It was a sleepy, tousled Gary Zabowski who answered their knock a few minutes shy of one o’clock. He had on briefs barely covered by a T-shirt that said “Composer by Day, Cage Fighter By Night.” Without a word, he motioned them toward a leather sofa behind a low table cluttered with empty cans of beer, Red Bull and takeout boxes with grease stains. Then he vanished into the kitchen. The sounds of running water and grains pouring out of a bag hinted he was making coffee.
He was alone. No father, no lawyers.
Sarg pointed at the table. “Resembles your place, or the way it used to be. And your cuisine.”
Drayco didn’t think the aroma of stale beer and cigarette smoke mingling with decaying kung pao chicken was like his place at all. But he had to admit, he wasn’t a neat freak. A reaction aga
