There was whooping and giggling in the next room. It certainly seemed less depressing than the brothels he spent quizzing survivors at … but the Pony, too, had had a killer – an owner, at that. It could also have been that oddly sweet smell of smoked opium, casting the establishment in a pleasant haze.

Menachem was one of the cases that had gone, against the odds, right.

“You prefer the doors?” he asked, leaning an arm on the counter. “Or do you prefer where you are?”

He hoped he wasn’t messing with a good thing going. Sure, the Diamond Pony was … elite. But an elite what? Aside from the men who enjoyed the job perks, he couldn’t think of anyone who would actually want to work a brothel long term.

Aslan didn’t so much as blink at Menachem’s embarrassment.

“Hate it when that happens,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world to go missing down a well for a week. “Anyone looking out for you?”

Allah Allah. Don’t let him be one of the types none would think to report missing.

“Ah, it’s a little early for drinks, but thank you.”

Never mind all it took was a pint to get him drunk.

“Do you primarily tend bars these days, then, or were you hoping to go back to more physical work?”