Jake frowned at this use of his last name, rarely shared in the den, and Bright’s grin spread. “I’m in the security business. Times are changing. The city is changing. Not like it was in the latest aftermath, with the survivors still in shock and the playing field more or less level. For a den such as your own, with a peaceable reputation and resources to preserve, it makes sense to job out your protection needs.”

Rubio stirred beside me. “Sound familiar . . . ?”

But Daniel had described roughneck thugs. This uptowner was hardly that.

“For instance, in an earlier day, these fine young men of yours . . .” Bright gestured broadly behind him without turning. “. . . would be more than adequate to keep a den safe and secure. But today . . .” He gestured again, small and quick. His four guys freed themselves with sudden, noiseless ease, pulling compact semi-automatic pistols from . . . wherever. Too fast for me to see, enough to take my breath away. I snatched at Rubio’s arm, thinking to drag him to cover beneath the table. The foursome dropped into box formation around Bright, their bland faces slick with rain, weapons leveled at the four corners of the room. Shrieks from the crowd, people ducking, running. The Joe enforcers falling back open-mouthed, then regrouping to charge.

“Settle!” Rousseau’s short bark froze everyone in place.

Bright nodded from inside his fortified square. “Advanced martial arts training is also among the services we offer. Stand down, boys. Demonstration over.”

At a jerk of his chin, the automatics vanished into pockets or boots.

A few people laughed. Others applauded, like they’d recognized a sales pitch all along.

“Neat trick,” said Rousseau.

Bright offered a tiny bow. “Thank you.”

My jumbled thoughts about the downtown status quo shifted yet again.

“Don’t just stand there!” a voice shrieked from above. “Take him!”

A rustle of clicks and snaps, the clang of steel against steel. Suddenly Bright and his posse faced an array of Smith weaponry, poking out of the crowd like fangs. The muscle boys had no chance to pull their fancy handguns.

Maxine stood at the stair hall door, in borrowed overalls, her singed hair bound in a bright green turban. Up on the balcony, Breakers sighted her rifle down Bright’s throat.

His smile faltered, then flared. “Madame Maxine! An unexpected pleasure!”

“You blood-sucking sonofabitch! You snake! You insect!” Maxine raged through the crowd as fast as she could manage, bandaged hands flailing, staring at Bright all the way. Jake offered his arm as a path opened, but she shoved past him till she was right up in Bright’s face. “You killed my den!”

“I . . . what?”

Rousseau, a dark rock holding down the center of the room, eased toward Maxine, signaling Jake around to her other side. “What are you saying?”