And Peter had learned plenty whenever he and Ridley had eaten together in Eliot House.

He suspected that Ridley would say the same thing.

One descended from an old Massachusetts family, the other was a South Boston boy whose father had been a bricklayer. But over three years of meals, Ridley had taught Peter about sailing, Peter had taught Ridley about rowing; Ridley had taught wine, and Peter, beer; Ridley had taught theater, and Peter, movies. And even if they hadn’t spoken in years, whenever they talked, it was as if they had just seen each other at lunch.

“Peter?” said Ridley. “How’s the rare-book business?”

“Just fine, Ridley. How’s the life of a Broadway producer?”

“Would you be calling me in Massachusetts if I’d had a hit in the past five years?”

“I don’t suppose… . Listen, Ridley, I’m calling from the Harvard College Fund-“

“Peter, I’m broke.”

“Broke? I’m… I’m sorry, Ridley.”

“Don’t let it bother you, because this phone call is kismet.”

“What’s kismet?”

“Well… a wonderful show starring Alfred Drake. Songs like ‘Stranger in Paradise,’ ‘Baubles, Bangles, and Beads.’ “

“C’mon, Ridley…”

“It also means good fortune, Peter, happy coincidence. And that’s what your call is because I was planning to call you.”

“What about?”

“I’ve come across something that might interest the only rarebook dealer in the Class Report, something from the antiquity of the famous old Wedge family.”

“The Wedges? What is it?”

“Can’t say, Peter. Not over the phone. But worth a mountain of money.”

Peter understood. Discretion was part of his business. But if it was discretion Ridley was after, why did he want to meet on Saturday afternoon, in the sea of tailgaters collecting for the Harvard-Dartmouth football game?

Ridley sure hadn’t changed. In college, someone had coined a term for his little fits of obtuseness and obfuscation: Ridley Riddles.

Here was another one.

“Look for a Class of ‘Seventy-two banner,” said Ridley, “and the ancient Ford beach wagon. You remember … the one they call the Wedge Woody.”

“I remember. I’ll be there.”

* * *

Peter made another ten calls —eight hang-ups, no-thanks, and not-homes balanced against a thousand dollars in pledges. But when the night was over, he owed Tom Benedict one bottle of very expensive wine.

“It’ll be worth it,” said Benedict as they walked through the Square, “if you get to have lunch with Evangeline. God … she was gorgeous.”

“It’ll be worth it,” said Peter, “if this ‘something from the antiquity of the famous old Wedge family’ has any value.”

“What do you think it could be?” asked Tom.

“Who knows? There’ve been Wedges at Harvard since the beginning. Maybe it’s the Freeman’s Oath, the first document printed in America, printed in Cambridge in 1636… . American Antiquarian Society bid a million bucks for one about fifteen years ago.

Turned out to be a forgery.”

“A million?” said Benedict. “You can’t put a price on something priceless.”

“Spoken like a professor. You put a price on something because it’s how the world works.”

“Spoken like a man who makes his living plundering the past,” said Benedict.

Peter had heard that “plunderer” business before, from people who werent joking. But he knew that he served the past by bringing it into the present. And when he sold a piece of it for big bucks, he brought it to life, because in America, big bucks didn’t just talk, they breathed … and snorted … and walked upright on their hind legs. Big bucks meant visits from CNN, interviews on Nightline, articles in newsmagazines. Big bucks made the past more valuable, which made it more respectable. And if people respected it, they might learn from it, or at least try to understand it. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Besides, was there another Harvard history major who’d had as much fun? Another Ph.D. who had handled the sale of an original Declaration of Independence? Or ridden the night train from Rome to Florence with a million-dollar incunable on his lap and a book thief prowling the cars? Or blown a hole in a subway wall, stuck his arm into the mud beyond, and pulled out a priceless Revere tea set?

Sure, he had a nice office in the Back Bay, his clients seldom bounced checks, and most of his research was as dull as scraping old paint from a fluted column. But when Peter Fallon went after something—at the Harvard-Dartmouth football game or on the other side of the world—he became, as his ex-wife once said, “Indiana Jones in a monogrammed shirt,” a bonus-miles adventurer traveling through time, chasing down books and manuscripts, buying them when he could, brokering them when he couldn’t, investigating, negotiating, mediating, and once in a while, running for his life.

The pedestrian light in front of Holyoke Center flashed WALK.

Peter and Tom Benedict started across Mass. Ave.