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sorry,” Atwood said with all the sincerity he could muster. “It won’t happen again. We just need to ask you a few questions. You are a man who knows things.”
    Risley stood a little straighter, even as he sneered. “What about?”
    “McManus and Keeler.”
    Risley opened his mouth, looked first at Atwood, then Walter, and back again, then closed it. “I see,” he said. With a final glance back at the fire in the street, he turned away. “I know a place we can talk,” he said. “Follow me.”
    He led Atwood and Walter deeper into Chinatown. “Wu’s was the best,” he said over his shoulder. “But he was far from the only one.”
    “You’re taking us to another opium den?” Walter asked, glancing at Atwood. He returned his gaze with a reassuring half-smile.
    “Yes,” Risley said. “And you’re paying.”
    “Are we?” Atwood asked with raised eyebrows.
    “Flattery will only get you so far,” Risley said. “I expect to be compensated for my information.”
    “If you even have any,” Walter said.
    “Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something useful.” Risley turned down an abrupt alley. Atwood and Walter exchanged wary glances but they had no choice but to follow. Risley was their only lead, and worse, the man knew it.
    They made an odd threesome. There were fewer street lamps and people were giving them strange, dark looks tinged with menace. They entered a small, slanting two-story house. It was dark inside and cramped. All the curtains were drawn. For Atwood, it almost felt like coming home. It had been almost two years since he had last frequented dens such as this one, and opium-smoked himself to the brink of oblivion.
    “He’s paying.” Risley pointed to Atwood.
    After a moment, Atwood nodded and passed over a handful of coins with trembling hands. The stern old woman took the money without comment. It made no difference to her who paid.
    As Risley settled in, Atwood and Walter took positions towering over him. Before he could bring the opium pipe to his lips, however, Atwood reached out and plucked it from his fingers.
    “Not yet,” he said, trying to ignore the familiar weight in his hands. “Information first.”
    “I think better with it.”
    “No,” Atwood said. “Now talk, or Walter and I will drag you out of here ourselves.” He grabbed Risley roughly by the lapels.
    “Unhand me,” Risley said. “I’m the Carrion King! My boys will…”
    “I gave you that name!” Atwood interrupted harshly. “Because it sold. But kings can be deposed, and that’d sell just as well. Better, even.”
    “Fine! Fine!” Risley pushed Atwood back. “I don’t know where McManus and Keeler are. For all I know they could be anywhere.”
    “Then why are we here?” Walter asked. “To feed your habit?”
    “The shadow, he speaks,” Risley said sarcastically.
    Walter tilted his head, studying him. “Tell me,” he asked after a moment. “Does your mother know where you are? I’m sure you’re a good son, and send her money now and then, but does she know where her darling Carrion King spends the rest of it? That you give it to whores and Chinamen?”
    Atwood stepped back, proudly.
    “And if poor Mrs. Risley cries over a misspelled name, imagine if she knew everything.”
    Risley stared at Walter dumbly. “You wouldn’t.”
    “You’ve wasted our time,” Walter said. “And even shadows have little time to waste. So you tell me.”
    Risley tried to match Walter’s gaze, but there was a peculiar intensity about him, the pervading sense that he was too quiet not to have something raging inside, and he often used that to his advantage. Risley blinked first.
    “Look,” he said. “I don’t know nothing about McManus and Keeler, but I’ve heard some strange things.”
    “Such as?” Atwood asked.
    “People going missing.”
    “People vanish all the time,” said Walter.
    “Not like this. There’s someone new out there, but no one’s seen him or even heard his