“What if you had to ask nicely?”
“I won’t.”
Cade didn’t bother to try and sound ashamed. It was probably strange that Marlow found that blunt embrace of his flaws attractive. The abstract guilt of knowing he’d done something, even if he wasn’t sure exactly what, didn’t help.
“When and where?” he asked.
He heard a car door open and slam shut. Tinny music and loud voices filtered into the background of the call.
“Now,” Cade said. “I’ll text you the address.”
The insurance company had cut Marlow a check for the full amount when they wrote the Impala off. He wasn’t ready to let go yet, so the money sat in his bank account while the charred carcass of the Impala sat in his mechanic’s lot. Until it was either fixed or he got around to checking the gear-head message boards for a project car, Marlow was behind the wheel of a primer-red and matte-black junker.
His mechanic wasn’t going to forgive him for a while.
Still, the junker fit in around Cortez Hill. The only cars around here were wrecks and the drug dealers' shiny Ford Flex minivans. Marlow parked two blocks away from the address that Cade had given him and walked. The last of the heat had seeped away, and it was cold enough he could feel it settle into his knee.
The address was for a shop called Silver Bullet Solutions. Home security. None of the security companies could—legally—sell the actual metal, but all of them liked to imply they would. Instead, they sold heavy-duty shutters and motion-sensor alarms, hollow-point bullets packed with delphinium extract. It was the same family as wolfsbane, but less potent.
Marlow tried the door. It was locked.
In the glass, he saw the reflection of the dusty sedan as the door swung open. He turned around and went over to look inside. The inside was nicer than the dinged-up off-white exterior, with leather seats and top-of-the-line electronics.
“My gran always told me not to get in cars with strange men,” he noted as he climbed in and slammed the door.
“You just did,” Cade pointed out.
“She told me not to join Night Shift too,” Marlow said. He took the drink that Cade offered, the sides of the cup warm against his cold fingers. “I don’t listen.”
He took a sip. The bitter tang of burnt beans and sugar surprised him. He was used to cups of Bovril from TAC colleagues when he pulled a day shift.
“Thanks,” he said. “Where’s Lance?”
Cade pointed over the road at the squat white stucco building on the corner of the street. The sign over the door read SKINNED in hot pink letters that flickered unsteadily, and a naked wolf, all pink and red lines, did a stuttered dance in the window.
“That’s—”
“Yes,” Cade agreed as he pulled a dubious expression. “Not the classiest establishment, but it’s the cheapest place in town for slap and tickle that’s heavy on the slap.”
“And Lance frequents…”
Cade shook his head. “Apparently, he’s a performer,” he said. “Some people like scars.”
“And your plan?” Marlow asked. It was maybe a good thing he’d changed out of his gear before he left work. His second-best Converse—less worn-in but sole still fully attached—didn’t exactly make him look like a high roller, but they’d fit in better than a stab vest. “Ask for a private dance and doorstep him when he’s off-balance?”
Cade snorted and drained his cup. “I don’t pay for it,” he said, that edge of brittle dignity sharp in his voice. “And if I did, they better keep their balance. No. We just have an opportunity for him to help out his old friend and, ah, frequent benefactor.”
“Oh?” Marlow asked.
Chapter Six
LANCE’S SCARS LOOKEDsofter in real life than they did in photos. Less livid. The edges blended into his tan, except where a curl of scar roughed the skin. He’d pulled a T-shirt on after his performance, and glitter smudged over the black cotton.
“Barman said you wanted to talk to me,” he said as he sat down. He lifted the glass of clear liquid, cherries floating in it, that he’d brought with him.“And I guessed you wanted to buy a round too.”
Cade glanced at the bar and saw one of the staff on their way over, two glasses of whiskey and a bowl of salsa and chips on the tray they carried. He shrugged as he turned back to Lance.
“I’ll call it a business expense.”
