Soon, whatever event has been held here empties out and there is no longer any need to watch the door. A man in a tuxedo says a few words to Nolan and hands him an envelope. He pockets it without checking what’s inside and heads for the seawall behind the strip of buildings. It’s cold and late, and I’m not sure what he’s doing or why, until I see him stand at the railing overlooking a line of docked boats. I understand the fascination, even though I don’t share it.

This is where the wealthy go to park their toys.

Nolan puts on a hat, pulls a cigar out of his pocket, lights it, and leisurely smokes it. He’s looking at something intently, something I can’t see.

My hands go numb in the time it takes for him to finish. I’m standing in the shadows, off the bike path. I think I’m being quiet and am relying on the fact that most people usually look right past me without registering anything about my presence.

But not Nolan.

Without turning he says, “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

I know he’s talking to me. And I realize my mistake. Just because Nolan has an eye for the gorgeous socialites of Vancouver doesn’t mean that he hasn’t also noticed me. I go to the railing and follow his gaze to one of the boats in the marina. The dock lights are giving off enough illumination to see shapes moving on one of the boats. Two shapes, moving rhythmically. If I listen carefully, I can hear moaning. Or that could just be the sounds of the night, amplified by my hyperawareness of the man standing next to me, still smoking.

“You ever seen rabbits fuck?” Joe Nolan asks.

I wonder what kind of pornography he’s into, but I don’t say that. Don’t even respond.

“Yeah, me neither, but I have a feeling it would look something like what those two are up to in that boat over there. The guy who owns the boat comes to the club for some of the events I work. After, he brings back one of the waitresses. Spends an hour tops in there and then sends her on her way walking like she’s holding a beach ball between her legs. Works those girls over real good.”

There’s no emotion in his voice. No thrill of sexual interest, even. Which is unexpected, given what he’s just said. If he thinks he’ll shock me, he’s talking to the wrong woman. Casual misogyny isn’t shocking. I don’t like it, but it doesn’t surprise me.

The cigar is down to the end. He flicks it, still lit, onto the closest boat. “You wanna be one of those girls on the boat? Want me to hook you up with a job?”

“No.”