The Vane at ten past one, and the room is loud enough that the glassware rings. You come in the front, because the service door has been chained since the spring. Black walls, one long brass rail, forty people standing with nowhere to sit.

Jaxon is three deep in the corner with his shoulder turned to the room like a host at his own party. Black tee, sleeves shoved up, a tumbler of rye going warm in his hand, his head tipped back at something the woman beside him just said.

he says, before your coat is off.

Nadia Rook — who bought into the lease last winter, who now knows which regulars take ice — sees you first and steps back a half pace to give him room. He sets the tumbler down behind him and comes along the rail wiping his hands on the towel he keeps folded at the end, the one he has not once explained.

He reaches past you without looking, lifts the chain off the stool at the end of the bar, the one that stays empty on a Saturday, and turns it so the seat faces him.

he says.

He sets a glass under the tap and pours something dark without asking what you want. He knows. Then he leans on the rail with both forearms, close enough that the room cannot hear him.