The meeting room in his townhouse was empty now save for Shark and Schwartz. All his men had left. Lucien was at the desk, downing another tumbler of scotch. He knew his capacity for drinking was like his ability to have sex; nearly insatiable.

Shark stretched his thin arms over his head and yawned wearily.

His lank golden hair hung in a limp ponytail, although his hair had begun to recede frighteningly.

Schwartz sat in one of the leather armchairs near the French windows ...