I move slowly, gauging my chances of getting to Livy’s purse—and gun—before Ray shoots me. Less than zero at this point. But if I can get closer . . .

Livy and I stand shoulder to shoulder, facing Leo across the desk, with Presley behind us. Presley’s hand pats its way up my legs, around my waist, up my torso.

“Don’t you touch me,” Livy says in a voice that could freeze alcohol.

But he must have touched her, because she suddenly spins into his gun and slaps him hard enough to rock him back on his heels.

“Livy!” shouts Leo. “Don’t be stupid!”

Presley’s harsh laugh fills the room as Livy backs away from him, panting with outrage. If she grabs for her purse, I’ll have to stop her. Presley might endure a slap with a laugh, but he’ll recognize a lunge for a gun.

“Ray?” Leo says in a careful voice. “This boy’s got nothing on us. He can’t connect us to Del.”

A snort from Presley. “He can’t connect you. But he’s got me nailed down tight as a tick. Don’t make no never mind, though. This visit’s got nothing to do with that dead nigger. This is about you and me, Judge.”

Leo affects puzzlement. “I don’t understand, Raymond.”

Presley jerks up his gun at this use of his Christian name, what must once have been a gesture of friendship. “Yes, you do. You gave me up to the Feds while you kept raking in the money. You made me your goddamn scapegoat.”

Marston’s eyes flick toward me, not in anger, but with purpose in them. He’s prodding me to think. Leo is first and foremost a survivor, and he intends to live through this. If that means a short-term alliance with me to neutralize the most immediate threat, he won’t hesitate.

“Nobody in this room but me knows what five years of prison means,” Presley says. “Five years I’ll never get back. And I need them years now. You got to pay for ’em, Judge.” He fingers the trigger of his gun, raises his aim to Leo’s head. “And there ain’t but one way to do it.”

Marston remains calm. “Ray, you shot at those FBI boys on your own hook. Hoover demanded a price, and you were it. Cost of doing business, son. You understand that. You were sentenced to seven years, and I got you out in five. It cost me to do that. You want to kill me for it?”

Presley’s chin quivers with rage, and the gun trembles in his hand. “It cost you? You could pass out half a million bucks and you wouldn’t feel it. You’d make it back in a couple of months. But time? You don’t never get that back. Make your peace with the Lord, Judge. And be quick.”