“They didn’t know about you till Vic gave them your name?” Vic Hale had come to Empire in the years I’d been gone. I didn’t even know him, but I despised him now, and I always would.

“Vic Hale named names because his agent told him it would be a good idea. His agent and his attorney, Melvin Grant. How could he resist the two of them?”

“I know why Melvin Grant would think that—he works for Leon—but why would the agent care?”

“Because if Vic isn’t making money, the agent isn’t making money either. That simple.”

Had Irv Rakoff stooped to telling his clients they should name names if the Committee asked? Did all agents? The thought made me sort of sick.

“It’s like the La Brea Tar Pits,” Max went on, “a great pool of sludge that sucks people into it, and when they climb out, no matter what they did or said, they’re covered in sludge, and they leave tracks wherever they go. That’s what’s happened to me. To Vic. To any of us.” A dry, hot breeze swept over us, ruffling the weirdly colored waters. “You want a drink, Roxanne? I should have asked.”

“No. No, I’m fine.” I patted his shoulder.