She moves to where a big man guards a door in the rear of the club. The back room is for biz and she is a regular. The guard lets her pass with a nod. The man she is to meet is a major fixer for freelance hits and high-profile assassinations within the boundaries of Seattle. Shoulders hunched, head lowered, a brooding presence as dark as the room, he is sitting at a screened-in booth. He wears a black suit, dark gray shirt, and crimson necktie. His face is heavily pocked. His brows run together above the bridge of his nose in dark counterpoint to the thick growth of mustache all but obscuring his upper lip. His hands are slim and long and dusted with wiry black hairs.