Actually, he’s watching, but the kids aren’t; they’re slamming beers or talking to one another or working their backlit phones. Used to be, the crowd watched the show. “Murphy,” Rima radios from the other side of the balcony. She’s the one in charge tonight. She usually is. “What’s up?” Pete asks, easily picking her out at the rail because for one thing she defines the word knockout and for another, she is completely bald. She says, “This band sucks.” “Roger.” Pete would not declare himself a fan, either, the music all in minor chords, the singer more of a sad mumbler. Rima isn’t giving him her opinion so much as her warning, though: when kids don’t like the band, they tend to drink more, get brave, and start shit. That last part is why Pete—and the other six guys working for Rima tonight—are here. Actually, the only reason Pete is here any night is Rima. Some five years ago, when Pete was still patrol, he arrested her after she took down a guy at a west-side tavern.
