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The waiter brought menus, told them about the fried chicken and waffles special, and left them alone. Bass seemed eager for the smell of his second bourbon.

“Thank you for meeting on short notice,” said Gamble.

“No problem. I’m giving your daughter the opportunity of a lifetime, so I guess I’m entitled to a free lunch.”

It was probably a joke, but Gamble couldn’t tell for sure.

“Kate has no clue about this meeting. I’d like to keep it that way.”

A server set up Bass’s glass of bourbon and disappeared. “Sure. As long as she hears nothing of how I enjoy certain olfactory pleasures with my Southern cuisine.”

Bass opened his menu. Gamble left his on the table.

“What’s your story, Mr. Bass?”

“Excuse me?”

Gamble had said some unflattering things about the director on the squash court with Kate. Those were hunches, not facts. But if he was lying to Kate about his drinking, it was a hunch worth testing.

“What if someone were to say that you’re stringing Kate along, and that it won’t be long before you come calling on her father to write a check in order to present her play? How would you respond?”

Bass laid his menu aside. “How cynical of you.”

“Is it?”

“Your daughter is writing a very important play. To be clear, the idea was completely mine, not hers. Do you even know what it’s about?”

“I understand it has something to do with the census.”

“It’s the story of Thomas J. Watson, Sr., and the Nazis’ use of the old IBM punch-card technology for the systematic extermination of Jews.”

“You meanmisuse. I hardly think the founder of what was then the most powerful tech company in the world was knowingly supporting genocide.”

“What do you know about Mr. Watson?”

“I’m an admirer of his son, who took over the company after his father died. Talk about the greatest generation. Tom Junior’s autobiography is probably one of the most honest books ever written by a tech executive. Until the last fifty pages or so, when he goes on and on about all he did for the Carter administration, which is about as exciting as—well, the Carter administration.”

“Does the book mention that his father was one of the very few Americans to receive the Nazi Merit Cross?”

“As a matter of fact, it does. And to his credit, Watson Senior was the only one who ever gave it back.”

“But why?” asked Bass, putting the question with a touch of melodrama. “Was it because human rights organizations were protesting right outside his office on Madison Avenue? Or was it just a smart business decision?”

“You seem to be excluding the possibility that it was genuinely an act of courage and conscience.”

Bass chuckled. “Mr. Gamble, we’re talking about the CEO of a tech giant.”

The waiter returned to take their order. Bass ordered the special, but Gamble had already wasted enough precious time. He opened his wallet and placed two hundred-dollar bills on the table.

“Something’s come up,” he told the waiter. “Cut him off at three bourbons and keep the change.”

The waiter thanked him, tucked the menus under his arm, and left with the cash.

“That’s quite the thin skin you’ve got there,” Bass said.

“Is this your idea of fun?” said Gamble. “Commissioning the daughter of a tech CEO to write an indictment of the world’s first tech CEO?”

“You’re being very unfair.”

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