“What?”

“It’s awkward. You’re going to think I invited you here and I said I’d help just because I want something.”

“That depends on what you want.”

I tap out another cigarette and light it, waiting for her to collect her thoughts.

“Remember when we first met back at Max Overdrive? I said I wasn’t always a nice person. I had this boyfriend. He was a dealer, and when he went to jail I used his money to go to school because I didn’t want to be in that life anymore.”

“And now he’s getting out.”

She nods.

“He called me.”

She holds out two fingers to ask for my cigarette. I give it to her. I didn’t know she still smoked. She takes a tiny puff and about coughs her lungs up.

“He wants his money?”

“No. Yes. But he wants me too. Only, I love my life. I love Eugène. I can’t go back to the way things were.”

“Where is he?”

“Vacaville. He’s getting out at the end of the week. He knows my old apartment.”

“You still have that place? I thought you’d moved in with Vidocq.”

“I keep things there and we store some of his stuff.”

“The boyfriend knows the address?”

I lean against the wall and she leans next to me. We’re shoulder to shoulder, but not having to look at me makes it easier for her to talk.

“Yes. I don’t even bother locking it. Locks never stopped him before.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She puts a hand on my arm.

“Please don’t kill him. I want him to go away, but I don’t want to feel like I bought a hit on him just so I can hide in my nice new life.”

“I’ll do my best, but some people, they just don’t listen.”

“Please.”

She sounds genuinely torn up asking me. What am I supposed to say to that?

“Okay.”

She turns and hugs me. Talking about Hell and now the admission. It’s been hard on her. I think she’s crying. She sniffles a little.

“Don’t wipe your nose on my coat.”

She laughs once.

“Eugène said you would say yes, but I wasn’t sure.”

A cream-colored Lexus has driven past us twice. Now it stops. The guy who gets out has a haircut that costs as much as an appendectomy. He’s wearing rimless glasses and a sharp but conservative blue suit. He could be an investment banker.

“Mr. Stark. Would you mind taking a ride with me?”

Allegra steps away. I shake my head.

“I’m with a friend.”

He gestures at her.

“She can come too, if you like.”

“Nice car, but we’re fine right here. I’d invite you in for a drink, but I don’t think this is your kind of place.”

The Banker smiles and comes around to our side of the car.

“This isn’t anything sinister. It’s just a meeting to talk about possible employment.”

“With who?”

“Norris Quay.”

“Who’s that?”

“The richest man in California.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Exactly.”

I turn to Allegra.

“Do you want to get in the nice man’s car? He says he has candy and a puppy.”

She shakes her head.

“I don’t think so.”

I shrug.

“You heard the lady. Not interested.”

He takes a couple of steps toward us.

“I assure you, this is for your own benefit. Afterward, if you decide you don’t want the job, you can just—”

A bullet hits the wall, then two more. I push Allegra into the alley. The Banker crouches by his car and starts duckwalking around the front.

The shots come faster. Maybe three or four guns. AKs by the sounds of them. Wild shots spray cars and the wall behind me, sending other smokers screaming back inside the bar.

I’m kneeling on the sidewalk. I try to make it into the alley, but there’s too many bullets flying. Same thing when I try to make it back into Bamboo House. The Banker is back inside the Lexus. He opens the passenger door. There’s nowhere else to go. I dive headfirst into the passenger seat.

I wait a beat, expecting the Banker to get us out of there. But he’s paralyzed, staring at the shooters in his rearview mirror. They’re aiming at the car now. Bullets tear through the trunk and rear window. I duck and grab the wheel, stomping the accelerator. I hope no one is in the street because I can’t see a damned thing.

Half a block on, the shooting stops. I hit the brake and the Banker and I bounce off the inside of the car.

I raise my head just high enough to see the shooters’ car, a white Miata, smoke its wheels as it does a one-eighty and drives like hell away from us.

I look at the Banker. He’s resting his head on the steering wheel, breathing hard and trying to get his breath. It doesn’t help any when I pull my gun and put it to his head. I glance through the front and back windows to make sure no one is coming up on us.

Pressing my gun harder into the Banker’s temple, I say, “Did you just set me up? Create a little drama so I’d get in the car?”

He gasps and holds up his right hand. It’s covered in blood. His ring finger is gone.

“I wish we were that clever,” he says.

I put my gun away and open the passenger door.

“I’m driving. Slide over here.”

I walk around the car and get into the driver’s seat.

“You’re taking me home?”

“No. I’m going to meet the richest man in California. What’s the address?”

The Banker tells me. He takes a handkerchief from his breast jacket pocket and wraps it around his bleeding hand. There’s blood all over the steering wheel. It sticks to my palms as I drive.

“Is Norris Quay Sub Rosa?”

He shakes his head and tries to work the seat belt with his left hand. He fails miserably and gives up.

“No. He’s just a regular person.”

“I doubt that.”

How many times in my life am I going to get an invite from the richest man in California? Why does someone like that want to hire me? I might as well have a look. It’s not like I’m going back to Bamboo House right now. If someone is going take another shot at me, I’d rather it be in a car with a stranger than in the bar with people I know. Plus, I want to see Quay. Lay my eyes on a real, honest-to-goodness billionaire. Is someone like that even human? Does he sleep on a pile of vestal virgins? Does he fly to the bathroom with a jet pack? Does he sprinkle his food with gold dust and platinum the way regular people use salt and pepper? And what the hell kind of a name is Norris?

QUAY MIGHT BE a civilian, but money is the magic anyone can do. He’s bought himself a Sub Rosa mansion.

We’re at the abandoned zoo in Griffith Park. After a short walk we go through an old concrete enclosure. It’s large and heavy, like something for big cats or bears. The interior walls are covered with graffiti. Teenybopper lovers and no-talent taggers. The Banker walks to a random crack in the floor and presses several points in the concrete, like a masseur doing acupressure. The crack creaks open on hinges like a trapdoor. He looks bad. Pale and sweating, but he minds his manners. He puts out his good hand, letting the guest know that he gets to go in first. Why not? I walk into trapdoors every day.

It’s a marble staircase and for a minute I think we’re back in time to ancient Athens. Underneath the zoo is where I imagine an old Greek king living. Marble everywhere. Ionic pillars supporting high ceilings. Light and dark marble squares form checkerboard patterns on the floors in the halls. Towering statues of gods and goddesses are crammed in every nook and cranny. I won’t be surprised if Quay shows up in flowing purple robes and a laurel wreath on his head.

The Banker keeps his cool, but he’s fading fast. He leads me into an office done up in the same Greek style, but there’s a phone, a computer, and a lot of prescription pill bottles on a carved mahogany desk. Three plasma-screen TVs are mounted on the walls, all tuned to different business channels. The picture window looks out over L.A. but not this L.A. The tallest building is maybe ten floors. It’s L.A. from a long time ago. Maybe from the thirties, when a lot of the big zoo enclosures were built.