‘Hmmph?’ I say again, not sure what’s going on exactly. The military term messing with my reality.

‘Are you stoned, you prick? I warned you about that.’

‘No. Not stoned, Major. Just dog tired.’

The voice is not happy with this. ‘What the hell did you call me, Barrett? Major? Are you trying to be fucking funny?’

Ghost Zeb decides to help me out. Come on, Dan. Whose cell phone is this? And suddenly I’m awake. This is Barrett’s phone, and that’s obviously Irish Mike on the other end.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s it. I’m trying to be funny, as per usual, Mikey boy.’

‘Mikey boy! Mikey boy?’

‘Too much intimacy? We’re not that close, I take it.’

Silence for a moment, then, ‘Who the hell is this? Put Macey on.’

Deacon clicks her fingers to attract my attention.

‘Here we go,’ she says, all business, as though we’re off to meet our accountant.

I glance out the window. The Brass Ring is closed for business at this ungodly time of the morning, but I bet there’ll be business going on inside just the same. I remember Faber’s Benz from the previous day’s stakeout and see it parked across the road, which pretty much confirms we came to the right place.

‘Hello!’ shouts Irish Mike. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me, your close associate,’ I reply deadpan, hoping the FBI are listening. ‘What do you want to talk about, Mike? The murders, the drugs or the prostitution?’

Irish Mike is suddenly sweetness itself. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. Actually, I’m betting this is a wrong number.’

‘Nooo,’ I say. ‘I recognise your number, Michael Madden. I put you on my speed dial when we were in Brooklyn, setting up the cocaine pipeline. Remember?’

Irish Mike hangs up.

The Brass Ring has doormen to stop undesirables getting in, whereas Slotz has doormen to eject the undesirables as soon as they’ve blown their wad. It’s hard to understand why a man like Jaryd Faber would spend five seconds in Vic’s seedy den when he’s obviously top dog in this place.

Maybe I’ll ask him before I shoot him.

The club is locked down tighter than a nuclear bunker during the zombie riots the media seems to feel are more or less inevitable, with steel blinds rolled down over the door and windows and not one but two alarm boxes bolted to the wall.

Deacon puts the police mobile in neutral and we spend a quiet moment sizing up the joint. While we are sizing up, I wedge my bundles of cash down behind the cruiser’s back seat. It would prey on my immortal soul if Faber shot me and stole my money.

‘Pretty impregnable,’ Ronelle admits finally. ‘I don’t know if we can take this place down.’