“Are you in the nightclub business?”

“No. I’m in your other business.”

López feigned innocence. “What other business might that be?”

“Come on,” Milton said. “Are we going to waste our time?”

“Well, I don’t intend to waste mine. Goodnight, Mr. Smith.”

Milton smiled, unfazed. “We have a friend in common.”

“Do we?”

“Anthony Jackson.”

López shrugged. “Who’s that?”

Milton smiled at him. “From Liverpool. He gets his product from you.”

López leaned forward and plucked the half-full champagne flute from the table between them. “Be careful how you go from here, Mr. Smith. You should think about how much you want to have this conversation.”

“I want to have it,” Milton said. “I travelled here just so I could speak to you.”

López shrugged, as if to say, On your own head be it.

“I’ve worked with him,” Milton said. “I’ve done time for him, too.”

“Is that so?”

“Eighteen months in Wormwood Scrubs. I got out last month and, to be honest with you, I’m not interested in working for him again.”

“Why is that?”

“How long have you got?”

“Not long.”

“Because he’s sloppy. Because he’s been using the product a little too much—getting high on his own supply. It’s making him make mistakes. So, there’s that—and the fact that I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

López cocked an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Jackson had a little trouble of his own. Two years ago. The police were investigating him—did you know?”

López shrugged, but Milton could see that he had piqued his interest.

“They had a man inside the operation. Low-level, but he knew enough to do damage. Jackson did a deal with the police—that’s the only conclusion I could come to. He’s got officers on the payroll, and he knew that he had to give them something. So he gave them me.”

López swirled the champagne in his glass. “So, what? You’re here for revenge? I’m not in the revenge business, Mr. Smith. It’s not profitable.”

Milton leaned back and crossed his legs. “I don’t need you for that. If I wanted revenge, I’d take care of that myself.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?”

“Because it’s my turn. I want to make some money of my own.” He leaned closer. “Look—I know his business inside and out. I know he distributes your product. I know the mistakes he makes. The vulnerabilities he has, and how close he’s been to making a mistake that would cause you trouble. He’s going to slip up eventually, and when he does, he’s the kind of man who will sell you out if he thinks it’ll help him.”

López stared at him for a moment, then chuckled. “I doubt that very much.”