“Only the strong survive!”

Rubio buried his head in his arms. I started pummeling back, but it was like pounding stone. Spunk reached sideways, grabbed my wrists, and pressed them into my lap. Then he rose, nice and easy, and put his nose right up in Ace’s face. One hand rested on the big Kevlar sheath on his belt. “Das enough. Bugga fuckin’ off.”

Ace tensed and got snarly, but his buddies plucked at his T-shirt.

“Not him,” one advised.

Real quiet now at our table. Pretty quick, Ace saw the light. He clapped Spunk on the bicep, then grabbed his arm, hoisting it into the air. “Thank you, brother, for your support!”

Spunk jerked free. “Get lost.”

And after a few grumbles, they did, taking their noise elsewhere. We settled back to our meal. Or un-settled. Rubio’s jaw was tight, his thin neck flushed with humiliation.

“Now dat can’t go on,” Spunk said, as the normal mess hall buzz surrounded us again.

“Rousseau’s been too soft with them,” Jake agreed. “Best have a word with him.”

Trying to lighten things up, I said, “We should send them over to Ladysmith’s.”

“Serve ’em right,” nodded Spunk.

From the depths of his turmoil, Rubio said, “Maxine’s all right.”

That did it. Sides were chosen, the lads forgotten. For the time being, at least.

Jake shook his head. “Yes and no. All her best people get fed up and go looking for another den. Some place more . . . managed.”

“Or micromanaged,” retorted Rubio. “Nothing wrong with a little less restriction. You just don’t like that women run the place.”

“Me?” Jake’s dark brows arched in amusement. “Who you talkin’ to?”

Spunk’s elbow dug sharp into my side. “He’s pissed dey ain’ invited him for da night.”

“I’m working on that.” Jake shied a grin at me like a ball I was meant to field. “Besides, plenty of fine ladies right here at home.”

But Rubio wasn’t letting levity take hold. “Over there, everyone’s got a vote.”

“Indeed they do,” Jake said. “And then Maxine does whatever she wants.”

“That’s not what I hear . . .”

Time for another redirect. “You think it’s true a Tommy cut up Rivera?”

Jake stared at me. “What?”

Spunk sucked his teeth. “Wouldn’t be spreadin’ dat rumah aroun’.”

“Tom would never go for that,” Jake insisted. “He’s the one pushing for a cooperative police force.”

“Jess wha’ we need,” muttered Spunk.

Jake looked at him. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

Rubio crossed his arms, readying his bomb. “At least Tommy lets them carry. And Maxine allows edged weapons.”

Oh, Rubio. Just the sort of remark the shower woman warned about. Rousseau’s weapons ban limited us to the barely lethal, like the little jackknife I carried in my gut wallet.