I squeezed back, hard enough to make her open her eyes. She had the muscle definition of a woman who worked seriously with weights, and the protruding breastbone of one who survived on lettuce leaves between workouts. I have the muscles of a South Side street fighter, and probably matching manners.

I still couldn’t place her. Her hair, dyed a kind of magenta, was cut close to her skull at the sides and slicked back on top with something like Brill Creme, except no doubt pricier. Before I could probe, a young man in a white collarless shirt murmured a few apologetic words to Alex about “Mr. Trant.” She waggled her fingers at Murray and me and followed the acolyte toward the power center. The wizened gossip columnist, still hovering on the perimeter, stopped her for a comment, but Alex was sucked into the vortex and disappeared.

“So—what did you think, V. I.?” Murray scooped half the salmon from Sal’s platter and downed it with a mouthful of beer.

It was only then that I realized he had shaved his beard for his television debut. I had watched the beard go from fiery red to auburn to gray–flecked in the years he and I had collaborated and competed on financial scandal in Chicago, but I’d never seen his naked jaw before.

Somehow it made my heart ache—foolish Murray, anxiously decking himself for the media gods—so I said brusquely, “She has beautiful deltoid definition.”

“Of my show, Warshawski.”

I kept my eyes on the mahogany bar. “I thought you brought the same attention to Lacey that you did to Gantt–Ag and the Knifegrinders and all those other stories we worked together.”

“Sheesh, Warshawski, can’t you ever give a guy a break?”

“I wish you well, Murray. I really do.”

My glance flicked to his face. Whatever he saw in my eyes made him look away. He gave Sal another exaggerated grin and hug and headed in his companion’s direction. As I watched him walk away I realized someone had been pointing a camera at us: he’d been embracing Sal for tape.

“Something tells me Murray picked the Glow to show all those Hollywood types he hangs around with black people,” Sal said, frowning at his retreating back.

I didn’t want to admit it out loud, but I thought sadly she was probably right.

“That Alex Fisher is part of Global’s legal team,” Sal added, her eyes still on the room. “They brought her out from California to mind the shop here. I had to deal with her a few times on liability questions about Lacey—I actually had to buy insurance to cover the event tonight. The studio wasn’t even going to cover the cost of that until I told them the city health department was raising so many questions about food in the Glow that I’d have to shut down the event.”