Wilder pulled open the door and almost walked right into a burly man who filled most of the narrow entranceway. " Ten bucks." The man's bare arms bulged with muscles festooned with tattoos.

Wilder pulled out the bill and handed it over, but the man didn't move. "You packing?" He held up a metal detector.

Not a good sign, Wilder thought. "Yeah."

Tattoo Man frowned. "What are you carrying? Let me see."

This was a major pain in the ass, Wilder thought as he drew out the Clock. Then he pulled off his belt with the garrote in it. Then the dagger strapped to his left calf. Tattoo Man eyed the growing pile of weaponry with a raised eyebrow. "Expecting trouble?"

"It seems to follow me around," Wilder said.

"Sure that's the way it works?"

Wilder had to smile at that.

"You can leave all that with me or take it back to your car, but you are not going inside with any of it."

Well, he'd already paid his ten bucks. Shit. "I'll put it in my car," Wilder said, gathering the weapons and reversing course. "I'll be back."

"I'm sure you will be."

Going out the glass door, he bumped into LaFavre, still wearing his aviator glasses even though the sun had set a while ago. Schtick. Every pilot Wilder had ever met had some sort of schtick.

"It's nighttime, Swamp Rat," Wilder said, indicating the sunglasses.

"Working on my night vision." LaFavre gestured at the collection of weapons. "Figure one of the girls will attack you for your body?"

Been known to happen, Wilder thought. "Putting it back in the Jeep. Wait for me here."

Wilder went to the Jeep and secured the gear in his footlocker, then he rejoined LaFavre, who was chatting with Tattoo Man, obviously on a first-name basis. Wilder was subjected to the wand and then they were nodded into the club, thumping music making the floor vibrate under their feet.

Wilder followed LaFavre, who wove a path through the tables, stopping every now and then to greet someone. A skimpily dressed waitress sashayed up to LaFavre and draped her free arm around his waist, the other one balancing a tray holding several bottles of beer.

LaFavre gave her a peck on the cheek. "Candy, meet J.T. J.T., Candy. She's sweet."

"I'm sure she is," Wilder said. "Pleased to meet you, Candy."

Candy was a hard-looking twenty-five, and she eyed him up and down, establishing his net worth and finding him wanting, one of the reasons Wilder was not a big fan of strip clubs: They weren't about sex and fun, they were about money. Candy slid her arm from LaFavre and went in search of better prey.

"Got to dress better, my friend, if you want some attention."

Wilder stared at LaFavre, astounded. The aviator wore his beat-up leather flight jacket, faded ripped jeans, and alligator-skin boots that had seen better years, and his head was topped with his battered World War II-era flight cap.

"The jacket," LaFavre said. "Means I get flight pay. The girls know that stuff. A lot more than jump pay."

Wilder nodded as they took a table next to the stage. LaFavre crooked two fingers and another waitress zoomed by, depositing two bottles of Bud without even a "Hey, how's it going."

"That be Chantelle. She doesn't like me," LaFavre said, nodding toward the waitress's back as she sped away.

"I can't imagine why." Wilder raised his bottle. "To those who didn't come back."

LaFavre clinked bottles. "Amen, brother."

Wilder shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his back to the club door.

"What do you want to talk about?" LaFavre asked as his sunglasses focused on a girl who came out from behind the curtain and shimmied up the gleaming stainless-steel pole twelve feet to the ceiling. Using only her thigh muscles. Wilder had to admit he was impressed.

"I'm doing temporary work for the Agency."

LaFavre stopped looking at the dancer, lowered his sunglasses, and shot Wilder a look of unabashed pity. "Fuck."

"You said it."

"Here? Stateside?"

Wilder nodded. "Yeah, I know. This is most definitely a cover-your-ass gig by the Agency. I-and the Army-take the fall if this blows up since the Agency technically can't operate stateside."

"Technically you and the Army can't operate stateside, either," LaFavre pointed out as he slid the glasses up and put his attention back on the stage, where the girl was now upside down on the pole, gravity having no effect on her attributes. "Can you tell me the gig?"

Technically I can't, Wilder knew, since LaFavre didn't have, as they said in the parlance, "a need to know," even though he did have a top-secret clearance. But they'd already gone through the ritual of agreeing that this operation was a clusterfuck of responsibility and deniability without coming right out and saying it. The kid, Crawford, was probably doing his best, but he was still just a kid.

Wilder nodded. "The CIA thinks some money is being laundered via the movie. The backer is some shady moneyman that a lot of the alphabet soups are interested in. Name's Finnegan. He owes some Russian mob guy named Letsky and-"

"Wait a sec." LaFavre shook his head, but he was still looking at the stage. "What was that name? A Russian?"

"Simon Letsky." Wilder had a feeling LaFavre didn't have much blood left in his brain at the moment and he wished they had met somewhere where his friend could focus on the problem more closely.

LaFavre whistled, either at the information or the girl, who was now slowly sliding down the pole while simultaneously removing her top. "That's some deep shit. Letsky's bad, real bad. I've seen his name more than once on the daily intel sheets. He's worth billions. Arms dealer. And he's got ties to bad people. People who've shot at you."

Wilder processed that. He'd been shot at by Taliban in Afghanistan, insurgents in Iraq, and Al-Qaeda operatives in other places he wasn't supposed to have been.

"How can I help you?" LaFavre asked, leaning forward in the seat to get a better angle on the girl.

"I might need backup."

The song thudded to a halt and LaFavre sighed and leaned back in his chair, finally sparing Wilder a glance. "Man. This is the United States. Not the 'Stan. Not that I don't appreciate you saving my butt there, but…"

"I know." Wilder waited, hoping LaFavre would give him an answer before the next dancer completely wiped his brain clean.

LaFavre rubbed his chin. "We keep a Little Bird gunship and a Night-hawk on ten-minute alert all the time now. Both armed. But the order to put those in the air over the good ole U-S of A has to come from someone more mighty than thou."

Wilder didn't say anything, letting LaFavre wrestle with his official duty and his sense of honor. The music cranked and a new girl began crawling across the stage, taking LaFavre's attention.

"Well, my friend, since Finnegan and Letsky are sort of terrorists, I guess it is part of this here global war on terrorism," LaFavre finally said. "But don't call me about a paper cut or anything. Better be some real shit, with real danger, to real people."

Wilder felt relieved. "Thanks."

"Anything else?" LaFavre asked, as he smiled at the girl and twirled a ten-dollar bill.

Wilder shook his head. "Nope. Got a parry to get to."

"Ah, yes." LaFavre reached in his pocket and pulled out a small package, without taking his eyes off the girl. "Present this with my compliments to the young lady."

Wilder took it. "Okay," he said, confused.

"How do I get hold of you?" LaFavre said, and then the girl spun onto her back, legs spread wide, and clamped them down on LaFavre's head, just like the pole, as he slid the bill under the side of her G-string.

"Call one-eight-hundred-clusterfuck," Wilder said, not sure LaFavre could hear.

"That bad?" The voice was muffled.

"Could be worse," Wilder said as he remembered Lucy. "You got my Satphone number. Use that."