“But I’m not.” Empire Will took a clean square of fabric from his pocket and blotted his upper lip. “We’ve run the numbers, if you’d care to review them.”

“Nervous,” I noted to Rubio.

“Angry.”

“Young for a den leader.”

“Unless you’re a Macy.”

Maybe Will’s posh manner was to compensate for looking so boyish.

He laid a finger on his tablet. I hoped he was going to hand it around—I wanted a closer look. Instead, his mate R.J. scooped up a sheaf of printout and offered it across the table like it was proof positive, of what I still didn’t know, having come into the middle of the discussion.

“Empire can afford to give away printout?” I murmured to Rubio. We’d heard they were rich, as dens go, but this was a show-off gesture.

“Long as they can keep their copiers working.”

A middle-aged woman wedged into the corner between R.J. and the Tommys passed the papers along.

Doyle waved them away. “Only number we need is how many guns we can muster.” The woman tilted her braided head in mild reproof. “Can’t eat guns, Tommy.”

Doyle grinned at her, then curled his lip in satirical disdain.

She clucked softly and slid the papers back to the Empires.

“That’s Zuleika, from Riverhome,” Rubio murmured. “A Zen powerhouse.”

Wasn’t sure what that meant, but I could see she was beautiful: dark and elegant, a combo I admired but couldn’t imagine achieving, especially the way she did, in a sleeveless tee and faded overalls, even with a few more pounds on her than she needed. Riverhome. Daniel’s old den. I studied her more closely.

Across from Doyle, Maxine stretched out a hand, waggling her two unbandaged fingers impatiently. “We’ll look at those.”

She wore her bruises proudly, and someone had trimmed her burnt-back hair till it looked almost chic. To either side of her sat the two Smiths who’d been working with Rube at Den Search Central.

The printout went back around the square, stopping in front of Irv. He brushed a fist across his damp forehead, then drew a lantern closer to study the figures.

“Irv’s her numbers man,” supplied Rubio.

In the corner between the Smiths and the Empire table, two ponytailed young women in pale shirts and jeans had tucked in stools. Their bodies tilted protectively toward each other, like kids eavesdropping on a family quarrel. Gimme Shelter girls, most likely. I hoped the baby who’d kept them away from the first meeting had made a happy entry.

I counted dens. “What happened to Macy’s?”

“Never showed.”

“Why not? Too busy mugging people?”

“Chickened out, I guess.”