‘Working hard, Marco?’ I say to the little barman, pointing at the Jameson bottle over his head.

He pours me a large one. ‘You ever see Jason so happy? He’s out on the street selling this joint. That boy is on fire.’

I decide to make Marco’s night. ‘I promoted him to business manager.’

Marco flaps at me with his rag. ‘Get the fuck out. You did not.’

‘Yup. True as God.’ ‘You won’t regret it,’ beams Marco. ‘Jason will work himself to death.’

I take a sip of whiskey, feeling it slide down my throat smooth as mercury.

‘Have a word with him about the diamond. I have a feeling he listens to you.’

And I leave him open-mouthed, wondering if their secret is out.

I was hoping that the booth would be empty by the time I finished my drink. No such luck. One of Brandi’s Catwoman boots is protruding from the gloom, and something is squeaking, hopefully the upholstery. This Brandi issue has to be sorted out sometime; it may as well be now. Get all my confrontations over in one night.

The booth has its own light switch under the table’s rim, and I flick it without warning. First thing I see is a pale bloated stomach; second is Brandi down in the shadows, writhing like a snake.

The guy with the stomach jerks so hard he bashes Brandi’s head on the table rim.

‘What the . . .’ His eyes focus and he sees me there, looming over him, best grim look in place. ‘Cop? Tell me you’re not a cop?’

‘This is a respectable club, sir. No contact allowed.’

Brandi surfaces, rubbing her crown. ‘Jesus Christ, Dan. What the fuck? I mean, what the fuck?’

I try to shame her with a look, but Brandi is impervious. ‘The booth action is done. Finished. We talked about this.’

She tries the old kiss-ass routine. ‘Come on, baby. A girl’s gotta eat.’

Now it’s my turn to be impervious. ‘Maybe, but she doesn’t have to eat that.’

Belly-guy has lost the urge. ‘Hey, listen, you two have got some kind of employment dispute, why don’t I give you some space to work it out? Communication is so important.’

I cock my head, waiting for a trademark Ghost Zeb comment. Nothing. The ghost is gone. Reunited with his wounded self in St John’s hospital. Alleluia.

‘Yes, sir. Why don’t you tuck yourself in and try your luck at the tables.’

‘I believe I shall,’ says Belly-guy, formal with relief.

Brandi watches her john skip around stools in his hurry to get away from me.

She is furious; anyone with ten minutes’ elementary body-language studies could see that. Her bottom lip is pushed out like a segment of blood orange and her cocked hip is sharp as a guillotine.

‘Problem?’ I enquire mildly.