I gestured grandly. “I know how you like theatrics, Vincent. Melodrama. Well, that’s disappointing. Thought you’d get a kick out of this place. More mood than anything the Tube offers up, that’s for sure. Except for maybe the Dungeon Room.”

He pointed to the table and chairs in the spotlight; they almost glowed in the otherwise stygian space. “What is this?”

“We’re going to talk. Just the two of us. Unseen by anyone or anything, but for the ghosts of dead steers and butchered pigs and slaughtered lambs.”

He started to bolt but I had him by the arm.

“No,” I said, fingers tight on his sleeve. “You’re staying. We have a lot to talk about. Your cab isn’t waiting, remember? None out there to flag down, either.”

“Hammer…”

“And you don’t want me talking to anybody else, before you hear what I have to say…do you?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Do I have to drag you?”

He shook his arm from my grasp. “No.”

“Good. After you, then?”

He looked stricken, but then he swallowed, straightened and complied—whether from fear, curiosity or both, I couldn’t say. At any rate, he strolled into the darkness, hands in his pockets again, heading toward the circle of light and the waiting table and two chairs. I followed close, but not too close. The last time I’d been in the dark with him, he’d tried to cave my little chest in.

The lighting gave us both an ivory cast, and the situation an unreal feel. Our chairs were opposite each other, as if I were about to tell his fortune.

Maybe I was.

I said, “I will make you a promise.”

“Will you?”

“Let me put your mind at ease. I’m not greedy. I have no interest in any ongoing blackmail. You will pay me a flat fee, for services rendered. Considering your tax bracket, it’ll be cheap at twice the cost. One hundred grand. You spend more on your yearly fitness club fee.”

His chin came up. “You’re right. I can afford it. But what I can’t do is imagine what you could have to sell to me.”

I tossed a hand. “Just your life.”

His head went back an inch.

“Well,” I said off-handedly, “there’s no death penalty now. But your life of luxury, your exciting career of high finance, your clubbing and your latest conquest and your fun little hobby of killing people…which I think has been going on longer than anyone might imagine, except perhaps the late Casey Shannon… all that will be over.”

“Will it.”

“Yes. But they’ll love you inside. Good-looking boy like you. My advice is, partner up right away, with some big strong bruiser—you don’t want to get passed around. And you probably know about soap and showers.”