Weems was talking. "Ellison Stadanko has graciously stepped aside to concentrate on his current legal battles. In that void the team owners, who I brought together in an emergency meeting, have unanimously selected a sterling individual with a keen mind and impeccable credentials. I can only add that it's about time we did the right thing and handed the reins of power to a young woman who represents the future."

The clip ended. Some dudes sitting at the bar started yapping about whether this was good or bad for the Barons. I went back to my corner.

Eventually I headed back to the apartment. It was as neat as I'd left it. Chekka hadn't had a chance to toss it, plus they knew I wasn't stupid enough to leave several million laying around like stank laundry The couch looked good and I laid down, wondering how I was gonna get my share. After a while I got up and drove over to the Locker Room. The place was open and I walked inside.

''Danny around?" The bouncer had his back to me and was talking to a couple of honeys in straining tops.

"Who's that, sir?" The dude had turned around, and I got a real good look at the flaming cross tattooed on his cheek.

"The brother that owns this place."

"I wouldn't know about that, sir."

"Then how is it you're doing duty here?"

"That would be on Mr. Trace's say-so, sir."

"Oh." I went further inside, expecting things to look and sound different, but they didn't. There was bumpin' music on the speakers, booze at the bar, and fine mamas flowing about the joint. Then I spotted a big man with his back to me at the top of the stairs, standing where he always did by the rail.

"Nap," I said to myself, gulping hard.

The man saw me and waved so I walked up there, everybody around me moving in some other dimension. Had everything been a dream? Was I laying on the field in Barcelona, a concussion ringing the bells in my head? Naw, the truth was scarier.

"How's it going, Zelmont?" Trace was G'd up in a crisp new Hugo Boss suit and polka dot tie. He touched the flaming cross on his cheek.

"Where's Danny Deuce?"

"I understand he had to leave the hereabouts in a hurry." Trace looked at a chick walking past us in a very un-Christian way. "It seems that the younger Mr. Graham is wanted by the authorities for a possible connection in a murder. A rumor has been going around that he had his brother killed to take over the club. Something to do with Stadanko and his illicit affairs."

I knew, and maybe he knew, the cops could have only got that 411 from Wilma. But what did it matter? She'd had this worked out from jump street.

"So Weems has taken over this place?"

"Miss Wilma has. I'm considering a new direction."

"I guess you would be. But don't you want to get back at her for what she did to your boy at the cabin?"

Trace jerked his head like he was shaking off a fly "Let's just say I got an understanding of the order of things since that time."

"Ain't that something?"

"Yes, I believe so." The bouncer came up the stairs and whispered something to Trace. I might as well have been invisible. He wasn't mad about Wilma capping his buddy, wasn't upset at having to dig the grave for the dude, and he could care less about me. He was in tight. I guess the Lord had told him night clubbing was his calling. Or maybe Wilma would turn the joint into one big 24-hour gospel-and-grits diner. I left, not knowing what to do.

If I hung around town, Fahrar or some Joe Friday wannabe was gonna clap cuffs on me for sure. But the thing was I had to get to Wilma. She must have used the money we ripped off to buy herself into the GM/part owner position. Shit.

I drove by her pad, but like I expected there was a for sale sign stuck in the lawn. I peeked in a window between a gap in the shade. The joint was stone dark and it looked like she'd never be back. I got in my ride and drove around some more, lost in a city I knew by heart.

Time passed and I took to the hills that led to my pad. The home I used to have. That house too was quiet and shut down. No one lived there either. With Candy and Dandy gone, the place looked like any square's crib. Fuck it. I broke in by going over the rear wall and through the side door that never did sit right in the frame. I messed up the knob and the lock, but that was someone else's worry. Naturally the real estate people wouldn't be keeping up the subscription to the alarm service.

Most of my stuff was either in storage or, like my bumpin' music system, had been sold off. There was some mail on the kitchen counter. One was a letter from Terri. Having nothing else to do, I opened it. She'd sent a note saying maybe I should come down there and see her and the baby. That my sending her that dough must have meant I was ready to be a father. She'd tossed in a picture of her and the baby, and I held it up to a window to get a better look in the moonlight. Terri was still fine, just about busting out of the stretch top she had on. Then there was that kid standing in front of her. He was taller than a regular six-year-old, with wide shoulders and a smile of teeth. Good lookin' kid. He was my son. My son.

I stumbled through the house, holding the photo in one hand, then crumpled it 'cause I was angry at myself and angry at Wilma. There was no couch in the front room anymore. I made a pillow of my shoes and curled up on the floor. People think it doesn't get cold at night in Los Angeles. It gets plenty cold.

In the morning I snuck out and went down to Hollywood Boulevard to get some food at a little cafe where the owner knew me. Then I went back to the Locker Room. I parked on Georgia to have a full view of the place. Around a quarter past eleven, Wilma pulled into the lot in her Phaeton.

"Where's my cut, Wilma?" She'd been getting something out of the trunk when I came up behind her.

"I'm going to take care of you, Zelmont." She straightened up slowly and turned around. Wilma was clicking in a long skirt and loose silk top. She looked like new money and smelled of flowers.

"Uh-huh, like you took care of Danny."

"He was tripping, Zelmont. He was threatening me in public, blabbering on about what we'd done," She closed her trunk quietly, holding the leather case she'd gotten out of there. She was ready for business. "He was a liability. He had to be dealt with."

"This was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

"Yes." She didn't say it like a challenge, just a fact.

"And you never meant to make good to any of us."

"That's not true. The money is safe. Chekka is fighting his own crew for control of Little Hand. And Fahrar has his suspicions about the hijacking. But so what?"

"Where do I fit in?"

"However you want."

I knew she was bullshittin', but it sounded good to hear her say it. "I want what's mine."

She got close. "That can mean a lot of things." She kissed me.

"The money," I said, pulling away from her. Maybe I'd get a plane ticket and go see Terri and the boy Do something right like Nap wanted.

"Very well."

We met that night at the Coliseum. I'd been looking at the headless statue with the torch in front of the peristyles when she drove up. She got out of her car, hefting a gym bag.

"What will you do?"

She handed me the bag. It felt heavy. I opened it. The dough was in there. "Make a few things right." I zipped the bag back up and walked up the steps to the peristyles. I looked out over the field. In some corner of my head I could hear the crowd. Wilma came up behind me.

"You and Weems were partners in this, weren't you?" The field was a beautiful, sparkling green in the low lights they kept on along the edge of the dome. You could run forever on a field like that. I walked down toward the grass. I didn't care what her answer was.

"That's not how it started out, Zelmont." She kept up with me, a few steps behind. It was probably the first time she had ever followed a man. "But Julian had his investigation of Stadanko going too."