Blake stood up and walked past me as if I wasn't even there.
He leaned over the side of the bar, taking hold of a landline phone that the bartender offered him. The way he casually held the phone, lifting it to be more comfortable for a few-minute conversation, seemed pretty standard. It was far from the first time someone had called here looking for him. In fact, I bet most of the underbelly of San Francisco knows precisely where to look for the President of the Devil’s Protégés in the middle of the night. It reminded me of a feeling I always had when I came into this bar forever long ago: this was an office for these people. The bar was on a façade that offered alcohol and comfort to those in the office. What was comfortable to them was dangerous and anything but appealing to me.
The
