“No shit,” he said. “But it don’t make no difference. I don’t care what initials come after your name. I don’t cooperate with anyone I don’t know and trust. If I ever come across any serious shit that I think my friendly federal government needs to know about, I have people to call. And believe-the-fuck-me I know plenty of well-wired honchos. See some in here … . Now, I’m giving you a good piece of advice: Leave now.”

He knew something, she could tell. But he wasn’t going to say. She stood up.

“I don’t appreciate being fucked with,” she said. “So if you know anyone who cares, please pass that along.”

“You, go, girl,” he said with a snort.

Lancette left the door open on her way out.

Outside the bar, she took a deep breath. She ran her fingers through her hair, wishing she could wipe off the smoke. She walked toward Massachusetts Avenue, where she could find a cab.

A man grabbed her arm from behind. She felt a sharp point dig into her side.

“A knife,” the man said. “A real sharp knife. And you better be quiet.”

He steered her into an alley that led to the back of the bar. They stepped among shards of broken glass.

“There’s about fifty dollars in my handbag,” she said. “It’s—”

“Shut up,” he said and pushed the point into her side. The metal tip slipped through the fabric of her blouse and was against her skin. Halfway down the alley, beyond the reach of the nearest streetlamp, he threw her against a wall. She could hear music from the bar and people’s voices from the rooftop. She wondered if she should scream.

“Why you looking for me?” he asked.

She squinted and tried to discern the face in the darkness. His hair was scraggly and shoulder-length, receding. His face was gaunt. It was hard to tell but maybe there was something wrong with one eye. He stepped toward her, placed a hand around the base of the neck, pinned her to the wall, and positioned the tip of a Bowie knife beneath her chin. He smelled sweaty; his breath was boozy.

“Why are you looking for me?” he repeated.

The odd eye shined differently.

“Someone who met you a long time ago was trying to find you,” she said.

“Who’s that?”

He tightened his hold on her throat. She considered kneeing him in the groin. But if his hand jerked upward, she would be cut.

“A doctor. Dr. Charlie Walters. But you may not remember his name. He saw you in a hotel a few years ago. Gave you some pills to help you.”

“Help me with what?”

“Help you with … the drinking.”

The tattoo. On the chest. Her assailant was wearing a beat-up leather vest over a T-shirt.

“Fuck them all,” he said right into her face. “They fucked us.”

“Who?” she asked.

“All of them.”