“Almost none. Except me.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “My third case was a murder. A homeless guy that was taking shelter under a Hummer. When the owner came by to get in, the guy grabbed him and pulled him down to the ground. Robbed him and stabbed him in the chest. I was five months out of law school.”

Will said, “You must’ve been terrified.”

I shook my head. “No, not even a little. It was exactly what I wanted. A chance to prove myself. The Art of Jury Trial as War, chapter two: ‘No risk, no reward.’”

Jia said, “Nice. You’re writing a book? How many chapters like that does it have?”

“See, Will? That was the right question to ask.”

“Did you do the case for free since he was homeless?” Will asked.

“No. You always charge a client what you want them to think you’re worth, not what you’re actually worth. The guy turned out to be the mentally ill son of some big-shot accountant. We had no experience and no money, but I quoted him double what the big firms were charging. He paid right up. People judge the quality of a lawyer on how much they charge, at least at first. Then you get a reputation and people will know your track record. So you better have a damn good one.”

We drove into Las Vegas, and Google Maps led us off the strip into what was known as the Old Strip. The section of Las Vegas that the gangsters, bikers, and pimps used to run before the corporations moved in and wanted to make Vegas more family friendly. I parked at the curb, and in front of us was a brick building with a giant sign that said SKID ROW over the door. We got out of the car to find the front door locked. I pounded on it.

“Don’t think anybody’s home,” Will said.

“They restock and clean up during the day. Someone’s here.”

I pounded again and someone answered, gigantic black guy in a tight T-shirt. Probably a bouncer.

Without my having to ask, Jia flashed her badge. I was liking this girl more and more.

“We’d like to speak to the owner, please,” I said.

“Why?” he said, glancing between us.

“It’s about a murder that probably started off here. Owner, please. Or whoever actually runs the place.”

He hesitated and said, “That’d be Farah.”

We stood there a second. “Well? Lead the way, Incredible Hulk.”

He stared at me, then turned around and led us inside.

The place was about as divey as I expected. The windows were blacked out, what few there were, the floors were scraped and dirty, and the section with the tables near the back looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the sixties.

The bar was huge with a mirror behind it and rows of booze stacked neatly. A sign said, GETTING YOU DRUNK SINCE 1992.