When she did, she had an address for Zulema Reyes in Marine Villa. It’s nice to have friends at the electric company.

  The neighborhood was tucked up against the river, and it was old: tall, narrow brick buildings with mansard roofs, ancient gas streetlamps that had been deactivated and never replaced, and, some blocks, brick-paved roads. The air was as cold as a knife.

  Zu’s apartment was on the second floor above an old electronics repair store, with a tattered green awning and the windows boarded up. The steps creaked as I took them. This time, I had the pepper spray in my hand, and the HK was holstered at the small of my back.

  When I knocked, the silence from the other side was deafening.

  “I want to talk,” I said. “No hard feelings about getting electrocuted.”

  Nothing on the other side of that door. A black hole pulling on me.

  “You know what I think? I think there’s a lot more going on than I understand. More than anybody told me, anyway. So, maybe we start with that. Why don’t you open up and tell me what’s going on?”

  A minute ticked past. Then another. Something clanged in the alley, and then small, scurried movements echoed up to me. A rat, maybe. A raccoon. A possum.

  “How long has someone been trying to blackmail you?” I asked through the door.

  The thud of the deadbolt sliding back sounded like a gunshot. The door opened on a chain, and Zu’s face appeared in the crack. She wet her lips and said, “She called me a few days ago. Then again today.”

  “Beverly?”

  Zu nodded. Like a lot of people, she seemed to feel the need to explain. “It was one night. A mistake. She didn’t tell me she was married to one of our biggest donors.”

  That part was an old story, but I tried to make sense of the rest of it. Rich and Harry had sent me after Beverly because, supposedly, she had pictures of Harry. Innocent pictures, but damaging ones. Only that hadn’t been the truth. Beverly had been shopping the photos around days before—and then, when things had taken a wrong turn, she’d contacted Zu again today, probably offering a different deal.

  Then it all made sense.

  “All right,” I said. “We need to talk. Somebody hired Beverly to get those pictures of you—before she went rogue and turned it into an auction—and I think I know who.”

  The exhalation at the bottom of the stairs sounded strangely disappointed. “That’s a shame,” Rich said, and even in the shadows, I could make out the shape of the gun in his hand. “Beverly warned me you wouldn’t let it go, but I really did think you’d be too hung up on Harry to work it out.”

  5

  Zu let us into the apartment because it was that or watch Rich shoot me—I wasn’t sure she made the right choice. Rich took the pepper spray and the HK, and that, as they say, was that.

  Her apartment was small, with mismatched furniture that smelled like a secondhand store. The coffee table was covered in papers, with an aluminum-case MacBook lying closed amidst the clutter. Against one wall, rally signs—the kind with handles made of paint-stirrers—leaned in a pile.

  Rich ordered me to sit on the couch, hands behind my head, so I did. Zu stood against the wall, shaking and trying not to let the fear into her face.

  “Where are the pictures, Miss Reyes?”

  Zu shook her head.

  Rich tsked. “Are you sure?”

  “I—I burned them.”

  Uncertainty played in Rich’s face. It transmitted itself down his hand to the gun.

  “She’s lying,” I said. “She didn’t burn them.”

  “No—” Zu shook her head.

  “It’s too late for that.” I tried to hold her eyes. “Give them to him.” To Rich, I said, “It’ll take her a minute; she hid them.”

  Rich sounded amused. “I’ve got time.”

  Zu shot me a short, unreadable look, and then she moved over to the stack of signs. She shifted them out of the way to reveal built-in cabinets, which she opened and began to dig through.

  “Miss Reyes,” Rich said, and a white smile parted his goatee. “I hope you’re not thinking about doing anything stupid. No matter how fast you are, you aren’t faster than my finger on this trigger.”

  Zu’s breathing accelerated, and she shook her head as she pawed through the clutter of books and papers in the cabinets.

  “You hired Beverly to get pictures of Zu, didn’t you?” I leaned forward. “She wasn’t going to endorse Harry, so you decided to twist her arm.”

  Rich gave me that blindingly white smile.

  “Did Harry know?” I answered myself, “No, of course not.”

  “The city’s golden boy?” Rich laughed. “It was all I could do to get him to hire you to recover the photos. The stick of self-righteousness is too far up his ass. I could make a joke here, you understand, but I won’t.”

  “All this so you could win an election?”

  “Harry’s paying me good money to win this election for him. And I’ll get paid even more when I’m hired for the senate race. And more the next time, you understand. Success breeds success.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call this a success. It didn’t go the way you expected, did it? Beverly realized the pictures were worth more than you were paying her, and she tried to set up an auction. Let me guess: you, Dana Wulf, and Zu.”

  Rich gave an uninterested shrug.

  “The liver-spotted guy,” I said. “The one tossing Beverly’s office. Who’s he?”

  “Tennyson?” Rich said, more as a question than an answer. “Dana’s fixer. My counterpart, I suppose, albeit a bit more hands-on. As you said, everyone wanted these pictures.”

  And that wrapped it all up. I nodded. “And this is better than just letting the pictures disappear? Adding murder to the list?”

  “Murder?” He laughed. “Nobody’s going to get hurt as long as we’re all smart. I’ll go away, and this will be over, and Miss Reyes will never hear from me again.”

  Sure, I thought. Until she can’t find the pictures. Until you start thinking about what has to happen then.

  My hands were still behind my head, starting to tingle from being raised so long. Zu’s breathing was a harsh sound, the only one in the whole apartment. Rich smiled again. He was holding the gun like guys on TV.

  I let my eyes slide past him, nodded, and said, “Took you long enough.”

  Rich started to turn. He caught himself, but the moment of distraction was all I needed. I borrowed a page from Zu’s playbook and kicked the coffee table at Rich. It slid across the bare floorboards of the small apartment and cracked him in the shins. Rich shouted and stumbled back.

  I launched myself at him, but Rich was already recovering his balance, the gun carving a wide arc toward me. He’d been right about one thing: no matter how fast you were, you weren’t as fast as a trigger.

  Then a red Marx-Engels reader clonked him on the side of the head, and Zu let out a war cry.

  Rich’s shot went wide. The gun cracked, and splinters exploded to my right. I crashed into him, bearing him down. I got one hand around his wrist and slammed it against the floor—on the third blow, his fingers sprang open, and the gun spun away.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Rich shouted.

  I flipped him over and planted a knee in the center of his back, the shakes starting up all through my body. Zu had the gun now, and she was staring down the barrel.

  “Easy,” I said.

  She blinked like she was waking up. Then, hands trembling, she lowered the pistol.

  “Why don’t I take that?” I asked. “And then we’ll call the police.”

  6

  “I didn’t know,” Harry said.

  We stood in the lovely foyer of his lovely home in lovely Carondelet, and in the next room, his lovely family was doing lovely things—singing Christmas carols, in this case.

  “You have to believe me, Luka.” His eyes were wide. They were still a promise of summer. “Swear to God.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I never would have—what Rich did, it’s against everything I stand for—”

  “Save the campaign speech,” I said, but because it was Harry, I said it gently.

  “The campaign’s over anyway,” he said. “I can’t recover from this.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Zu said she liked your platform.”

  Harry stared at me.

  Shrugging, I said, “I told her who I was going to vote for.”

  He smiled—not the one off the bus ads and the billboards, but the one that was still nervous, still boyish, maybe a little more creased.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “No, Luka.” He put his hand on my arm, and his eyes searched my face. “Thank you.”

  The music changed. Christy and the kids moved on to “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  In a husky whisper that didn’t sound anything like a campaign speech, he said, “I still have the apartment at the Chase.” He blushed and, in a rush, added, “Not for fooling around. But for you—I mean, you and me. It’s different.” He swallowed. “Isn’t it?”

  “Harry,” Christy called through the song, “Luka, come join us.”

  “Your wife’s waiting, Harry,” I said, and I closed the door behind me as I went out into the night.

  A New Ocean

  1

  It was morning on Christmas Eve, and I missed Davey.

  Everyone else, though, seemed to be feeling what a blue-hair might have called amorous.

  I stared at the dick pic on my phone.

  Kris, for one.

  A steady banging sound came from the other side of the building, accompanied by shrill, yapping cries.

  The neighbor in 2B for another.

  I miss you was the first message (if you didn’t count a jack-in-the-box dick pic).

  Good morning, Kristijan.

  The follow-up was I want you inside me.

  I want a ribeye and mashed potatoes.

  Somebody in 2B wailed.

  I sent an immediate follow-up message: Oh, and gingerbread trifle.

  I want you to push my face into the mattress and core me out, he sent back. I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk.

  I want a good pair of socks, I told him. The kind with the bees on them.

  He got more explicit from there. The pounding in 2B picked up pace, somehow. The occasional wail had turned into a panting shriek. I was starting to think I needed to do more cardio. Or maybe I needed to be twenty again, pent up with Davey in my dorm room, fucking like animals over a three-day weekend.

  Another dick pic came through: Kris’s hand tight around his cock, the head flared and swollen and purplish red, a pearl of pre at the slit.

  It wasn’t exactly a Hallmark romance. But then, at least I wasn’t lying in bed thinking about Davey.

  Kris’s texts continued as I got ready for the day. He was in bed still. One arm behind his head, the way he propped himself up when he wanted to read on his phone. He was muscular, and I could see in my mind the sinuous pop of his biceps, the dusting of silky dark hair under his arm, the delicate ridges of his ribcage. He slept naked. He was probably—to borrow a phrase—about to core out his mattress.

  Since I wasn’t a detective with the Metropolitan Police, though, and since I didn’t have paid holidays, and (most importantly) since I’d left my laptop at the office, I wasn’t in bed. I was going to work. I was anticipating a steep uptick in business because, as of the previous week, I now had official advertisements for my agency. I’d done some detecting for an exec at an advertising company, and instead of paying me (because all his cash went to coke), he’d offered me free space on seven billboards around the city. I’d come up with the ad myself:

  Villains Vanquished!

  Perils Prevailed!

  Damsels in Distress Delivered! (With damsel’s consent only.)

  WE DO DIVORCES!

  Kris had said I was the biggest nerd he’d ever met (there was no way that was true) and that he couldn’t believe he sucked my cock (okay, fair). To judge by his messages this morning, though, he’d gotten over it.

  As I laced up my boots, another text came in.

  8?

  Sure, I sent back.

  7?

  I laughed in spite of myself and liked the message.

  6?

  6, I wrote back. And then, before I could stop myself, Maybe you could stay the night. Maybe we could spend Christmas together.

  Nothing.

  The screen went dark.

  I pocketed the phone, pulled on my coat, and grabbed my backpack.

  Still nothing.

  Another guy might get self-esteem issues.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—” The shouting from 2B was deep and insistent, but it took on a keening neediness. “—fuck me!”

  “Good Lord,” I said under my breath, and I made the sign of the cross as I started down the stairs.

  The night before, I’d been too tired to get the mail, so I stopped now to check. I had coupons from a dry cleaner, a door hanger to show my support for a local food drive, and a manila envelope. I put it all in my backpack. I don’t own anything that needs to be dry cleaned, but it’d be fun to make Kris wait while I cut out the coupons.

  Creaking hinges made me glance over my shoulder. I live in a prewar fourplex, and about everything creaks or moans or groans—

  The rattling, pounding staccato from upstairs resumed.

  “Luka.”

  The hinges creaked again, and this time, I found myself looking at Mrs. Konig from 1A. Another door protested, and then Mr. Weimann (1B) joined us in the lobby. It was more of a vestibule, if you wanted to get technical, and with the three of us, it was starting to feel a little crowded. Part of that feeling, I suspected, had to do with my sense that I’d walked into a trap.

  “You must talk to him, Luka,” Mrs. Konig said. She grabbed my arm, which was no small thing with Mrs. Konig—she had to be pushing eighty, and she had wash-and-set curls the color of old ivory, but she also had talons like a bird of prey, and I wasn’t sure I could get away unless she let me. “You must make him understand.”

  “We live here, Luka,” Mr. Weimann said. “We are here all day. We hear it all day.”

  “What? Jude?”

  “You see?” Mrs. Konig asked. “You are already friends.”

  “He will listen to you,” Mr. Weimann said. “He will understand.”

  “All day, it is—” I’ll spare you a graphic description of Mrs. Konig thrusting her hips and moaning, but let me tell you: if I hadn’t already had one foot across the line into celibacy, that would have done it for me. “All day, Luka. What about work? What about school? One cannot—” (This is where we cut to a Technical Difficulties screen.) “—all day, Luka. One must do laundry.” She seemed momentarily at a loss, as though trying to think of even more significant things to do than laundry. Then she regrouped and added stoutly, “One must make schnitzel.”

  Making schnitzel, I was pretty sure, was exactly what Jude was doing.

  “He is a young man,” Mr. Weimann said, clapping me on the shoulder. “He must hear it from another young man who understands…these things.”

  “The sex with the butt,” Mrs. Konig clarified.

  A long, tugboat-like blat came from Jude’s apartment. I thought maybe something wonderful was happening. Maybe a Mack truck was barreling into the building, about to flatten me. Mercifully.

  But a few seconds later, I was still alive and unflattened. And Mrs. Konig and Mr. Weimann were still looking at me.

  “I don’t think—” I laughed. I could hear my own crazy in the sound. “I mean, it’s only nights and weekends, and I don’t know, he has a right—”

  At the top of the stairs, a door opened, and male voices murmured. The treads creaked, and a man appeared—a bull of a guy in an eye-watering tracksuit. I thought of that tugboat noise. I wondered if I could die, right then, and Mr. Weimann would be nice enough to drag me out to the curb. The guy in the tracksuit passed us, his huge shoulders hunched, and he made a visible effort not to look over. Then the door wobbled shut behind him.

  Mrs. Konig’s talons tightened in my arm, and she whispered ferociously, “Now!”

  Since it was either: a) do what Mrs. Konig told me to do, or b) have a gobbet of meat ripped off my arm, I decided I could try to talk to Jude. Discreetly. And only because, if I were being honest, the noise had gotten to me too, and I’d already been thinking about saying something, and it was basically my idea.

  Effective self-deception is one of the keys to being able to live with yourself.

  When I got to the top of the stairs, 2B’s door was closed.

  “Knock, Luka,” Mr. Weimann whisper-called from the vestibule. “You must knock.”

  I hissed at Mrs. Konig and Mr. Weimann and waved them back into their apartments. They shuffled off reluctantly. Only when the vestibule was clear did I rap on the door. It felt like a long while before steps moved on the other side of the door, and then it swung open.

  2B—Jude—had ashen-blond hair in side-swept bangs, and his eyes were the color of summer grass. He was slender to the point of seeming frail, and right then he looked even smaller, swallowed up in a baggy Chouteau College sweatshirt that probably would have fit me just fine. He had on a pair of gray shorts about the size of a postcard, and he wasn’t wearing underwear. Long legs, lean and toned. Straight golden hairs on his thighs and calves. I’m not into feet, but objectively, they were pretty—like his hands, slender and fine-boned. He smiled, and I could see it then—the fresh-fucked glow. With that little accent of his, he said, “Good morning, Luka.”

  “Hi.” And then, because I’m an idiot: “Hello.”

  His smile broadened. “Hello.”

  And then I stared at him. He didn’t look like Davey, not if you broke them down and laid the facts out side by side. They didn’t look anything alike, not really. Davey had never been so put together. Davey’s hair had been brown. Davey’s face had been longer, more of an oval. I had to look at a picture to remember things like that; it’s weird what you forget.

  “Oh,” Jude said. “Your present!”