“Not you.” French knew the guy, a proven liar. “You two. Jimmy Hooks. I’m not going to bust him. I just want to talk.” He produced another five, and all three junkies pointed at an old factory across the street. “If you’re lying, I’ll be back. I’ll take the money and your junk.”

“Nah, man. No lies. Jimmy Hooks. Straight up.”

French dropped the bills, and crossed the street, stepping over shattered glass and keeping his eyes on the door three stoops down. Two girls lingered there. Hookers, he thought. They saw him, and split. He let them go. Through the open door, he saw mattresses, old sofas, candle wax melted to the floor.

“Hey … mister cop.”

That came from a junkie so skinny a good breeze might lift him up and float him away. He was on a sofa, barefoot and shirtless and half-gone.

“I’m looking for Jimmy Hooks.”

The junkie pointed into a long, dark hall.

“Is he alone?”

“Shit, man…”

The junkie grinned a loose grin, and French thought, No, not alone. Following the hall, he found other rooms and other junkies. French was too jaded to feel much, but the spring inside wound a little tighter.

At the rear of the building, the hall bent right and ended at a steel door beneath a bare bulb. French palmed the revolver, and knocked twice. “Police. I’m looking for James Manning, goes by Jimmy Hooks.” If this were a bust, French would have men behind him and at the back door and in the alley outside. Manning, though, had never been busted for dealing. He was too clever, too slick. “Let’s go. Open up.”

He pounded on the door until metal grated and a dead bolt slid open from the inside. The door opened to the length of its chain, and a sliver of face appeared, pale skin and a dark, disinterested eye.

“Warrant.” It was not a question.

“Tell Jimmy it’s Detective French, that I want to talk.”

The head turned away. “Yo, it’s like you said.”

“So let the man in.”

The door closed, and the chain scraped. When the door opened again, French saw James Manning in a leather chair with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles. He was midforties, a local, a dropout. The men with him were a full mix of skin colors and ages. The room would be clean of drugs and weapons and cash. Those things would be in the building, but with other men, in other rooms.

“Detective French.” Manning spread his hands in mock welcome. “I thought I might see you tonight.”

“So you know he’s back.”

“Your son leaves a ripple larger than most, so yeah. I heard.”

French stepped into the room. Five men, total. Only Manning was smiling. “Have you sold to him?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“I want to know if he’s using.”