“You seen Mo’Lock?”

Brent shook his head. “Haven’t seen him for a few days.”

I looked around, giving the area the once-over. “Neither have I. That freak-ass ghoul’s always wandering off on me,” I said, then looked at Brent. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He walked off to finish his rounds.

I shagged ass in the other direction and hiked the nine or ten blocks to the Black Cat. The club looked like an old warehouse: a nondescript brick front with an unlit neon sign bearing its name. As I pulled open the door, I heard the blare of police cars in the distance, that sudden burst of noise that meant somebody, somewhere, was in trouble. I was just glad it wasn’t me.

Inside, the club was dark. The bar was open, but the chairs were still up on the tables and the room smelled of dirty mop water. At the bar was Dante, a short, aging punk rocker with jet-black spiked hair. He was a fixture in D.C.; the kind of guy who would support the local music scene and run for city council at the same time. I liked to hang out in his place because I felt comfortable around the so-called “freaks.” Everyone from goths to vegans hung out at the place. The last thing they cared about was some scarred-up old bastard knocking back shots at the end of the bar.

Dante looked up as I approached, but the usual friendly greeting didn’t come. Instead, he just looked at me and gave me a somber nod. Something was bugging him. I assumed I’d done something the night before and had conveniently blacked out. I’ve been known to start a fight or two when I get loaded.

I slid up to the bar and tapped the rail for a beer and whiskey. Dante looked around and pulled a glass from beneath the bar pre-filled with frothy brew.

I tried to smile. “Expecting me, huh?”

Dante looked nervous, like he wanted to say something to me, but wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.

I sniffed the glass and swigged the whole thing down in one long gulp, killing my headache and bringing a warm calm over my body. By then, Dante had pushed a napkin in front of me with writing on it, but it was too late.

The napkin read, “DON’T DRINK THE BEER.”

I looked at him. He stared. Suddenly, I knew I was in trouble. I could see Dante wanted to say something, but something was holding him back. I stood up and started to leave. As I grabbed for the door, whatever was in the beer began to crawl up the back of my brain and take effect. My head started spinning and my jaw went numb. I turned back toward the bar and saw a tall man step out from behind Dante, shoving him aside.

I stepped into the gloomy daylight as my arms started going numb and my eyes began to vibrate in their sockets like hot ball bearings. I stumbled forward, heading for home. One block. Two, three, four. Every step felt like I was dragging a wet sack of mud. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder to know the tall man was behind me, patiently following me back to my apartment.