“That’s the kind of help you hire,” I said. “What’s that say about you?”

  “I’m trying to hire you; what’s that say about both of us?”

  “Slamming doors. Pretty juvenile.”

  “He’s having a bad day.” A tired smile. “We all are.”

  Yeah, I thought. December 1st. Not that you care. Not that Davey had even died on December 1st; but it was still a hard day.

  “Luka—”

  “Save it. You shat the bed, Harry. You can clean it up. If you didn’t want photos of you sticking your dick where it didn’t belong, you shouldn’t have been out there sticking your dick where it didn’t belong.”

  A hint of color rose under the tan. He was silent, jaw set. I kept silent too.

  “You are such a stubborn son of a bitch,” he finally said, and the tired smile popped above the surface again. “That’s not what’s in the photos.”

  “Rich said they’re damaging. You’re the city’s golden boy. You’ve got every endorsement that counts. All you’ve got to do is win the primary, and then you coast through the general election. What could be so bad in these photos if it’s not you sticking it to somebody?” I raised my eyebrows. “Or somebody sticking it to you?”

  “You’re right: I’ve got to win the primary. And Dana isn’t making that easy.”

  That was true; Dana Wulf was a fighter. She knew she was the underdog, and she’d leaned into that role, making it part of her campaign. Walk two blocks down Cherokee, and you could see it right above the Cricket Wireless store, her face painted on the side of the building—all done in red and blue like Obama’s, which was the whole point.

  “And I don’t have all the endorsements,” Harry said, and he let the sentence hang.

  Finally, I said, “Zu.”

  Harry nodded.

  Zulema Reyes was a pain in the ass, impossible to reason with, and apparently had an unlimited reserve of energy. It made her a phenomenal activist, and she’d become the face of LGBTQ politics in the city over the last year. St. Louis was a Midwestern city with a surprisingly large LGBTQ population, and most of those people lived inside the city limits, and most of the ones in the city would vote in the primary.

  “Luka, I could make a real difference.”

  “Sure. You’ll crack down. Be tough on crime. Clean up city hall.”

  “Actually, I will.”

  “Jesus, Harry, are you even real?”

  “The photos are of a…mistake. I met with a man.”

  “I’ve heard this one before. I was curious. I had too much to drink. In the dark, I couldn’t even tell.”

  The color rose again under that salon tan, and this time, the muscles showed in his jaw. “Fuck you.”

  I leaned back, my smirk lazy. “Oh yeah, you’re very good at that.”

  The words came like rubber-band snaps. “He’s a pastor for one of those crazy churches that goes around ruining funerals, waving signs about fags burning in hell. I didn’t know that when I sat down with him. I left as soon as I figured it out. Someone has pictures, and they’re going to show them to Zu, and it won’t matter what I say; there goes the endorsement, and Dana wins. You know me, Luka. I’ll be an ally. Dana won’t.”

  The inside of my mouth tasted like battery acid. An ally.

  “If Davey were here—” he began.

  “Don’t you fucking dare.” In that first moment of shock, the words had come easily, but now my throat tightened. I had to work for the rest of it, fighting the surge of emotion. “Today, you piece of shit? Of course. Of course you came today. You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t apologize. He didn’t look away. His eyes were soft, the color of summer, the first lines starting to show at the corners.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Rich will give you the details.”

  “You get to do it once, Harry. Do it again, and I’ll kill you.”

  He nodded, and he looked older and tired as he rose. He stopped like he might come around the desk, like he might do something really stupid. Then he sighed and turned toward the door.

  “My best to Christy and the kids,” I said.

  He stiffened. Outside, a beater rolled past, speakers hammering banger rap. Harry set his hand on the doorknob and stopped again, and then he let himself out and didn’t look back.

  2

  Something was wrong at Holliday Investigations.

  I stayed in the Hellcat and tried to think inconspicuous thoughts. The advantage to giving a client flexibility in payments—especially a guy recovering from a pronounced case of mid-life crisis—was that you ended up with a kickass car you never could have afforded. The downside, of course, was that you ended up with a car that was, frankly, ridiculous.

  Rich had given me the details: Beverly Holliday, of Holliday Investigations, was the blackmailer. Why Rich and Harry hadn’t contacted the police was easy enough—doing so would have meant the photos becoming public, one way or another. Why Beverly had been stupid enough to contact them directly, without even an attempt to keep her identity hidden, made less sense. Beverly was a professional rival, and while she often took jobs I didn’t—jobs that skirted or outright flouted the law—she’d managed to stay alive this long.

  Now, studying her office, I thought maybe her luck had run out. It was the middle unit of an old brick building on Wyoming; on the left was a sex shop—apologies; an intimate boutique—and on the right was a dispensary. The storefronts had plate-glass windows and heavy glass doors. Beverly’s was hanging slightly open. I couldn’t see it from here, but I was willing to bet that the frame was bent—forced with a crowbar, I guessed. The old saw about staying off the state streets was still good advice, but forcing a door in broad daylight was a stretch even for Wyoming Street.

  I left the Hellcat, made my way to the end of the block, and cut up the alley. A white plastic toy of a Saturn, the rear side panel crumpled, was parked behind the sex shop. A window decal showed a pride-flag-themed dildo that, I realized on closer inspection, was meant to look like a lightsaber. Well, there’s a kink for everything. Aside from the Saturn, I was alone. I checked the fire door with HOLLIDAY in spray-painted letters; the door handle was locked, but I could see between the door and the jamb that the deadbolt wasn’t set.

  My little electric pick had the door handle open in about twenty seconds—it sounded like an electric toothbrush, not loud enough to bother anybody, and I still had the alley all to myself when I was done. I opened the door slowly, but it didn’t squeak or squeal. I listened and heard nothing. I slipped inside.

  The tiny hall looked like it doubled as a supply closet: a mop and bucket, a broom, a plastic tote with bottles of cleaning spray, a multipack of toilet paper. A multipack, I thought. Business must be booming. A faint fruity smell hung in the air—the kind of artificial scent I associated with chewing gum or air fresheners or, in Beverly’s case, a vape.

  A door stood on the left; a dark strip of linoleum showed underneath. Farther down, the hallway connected with the office’s front room. The lights were off, and the winter sunlight filtering through the plate-glass was only a dim suggestion this far back. Still, even from the hallway I could see the disorder in the front room: the furniture overturned, papers scattered on the floor. Not just a search—an unhappy one.

  I eased forward. The Under Armour boots were good for a lot of reasons, but they made a soft schick each time I lifted them from the linoleum.

  When I got to the door, I stopped and listened again. I couldn’t hear anything over my heartbeat, so after a count of thirty, I tried the handle. The door wobbled open, exposing the damaged jamb—someone had forced this door too. I brought out my pepper spray and thought for a moment about backtracking and getting the HK out of the Hellcat’s gun safe. But carrying a gun meant a whole different set of problems.

  I kicked the door open and moved in fast, checking the corners. I’d cleared three of them when movement at the edge of my field of view made me spin.

  The sap that should have caught me on the side of the head hit my shoulder instead, and my arm went numb. The can of pepper spray tumbled free, hit the floor, and rolled. The next moment, the sap was flying toward my face, and I had to backpedal to avoid a broken jaw or worse.

  Wind from the sap’s passage brushed my cheek—a miss, but only barely. I stumbled back again, and my ass clocked the desk. The sound of metal came, and to my left, I spotted the can of pepper spray rolling across the floor.

  Movement brought my attention back, and for the first time, I got a look at my attacker: a tall, liver-spotted man, balding, in dark clothes. He came at me again, and I threw myself to the left. I landed badly on my numb shoulder, but I got my other hand on the pepper spray.

  Pivoting at the waist, I came up, the can ready.

  The liver-spotted guy was gone, and a moment later, the fire door to the alley crashed shut.

  3

  Beverly wasn’t at Spark, the dive bar where she got wasted with Little Willie, and she wasn’t at Ink and Iron, her cousin’s tattoo parlor. She wasn’t at home in her Crystal Towers garden apartment. So, I went to the Reverend’s Chop Suey.

  Inside, it was cheap tile and plastic ferns and a backlit menu board that hadn’t been updated in twenty years except for the pieces of paper taped over the prices. It smelled like sesame oil and seared onions and fish sauce, and the laminate tabletops were gouged with ballpoint doodles. Mrs. Wang still worked the counter even though she had to be eighty; she’d worked it when I’d been coming here in high school with Davey—and, in college, with Davey and Harry—and she’d probably work it until she died. And then, in keeping with her wishes, they’d shuffle her out of the way and keep taking orders.

  “Hi, Mrs. Wang.”

  She had a bird-like smile.

  “How’s the family?”

  The noise she made could have meant anything.

  I ordered the kung pao chicken—level three heat because, as Mrs. Wang likes to point out, I’m a baby. As I counted out cash, I said, “Tell her I’m here. She’s going to want to see me.”

  The bird-bright smile didn’t say anything. The register chimed, Mrs. Wang made change, and I took my receipt. For expenses; this one was on Harry.

  Her daughter Victoria brought my food. She was my age, but she’d gone to public school instead of St. Frances, so we’d never been in class together. We knew each other from the neighborhood and all the afternoons and evenings I’d wasted in here. When she set down the kung pao and rice, she said, “Maybe you want to sit this one out.”

  I popped a pepper in my mouth. Immediately, my face turned red and my eyes started to water, and about five seconds later, waves of sweat washed over me.

  “Uh huh,” Victoria said.

  She was impressed, I could tell.

  With a sigh, Victoria said, “Let me ask her.”

  When she came back the second time, it was only long enough to poke her head out from behind the employees-only door and nod at me. I carried the carton of kung pao with me and slipped through the door, and she let it fall shut behind me.

  “Mom says you’ve got a martyr complex,” Victoria said as she fixed her hair.

  “It’s technically called a hero complex.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Me, I think you’re just stupid.”

  “There’s that too.”

  “Be careful, Luka.”

  I popped another pepper in my mouth and gave her my most macho look. Man of steel and all that.

  “Good Lord,” Victoria said and ducked back into the kitchen.

  Beverly was in a tiny room that was part storage and part staff lounge—if you considered metal folding chairs fit for lounging. She was a rawboned woman with ears full of metal, white with that kind of ruddy complexion that looked hale and hearty, and she had a pocket revolver on the table next to a shot glass and a bottle. To judge by the reek, she was deep in the baijiu.

  I looked at the gun and asked, “Really?”

  She poured another shot and cracked a look at me that I couldn’t quite read. “Not for you.” Then she did the shot.

  “Somebody tore up your place.”

  She made a face.

  “What’s the deal?” I asked.

  “The deal is fucked, that’s what the deal is.”

  “You know what I mean.” I straddled one of the chairs. “Pictures of Harry? Come on.”

  “Pictures of Harry,” she said in a tone that could have meant anything.

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yeah, believe it or not.”

  “So, here you are, doing his dirty work.”

  “I’m here because he cashed in a favor.” At the end, when the insurance company had balked, when nobody would lend me anything, when Davey needed hospice and the world shot me the bird, Harry had come through. Softening my tone, I added, “And because he’s decent, and he doesn’t deserve to be caught up in something like this.”

  She poured herself another shot.

  “This isn’t his world,” I said. “Why are you dragging him into it?”

  “Luka,” she said and laughed. “Christ.”

  “It wasn’t Harry who sent those people around.” I scooted the chair closer. “It wasn’t Harry who had somebody toss your place. You’re not sitting here getting drunk on Mrs. Wang’s baijiu because of Harry. So, what’s going on?”

  “Pictures are big business,” she said. “You know that.”

  “In Bosnian, they’ve got a saying. My mom likes it. The dog that barks doesn’t bite.”

  “All bark and no bite?” she said with a crooked smile.

  “More like, keep your eye on the dog that isn’t barking.”

  The door to our little room opened, and a woman stepped inside. I knew her by sight: short—at least a foot shorter than me—and stocky, her dark hair in a faux hawk, with warm, sandy skin. Zulema Reyes. Zu.

  “Jeez, Beverly,” I said and shook my head. “What the hell did you get into?”

  Zu glanced at me, but her gaze swiveled to Beverly. “You’re Holliday?”

  Beverly nodded.

  For a moment, indecision played in Zu’s face. She wore a leather bomber jacket over a man’s flannel and blue jeans, and she had both hands in the pockets. I tensed as she brought one hand out, but all she held was an envelope fat with cash.

  “All right,” Beverly said in a weary voice. She tossed a manila envelope on the table.

  Zu stepped forward, angling the cash away from me, and for a moment, I had the thought that she was worried I might grab it. Too late, I saw her other hand coming out of the pocket, clutching something small and black.

  Beverly shouted and reached for the revolver, but Zu crashed into the table. It only clipped my side, but it caught Beverly in the chest and forced her backward, knocking her over.

  I kicked free of my chair as I stood, but by then, the nasty little thing in Zu’s hand was coming toward me. It made a crackling-snap-pop sound that was more electrical discharge than Rice Krispies, and then my whole world lit up with pain.

  4

  I didn’t black out, but for a while, my brain was so scrambled that I might as well have. A slap brought me around, and I was vaguely aware that I was wet.

  “Did I pee myself?” I asked raggedly.

  Mrs. Wang’s face steadied in my vision; she was laughing silently. She rose, apparently satisfied with the healing powers of the slap she’d delivered, and shuffled out of the room.

  Victoria leaned against the door. “I should lie and say yes.” Then she held up a foam cup, the kind they gave out for the fountain drinks.

  I wiped water from my face, ran fingers through my wet hair, and fell back on the tile. As my head cleared, the pain shouldered its way to the front of the line. It was my joints that hurt the worst: at the base of my skull, my shoulders, my knees, my wrists. I’d never been stun-gunned before. I wasn’t sure I’d recommend it.

  Finally, I managed to ask, “Beverly?”

  Victoria let out a disgusted breath, and her steps rang out on the tile, and the door clicked shut behind her.

  After a while, I got up. Beverly was gone. Zu was gone. The pictures were gone. I found the little bathroom and cleaned myself up with paper towels as best I could, and then I let myself out into the parking lot.

  In the Hellcat, I tried to make a decision: give it up and tell Harry I’d done my best, or go after Zu. If it had just been about Davey, I might have called it at that point. What Harry had done for us at the end had been a kind of grace, but I also knew it was the kind of thing you couldn’t pay back, and it would be stupid to try. But it was more than Davey. Even if Harry wasn’t perfect—Christy and the kids were evidence of that—I believed he was a good man trying to make a bad world better. And I’d meant what I’d told Beverly; this wasn’t his world, and he shouldn’t have been caught up in it.

  I started with the Tower Grove headquarters for Ally Action Alliance, Zu’s organization. It was a storefront office in a brick strip mall. The windows were dark, and it looked like it had a fancy security system. Then I tried a web search—a lot of the free white page offerings are outdated, but they aren’t totally useless. There wasn’t anything for Zulema Reyes in St. Louis or in southern Illinois.

  For the big firms, or the high-end boutique investigators, there were other options—paid databases that could tell you a hell of a lot. But I couldn’t afford those. What I could afford was a steak dinner.

  “Cinder House,” I told Sophia Mercer over the phone. “They’re wood fired. Besides, you need a night out.”

  “I have a boyfriend, thanks. He takes me places. I get out plenty.”

  “Who, Stuart?”

  “You know it’s Stu.”

  “He takes you to Burger King. This is Cinder House—you put on a nice dress, I’ll pick you up in the Hellcat, the whole shebang. I’ll be your fairy prince for the night.”

  “You got part of that right,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll call you back.”