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himself in a coat and tie. It was a kick seeing a photo of himself in the window of a store in a neighborhood he never even knew existed—and labeled in a foreign language at that. This was surely the part he liked the best about all that had happened
to him in the last nine years—the way his music radiated out into the world and entered people’s lives like a mystery man who walks in a stranger’s front door and makes himself at home. But for the life of him, he didn’t know what Rubias, Morenas Y Pelirrojas meant or even which of his albums it could be.
    Elvis took the steps two at a time, then paused a moment to catch his breath on the second-floor landing. There were three doors with opaque glass windows, one for a travel agency, one for a chiropractor, and at the far end a partially opened door inscribed REGIS CLIFFORD. ESQ., ATTORNEY AT LAW, and under that in smaller letters, SPECIALIZING IN IMMIGRATION AND DIVORCE LAW. Elvis walked to it and peered inside.
    It was a holy mess in there. It looked like a dingy, used bookstore that had suddenly changed its mind and become a single-occupancy room in a low-rent hotel—open books, unwashed plates, and an assortment of clothing crowding every available surface, including the window sills and a sink that was nestled below and between bookcases. Stooped over the sink with his back to him was a tall, slope-shouldered man in a loose-fitting black pinstriped suit with a cloud of smoke hovering over his head. He was washing dishes and singing to himself in a pretty decent baritone—some kind of folk song about flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, tra-la. Elvis knocked lightly on the door.
    â€œCome in,” the man said, still washing, not turning. “Be right with you.”
    Elvis stepped inside and waited until the man finished by wiping his hands on a gray-streaked towel. He turned and faced Elvis, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
    â€œMr. Tatum?” he said.
    For a split-second, Elvis felt confused. Or was it reflexive disappointment that the man actually did not recognize him?
    â€œThat’s right,” Elvis said. “Mr. Clifford?”
    The man nodded, proffered his hand, but then quickly withdrew it. “Afraid my hands are still wet,” he said. “I’ve been cleaning up. Big party here last night. Celebration. We won a major case.”

    â€œCongratulations,” Elvis said, although he was pretty sure that it had been a party of one with nothing more to celebrate than the completion of the paperwork for a Tijuana divorce.
    â€œI’ve got my Fredrick Littlejon file right over here,” Clifford said, gesturing to a mahogany desk by the window. The desk, like Clifford himself, looked as if it had once been quite elegant, a patrician family heirloom that over time had suffered the indignities of ground-out cigarettes, spilt TV dinners, and the occasional swift kick of frustration. Three books lay open ontop of it: one titled, Plutarch’s Lives , another called, The Psychopathology of Everyday Life , by Sigmund Freud, and a fat one entitled, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire . There was something fitting about that last one being here.
    Elvis dug into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off six hundred dollars in fifties and handed them to Clifford, saying, “Three days in advance with full expenses.”
    â€œI appreciate that, Mr. Tatum,” Clifford said.
    â€œJust call me, Jodie,” Elvis said inexplicably, and feeling inexplicably amused for saying it.
    â€œAll right, Jodie,” Clifford said, sitting behind his desk. “Let me give you my entire history with this case.”
    Elvis sat down across from him and listened. Littlejon had phoned Clifford from the L.A. county jail the day after his arrest, having gotten his name and number from a fellow stuntman named Mickey Grieves. Clifford had no idea who Grieves was at that point