So, Newman wasn’t too surprised when Andy called and said he needed advice on an investment.

“Beckwith, it’s Andy. I’m in fucking Dallas.”

Andy didn’t have anything against Dallas in particular. Over the years Newman had received calls from fucking Miami, fucking Chicago, fucking Seattle. The only exceptions were San Francisco, which he called home, and Las Vegas, which he simply referred to as Hell.

“Look here, I’ll be home this weekend. Meet me for lunch on Monday.”

Newman crossed out Lolly’s name on his calendar. “Okay, what’s up?”

“I think I’m going to spend some money.”

“If you’re talking about an investment, I have a colleague—”

“Forget that Beckwith. You’re the man with his finger on the pulse of my affairs, you pervert. You’re the man for the job. Noon at Vic’s. Vic’s on Valencia.”

“Right, got it. Noon at Vic’s. So how’s the road?”

“I’m in Texas, Beckwith.”

He learned not to take it personally when Andy hung up without saying goodbye.