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monsters or admit that what they were doing was motivated by greed. No, they were simply white-collar overachievers who worked hard and played harder. They were risk-takers, feared by outsiders because of the power they wielded. They were known as real ball breakers — a term they considered flattery. Yet, despite their arrogance and their audacity, none of them had the courage to call the plan what it really was — murder — and so they referred to it as “the event.”
    They did have balls of steel, considering that Dooley’s was located just half a block away from the Eighth District station of the New Orleans Police Department. While they planned the felony, they were surrounded by detectives and policemen. A couple of Federal Bureau agents assigned to PID occasionally stopped by as well, as did the up-and-coming attorneys hoping to foster connections. The police and the courthouse lawyers considered Dooley’s their personal watering hole, but then, so did the overworked and underappreciated interns and residents from both Charity Hospital and LSU. The groups rarely mingled.
    The Sowing Club didn’t take sides. They sat in the corner. Everyone knew who they were, though, and until the serious drinking got under way, they were constantly interrupted by greetings from coworkers and ass-kissers.
    Oh, yes, they had gall and nerve, for in the midst of New Orleans’s finest, they calmly talked about the mercy killing.
    The discussion would never have gotten this far if they hadn’t already had the connection they needed. Monk had killed for money, and he certainly wouldn’t have any qualms about killing again. Dallas was the first to see the potential and to take advantage by saving Monk from the judicial system. Monk understood the debt he would have to repay. He promised Dallas that he would do anything, anything at all, as long as the risks were manageable and the price was right. Sentiment aside, their killer was, above all else, a businessman.
    They all met to discuss the terms at one of Monk’s favorite hangouts, Frankies, which was a dilapidated gray shack just off Interstate 10 on the other side of Metairie. The bar smelled of tobacco, peanut shells that customers discarded on the warped floorboards, and spoiled fish. Monk swore that Frankie’s had the best fried shrimp in the south.
    He was late and made no apology for his tardiness. He took his seat, folded his hands on the tabletop, and immediately outlined his conditions before accepting their money. Monk was an educated man, which was one of the main reasons Dallas had saved him from a lethal injection. They wanted a smart man, and he fit the bill. He was also quite distinguished looking, very refined and shockingly polished considering he was a professional criminal. Until he was arrested for murder, Monk’s sheet had been clean. After he and Dallas had struck the deal, he did a little bragging about his extensive résumé, which included arson, blackmail, extortion, and murder. The police didn’t know about his background, of course, but they had enough evidence to convict on the murder — evidence that was deliberately misplaced.
    The very first time the others met Monk was at Dallas’s apartment, and he made an indelible impression upon them. They had expected to meet a thug, but instead they met a man they could almost imagine as one of them, a professional with high standards — until they looked closely into his eyes. They were as cold and as lifeless as an eel’s. If it was true that the eyes were mirrors to the soul, then Monk had already given his to the devil.
    After ordering a beer, he leaned back in the captain’s chair and calmly demanded double the price Dallas had offered.
    “You’ve got to be kidding,” Preston said. “That’s extortion.”
    “No, it’s murder,” Monk countered. “Bigger risk means bigger money.”
    “It isn’t . . . murder,” Cameron said. “This is a special case.”
    “What’s so special about