Jack grunts but doesn’t smile. I put him at about fifty, maybe pushing sixty. His suit jacket hangs on the chair behind him, wrinkled and well-worn. The white shirt stretches taut against an ample beer belly, and yellowish patches bloom under his arms. His collar is pierced with a silver pin, a blue P in a circle. I wonder if he’s married, if some poor woman has to lie underneath him while he grunts and sweats. Or, if he’s single, is he high enough up in the hierarchy to merit right of access to one of the city’s private men’s clubs? For the second time today, I picture Sonia, twenty years old, playing courtesan, satisfying a monster’s appetite.

“Sit here,” Jack says, nodding to me and indicating the chair next to his desk. “Right hand here, palm down.” He points to a flat screen on the desk, polished to a high shine.

I place my hand on the surface. It’s cold, but not as cold as Jack. The machine whirs, and a band of light scans my handprint.

“Look straight ahead. Don’t smile,” he orders.

The camera in front of me snaps a picture.

“You’re done. Now you.” Jack nods to Lin, and she goes through the same procedure. When Jack grunts another order, she stands up.

“You’re in the dark as much as I am, aren’t you, Jean?” Lin says.

“Shut up,” Jack tells her. He turns to Lorenzo. “Dr. Rossi, please take a seat. Right hand on the screen.”

Asshole, I think.

There are no pictures on Jack’s desk, no family portraits, no school photos of kids against a cloud or forest background, no decorations. His lunch, or what I think is his lunch, is in a crumpled paper bag that looks like it might not stand up to another emptying and refilling. I’m thinking Jack isn’t married and I find the thought appealing. Better to suffer through a few minutes of prodding and poking and heavy breathing once a week than to live with him 24/7.

Lorenzo’s finished, and the printer behind Jack spits out three plastic ID cards. Jack holds out a hand toward Morgan, and they shake. When he holds the same hand out to Lorenzo, nothing happens.

“I don’t think so,” Lorenzo says. “Something might rub off on me.”

This is why I love Lorenzo, or one of about a hundred reasons. Patrick would have shaken hands with the fat creep. Patrick would have smiled and said, “Thanks,” when Jack handed him the laminated key card. Patrick would be seething on the inside, but he’d play the game.