commandant had been remarkably easy, and fun. Watching him squirm in despair as he went on as Cadet Lieutenant Colonel and Battalion Commander, top dog publicly, but a mere figurehead now that he'd lost control of Honor Corps, was even better.
Nicholas really wasn't sure where Craig had gone after Remington. Probably some fucking civilian college that had extended him an offer of a full-ride football scholarship. All Nicholas really knew for sure that it wasn't VMI. He would've known if Craig was here. No question.
"Nah," he said, kind of wishing it had been Craig- Craig as a fucking janitor while his old rivals were training to go out and take over the goddamn world. "Nah, man. Somebody else from Remington, though."
They were headed past the football stadium, and in just moments would be off Post. "So who is it, then?" Ryan asked.
"Mr. Phelps."
"Huh?" Ryan turned and looked at his best friend as he halted at a stop sign. "What, pudgy dude with the glasses and all?"
"That's him."
"The hell's he doing here?"
Nicholas shrugged. "Janitor… ing."
Beginning the drive through town towards Main Street, Ryan glanced at his friend with a bemused look on his face. "I don't think 'janitor-ing' is a verb, brah."
"It is now. I made it one."
"Right," Ryan laughed, shaking his head. "Jeez, that's creepy." He shivered theatrically. "Man. I know he didn't follow us here, but Christ."
"Don't you cuss in this here Caddy, Catholic boy."
"Fuck you, you Protestant fuckbucket."
"You kiss your momma with that mouth?"
"Only after I been to Confession," Ryan shot back casually. "Okay, okay. So, you recognized Mr. Phelps. It was really him."
"Sure it was. I'd know that dude anywhere. Most pussywhipped guy on campus at RMA."
"Whipped, sure. That's him all right. You think he recognized you?"
Ryan was using just a fraction of the supercharged V8's power as he drove; the car's engine never went above a low rumble, the relatively low in-town speed limits of Lexington never even challenging the Cadillac's motor.
Listening to the smooth, barely-tapped power of the Cadillac V8, Nicholas thought about it for a moment. "No," he said after a moment. He hesitated, then added, "Well- maybe. If he did, he just showed it for a second. He might've."
"Do you think he knew you recognized him?"
"I doubt it," Nicholas answered after another pause for thought. "Nah, I just gave him this nice, polite look. I bet he thought I was such a goddamn gentleman, complimenting him in front of the General and all."
Ryan gazed straight ahead as he braked the Cadillac to a stop at a red light. "Do you think he knows anything?"
Nicholas shrugged. "I doubt it. How much could some fuckin' janitor know about anything we did at Remington?"
The brown-haired 21-year-old didn't quite seem satisfied. "I dunno, man. Maybe we should get him fired."
XX
Such a drastic act, spoken of so casually. It spoke volumes of Honor Corps- and The Vigils, now that the alumni had finally stopped flapping their wings and fussing like a bunch of frigging chickens- and the kind of power they wielded, especially on campus at RMA. But this was not Tiverton, Rhode Island. They weren't at Remington anymore. And while the extensive alumni network of Honor Corps graduates all but guaranteed the scions of the Golan and St. Esprit families a long and lucrative career regardless of where they went or whatever field they chose, you still had to remember- always- that sometimes discretion was the better part of valor.
And that not everybody understood the unique role fulfilled by what now was referred to as The Vigils. It was spoken of at length in Pat Conroy's famous novel, The Lords of Discipline. The Ten awed Nicholas with their fiery passion, their love for their college (a thinly fictionalized depiction of The Citadel in 1966-1967), and their willingness to do what it took- whatever it took- to ensure no unworthy filth wore the Ring.
Such a group was absent at VMI, Nicholas had found. He had asked around, made serious inquiries in the form of idle jokes, listened and looked for almost three full years here at the Institute. Nothing. And it was a shame, too, because there were some slobs here who had gotten softer and lazier every year since they'd broken out of the Ratline. You had sarcastic, cynical bastards who were just marking time, waiting to get their diploma and quit all this military bullshit- guys who'd just come here for the respect they knew a VMI degree would get them. If The Ten existed here- or The Vigils- they'd definitely have done some cleaning house.
But they didn't exist. And that meant that apart from having some friends in the Corps who agreed with his viewpoints, Nicholas did not have anything like the kind of backing he'd had at Remington. Messing around behind the scenes, pulling strings and trying to get other cadets demoted or dismissed, or staff members fired, was tricky and dangerous even at Remington. Here at VMI, it was outright dangerous. Nicholas and Ryan would get expelled if they were caught pulling that shit here.
So Nicholas just answered, "Ryan, man, we don't have that kind of pull here. We're not at Remington anymore. We gotta remember that."
Ryan flicked him a half-sarcastic, half-serious salute. "Yes, sir, Commandant. Let's just be real careful around this guy, okay?"
Nicholas nodded. "Sure. And if we get one whiff that he knows something, see him looking at us funny… get a feeling maybe he's gonna try talking to someone…"
"…We squish him like a bug." Ryan finished. He paused, glancing at Nicholas. "Even here?"
"Even here," Nicholas confirmed, nodding. "I bet you we could get something done if we absolutely had to, if we called in a favor from the old guys. But only if we have to, man. I don't really want to make a habit of bringing this Vigil shit here to Lexington, anyway. I had to put up with so much shit when I shut down Honor Corps-"
Ryan laughed, neatly pulling the enormous coupe into a space that was almost directly in front of the grill-and-bar called The Boar's Head, at 47 South Main Street. "Hey, it's cool, man. I was there, remember?"
Nicholas laughed too, at himself. "Yeah, I know."
He looked at his best friend, his BR and fellow Vigil, wondering at the miraculous forces that had made them as close as brothers- just as their fathers had been at their age, and still were now. Nicholas found the words as they neared the front door.
"Thanks for having my back all this time, man."
Ryan gazed back at Nicholas, looking him right in the eye. "Always."
XX
The two VMI cadets were laughing and joking as they came in, but quickly straightened up in view of the civilians crowding The Boar's Head. Neither one of them saw who was seated in the only other occupied booth in that corner of the restaurant- the only area left at this busy hour where a little peace and quiet could be found.
They would have recognized Anthony DiNozzo, but his back was to them. They would have also recognized Travis, but he saw them coming and quickly but casually snapped up a menu and began studying it intently.
And in any case, neither one of the two young men was on the alert at the moment. With visions of booze and pretty coeds dancing in their heads, they were not concerned with who else was here in the restaurant. They were here to eat some good food, shoot the breeze for a while, and then hit Interstate 64, headed for Richmond.
But while Nicholas Golan and Ryan St. Esprit didn't notice Travis and Tony, and Tony didn't notice them, Tony did notice the sudden change in Travis' manner. In just moments he went from calm and relaxed- as calm and relaxed as Travis got, anyway- to guarded and apprehensive.
"Uh, Travis?" Tony asked, laughing a little. "What's up, man?"
Travis waited a few moments to sneak a glance up, over Tony's shoulder. Sure enough, two booths away, the two VMI boys were there. They'd taken off their black jackets and now looked like Navy officers in this neatly-pressed, immaculate white uniforms, all decked out with their second-classman insignia, shoulderboards, badges of rank. They exchanged polite, friendly greetings with the waitress, ordered an ice water each, and went back to talking light-heartedly as she left.
"Travis?"
Determined not to give any alarm, not with two boys he knew to be brilliant and dangerous in equal measure nearby, Travis sighed and set the menu down. "I just get nervous sometimes."
"You think somebody's watching you?"
"In this day and age, it's better to assume someone is."
Tony sighed, not sure what to say to that. Being paranoid and being ready for the worst was his job, not Travis', but he'd wound up being very guarded and cautious anyway. It was funny, and tragic, how these things sometimes worked.
"Look, Travis," he said, trying to change the subject, "I just wanna say that I'm proud of you, man. You're doing better now than I've ever seen you. Got your own house, a car that's next to new, that RMA retirement pay coming in on top of what VMI pays you- that's not bad, man. I'm glad to see you've gotten away from RMA, too. I think Lexington suits you."
"Thanks, Tony," Travis said, pleased in spite of his continued anxiety at having those two so close by. What made it particularly bad was how he'd been thinking all over again today about how wrong it was that Nicholas Golan was living the good life, with nothing but even better things ahead, while Christine Sanders was six feet under the ground. On a day when he'd already been jarred out of his normal routine by seeing someone he'd hoped never to see again, now he had them hanging around with a classmate in the very place he'd chosen for dinner on his birthday.
But he didn't want to let that ruin his evening. Nor did he want to raise any kind of alarm and set Tony off- he was off duty, for God's sake, and old RMA business was not what Tony had come out here for.
So he did his best to go along with it, talk about regular things, listen attentively as Tony told him about the other detectives in his office.
But it wasn't exactly surprising that the trained detective eventually noticed Travis' eyes, every so often, sliding away from Tony's and over his shoulder towards the VMI boys in white. Tony seemed to try letting it go for a while, but finally sighed and set his drink down, lowering his voice.
"Look, Travis, I have to ask. I've been watching you eyeball those two Navy guys over there for ten minutes now. What's going on?"
Travis abruptly decided to go for broke. He leaned forward, lowering his voice further still. "Listen," he almost whispered, "those aren't Navy guys. They're VMI cadets. Trust me, I know their uniforms."
"All right, so what? What's so special about those two?"
"Tony," Travis said quietly, "those are St. Esprit and Golan's sons."
Taken aback, Tony visibly resisted the urge to turn around and look at the two cadets behind him. He stared at Travis, disbelief on his face. "They're both in Honor Corps, too?"
"Yeah," Travis nodded; he could explain the reorganization of that wonderful little outfit as The Vigils later on. He paused, then added, "Those two had a big part in what happened. They helped break Christine Sanders."
XX
The two young men took their time once the food arrived, lingering over it. They just ordered water to drink; they'd want to be stone-cold sober for the two-hour drive to Richmond, and besides, they'd be drinking plenty of more fun beverages later tonight.
"You ever think we screwed up with Sanders?" Ryan asked quietly, and Nicholas jumped as if struck with a pin.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he said, too loudly. Suddenly, he was very glad for the relatively high level of ambient noise in The Boar's Head. You wouldn't want to talk about Vigil business in the fucking library. Quickly lowering his voice, he went on, "Why are you even bringing that up?"
"Just curious."
Nicholas sighed, looking away, then back again. "I thought we already went over this. But whatever. Look, you wanna know what happened? We got orders, and Craig was top dog back then. He lied to us, man. He told us it was all legit, that it had nothing to do with Sanders not giving him the time of day."
The blond paused to take a drink of ice water, then went on, continuing to keep his voice low. "None of us liked doing that shit to her. And the fact that he fuckin' lied to us is half the reason the guys backed us so quick when I said I wanted Craig fired. They were tired of his shit, too."
"Yeah. I remember." Ryan did- like it was yesterday. He remembered how easily they'd both played the part of merciless torturer and stalker, the masters pulling all the strings to ruin the puppet's life. It was a little unnerving.
But, fuck, man, Ryan thought uncomfortably, we didn't kill her. She did. We're the good guys. The Vigils protect Remington, protect tradition. All we were doing was following orders.
As if reading Ryan's thoughts, Nicholas asked rhetorically, "I mean, did we enjoy it? Are we sadists? No. But we had orders, and we do as we're told as long as the orders are legit, like the military does." Nicholas shook his head. "Apart from that… the whole thing was a screwup, man. People ain't supposed to get dead because of us. Dead folks can cause a lot of fuckin' problems." He paused, eying his friend. "You're not feeling guilty or some shit, are you?"
Ryan sighed, taking a few moments to think. "No, I just- I think we went farther than we should have."
"So do I," Nicholas said solemnly. "I didn't want her dead, man. But you know what? She is dead, and nobody can bring her back. Any of us lost our nerve and confessed, all we'd be doing is ruining our own lives."
"Fuck that," Ryan said, quiet but deadly serious.
"Exactly," Nicholas said, nodding. He sighed again, leaning back in the cushioned booth seat. "You know, I had been thinking of asking her out when it all started. It's too bad, man, it really is. She probably would've been a great lay."
In spite of himself, Ryan grinned. "Hey, no worries about that, okay? It's not like we're gonna sit around and talk about the weather at U of R."
"You really think we'll both get laid tonight?"
"I know it," Ryan said, a gleam in his brown eyes. "You're smooth, I'm smooth- and we already know there's girls there who're down for a one night stand."
"Which we are actually good at," Nicholas said, looking pointedly at Ryan as he ate some more of his steak. "As opposed to that pussy Sam Smith."
"Listen to you! You like Austin Mahone!"
Nicholas flushed. "Hey, look, man. Austin is good, okay? He's got talent. And he ain't no bitch who sings at a higher pitch than most chicks."
"Sure you don't have no man-crush on Austin?"
"I'm sure," Nicholas said, trying to look stern but just grinning instead. "How'd I ever get stuck with a faggot like you?"
"Family connections."
Nicholas groaned. "Don't remind me. It's like we were fuckin' joined at the hip."
"What, you regret going to school with me since 6th grade?"
"Not for a fucking second," Nicholas said. "I've never had a better friend in my life."
Ryan hesitated, then added, "Me neither."
The two young men stared at each other, and abruptly Nicholas knew the both of them were about to choke up and cry. They'd been crying like little babies at Ring Figure, so powerfully moved by the significance of having come all this way together- from 6th grade to getting their VMI class rings- that neither of them had said much the whole ceremony. They could barely speak.
"So," Nicholas said quickly, clearing his throat and blinking, "Uh, so. I wanted to make sure about something."
"Yes, Protestant heathen?" Ryan replied smilingly.
"Well, you bisexual Catholic altar boy, I wanted to make sure we're not gonna be jumping any fuckin' grenades tonight."
"Have we ever?"
"Seriously. You know I don't touch nothing below a 7, and or a 6 if I've been drinking."
"Which you will be."
"So how about it?"
Ryan took a drink of water, then looked back at his friend. "BR," he said, "this is a prep party. Not just anybody gets invited; the guys planning it have good taste. I doubt anybody's gonna be there who's below a 7."
"Guys and girls, huh?" Nicholas grinned. "That way even you'll be happy."
"Fuck you."
"So y'wanna make a bet?"
"A bet?"
"Just a good old-fashioned bet," Nicholas replied, nodding. "When each of us is about to get some, we look at our watch. Check the time. We tell each other the time tomorrow, and whoever got laid first wins… like, I dunno. Five hundred bucks."
"A thousand."
"You're on, Catholic boy."
"Just be ready to hand over the dough, you Protestant fuckbucket."
Nicholas laughed, shaking his head. "So forget Sanders, man. Forget her. Everything's cool, everything's fine. We're gonna go to Richmond, get drunk, and fuck some rich girl's brains out tonight."
"But what if we forget the time because we're drunk?" Ryan asked suddenly.
It was beautiful to watch Nicholas Golan respond to questions like that. All those "tricky" questions everybody else hated, Nicholas loved. He was smart, just about brilliant, and when he got the brain train rolling there was no stopping him. So Nicholas just calmly looked at his best friend, his classmate and fraternal brother, and said, "Then we just drink less on Saturday."
"Nice," Ryan said, grinning, and he raised his glass in salute.