“And you’re this Albino’s point man for ‘services,’ right?”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, his trembling hand pouring another whisky. “Sloane gives this Albino dude a spreadsheet outlining expenses, cash distributions, contacts and contracts, then the Albino gets Sloane more cash to make the connections.”

“And you’re one of the ‘connections.’”

Quinn fell silent for a moment, staring into the small, glimmering amber pool of his whisky. His red eyes began to flood, and his breathing became uneven. I suspected even the devil felt the occasional crushing remorse and loneliness at having been the only angel his father never loved.

“Why me? Why now?” I said, though I already knew.

“I, uh—” he began, still staring at his drink. He inhaled a ragged breath. “I think—my ex-wife—They may have—”

A knock on his office door.

“Councilman Quinn?” a voice said.

Quinn quickly settled, wiping his wet eyes on a sleeve and reacquiring an easygoing smile. He sat back in his chair and began casually swiveling from side to side. The consummate political showman.

“Yeah?” Quinn called out.

“Detective Captain Leo Cowling, DPD. Are you all right, sir?”

“Leo! Get on in here, my brother!”

He did.

With two patrolmen in tow.

I turned in my chair and gave him a fetching smile and a dashingly nonchalant salute. He returned neither.

“I understand there was a dustup earlier, sir?” Cowling said. “One maybe even involving this man?” He nodded to me.

“You don’t come around much anymore, Leo,” Quinn said brightly. “I miss our chats. You good, son?”

Cowling suddenly looked unnerved. “Uh—yeah—yessir—I’m good.”

“A ‘dustup.’” Quinn laughed. “Naw, ma man. Ain’t no dustup round here. Just a couple brothas in the middle of burying the hatchet is all!”

“Kinda looks like one of them hatchets got buried in your eye, Councilman,” Cowling said.

Quinn’s left eye was puffy, about to close from swelling.

“Club Brutus,” Quinn lied with the quick believability of a seasoned politician. “Noontime boxing workout. You belong to Club Brutus, Leo?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, we’ll have to get you a membership, won’t we?” Quinn said. “You belong, right, Snow?”

“I do,” I said, giving Cowling a scrutinizing look. “They are, however, fairly selective in their membership criteria.”

“Can’t be that selective if you there,” Cowling grumbled.

“Is there anything else, Leo?” Quinn said.

When someone like Lincoln Quinn says, “Is there anything else?” that usually means your audience is at an end.

Cowling said, “No, sir,” then turned to the door. “Yo, Snow—I’d love to catch up with you later this evening, tomorrow morning latest.”

“Sure, Leo,” I said. “Maybe over a nice breakfast at Schmear’s? Or maybe cocktails at Republic?”

He left without a word.

I stood.

“Where you going?” Quinn said, panicked.

“Home.”

“But—”