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wouldn’t know it to look at him. “Second, if you think he’s crazy, you should meet his son.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard. Fortunately, they’ve locked him up and thrown away the key.”
    â€œThey just found it. Appellate Court overturned his conviction.”
    â€œ Why ?”
    â€œApparently the rule of law took precedent over what had seemed like a good idea at the time. He’s probably home by now.”
    â€œGood Christ.”
    â€œMaking this an excellent time to resolve your dispute.”
    To my surprise, King looked embarrassed.
    I asked, “What is your dispute?”
    He couldn’t meet my eye. Suddenly I realized what he had done. “Okay. I get it. You want to buy his place, right?”
    â€œIt cuts into my property. The old boundaries are so odd. It cuts right into the heart of my property.”
    â€œYou figured you’d negotiate directly, him being your neighbor and all.”
    â€œNot to save commissions. The money means nothing. Abbott, do I have to spell it out to you? I admit it was ego. I figured any man who could get Reagan and Deng to the same table could persuade some stupid old farmer to sell his farm.”
    â€œI’ve got to tell you, Mr. Butler is not old. The war may have made him crazy. But he’s never struck me as stupid.”
    â€œIt never occurred to me in a million years I’d need a real estate agent. Hell, I bought this place direct from Zarega’s executor.”
    â€œIra Roth.”
    King winced. “The way you say ‘Ira Roth,’ are you implying I paid too much?”
    â€œYou paid market value,” I said, mustering all the tact that is a broker’s stock in trade. The price of Fox Trot was public record. Ira was a brilliant criminal lawyer. But the deal he’d cut for Mr. Zarega’s heirs suggested he had missed his calling. Or maybe Henry King was telling the truth when he claimed that money meant nothing to him. Although in my experience guys who profess not to care about the money are usually too insecure to admit they care very much.
    â€œI got nowhere with Butler. Worse, he got the idea in his head that I’d insulted him. He threatened to shoot me if I stepped on his land.”
    â€œHad you?”
    â€œHad I what?”
    â€œStepped on his land.”
    â€œI had one of his fences repaired. His cows were getting out.”
    â€œPeople around Newbury are kind of touchy about property lines.”
    â€œ I’m touchy about property lines. I understand. I was just trying to help.”
    â€œCows do much damage?”
    â€œThey would have if we had the gardens in. They bring flies. The flies follow the herd. You couldn’t sit outside last August.”
    â€œThat’s why they invented screen porches.”
    King turned a lot less affable. “Mr. Abbott, I haven’t worked my whole life to be trapped indoors on my own property.”
    â€œHow do I fit into this?”
    â€œI’m aware that I’ve poisoned the well with my offer to buy his farm. You’re welcome to try as a real estate agent, but I don’t hold much hope.”
    â€œSounds that way.”
    â€œI’d like you to reason with the man.”
    â€œWhy not just ignore him? You won’t be the first neighbors who don’t talk.”
    â€œI want those cows away from my house.”
    â€œHow close are they?”
    â€œClose enough to spread flies that bite me and my guests. I had a Saudi prince here last summer who left with a welt the size of a tennis ball.”
    â€œCould I see a property plan?”
    He had it ready, spread out on an antique billiard table in the game room. Clipped to it was a one-page lease notarized in 1985.
    â€œYou see the problem?”
    The map showed something that wasn’t visible on my aerial photos: Mr. Zarega had leased a cow pasture to Mr. Butler for a dollar a year until Butler died.
    â€œI’m not a lawyer, but