“So what was in the suitcases?”

The boy is staring at me now. I’m about to tell him something that I’ve never told another person, something damning and dangerous and unretractable. I’m going to do it because I see big potential in this young man. He’s gifted by history and inspired by his blood. I think he’s what I’m looking for.

I curl a finger at him. He leans in and I whisper in his ear.

“The couriers’ money, Mexico bound. Four suitcases. Three hundred forty-seven thousand and eight hundred dollars.”

He sits back and his brow furrows again and he looks out the window then returns his gaze to me. He wants to smile but he doesn’t want to be caught smiling. Love has a face. So do fear and envy and surprise and every emotion under the sun. His face is joy.

“Incredible.”

“Not really.”

“You and Laws took it.”

“Did we?”

“You had to. It’s the whole point of the story-chaos turning into opportunity.”

“I’m glad you understand that. Because this is where the story begins to get interesting. Another beer and another cigar?”

“Oh, yes.”

I nod to the waitress and she nods back.

4

Yolanda led Hood down a hallway in the rear of the admin building of the Mira Loma Detention Facility, then down a flight of stairs half-hidden behind some vending machines. The door to the IA room had no window, just a plastic shield with the numerals 204 on it. There was no electronic card entry. She opened the door with a bright new key and placed the key in his hand.

Inside, the office was small and cold. Four cubicles shared an empty common area. The carpet was sea green. There was one window in the office, vertical, narrow and fortified with chicken wire. Through it Hood saw the concrete retaining wall for the basement level, and above the wall was a peekaboo view of the west prison grounds, the twenty-foot chain-link fences topped by razor wire, and the sun-bleached gun towers.