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through, and they all sat down in Nina’s office, Nina behind her desk. She switched on her desk lamp but it didn’t do much to dispel the third-degree atmosphere of bright overhead fluorescents in dark night.
    “Make yourselves at home,” she said. “I’ll get some coffee.” She went into the law library, which was also the conference room, pulled the French roast out of the bar refrigerator she kept in there, and got the espresso maker going. She could hear Paul making small talk in her office as she pulled out the mugs and poured the milk into the foamer. She pumped up a lot of aerated milk, poured it into the thick brown liquid in the cups, and went into her office with the tray.
    She would classify this wiry girl as Native American. In her early twenties, she had short black hair cut with long straight bangs and a sculpted face with exceptionally big, long-lashed, watchful eyes. She sat up straight and still, hands on her knees, cowboy boots firmly planted on the floor.
    Her companion, lagging behind, even sitting slightly behind her as if wondering what he was doing there, didn’t fit with her. He was shorter, a rather round young man with gold-rimmed glasses and pointed tufted eyebrows. A mop of coarse black hair spiked to one side, like hair blown by severe wind and frozen in place. He wore a disheveled but expensive silk sport coat, his tie pulled loose. An office worker, Nina decided, his glossy eyes showing that he’d had a few too many.
    The next thing Nina noticed was how close to the edge the girl was. She appeared to be hyperventilating. Her face, which should have been a soft brown, had faded to putty. Her eyes had a stricken look.
    Neither of the two visitors paid any attention to the surroundings, which was a shame, because the office was finally starting to look good. The healthy fiddle-leaf fig in the corner scraped the ceiling, the certificates sported new matching frames, and a Francis Picabia print hung on the wall. Modest, orderly, upstanding, reflecting, Nina hoped, that a respectable lawyer practiced therein.
    Maybe a room at the Mustang Ranch would have caught their attention. This room didn’t.
    Paul sat near the window with its white blinds, surveying the scene through heavy-lidded eyes. He had forgotten to comb his hair. Nina suddenly wondered if she’d gotten her clothes on right side out in the dark, and looked down. The buttons on her red cardigan were duly buttoned.
    “They’re waiting for me,” the girl said in a rush. “At Prize’s. I won, and then it got really insane. They took us into an office and a man, he said he was the vice president for operations, said we would wait for the—the—I can’t remember—”
    “The Global Gaming representative and the IRS officer in charge of gaming taxation in this region,” said the young man.
    “And you are?” Nina said.
    “Ken Leung. You can call me Kenny.” His voice was soft.
    Paul interrupted, “I note that you’re carrying a concealed weapon. Are you licensed?” All eyes turned to Kenny Leung’s right hand, which had jumped to an area of his jacket near the left armpit.
    “Oh, that,” Leung said. “It’s not loaded.”
    “That’s good. But we do have a policy—no guns in the law office. Okay? You can set it outside on the secretary’s desk.” The young man got up without a word and went out the door, leaving Paul sitting up, vigilant. A second later he reappeared, opening his coat so they all could see the gun was gone.
    “It’s not anything bad,” Leung said. Paul went back into his slouch but his eyes remained on patrol. The girl’s mouth had firmed while she watched Leung take his seat. She rubbed her forehead.
    “Just my luck,” she muttered.
    “You’re all getting the wrong idea,” Leung said. “I’m a businessman. Look. I have business cards. Embossed and everything.” He opened a soft leather wallet and pulled out several. Paul examined each one carefully.
    “So let’s get back to the