The club is quiet except for Jason in the foyer pulling on a giant rubber band that he swears does wonders for his abs.

‘Gotta keep myself looking good for Marco,’ he grunts. ‘I swear that guy bats his eyes at every queer on the strip.’

This statement is more important than it sounds. Jason is being casual like this to show me I’m forgiven. I stop for a minute, trying to think of something to say that won’t open the wound again.

‘Hug?’

‘In your dreams, Danny. You better go in. Mike’s waiting.’

Mike is waiting in my chair, which is a bit of a cheek, but after the month I’ve had, I’m finding myself very tolerant of things that don’t threaten to immediately kill me.

‘Mister Madden,’ I say, squeezing into the old wooden chair on the visitor’s side of the desk, hoping it doesn’t collapse, which might startle Mike into shooting me. ‘How’s tricks? I mean business tricks, not prostitution obviously.’

Mike does not glare at me. He is calm, a man biding his time.

‘Business is good, Danny boy. Booming. People always want shite, you know, so I give them the shite they want, and to be honest I can’t get hold of the shite fast enough.’

Seems as though Mike is afraid of wires and likes the word shite.

‘And how’s tricks with you, Daniel? Business, I mean.’

I give the standard Irish tell-’em-nothin’ response. ‘Ah sure, you know, not too bad.’

Mike winces. ‘Not what I hear. I hear Vic Jones is causing a few problems.’

It’s true. Victor has a lawyer claiming that the poker game never happened and he signed his lease away under duress. With AJ and Brandi in the wind, the only other witnesses to the game are the two girls whose future we played for. Jason has a team out looking for them. But even if we do find them, a poker lease transfer may not hold up, as it wasn’t agreed to by the owner.

But I say, ‘Don’t worry about Vic. You get your shite no matter who’s behind the desk.’

Mike smiles and touches the peak of his soft cap. ‘Oh, I’m not worried, Danny boy. I always get what’s due to me.’

I decide to change the subject. ‘How’s your mother doing?’

Mike’s smile grows so I can see his ivory-yellow fangs. ‘She’s old, Dan, and she has a bit of a flu. Let’s hope it doesn’t develop into something.’

I should have picked another subject to change to.

The door to my office opens and Zeb’s head appears, weirdly disembodied in the gap. I wasn’t expecting to see him today, but he’s probably drunk or bored or both.

On seeing us he calls: ‘Hey, it’s the hairy boys. What’s up, gangstas?’