TWENTY MILLION DOLLARS in $100 bills.
He couldn't resist it. He had to look.
He took out a stack of bills. He split the paper band containing them and they spilled on the floor.
He was still too numb to react. He'd never ever seen this kind of money before, not even on a drug bust.
He slipped a couple of hundreds into his wallet and scooped the rest up and put it away in the bag. He checked the other one.
More money-and a white envelope with his name on it.
He opened it.
It was a Polaroid. He barely recognized it-the where and when it had been taken; then he remembered the last time he was in La Coupole: the photographer's flash.
He was standing staring straight at the camera, rum glass in hand, looking tired and drunk. One of the two whores who'd accosted him was standing close to his left, the other was mostly out of the frame.
In her place, pointing a gun at his head, with a huge smile on his face was Solomon Boukman.
Max turned the photograph over. YOU GIVE ME REASON TO LIVE was written on the back in Boukman's unique capitals, same as the note they'd found in his prison cell.
Max's heart began to race.
He remembered how he'd been surprised to find the trigger guard of his holster undone. He looked at the photograph again. Boukman was holding his Beretta to his head. He could have pulled the trigger. Why didn't he?