Jason left the window, and sat at a scarred, wooden table. The floor beneath his feet was old, the windows behind him dirty glass in metal frames with peeling paint. The room had been an office once, with views down on to a factory floor where they’d made phone books back in the forties and fifties. Some hard-ass bikers owned it now, a club moving south from Jersey, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. Pagans. They’d turned the factory into a private club with garages in back and rooms upstairs to crash. They had members, cash, credibility.

“Is your old man going to be a problem?”

The biker’s name was Darius Simms, a chapter president with ties running all the way back to the club’s early days in Prince George’s County, Maryland. He crossed his arms, and blue ink bulged on his biceps, the Argo tattoo as ubiquitous to Pagans as the patches on their denim cuts.

Jason said, “No. No problem.”

“As long as that’s true, our deal stands. The room. The privileges. But no one here likes cops with a reason to show up, unexpected.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Make sure it doesn’t.”

The biker clumped back down the stairs, and Jason moved to the big, interior window with views on to the old factory floor. The machines had been removed years ago. Now a bar ran along two sides, with booths and tables in the center. The crowd was not too big, maybe twenty bikers and twice as many women. A 1946 Flathead hung from the ceiling on chains. The lighting was poor. Gray smoke made a haze.

“Hey, baby. Are we doing this or not?”

Jason had almost forgotten about the woman, half-reclined on the low, long sofa. “What was your name again?”

“Angel.”

“How old are you, Angel?”

“Twenty-five.”

“I’m thinking nineteen.”

“Twenty-five. Nineteen. Does it matter?”

Jason studied her from across the room, the short skirt and tall boots. The red hair was nice. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t do that anymore.”

“Don’t do what? Pretty girls? I have friends who say different. They say Jason French always has the dope, and that he screws like a rock star, too.”

Jason looked away from the smile she’d conjured like a two-bit magic trick.

“Come on, baby doll.” She swung her feet to the floor, revealing more of her long, pale thighs. “Can’t you help a girl out?”

“Here.” Jason put a bottle on the table. “Go crazy.”

“Johnnie Walker?”

“That’s Johnnie Walker Blue.”

“This wasn’t the deal.”

“What deal? You knocked on my door. You came inside.”

“If you’re not dealing, why does the club let you stay here?”

Jason shrugged. “That’s between me and the club.”

She tried again, soot-eyed and willing and far too young. “You don’t think I’m pretty enough?”

“I think you’re beautiful.”