Our squad’s senior glanced around for the nearest authority, settled on Jake, and nudged the suit toward him. “Wants to see the boss.”

“Double inboard,” supplied his second. “Burnin’ gas.”

Jake turned to me. “Go get Rousseau.”

“Me?” I wanted to stick around.

Jake’s eyes went flat. “I said . . .”

“On my way.” Okay, I was the fastest Joe nearby, but I didn’t have to like it.

I found Rousseau in his hotbox office, bare-chested and sweating, his chin propped on steepled fingers. The door was open and I didn’t take time to knock. He blinked at me, powering back from whatever deep ponder he’d been having.

“Problem?”

“There’s this guy just showed up,” I panted.

“What guy?”

“A suit. A lot of teeth. Jake says you better come.”

He didn’t rush. He rarely did. Part of Rousseau’s hold was keeping in check all those impulses most others gave into so easily. He took a moment, stood, took another moment, then unhooked his leather vest from the back of his chair. He rolled into it like it was a full suit of body armor. His broad mouth pursed, then relaxed into a grin. “Ready for anything.”

Back in the hall, the enforcers had the intruders corralled in open space. Trailing the boss man down the stairs, I saw the crowd had drawn up a perimeter around them, staring and whispering. The suit was trying for small talk with Jake, who was having none of it. The muscle boys stood close and alert. They wore a bright mishmash of color, like they’d looted someone else’s hamper. The suit just kept throwing out that smile, like he loved being the center of attention so much that he was deaf to the buzz of suspicion circling him.

Rousseau pulled up several paces inside the circling crowd. A night’s sleep later, he looked dark and dangerous, his open vest a challenge to the shorter man’s slink uptown tailoring.

The suit knew Rousseau by sight. He stepped forward, thrusting out his hand until he ran into an enforcer arm slapped hard against his chest.

“Let him,” Rousseau said.

Jake moved from the table to just behind Rousseau’s shoulder. Spunk materialized out of the crowd on his other side. Just in case.

Released, the man lurched forward, grabbing Rousseau’s hand before it was offered. “Name’s Bright. How are you, sir?” He was so clean-shaven, he was shiny, with neat, colorless hair and all those teeth. An uneasy glance not quite in sync with the smile. “A pleasure to meet a legend in person.”

Rousseau extricated his fingers from the man’s two-handed grip. “Welcome to Unca Joe, Mr. Bright. What can we do for you?”

“Well, it’s an old cliché, sir, but a true one. The real question is, what can I do for you?”

I wondered how anyone could stretch a smile that wide without splitting a lip.