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    Last Call
    Last Call
    Last Call
    Ebook381 pages6 hours

    Last Call

    By James Grippando

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    A kid from Miami's meanest streets, Theo Knight lost his mother to a violent crime. He was on Death Row for a murder he didn't commit when lawyer Jack Swyteck proved him innocent. Now they are best friends. Theo is a semi-respectable and successful bar owner, but the past, with its risks and its terrors, has come knocking on his back door. An escaped convict from the old neighborhood wants sanctuary, and in return he is offering information: the identity of the killer who left Theo's mom lying dead in the street on a hot South Florida evening.

    Theo wants justice, but the answers are not simple. He and Jack must now piece together a twenty-year-old conspiracy of greed and corruption that's pointing toward the city's most elite and powerful. And digging through a history that Theo has struggled his whole life to forget could awaken some very desperate, very deadly sleeping dogs.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateOct 13, 2009
    ISBN9780061746505
    Author

    James Grippando

    James Grippando is a New York Times bestselling author with more than thirty books to his credit, including those in his acclaimed series featuring Miami criminal defense attorney Jack Swyteck, and the winner of the Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction. He is also a trial lawyer and teaches law and literature at the University of Miami School of Law. He lives and writes in South Florida.

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    Reviews for Last Call

    4/5

    46 ratings20 reviews

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    • 4/5
      It's a great idea; There’s a cyclical battle to become The Fisher King, war waged by violence, gambling and magic. Souls are bought and sold, ghosts become real and the archetypes wait behind the tarot to give you power or drive you mad. The problem is about half way through the paces starts slowing a bit and by 3/4s the cracks in the plot are starting show. Although don't get me wrong it's still very readable but the direction the plot takes isn't as interesting as I thought it might be, partly because it needs a bit of tightening up but also its starts to get too pat: the ending is unsurprising and seems a bit forced.However did I mention the world? It's not spelt out in detail (which I love), its chaotic with a blend of religions and magic; tarot cards and ancient gods, chaos magicks and hidden royalty all blended in with the seedy side of crime. There are some great exciting action pieces, some wonderfully eccentric characters and Las Vegas makes a great backdrop. So I do recommend it, it's worth reading for the idea and none of it's boring, just the end is slightly disappointing.One for a long journey perhaps?
    • 3/5
      This is the first in a series of three books, the others being, "Expiration Date" and "Earthquake Weather". I don't know where the second and third books go, but I will get around to them eventually."Last Call" was entertaining and intriguing enough to keep me interested to the end. It involves poker playing and a magical power struggle that takes place in the contemporary (as of when it was written-1992) world of Las Vegas.Powers created good characters, put them in realistic emotional situations, and portrayed their actions well in those situations, albeit with a backdrop of magical kings, queens and godesses.Much play was made of the magical powers of chance and the concentration of the related forces in Las Vegas where chance is the focus of the towns existence.Apart from the magic and supernatural activities, "Last Call" is an action thriller with poker playing. A bit like Gandalf meets the Cincinati Kid.
    • 4/5
      It had been many years since I read this book, so all I really remembered going in was that it involved poker, superstitions, and California. Of course, as this is a book by Tim Powers, it was far more complex than that. I love Powers' ability to weave seemingly diverse concepts into a whole, and the way his stories make sense, if one can only bend one's mind into a pretzel. I also love the many literary references, although I'm sure I caught only the top of the iceberg.This book was crazy, wild, anxiety producing, and a whole lot of fun. Go read it.
    • 4/5
      Urban fantasy, set in Las Vegas, where a grittier, American-style version of the Fisher King legend is playing out, driven by the mechanisms of the tarot, which of course is being fueled by the amount of card play going on at any given moment. The whole thing is framed as a poker game, but I confess that I'm bad enough at following normal poker and thus didn't try very hard to parse out the mystical poker so I can't speak to how convincing that aspect is.This is the kind of fantasy book where a goodly number of the characters start off with complete knowledge of all the magic and the rules and have a good grasp of what's going on right out of the gate. I always find something slightly unsatisfying about this, as a fairly pragmatic person myself, it always helps when characters need to be convinced so that I can be convinced by proxy.Lately I've been finding that books written in the early 90s make the oddest impression on me because they seem both modern, and at the same time, positively in the Dark Ages because they're just a little before that technology crest that brought the internet and cell phones to the masses.Grade: BRecommended: This reminded me of things like American Gods and even a little of The Stand (but you know, shorter), and I think it has a similar appeal.
    • 5/5
      Exquisite book by Tim Powers that blends together the Tarot, poker, semi-ancient mythology, and Las Vegas in ways that I thought not possible. Highly recommended, and especially recommended for those who think that fantasy is all pointy ears and chainmail bikinis.
    • 5/5
      I'm a big fan of [author: Tim Powers]. He has this strange ability to take bizarre and disparate elements and weave them together into a cohesive and engaging story. This particular example of his work involves (among other things) poker, chaos theory, Jungian archetypes, Tarot, and The Fisher King. These things seem to have little or no relation to each other, but it all works, and it does so brilliantly. The best thing he's written, in my opinion.
    • 5/5
      This is the book that I give friends when I want them to be exposed to Tim Powers, and it hasn't failed me yet. Like most of Powers' work, it posits a "secret" or alternate version of the world, one where poker cards can determine your fate and a Las Vegas mobster can be the Fisher King. But it's also a narrative about family-the wounds of childhood (emotional and physical), the trials of love, and ways the past can haunt you. With compelling and rich characters, an engrossing and intricate mythology, and a fast-paced plot, this is one of my favorite books, re-read regularly.
    • 5/5
      There are some classic science fiction and fantasy novels that don't hold up when when you read them years later. This is not one of them. Now that I have lived in Las Vegas for four years, the book is actually better since I know the places that are described here. In one sense this novel is the oft told tale of the Fisher King. The old King fails and grows weaker, but tries for one more session on the throne he has stolen from his predecessor. But there are Jacks, possible kings in the making, just waiting for the King to make a mistake and take over the throne themselves. What makes this novel different and deeper is the solid reality of this magical story. The magic is a mixture of cigarette smoke, chaos theory, unlevel glasses, Tarot decks, body substitutions, and the Moon Goddess. Many of the tropes in Tim Powers more recent books are seen here; the Secret History, the power of alcohol and tobacco, the fringes of society that control primal forces. What makes it compelling are the characters of the old King, his son Scott Crane, Scott's foster father, Ozzie, and Scott's adopted sister, Diana.If you only read one Tim Powers book, read this one.
    • 4/5
      Tim Powers writes fantasy. Here’s what his fantasy doesn’t have: elves, orcs, trolls, dwarves, wizards (well, OK, it has some magicians sometimes), maps of imaginary countries, thick heroes to whom everything endlessly has to be explained.Tim Powers writes alternate history, but the ‘what ifs’ in Tim Powers novels are fantasy ‘what ifs’ rather than science-fictional ‘what ifs’: not ‘what if the Spanish Armada had conquered England’ but ‘what if the Egyptian gods were real and still out there, held at bay by the Christian God, and what if there was a powerful sect of sorcerers dedicated to bringing them back’? That was The Anubis Gates. In Last Call, the premise is simpler: what if Tarot Cards really do have power, and ordinary playing cards have a corrupted, cut-down version of that power? And what would that mean if you lived in Las Vegas?Start on a Tim Powers book, and you’re quickly thrust into a paranoid world in which nothing is an accident. As a professional gambler, Scott Crane is fairly susceptible to that point of view in any case, and things are getting worse, because he sold his soul nearly twenty-one years ago, and now the buyer is preparing to collect.The plot’s a roller-coaster ride which is well worth the price of admission, and in a few chapters, if you’re like me, Powers will have you taking for granted the most improbable things. Sit back and enjoy the ride.
    • 5/5
      good book. especially if you like fantasy. i recommend other tim powers books as well...
    • 1/5
      This is by far the worst Tim Powers I have read. It is Powers, so there are vivid, hard to forget moments (the skinny man trying to get out, the inner dialog of Al Funo, etc). Alas, it is overall something of a mess. 1.15.07
    • 5/5
      One of my favorite books ever. A fantastic exploration of the Aurthurian myth translated into modern times, but no knowledge of Arthur required to love and appreciate this work.
    • 5/5
      Probably Powers' best novel. A blend of magic, poker, and chaos theory set in Las Vegas. The usual Powers suspects are here: The Grail, body swapping magicians, and Egyptian mythology, but with a new spin on them.Powers tried to unify this with his next novel, the vastly inferior Expiration Date in the novel after that Earthquake Weather, but neither of these quite lived up to the promise of Last Call. It wasn't until Declare that we got to see Powers back on form.
    • 5/5
      One of my all time favorites and Powers best. There is so much going on in the book that it not only begs but demands to be re-read. One of the great all time fantasy novels.
    • 5/5
      I
    • 4/5
      This is my third James Grippando book. I only vaguely remembered the previous two. The descriptions on the back keep making me interested and then the stories themselves are so-so. Of the three I've read, this one is the best. That said, the book is not truly suspenseful, and the plot twists were obvious. The characters were also pretty stereotypical.
    • 4/5
      A very good novel about ethic gangs in America, their love and loyalty towards each member, resulting in their tight bonding. It starts with Theo Knight, the younger of two brothers is out cruising around with members of the "Grove Lords," that he desperately wants to be part of, leader Isaac Reems says, " your anitsheation is to go over to this women that has just been stabbed too death and steal something from her and return, he does. The state charges and convicts him for murder, he's on death row waiting, when a criminal defense lawyer, Jack Swyteck, gets the charges dropped and his release from prison. Now 20 years later Theo is the owner of a bar in the Florida Keys, Sparky's Tavern, he's closing for the night when he notices someone hiding behind some kegs of beer. He immediately reaches into the cash draw to grab his 38, it's not there, the intruder has it, he then realizes the intruder is Isaac from the "Grove Lords," he has just escaped from prison and whats Theo's help. Theo's confussed on what to do, Isaac tells Theo that he knows who killed his mother, which was unbeknownst to him was the women that he stole the purse from years ago to prove his worth to the "Grove Lords." Now the story begins with the investigation of Isaac's escape, the murder and rape of Theo's mother, Portia and the cast of other characters weaved into the middle of this plot.
    • 3/5
      I liked the characters, I was intrigued with the premise of the book, and I appreciated the fact that the answer to all of the questions raised throughout the story weren't obvious. My criticism is that I could put the book down, walk away, and pick it up and continue a few days later. A book categorized as "suspense" should keep you reading and make you unable to put that book down; the words should act like a magnet making it impossible for you to move on until you finish reading the last word on the last page. This book fell a little short in that respect.
    • 4/5
      Theo is the main character is the newest edition to the Jack Swyteck series. Theo knew that his mother had been murdered when he was a teenager, but he was unaware of an earlier rape. A prison escape causes him to try to find the rapist and murderer, but Theo's life is also in danger.
    • 3/5
      My husband and I listened to this audio book on a trip. We both enjoy suspense/thriller/crime novels. This one borders on a 4 for me, but we agreed it's a 3. Well told, though I predicted (silently) early on one of the twists in the story. Engaging book that I think would be just as good read as read-to-you. Better than average for this type of book. There are enough characters for the reader to both cheer and boo for.

    Book preview

    Last Call - James Grippando

    Prologue: 1986

    In silent agreement, the Grove Lords selected their next victim.

    All of Miami—or at least the bus-riding, project-dwelling population of the Coconut Grove ghetto—seemed to stop and admire the 1964 Chevy Impala cruising down Grand Avenue. The totally refurbished, twenty-year-old classic had all the trappings of the finest in gang wheels. Metallic blue paint job with a flaming red devil atop the hood. Bumpers, mirrors, and side strips in high-polished chrome that glistened in the sunset. Low-ride, hydraulic suspension that left barely enough ground clearance for a garden snake. The most prized upgrades, of course, were the all-important rims—180-count spoke radials with 24-karat, gold-plate finish. Not bad for three punks from the ’hood. They’d stolen it from a Latino gang leader who had more flash than firepower. A pair of 9-millimeter bullet holes in the rear quarter panel marked the occasion.

    Music blasted at ear-splitting decibels from a boom box in the trunk. The dark-tinted windows rattled with the deep-base vibes of When Doves Cry, by Prince. Thirteen-year-old Theo Knight rode shotgun. He wore his Nike cap backward, the price tag still dangling from the bill. Sweat pasted an orange Miami Hurricanes football jersey to his back. A Mercedes-Benz hood ornament hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. It was the standard uniform of the Grove Lords, a gang of badass teenagers led by chief thief of the week Isaac Reems. Isaac was behind the wheel. Theo’s older brother, Tatum, was sandwiched between them on the bench seat.

    Isaac lowered the music so they could talk. You seen him, right?

    Uh-huh, said Tatum.

    Theo didn’t answer.

    Theo? said Isaac. You seen him, didn’t ya?

    Theo knew exactly who he was talking about. The next white dude they spotted was their agreed-upon target. Yeah, I seen him. Crazy man ridin’ straight through nigguh town on a bicycle.

    Coconut Grove was one of those mixed communities in south Florida. Long before the developers came with bulldozers and wrecking balls, the Grove was known as a bohemian enclave for tree lovers and flower children of the 1960s. Finding your way through the twisted, narrow residential streets beneath the green tropical canopy was a perennial right of passage in Miami. But to Theo—to any black kid who’d heard the gunshots outside the rundown bars and package stores on Douglas Road—the Grove was a world of extremes. Butting right up against Miami’s most expensive real estate was a ghetto that could ser vice just about anyone’s bad habit, from gangs with their random hits, to doctors and lawyers who ventured out in obedience to their addictions. It was easy for affluent white folks to become careless and take a dangerous shortcut on their way home to paradise. And there were plenty of opportunists like the Grove Lords to make them pay for it.

    This one’s all yours, said Tatum.

    I know, said Theo.

    The cyclist turned on Grand Avenue. The Chevy followed. Let’s tail him for a while, said Isaac. Make him shit his pants.

    Tatum laughed and took a long swig from a half-empty bottle of vodka. He passed it to Theo, who pushed it away.

    What’s wrong with you, pussy? said Tatum.

    I ain’t a pussy.

    We’ll see, said Isaac. Pop the glove box.

    Theo opened it. Inside was a pearl-handled knife with a six-inch, serrated blade that shone like a mirror. It was an impressive weapon, a collector’s item with serious pawn value. What you want me to do with this?

    Cut him, said Isaac.

    "Say what? I thought I just had to take him down."

    What you think ‘take him down’ means? said Isaac. Show me some blood, brotha’. That’s your ticket into the gang.

    I can knock his ass off his bike. That’ll get him bloody.

    Fucking road rash? said Tatum. "You think that’s gonna make you a Grove Lord?"

    The cyclist was pedaling faster, glancing nervously over his shoulder every few seconds, obviously sensing that he was being followed. Nobody said nothin’ about stabbin’ nobody, said Theo.

    You want in the gang or don’t you? said Isaac.

    Yeah. I want in.

    Tatum took another hit of vodka. Then shut up and do your job.

    Theo drew a deep breath and let it out. Compared to Tatum, Theo was the good kid in the family. Gang life seemed to come naturally to his older brother. Tatum was always in trouble, and Theo had inherited a bad-boy reputation and a slew of enemies without even trying. Not that Theo was a saint. Even with a thug for an older brother, Theo wouldn’t have been considered for membership in the Grove Lords if he hadn’t shown potential of his own. But his résumé was filled with petty stuff—smash-and-grabs from parked vehicles, some vandalism, that kind of thing. Theo had never really hurt anyone, at least not simply for the fun of it.

    The cyclist made another quick left. The Chevy was right behind him. A jerky hand signal told the driver to go around him.

    Tatum nearly burst with laughter, slapping the dashboard. Yeah, right. Like we need you to tell us what to do, white boy.

    Isaac smiled. He knows he’s in trouble.

    Theo was sullen. I’m no good with knives.

    Man, why do I have such a pussy for a brother? said Tatum, groaning.

    Theo took a swing at him, but before it landed, Tatum had his younger brother’s wrist in one hand and the knife in the other. "Don’t you ever turn on me," said Tatum, showing him the tip of the blade.

    The cyclist suddenly found a higher gear. He was racing through the green light, crossing six lanes of stopped traffic on U.S. 1.

    Got ourselves a flyer! said Isaac. He hit the gas, and as the Chevy sped over the gentle crown in the highway, the chassis scraped on asphalt, sending sparks flying. Shee-it, said Isaac.

    On the other side of the highway, the cyclist made a hard right onto the paved bicycle path.

    He’s getting away, said Tatum.

    No, he ain’t, said Isaac. The tires screeched as he steered the car onto the bike path in hot pursuit. Tatum howled, cheering on the chase.

    The path was like a narrow, winding road beneath the elevated Metrorail tracks. A tall chain-link fence topped with spirals of razor wire bordered the left side, separating the public path from warehouses and auto-repair shops. To the right were the three southbound lanes of U.S. 1, an endless stream of traffic headed in the opposite direction at better than fifty miles per hour. The cyclist had nowhere to go but due north along the bicycle path. He swerved a few feet to the left, and the Chevy followed. The cyclist jerked to the right, and so did the Chevy. Isaac toyed with his prey, practically kissing the bicycle’s rear tire with the Impala’s big chrome bumper. The rider glanced back over his shoulder, terror on his face. He was inches away from being roadkill when they reached a cross street. The cyclist made a hard left turn.

    He’s toast, said Isaac.

    It was a side road of broken asphalt and rutted gravel. The rider hit a mud puddle and nearly fell, but he managed to right himself and keep going. He had to stand on the pedals to maintain his speed. The all-out sprint was taking its toll.

    Get ready, Tatum told his brother.

    Dead ahead was a solid block wall. The paint-and-body shops on either side had closed hours earlier, their windows and doors protected by roll-down, metal security shutters. White boy had found himself a blind alley. He dropped his bicycle and ran, searching frantically for a way to scale the wall. It was like a sheer cliff. He turned and faced the music—literally—as the noisy low-rider raced toward him. His back was to the wall, his chest heaving, as he braced himself for the worst.

    The Chevy skidded to a stop. Tatum reached across his brother’s lap and pushed the door open. Get him, Theo!

    Theo didn’t move.

    Tatum slapped the knife handle into the palm of Theo’s hand. Go on, do it!

    Take the bike, shouted the rider, his voice quaking. I paid over a thousand bucks for it. Really. You can have it.

    Now! Tatum said to his brother.

    Why don’t we just take the bike? said Theo.

    We ain’t here for no bike. You gonna cut him or not?

    The rider was ash white with fear, pleading. Come on, guys. Please. Don’t do this. I have a two-year-old daughter.

    Tatum had lost all patience. Cut him, damn it! Cut him good!

    Theo’s gaze shifted back to the rider, who was trying to adopt a goofy martial-arts, self-defense pose. Theo could have kicked his ass so easily. It wasn’t fear that was holding him back. In fact, there was strange satisfaction in walking up to a Bruce Lee wannabe and laying him out on the sidewalk—but only if there was a good reason to do it, like payback or protection. If Theo was going to turn some random Joe into a noisy amusement for a knife, it was important that he stand to gain something more than acceptance by a couple of punks who called themselves the Grove Lords.

    Theo handed the knife to his brother. You cut him.

    Pussy! shouted Tatum. He reached across for the handle and slammed the door shut.

    Isaac shook his head with disapproval as he hit the gas. The tires spun and gravel flew. Theo looked back and saw white boy fall to his knees, relieved and exhausted.

    Tatum shoved the knife back into the glove compartment. Theo thought he heard him say pussy again, but the boom box was way too loud. Isaac was singing along to Prince again, changing the words: This is what it sounds like / when Theo Knight cries.

    Twilight turned into night as they drove back into Coconut Grove. Theo retreated into thought. He was no pussy. He just wasn’t as stupid as his older brother. Even so, Tatum would pound him when they got home, no question about it. Or at least he would try. Theo grew bigger and stronger with each passing month, and everyone knew that before long the younger brother would have the upper hand.

    Something’s goin’ down over there, said Isaac.

    At the south end of Grand Avenue, right outside Homeboy’s Tavern, a crowd had gathered in the street. A line of cars in the right lane was blocking traffic. The Chevy stopped a block away at the red light. Isaac rolled down the window and shouted to another Grove Lord who was standing on the corner.

    Hey, Switch, said Isaac. Switch (short for switchblade) sauntered up to the driver’s side of the Impala. Isaac said, Hey, what’s happenin’, bro’?

    You mean over there? he said, indicating the crowd.

    I sure don’t mean in your shitty little life.

    Switch smiled, too dumb to know when he was being insulted. Some bitch got her throat slit.

    Who?

    I dunno.

    She still there?

    Yeah. Blood everywhere. And she’s wearing this short skirt with nothin’ underneath. You can see it all, dude. Definitely worth a look.

    Cops there yet?

    Uh-uh. Just happened.

    Let’s go see, said Tatum.

    Isaac raised the window. The traffic light changed, and the car started slowly down the street. Isaac looked at Theo and said, Here’s the deal, bro’. I’m giving you one more chance to make it.

    I ain’t cuttin’ no dead woman.

    Forget the knife. All you gotta do is walk up to the body in front of all these people. Make sure everyone sees you. And then I want you to steal something off her.

    That’s too easy, said Tatum.

    I make the rules, said Isaac. This is Theo’s gig. You up for it?

    Shit, yeah. No problem.

    Isaac steered the Chevy into Homeboy’s parking lot and killed the engine. All right. Go for it, dude.

    Theo climbed down from the low-rider and started toward the crowd. About fifty black folks had gathered, most of the adults with drinks in their hands from Homeboy’s. The front door to the bar was wide open. The latest hit song from Kool and the Gang filled the warm night air. The nearest street lamp had been shot out by the Grove Lords weeks earlier, so the only source of light was the half-moon and the blinking Budweiser sign above the entrance to Homeboy’s. The main crowd formed a semicircle that blocked Theo’s view of the fallen victim. Several shirtless teenage boys were on their bellies, getting the X-rated up-skirt view that Switch had mentioned. Not a cop was in sight, but sirens could be heard in the distance. Theo needed to move quickly. He was about to break through the crowd when someone grabbed him by the arm, halting him.

    Don’t go there, the man said.

    Theo nearly slugged him in the darkness, but at the last moment he recognized his great-uncle. Uncle Cy, what are you doing here?

    That don’t make no never mind. Just do as I tell ya. Don’t go there.

    Theo glanced back toward his brother in the Chevy. I gotta go.

    No, you don’t want to do that. Uncle Cy tightened his grip. Theo noticed that the old man’s hand was shaking. At six foot two he was taller than Theo, but he was a thin reed who lived on gin and cigarettes and God only knew what else. Theo could have shaken him off like a fly, but Uncle Cy with all his flaws was the closest thing he had to a father.

    You’re messing me up here, said Theo.

    I ain’t gonna let you do this.

    Theo had no idea how the old man knew he was on a Grove Lord mission. He must have just figured that if Theo was out cruising with Tatum and Isaac, they had to be up to no good. You need to let go.

    No can do, boy.

    Take you hands off me.

    Not tonight I won’t.

    Get out of the way.

    It’s for your own good.

    Don’t make me knock you on your ass.

    You’re gonna have to. ’Cuz I ain’t lettin’ you through here, boy.

    Theo shoved him, and Uncle Cy went down like a bowling pin. Theo started through the crowd.

    Theo, stop!

    He kept going.

    Come back, boy!

    Theo ignored him.

    Theo, it’s your momma!

    Theo froze. There was blood on the street, on her dress, in her hair—so much blood, the color of her long crimson nails dotted with cheap rhinestones. Flies buzzed with interest around the deep gash across her throat. The wound was just below the white leather choker around her neck, a few inches above the rose tattoo on her right breast. Theo didn’t want to see her face, but some inner curiosity made him take a good long look. He saw the open mouth, the painted lips, the vacant eyes staring into the night—two black pools behind a hooker’s false lashes and enough sparkling purple shadow to let the johns know exactly what she was.

    And he saw a leopard-print shoulder bag on the ground, beside the lifeless body.

    Sirens in the distance grew louder. Theo stood silent and stared, as if searching for the right emotions. He didn’t let his eyes go there, but he knew Switch was right: you could see right up her skirt. The view would have been only slightly less revealing had she been standing in her usual spot on the corner.

    Theo, his uncle said, but Theo ignored him.

    He stepped toward his mother, bent down on one knee, and checked to make sure that everyone was watching.

    Then he grabbed the purse and ran back to the Chevy.

    Twenty years later

    Chapter 1

    Jack Swyteck woke after midnight. The television was playing, but the sound was still on mute. Rene didn’t like sex in total darkness. Leno the night-light.

    Jack stole a glimpse of the gorgeous woman in bed next to him. He was a lucky guy, he supposed, on many different levels. He was a respected criminal defense lawyer with his own practice. He had an unlikely best friend in Theo Knight, an ex-con and former client who would do anything for Jack. His beloved abuela was healthy, and it had been ages since he and his famous father had argued the way they used to. With Rene in town, there was plenty to be happy about—so long as he didn’t overanalyze things.

    But he always overanalyzed things. Last month’s draw had fallen short of what some lawyers paid their personal trainers. His ex-wife was a fruitcake, and his post-divorce love life could have filled an entire volume of Cupid’s Rules of Love and War (Idiot’s Edition). To add insult to injury, twice a week Abuela called Spanish talk radio to find her thirty-nine-year-old grandson a nice Cuban girl. Sometimes Jack felt as if he had used up his lifetime allotment of luck getting Theo off death row for a murder he didn’t commit—whose death warrant had been signed by the law-and-order governor of Florida, Jack’s father.

    And then there was Rene.

    She lay on her side, sound asleep, the soft cotton sheet hugging the curve of her hip. Her flight from West Africa had landed that afternoon. She’d finally succumbed to jet lag, though not before taking Jack for a ride that seemed to have been propelled by rocket fuel. They had planned to hit South Beach for dinner. They never made it out of Jack’s bedroom. Typical for her first night in town. Unfortunately, she would be gone in two days, three at the most. Some emergency would undoubtedly come up and force her to cut the trip short. That would also be typical.

    The first time Jack had laid eyes on Rene, she was covered in dust, caught in the midst of the Senoufo country’s equivalent of a sandstorm. It was hard not to be impressed by a Harvard Med School grad who had given up the financial rewards of private practice to be a one-doc operation in a clinic near the cocoa region of Côte d’Ivoire. Many of her patients were young children escaping forced servitude on the plantations, mere innocents who had been snatched by kidnappers, lured away by liars, or sold into slavery by their own families for as little as fifteen dollars. Rene saw all that and more—malnutrition, AIDS, infant mortality, even genital mutilation among some migrant tribes. Perhaps it was a stretch, but Jack felt an immediate connection to Rene, having passed up offers himself from prestigious firms right out of law school to defend death-row inmates. For whatever reason, they hit it off. Really hit it off.

    Passion, however, was a tricky thing. On the emotional EKG, Jack and Rene resembled a couple of flat-liners with occasional bursts of tachycardia. She flew into Miami to see him every three months or so. Sometimes she didn’t even tell Jack she was coming. Smart, funny, sexy, and spontaneous, she could have been everything Jack thought he wanted in a woman—except that she was hardly ever around. On one of these visits she was going to put away the passport and announce that she was moving to Miami. At least that was what Jack told himself. A little optimism kept him in the game.

    Rene? he whispered. She didn’t move. He nudged her.

    What? she muttered.

    Where’s the remote?

    Only one eye opened, which was a good thing. A two-eyed glare of that caliber would have killed him, for sure. She swung her arm around and jabbed the remote control into Jack’s elbow.

    Jack punched the button, but nothing happened. Damn it. How are you supposed to get this thing turned on?

    Talk dirty to it, she said into her pillow.

    Thanks.

    Go to hell.

    I love you, too, he started to say, but thought better of a joke like that. On her last visit, he’d used the three operative words in a serious way. Her response was not what he’d hoped for. It left him resolved never to say I love you again—unless followed by the word too.

    Waves of colored light flickered across the bedroom as Jack channel-surfed. He skipped through the reruns and infomercials, pausing only for a moment at yet another forensic drama that looked like CSI: Mars, or some such remote geographic rip-off of the original hit series. At the bottom of the hour, a local news headline caught his eye. He raised the volume. This time, it worked.

    No sound, said Rene.

    It’s still on mute.

    Liar. I can hear it.

    That’s because you’re dreaming. In real life, I’m perfect. Only in dreams am I a total pain in the ass.

    She was too tired to argue, or maybe it was his sense of humor that sent her back to sleep. Jack turned his attention to the television newscast. At such a low volume he could pick up only a few words here and there, but the image on screen was familiar. Jack had visited plenty of clients at the Turner Guilford Knight Correctional Center. A young and attractive reporter with ambition in her eyes and an Action News microphone in her hand was doing a live broadcast from outside the jail’s main entrance. Helicopters circled in the night sky behind her, powerful white searchlights sweeping the landscape. Those definitely weren’t media choppers.

    The words Breaking News and Prison Escape flashed in white letters against a bright red banner on the bottom of the screen.

    Jack glanced at Rene—still sleeping—and decided to risk a little added volume. With the press of a button, he immediately heard the excitement in the reporter’s voice, catching her in mid-sentence.

    —the second escape from TGK Correctional Center in the past twelve months, and the first ever from the second floor, which is reserved for convicted or suspected sex offenders. TGK is operated by the Miami-Dade Corrections and Rehabilitation Department, which countywide houses approximately seven thousand inmates in the nation’s sixth-largest jail system. Last April, the department’s director resigned after a police and fire task force found that jail buildings were severely outdated, officer training was poor, and 134 positions were unfilled. Department officials say that last night’s escape occurred sometime after—

    The air conditioner kicked on, and the hum completely drowned out the television. Jack increased the volume a few bars too many, which had Rene grumbling.

    I’m going to kill you.

    You can’t. Hippocratic oath, remember?

    Sue me! she said as she sprang to life like a lioness. A wrestling match ensued. Rene was on top, then Jack, then Rene. The sheets ended up on the floor, right beside the clothes that had fallen there four hours earlier. Jack was about to retake control of the situation when she grabbed him where it counted, the sparkle back in her eyes.

    Jack froze, raising his hands in playful surrender. Put the gun down, Rene. Unless you intend to use it.

    She didn’t let go. I’m wide awake now, thanks to you. Come on. We have some serious catching up to do.

    Slow down. We’ve got all week.

    She kissed him gently, so lightly that it was difficult to tell whether she’d actually made contact—a kind of sensual ambiguity that Rene had perfected and that could drive Jack crazy. Her lips drifted toward his ear as she whispered, I have to fly back to Abidjan on Monday.

    This time, her words barely tugged at his heartstrings. It’s okay, he said flatly. I knew you did.

    IT WAS LAST CALL at Sparky’s Tavern.

    Theo Knight made the announcement from behind the long, crowded bar. He was smiling widely, and with good reason. Sparky’s was an old gas station that he’d converted into the last watering hole between the mainland and the Florida Keys. It was a true dive, but it was his dive. And business was better than ever. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before he could say good-bye to the bikers, the rednecks, and the electric slide and open Sparky’s II, a true jazz bar in Coconut Grove. The mere thought blew his mind. Talk about beating the odds.

    Theo had never actually made it into the Grove Lords—stealing his own mother’s purse didn’t cut it—but life didn’t offer many choices to the illegitimate son of a drug-addicted prostitute. The cops never did catch the guy who’d slit his mother’s throat. The word on the street was that it was some john who didn’t think her blow job was worth the ten bucks. Theo and his older brother went to live with their mother’s sister in Liberty City, one of Miami’s roughest hardscrabble neighborhoods. Aunt Teesha did her best to raise them, but with five children of her own, it wasn’t easy. The Knight brothers were soon on every crime-watch list in the area, thanks mostly to Tatum, but Theo did his part too. He dropped out of high school, stuck his hand in the wrong cash register, and got tagged with the brutal murder of a convenience store clerk. At age fifteen he was the youngest inmate on Florida’s death row. The Grove Lords finally thought he rocked. Theo didn’t find the irony amusing.

    Especially since he was innocent.

    Hey, look who’s here, said one of his barmaids.

    Theo looked up from a sink full of cocktail glasses and saw Trina entering the bar. She was the closest he’d ever come to having a steady. He’d met her through his buddy Jack Swyteck, but only after circumstances had forced her to lay Jack out on the sidewalk with a martial arts kick. Almost immediately, Theo knew he had to have this sexy brunette with the olive skin of a Latina supermodel and the mysterious accent of a Russian spy.

    Trina walked straight to the bar and took a seat on a stool opposite Theo. She wasn’t smiling.

    Hey, baby, he said.

    Don’t call me baby.

    You still mad at me? It ain’t nice to hold a grudge.

    She laid her purse on the bar top and crossed her legs. She had great legs. Strong, too. She’d kicked him in the ass enough for him to know.

    You bought me a bug for my birthday, she said.

    It’s not a bug. It’s a roach brooch.

    "It was a live insect."

    "Bred by a jeweler who

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