BASED ON THE HIT USA NETWORK TV SERIES Ex-covert op Michael Weston owes favors to Barry, the local money launderer. Now Barry wants to call those favors in. Barry has a friend, Bruce, who is an ex-legendary gentleman thief. But with an ailing mother to support, Bruce has returned to his illegal vocation. Unfortunately, his most recent job involved stealing from the notorious Ghouls motorcycle gang, and they're looking for some serious payback. Unless Michael can convince them otherwise... "A keen voice, profound insight...devilishly entertaining." "Deceptively smooth, like a vanilla milkshake spiked with grain alcohol." And for the television series: "Cheerfully insouciant." Featuring a hero who's "handsome, smart, neurotic, tough, funny, sensitive... Jim Rockford and MacGyver filtered through Carl Hiassen." Tod Goldberg is the author of the novels Living Dead Girl , a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, and Fake Liar Cheat , as well as the short story collection Simplify , a 2006 finalist for the SCBA Award for Fiction and winner of the Other Voices Short Story Collection Prize. He teaches creative writing at the UCLA Extension Writers' Program. 1 When you’re a spy, conducting business inside a restaurant or bar isn’t just about finding a comfortable place to have a conversation; it can also save your life. You want to make sure you get out of a meeting without a bullet to the back of the head? Schedule your meeting inside a McDonald’s Playland. There’s no rule that says homicidal maniacs won’t kill you in front of Ronald McDonald and Grimace, but the typical murderer tends to avoid crowded venues filled with small children eating Happy Meals. You want to kill someone and get away with it, do it in the middle of the night, in the person’s home, and use a silencer on your gun and a pillow on the person’s head, which will help absorb the sonic boom the bullet makes while traveling through the air. Do it right and you’ll have enough time to wipe down all the surfaces you might have touched. Do it wrong and you can still be in a country without extradition before anyone finds the body. In general, however, the best way to avoid getting killed or finding yourself in the position to kill someone is to live your life cleanly, pay your taxes, go on sensible vacations and then retire with a nest egg that will let you peter out in the fashion you’ve grown accustomed. That way you’ll be able to eat or drink anywhere you desire without first making sure you know all the possible exit points, which is precisely what I did when I walked into the Purdy Lounge. The Purdy is a perpetually dark bar in South Beach that’s decorated like a 1970s living room. Specifically, a bachelor’s living room. Lots of sofas, recliners, lava lamps and sticky surfaces. They even had a table stacked with board games. I was there to meet Barry, my favorite money launderer. He had called the night before and asked if I could help him out with a favor. I had the sense he wasn’t looking for someone to pick him up at the airport. After my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I figured out that the only obvious way out was the way in, I found Barry sitting across the bar in a ripped-up Barcalounger. He had something on his lap that glowed bright yellow, then red, then blue, then green and then repeated the sequence again, this time faster. When I was a little closer, I realized it was a game of some kind, which was a relief. I half expected Barry’s favor was going to involve me clipping either the blue or the black wire on this device, thus saving or killing us both. Across from Barry was an orange butterfly chair and a brown beanbag. Neither looked comfortable. Not in 1976. Not now. So I just stood in front of Barry and hoped he’d get the hint. Or he’d stand up and we’d walk down to the Carlito, which at least allowed sunlight. “When I was a kid, this game was like alien technology,” Barry said. “What was it called again?” I said. “Lite-Brite?” He flipped it over so I could see the name in the center of the game. “Simon,” Barry said. He set it back on his lap and watched the blinking lights with great intensity and then tried to match the pattern by pressing on the corresponding lights, but kept getting it wrong. “Like Hal.” “Like Simple Simon,” I said. “That sounds right,” he said. He tried to match the pattern again, but was met with only a blunt buzzing sound. “Maybe it would be easier if you took your sunglasses off,” I said. “See, that’s the challenge,” Barry said. “They’re tinted green. You know, to keep the harmful UVs away? So that evens the playing field. All the colors are the same now, just in different shades.” “That’s fascinating, Barry,” I said. “Keeps the mind sharp,” he said. “You want a turn when I’m done?” “I’ll pass.” I looked around the bar. The bartender was a college-aged girl with tattoos on her shoulder and neck. Not like a criminal per se, but like a woman who saw too many movies about women who work i