“It’s not how much they report,” Jake pointed out. “It’s how much they skim off the top. The money that doesn’t get reported. The money that they don’t pay taxes on.”

“But that’s illegal!”

With a crooked smile, Jake told her, “Amy Wexler told me that the casinos are actually run from Las Vegas. Big-time operators.”

“Mafia?”

“They don’t use that term, but—yeah, the Mob, organized crime. Big time.”

“And this Perez person was sent to Florida to silence Dr. McGruder,” Glynis said.

Jake sighed. “Nacho didn’t go to Florida to inquire about McGruder’s health.”

“He must have murdered Arlan and his wife, then.”

“He, or somebody like him.”

“I was right,” Glynis whispered. “We’re dealing with murderers!”

Jake nodded, knowing that the closer they got to uncovering what really happened, the closer they came to facing their own deaths.

*   *   *

Once back home, Jake tried to reach Nacho Perez. The man was nowhere to be found. Nobody in Senator Leeds’s office even admitted to knowing his name.

Sitting in his messy little office, Jake thought about the possibilities. There was one person he knew who would know where Perez was, but contacting that person would open a can of very dangerous worms.

Jake tussled with the possibilities for the better part of a day. He sleepwalked through his class, graded exam papers like a robot, his mind turning over the risks of what he knew he had to do.

As the sun was setting on a perfectly splendid day in late April, Jake picked the phone off his desk and called Monster.

To his surprise, Monster not only answered the phone on the second ring, but cheerfully agreed to meet Jake for dinner.

“Zorba’s, okay?” Monster suggested.

The Greek restaurant in the old neighborhood. Sure, Jake thought. Nobody’s been shot in Zorba’s for a couple of years.

“Zorba’s,” he agreed. “Seven o’clock good for you?”

“Make it seven thirty, Jake. I got business to take care of first.”

“Seven thirty, then.”

“And come alone. Just me and you, Jake. We got things to talk over.”

Jake’s blood ran cold.

*   *   *

Zorba’s was the best restaurant in the old neighborhood. Also the only restaurant, unless you counted the fast-food eateries on a couple of street corners or the Chinese joint that had been there since the Lewis and Clark expedition passed by.

It was a quiet place. No bouzouki music, no belly dancers, just the muted murmur of conversations and the occasional shout of “Oopah!” as men tossed down thimble-sized glasses of ouzo.

It got even quieter when Monster came in. All the conversations stopped in mid-sentence; everyone seemed to hold his breath. Monster spotted Jake at the table where he was sitting and strode across the half-empty restaurant to him.

People started talking again as Monster sat down and said, “Hey, Jake.”