Inside, it's all dim lights and chrome. The bar runs along the back wall, bottles lined up like soldiers. A few girls are on stage, moving to the beat, all long limbs and shadows. Men in suits nurse drinks at scattered tables, their eyes glazed.

Charlie Cavendish is at his usual spot. A leather booth near the back, half-hidden in shadow. A crystal tumbler of whiskey glints in his hand. He's watching the door.

Watching you.