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alone.”
    â€œI’ll keep it in mind,” Kennin said.
    â€œSo, how come you never told me you were some kind of outlaw celebrity race car driver?” Leon asked.
    â€œYou sure you got the right guy?” Kennin asked.
    â€œYou didn’t bust up that leg playin’ soccer, right?” Leon said, then leaned close and lowered his voice. “There’s a cop outside waitin’ to talk to you. Want me to tell him you’re not up to it?”
    Kennin thought it over. “Thanks, but I can deal.”
    Leon went to the door and stuck his head out into the hall. A moment later Detective Sam Neilson of the Las Vegas Police came in. Neilson had blond hair and was wearing a tan sports jacket and dark slacks. He’d lost weight since the last time Kennin had seen him.
    â€œHow’s the leg?” Neilson asked.
    â€œGetting better,” Kennin replied. “I like the look.”
    Neilson smiled, as if pleased that someone had noticed. “Yeah, I dropped twenty pounds and got some new threads.” He touched his upper lip. “You like it better without the mustache?”
    Kennin tried to remember what the detective looked like with the mustache. “Yeah, I think so.”
    â€œOkay.” Neilson grinned, as if he was pleased he’d made the right decision. Then, like everyone else who visited, he asked how much longer Kennin would be in the hospital. Kennin told him a week.
    â€œThen what?” the detective asked.
    â€œSorry?” Kennin didn’t follow.
    â€œNo more street racing,” Neilson said.
    Kennin remained silent.
    â€œIt’s bad enough that we gotta deal with DWls and all that crap without a bunch of kids whipping sideways around corners at a hundred miles an hour,” Neilson said.
    â€œNot quite that fast,” Kennin said.
    â€œWhatever. You know how many violations we could’ve hit you with?” Neilson asked. “Driving without a license, reckless endangerment, speeding … believe me, it was quite a list.”
    â€œHow come you didn’t?” Kennin asked.
    Neilson drummed his fingers against the bed’s chrome rail. “Turns out you’ve got friends in high places.”
    Kennin frowned.
    â€œCome on, Kennin,” Neilson said. “Think about it. Can’t be like you’ve got
that
many friends in
that
many high places, can it?”
    Mercado,
Kennin realized. The owner of the Babylon Casino. But why?
    â€œYou’ve been the subject of several conversations down at headquarters,” Neilson went on. “There was even some talk about handing you over to social services.”
    â€œYou can’t do that,” Kennin said. “My sister’s my legal guardian.”
    â€œWhere’ve you been, kid? Your sister’s a stripper on crystal meth. She’s no help to you or herself.”
    Kennin winced. So there it was—confirmation of his worst fears. Anger welled up inside him. He knew his sister well enough to know she hadn’t gotten there alone. She’d had help.
    Neilson slid his hand along the chrome rail. “And there’s still the matter of the stolen GTO. Mark my words, Kennin, sooner or later that one’s gonna come back to haunt you.”
    â€œSeriously, Detective Neilson?” Kennin said. “I’ve never stolen a car in my life.”
    â€œOh yeah?” Neilson said. “Swear on your mother’s grave that you had absolutely nothing to do with that car.”
    Kennin turned and gazed out the window at the purplish gray mountains in the distance. Neilson nodded, as if he’d expected just such a response. “This is my last warning, Kennin. When you get out of this bed, stay out of cars and off the street. ’Cause next time no one’s gonna be able to save you.”

3
    he could leave the hospital, but the rules stated that Kennin couldn’t just limp out on crutches. Someone had to come get him. He spoke to