feet, and beamed at them again. “Bang-up work, North. Really bang-up work on this whole place. You ought to be proud of yourself. And you ought to see your dad more. I know, I know, nobody likes a nag, but it’s an uncle’s prerogative. I’ll see myself out—be sweet to each other, you too. No fighting after I’m gone.” He waddled out of the office, humming “Tutti Frutti” as he left.
North rounded on Shaw. “What the fuck do you think—”
“We need time,” Shaw said, the words clipped and unexpectedly harsh. “Think, North. Use your head. We need time to figure out what he really wants, and we need time to figure out how to neutralize him.”
North struggled to draw a full breath. Adrenaline drained out of him, and he put one hand on the desk to steady himself. After a moment, he managed to nod. “Yes, ok. That’s smart, but you don’t understand—”
“How the hell am I supposed to understand, North? I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this from me.”
“Shaw—”
“How long?”
“I didn’t want you—”
“How long?”
“Right after the verdict. He didn’t make a thing of it. He just made sure I knew. Then, after everything that happened last year with the Slasher, he brought it up again. It’s something to do with your dad’s business and…” North stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Shaw’s eyes.
“This is about working for my dad, and you still didn’t tell me?”
“I told him no. I told him I wouldn’t help him.”
Shaw’s breathing was shallow and rapid. He took a step back. “I need to take a walk.”
“Shaw, come on. I told him no.”
Shaking his head, Shaw left.
Chapter 5
FOR THE REST OF Wednesday, no matter how hard North tried, he couldn’t get Shaw to talk to him. The closest he got was a curt conversation when North was in the process of tracking Leslie Hawkins’s Facebook presence. The banned convention-goer had her personal account locked down, but she had posted publicly on Yasmin’s Facebook page about her plans to crash the con. When North had relayed this information, Shaw replied in short, brittle phrases, agreeing to visit the con the next day in hopes of either tracking down Leslie or getting a lead on where she was staying. After that, North got nothing until a brusque goodnight when Shaw went upstairs at the end of the day. North drove home, played with the puppy, and drank four Schlaflys. He went to sleep and woke at three in the morning with a roaring headache.
On Thursday, North picked Shaw up in his 1968 Pontiac GTO, original Springmist Green, even though Shaw’s Mercedes would probably have been more practical in the cold. Shaw was wearing a shearling coat, a tank top that said My other tank top is ironic, his Lulu-fucking-lemon yoga pants, and bright pink Nikes. He was also carrying approximately eighteen bags that looked like they were full of books.
“Are you doing a one-man bookmobile operation?”
Instead of answering, Shaw got extremely busy rearranging the bags.
“It was just a joke,” North said.
Shaw started rooting through one of the jumbled collections of books.
“All right,” North said, sighing as he shifted into gear. “You’re still mad at me.”
The Queer Expectations Convention was being held downtown at the Royal Excalibur, one of the grand old dames of St. Louis and one of the few remaining independent hotels. In keeping with its name, its décor featured knights and princesses, everything pseudo-medieval, pseudo-European, and pseudo-Arthurian, although North spotted a range of anachronisms, including a replica tapestry featuring an Elizabethan ruff that King Arthur, mythological or not, sure as fuck had never worn.
The Excalibur’s lobby was a cavernous room with crystal electroliers, gilding on the molding and column capitals, and a mural on the ceiling depicting a very twinkish King Arthur receiving Excalibur from a very butch Lady of the Lake. Thick red carpet had probably been intended to muffle sound, but the room still echoed with excited voices, laughter, and occasional screams. Several hundred people milled in the lobby; North guessed that ninety percent were women. The scene in front of him was pure chaos. A man was waving flyers, shouting at passersby about his latest circumcision-torture slow burn novel. A woman was trying to lasso another woman with a feather boa. An extremely young man was trying out a new shade of blush, pursing his lips and hollowing his cheeks as he turned his face to be inspected by three women who might have been sisters. A woman at North’s elbow