“Look,” North said, picking up the second whiskey sour. “I got you a peace offering.”

“I’m going to walk around.”

“Don’t get spanked. At least, not too much.”

Shaw walked away so stiffly that he looked like he was about to snap off at the knees. North wondered what Shaw would see. He wondered how much it would shock him. For all Shaw’s intelligence, there was a surprising innocence about him. Not naivete. It wasn’t that. He was just . . . pure, somehow. Across the room from North, a blond boy was on his knees, his master licking the side of his neck, and then the master gave a jerk of the chain on the boy’s collar. Something like that, for example. North wasn’t sure what Shaw would make of that.

The man gave another jerk on the chain, forcing the boy’s head up, exposing more of his neck, and suddenly North was imagining Tucker’s blond head like that: the collar tight around his neck, just on the edge of choking, and the pebbled skin of his neck as North ran his tongue along it, and then pulling back, staring into his eyes. Only in North’s mind, the eyes weren’t Tucker’s blue anymore, and the hair wasn’t Tucker’s blond. The hair was chestnut. And the eyes were hazel. And the narrow, sharp triangle of Shaw’s face above the collar smoked in North’s imagination.

When Mohawk came back, North said, “Do you have a smoke?”

“No smoking policy. Sorry. Mr. Brueckmann’s sending somebody down.”

“Is there a back room going on here?”

“You a cop?”

North slid the second whisky—Jesus, that had been an asshole move—toward him, and after a moment, Mohawk took a sip. “I’m not a cop.”

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

“I told you I’m looking for Brueckmann.”

“I get off at 11:30. I’m not really into this scene, but you can choke me, pull my hair, slap me a little if you want.”

North blinked. “That’s not really—”

“Your buddy, then? You want me to print his ass red? I can borrow some toys.”

“Maybe Shaw wants to print your ass red.”

Mohawk laughed and sipped the whiskey again.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I bought you a drink. Let’s hear it.”

“You mean you really don’t know he’s only got eyes—”

A deep voice interrupted. “You’re asking about Mr. Brueckmann?”

North turned and found himself at chest-level on the other man. A very massive chest-level. North had to crane his head to meet the man’s hooded eyes. The guy had gone for bulk over tone, but it was a hell of a lot of bulk.

“I need to talk to him.”

“About?”

“I’m selling Girl Scout cookies.”

The rumble in the big man’s chest was so low it was almost sub-audible.

“Vacuum cleaners?”

“Cutco knives,” Shaw said from behind North. “If I could just borrow your shoe for a minute.”

“Funny guys,” the big man said.

“Thank you,” North said.

“So many people don’t appreciate us,” Shaw said.