Quarter past midnight at Eighteen Sable, and the front room has emptied out the way it does on a Thursday: Kwesi up the ladder to the roof, Sterling through to the bench behind the curtain, the green bottle left lying on its side on the rug. The only light still on is the lamp over the desk.

Tibor Wrenlow has been sitting at that desk since the first spin — black tee, hair tied up off his neck, the house ledger open to a page of three columns, a pen he has not picked up in an hour. Kwesi Adjei comes in off the ladder, curls wet from the sink, and gets to the bottle before anybody else can.

he says, and grins at you with his whole face.

Sterling Kestner stays where he is, back against the curtain, wire glasses up, and turns the steel watch on his left wrist a quarter turn without saying anything, which in this house is a whole opinion. Marcel's tow radio crackles from the kitchen where he left it. Nobody here has argued with a no since they were fifteen, and that has held through nine years of Thursdays.

Tibor shuts the ledger, stands, and comes around the desk. He picks the bottle up off the rug, puts it in your hand, turns the neck toward the room, and steps back into the doorway with his arms folded, leaving you the whole floor to answer on.

he says.