‘Gimme three,’ I say. ‘Gimme three hundred for the hostess and I won’t have to act in self-defence.’

The attorney physically flinches. ‘Three hundred! For a lick. Kee-rist almighty.’

He’ll go for it. I know he will. The alternative is explaining to his high-roller clients how he got his face rearranged in a dump like Slotz, where we got mould on the carpet corners and toilets with chains.

The guy is fumbling with his wallet, like the bills are putting up a struggle, so I grab it, making sure to squash his soft attorney’s fingers a little.

‘Here, let me count that, sir. You’re shaking.’

He’s not shaking, but I want to plant the idea that he should be. This is not a tip I picked up in doorman school. The army shrink gave me a few conflict tips before my second tour.

It’s true I snag the wallet to hurry this whole thing along, but I also want to help myself to one of this guy’s business cards. It’s good to have details about troublesome customers. Let them know there’s no place to hide. Once I have his card, I can find his wife, and I’d like to see him try the taste defence at home. His monkey head would be on a plate and no jury would convict.

I count out six fifties and toss him his wallet.

‘Okay, Mister Jaryd Faber,’ I say, consulting the card. ‘You are hereby barred from Slotz.’

Faber mutters something about not giving a shit, and I can’t really blame him.

‘We thank you for your business and urge you to seek counselling for your various issues.’ Standard get out and don’t come back spiel.

‘You’re making a big mistake, Daniel,’ says Faber, something I hear so often they should carve it on my tombstone. ‘I got serious friends in this town.’

‘We all got serious friends,’ I say, and surprise myself by coming up with a mildly witty rejoinder. ‘I got an army buddy hasn’t smiled since Desert Storm.’