“Perv,” North said. “I should have let Brueckmann keep you in that kennel.”

“I was the one who got out first, for the record. And I didn’t have to kick my way out like an old mule.”

“Like an old—”

Before North could finish, Shaw tossed the shirt, and it caught North in the face. North swore, grabbed the garment, and then froze. When he pulled the shirt away, he said, “Barbeque sauce.”

“I don’t think that’s leftover from his sub phase,” Shaw said. “I think that’s leftover from whoever Mark Sevcik was before he started trying on all these different personalities. I think this is good old boy Mark’s favorite barbeque joint. And to judge by the boots and the jeans and t-shirt, he went back a lot. Maybe he felt like he could actually be himself. Or maybe even that was starting to become a role.”

“That’s some pretty lousy armchair psychology.”

“Lucky for me, I get paid by the hour.”

North dropped the shirt and started tapping on his phone. “Would you believe Hog Hollow Hocks, Loins, and Ribs is a barbeque joint out in Chesterfield?”

“Chesterfield? Not Affton? Or Arnold? Or Crystal City?”

“People in Chesterfield like barbeque too. Let’s go take a look.”

“I’ll drive,” Shaw said. “Please?”

Chapter 24

Hog Hollow Hocks, Loins, and Ribs was a neatly painted building—red with white trim—that had obviously been designed to remind people of a barn or a farmhouse or something in that vein. The Mercedes purred as they pulled into the lot, which was more than half full even at this hour on a Saturday night, and North had to squash an ember of jealousy. As soon as business picked up, he told himself, he’d get a car. As soon as there was a little more money. Of course, there was always plenty of money when Tuck wanted something, but—

“If he’s in there,” North said, “I’ll flush him out. You wait here and keep an eye out.”

“We’ve done this before,” Shaw said with a lazy smile and a roll of his eyes.

And they had done this before. Plenty of times. Back when business was good, back before Marvin Hanson, when the only thing North had to hide were a few bruises when Tuck had a little too much to drink and got frisky. North nodded, and he slipped out of the Mercedes. Shaw kept driving, pulling around to the side of the building.

On his phone, North pulled up a picture of Mark Sevcik—he could have passed for any of a million finance bros, his dark hair swept up, his blue eyes—and fixed it in his memory. Then he stepped into the rodeo chaos of Hog Hollow Hocks. A jukebox blasted a bluegrass song, with an agonizingly long banjo riff, but the volume of the music barely competed with the shouts and laughter and conversation. The barbeque joint was full—and probably seventy percent of the customers were men. Many of them were older men, sitting on stools at the bar, or standing in little triangles and clinking brown bottles together, or crowded into corner booths and stretching across the table to reach a pitcher and refill their glasses. The air smelled like cooking pork, like hot fat rendering, and something else. Earthier. North took a step, and his Red Wings stirred up sawdust. That was the other smell.