"Make it a double this time, will you, sweetheart?" Sporty winked at the female bartender as he slid the ten-dollar bill across to her.

Her full lips curved into a smile as she pocketed his money. "Careful there. Too many of these, and I'm going to have to take your keys."

Sporty held up his hands. "Come and get them anytime."

She rolled her eyes and set a fresh tonic water with lime in front of him. No one but the two of them had to know there wasn't any gin involved. Alcohol took Arnold James, Sr., to his grave at the age of forty-two, and since that day, his son refused to touch the stuff. Besides, a businessman needed to maintain a clear head.

As if she read his mind, the bartender-a cutie named Francie-took the opportunity to ask him with some skepticism, "What is it you do again?"

He'd tipped her double the cost of his drinks so far. "I'm an entrepreneur," he said smoothly, and produced a business card for her.

"Sporty James Enterprises," she read off the front. She tapped it on the bar, unsatisfied. "Yeah, but what do you do?"

"I connect people with what they need."

She arched one carefully sculpted eyebrow at him. "Yeah? I need a million bucks. What can you do for me?"

He choked on his drink.

"Jeez, I was only kidding," she said as she produced a dishtowel to mop up in front of him.

"I know," he wheezed, smoothing his now-damp tie over his chest. "Just got a tickle in my throat." He coughed twice and took a drink to soothe his throat. "Out of curiosity," he said when he could speak normally again, "if you had a million dollars, what would you do with it?"

"I sure as hell wouldn't hang around here."

"Where would you go?" He'd dreamed up a new location for every last one of those bills he had stashed in the footlocker. Bermuda. Nairobi. Cancun. He longed to flee but he felt sure the ghosts would follow him.

"I've got a cousin who lives in Nashville. Maybe I'd go there. Lord knows I got no luck singing country in this joint."

"You sing?"

A pink tinge spread across her brown cheeks. "When the Boss Man lets me-which is practically never. He says I gotta pay a hundred dollars if I want to use the stage on a weekend since I don't draw a crowd on my own. But as you can see, there ain't a soul in here mid-week."

Sporty drew back, affronted on her behalf. "A hundred dollars? He should pay you ten times that, to have a creature as rare and beautiful such as yourself grace his stage."

"Oh, go on with you. Your card should say: Sporty James, Professional Bullshitter." Her expression grew wistful. "It sure would be nice, just one time, to sing in front of a real crowd, you know? I've wanted it every day since I was five years old and singing next to my Mama in church."

Marguerite had wanted to be a kindergarten teacher. She used to say the same thing: Every day since I was five, I knew what I wanted to be. My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Robinette, and she had the kindest eyes. She always looked for the good in us, always talked gentle and encouraging. She'd say, 'I like the way you colored your sky like a sunset' or 'You wrote your name so neatly today.' I'd practically skip into school knowing she'd be waiting there.

Sporty had nodded and smiled when she'd told him her dreams but there was never any urgency. Marguerite was just twenty-two, still a baby. Lots of time left ahead for plans.

He finished his drink and rapped his knuckles on the bar. "Thanks for the libations and the company," he told Francine.

Her face fell, just a bit. "Leaving already?"

He took in the curve of her neck, imagined his face pressed in there. Imagined the sobs that still came up from nowhere and took his body like a storm coming through. He flashed her his trademark white smile. "I'll hear your songs in my dreams."

He left the bar but did not go home. He rarely went home these days. It had been ransacked three times in the past two months, probably by cops at least once, but the searchers never found what they were looking for. Sporty made a search himself, hoping to get lucky this late at night, and he smiled when he saw Rick Hunter pecking away at a typewriter in the relative quiet of the stationhouse.

He sauntered in almost silently but Hunter was never fooled. "Come to turn yourself in, Sporty?" he asked without looking up from his work.

"That presumes I am guilty of some crime," Sporty said, taking a seat beside the desk.

"Theft of a million dollars definitely falls into the felony category."

"Oh yeah? Then why I haven't I seen those dudes on Wall Street locked up yet?"

Sporty landed the joke because Hunter smiled and turned around. "If you're not here to give up on your little charade, what are you here for?"

"Ah. I could use a little advice."

"Buy expensive shoes. They'll save you money in the long run." Hunter had resumed typing with two fingers.

Sporty risked a look under the desk at Hunter's tired-ass black sneakers and shook his head at the advice. Physician, heal thyself, he thought. Marguerite liked fancy shoes, although she couldn't afford expensive ones. She had a closet full of colorful knockoffs, heels three inches high, some of them with sequins or feathers. He could've taken her shopping on Rodeo all day long now.

His heart squeezed painfully inside his chest. Marguerite's old advice came back to him: It'll be okay in the end. If it's not okay, this isn't the end.

He cleared his throat. Hunter turned around again. "Oh. Are you still here?"

"I need a lawyer," he said. "A good one."

Hunter leaned back in his chair and apprised Sporty with new eyes. "You got something going on I should know about?"

"Yeah. I shot a guy in Reno just to watch him die. C'mon, Hunter, you must know a whole barrel full of lawyers."

"So should you."

"I don't want no county defender this time out. I need one of those guys you see on TV in an expensive suit."

Hunter eyed him. "Then ask your tailor."

"I'm asking you." Sporty paused. "As a friend."

Hunter looked around at the few other cops milling about the station, and then he scooted his chair closer to Sporty. "Real talk," he said, his voice low. "Are you in trouble? Bogata's friends sniffing around after his money?"

"I'd be asking for a gun dealer, not a lawyer."

Hunter just kept staring at him, his blue eyes demanding the truth. Sporty huffed a sigh.

"I'm not in trouble. I just…after Marguerite, I kind of want to get my affairs in order, you know? Make sure Grandfather is taken care of if anything happens to me."

"You don't need a fancy lawyer to make a will, Sporty."

Sporty thrust out his chin. "Grandfather deserves the best, and so do I. Tell it to me straight, Sergeant-who's the smartest shyster you know?"

"That'd be Mike Snow."

"Oh, I've heard of him," Sporty replied, musing. "Yeah."

"Doesn't matter," Hunter said, folding his arms over his chest. "No way he's going to talk to you. Mike takes only takes cases for two reasons: fame or money. Unless you're prepared to cough up your million, he won't even take your call."

Sporty felt something like the old gleam come back to his eyes. "Care to make a bet?"

Hunter chuffed. "Sure. Let's make it a million bucks."

XXX

It took Sporty almost a month to weasel his way onto Mike Snow's calendar. When he arrived at the downtown office, he took the elevator all the way to the top where Snow held court over all of Los Angeles. His office smelled like leather and old books. Like money.

Mike offered Sporty a seat but did not come out from behind his enormous oak desk. "Tell me what brings you here," he said.

"I need to give away some money," Sporty replied, hugging the briefcase closer to his lap. He'd only brought a portion of the score with him, enough, he hoped, to get Mike's attention.

"Try the Salvation Army."

"I have something more specific in mind," said Sporty. "I want to give it to a school, but the donation needs to be anonymous. I have a couple of conditions for the donation as well."

Mike's lips thinned out. "This doesn't sound like my line of work."

"Maybe this will help." Sporty popped the lid on the briefcase, and Mike leaned over with polite interest to check it out. His nostrils flared when he saw the cash.

"What is this? Where did you get that?"

"It doesn't matter. The point is I don't want it no more."

Mike gave him a shrewd look. "I have enough problems. I don't need to get involved with drug money."

If only it was just drug money. Sporty swallowed hard and sat forward in his chair. "Mr. Snow, I've lived in L.A. all my life, just like you. Grew up on a different part of the city, no doubt, but we drive the same streets. Walk under the same sun. Watch the same TV channels."

Mike's eyes flicked to the grandfather clock in the corner. "Your point?"

"I've seen you on the television. Seen you win some big cases. But I also remember you from before, from about twenty-five years ago? You were on TV for a different reason then."

"I don't have time for this conversation anymore and I can't help you." Mike rose from behind his desk. "You should go."

"You were driving through the hills at night, on your way home from a party. It started to rain and you lost control of your car. You walked away but your date didn't. She ended up in a wheelchair, if I remember correctly. The press intimated you'd been drinking."

"I wasn't drunk." Mike pinned him with a dark stare. "I wasn't. They ran a blood test on me."

"Hey, I believe you, man." Sporty held up his palms. "I also know it doesn't matter. Not if you're being honest with yourself. You ruin another human being like that, it stays with you no matter how you try to tell the story. You were there. You know how it is. You'd do anything just to make it right, to be made whole again."

Mike said nothing for a long time. "What is it you want, Mr. James?"

Sporty held out the briefcase again and showed him the money. "Her name was Marguerite," he said, and his voice cracked as he said the words. "All I wanted was to get some money and make her life easy for a change. Buy her pretty clothes. Take her to fancy restaurants. I didn't listen to her when she said she only wanted to be with me. I wanted to be better for her. I wanted to be a bigger man. Now I lie in bed at night and I say her name because I'm the only one who can."

Mike cocked his head. "You didn't answer my question." He enunciated each word slowly. "What is it you want?"

Sporty swallowed. "I want them to say her name. I want it on the school. I want it to be a happy place where little kids run inside because they can't wait to start learning."

Mike gave a short nod. "Okay. Okay, maybe I can help you. How much are you prepared to give?"

"All of it," Sporty said immediately. Then he caught himself. All this cash swimming in front of him, the scent alone could make a person dizzy. He would trade it all for one more day with Marguerite, but she was never coming home. The best he could do was shore up her memory. Send this money into the past, where it belonged. Where Marguerite would always be.

He held one bill back. A hundred perfect dollars. "I'm just going to keep this one," he said.

Mike looked up from where he was making notes on his yellow legal pad. "A memento?"

Sporty imagined Francie on the stage, wondered if her voice was as pretty as her face. "A bet," he replied. "On the future."