10:15 p.m.

Max Kramer sat in his den, the only room in the fucking house that his wife had allowed him to decorate as he wished. He stared out at the night as he sipped the expensive wine from Lucille's collection. She hated it when he dared to open a bottle from the reserve she kept for her stuffy, boring dinner parties. Tonight's selection was an old-style Beaujolais imported by Alain Jugenet, one of a handful of small estates that supposedly still did it the old-style way and were said to even hold the wine for up to ten months before bottling it.

He knew little about wines-almost nothing compared to his wife-however, he remembered reading something about Beaujolais being called "the only white wine that happens to be red." He liked that. It had something to do with the "vivid color and its expressive, thirst-quenching qualities" or some such crap that Max didn't really care about. No, what he liked about it was that the wine was different from what it appeared to be, kind of like him. He held up the glass, swirling the wine around the edges, and he smiled, wondering how much this bottle would set his wife back.

His cell phone started ringing. He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was too late to be anyone he wanted to talk to. He didn't recognize the caller ID number. He knew he should just shut off the phone and let the voice-messaging service pick it up. He took another sip before setting the glass down and deciding to answer the stupid phone.

"This is Max Kramer."

"Are you alone?"

He recognized the voice but still insisted on making him tell him. "Who is this?"

"Who do you fucking think this is? Can you talk? Is there anyone else there?"

"I'm alone. Go ahead," he said while thinking, yes, go ahead and tell me why the fuck I should even listen to what you have to say?

"We're gonna need some new IDs. Make them driver's licenses." Jared Barnett was taking charge. "And cash. Don't get funny with the cash. Keep it small bills. We'll probably need about twenty-five thousand dollars."

"Hold on. Where the hell do you think I'm going to get three new IDs?" And twenty-five thousand dollars? Max wanted to slam the phone against the wall. How the hell did this get so turned around? He wanted to tell Jared Barnett that he owed him. That he still owed him.

"You're a resourceful guy, Max. You figure it out."

"I think you should turn yourself in."

"What are you, fucking crazy?"

"No, now listen. I can get you off." Max stood up, staring past his reflection in the window out at the full orange moon. He wondered what a liar's moon looked like as he said, "I did it before, I can do it again."

"Yeah, well, I'm not waiting in prison for five more fucking years while you do it. Besides, I thought you were pissed. You sounded pissed. How can I trust a fucking lawyer who's pissed?"

"I was surprised. That's all." Max kept his cool. This bastard could ruin everything. He needed to convince him he was on his side, "You can't blame me for being surprised. I never expected things to get so screwed up, to go so badly. That's all. What the hell happened?"

There was silence, and for a few seconds Max thought he had lost him.

"One false move," he mumbled.

"What's that?"

"Isn't that what they say? That ajl it takes is one fucking wrong move to change everything? It doesn't matter. Not now. How soon can you get the IDs and money?"

"How am I supposed to get them to you?"

"Don't worry about that. Just get it. I'll call back tomorrow."

"If you tell me-" But he heard the click.

Max stayed at the window, wondering how the hell he'd take care of this. How the hell he'd fix this. One little favor- that's all he had asked from Barnett to pay off his attorney fee. Who could have predicted it'd get this fucked up.