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military-style shooter video game. While everyone around him frantically attacked their controllers, the heavyset man seemed relaxed, almost casual.
    “Shh, give us a second, will you? Those damn Italians think they have us beat.”
    The heavyset Indian turned his back to them. All eyes were on the center screen on the far wall. It was a leaderboard in some sort of game, Myron guessed. First place listed ROMAV SLAZIO . Second place was FATGANDHI47 . Third place was HU NGSTALLION12 . Uh-huh, dream on, gamer boy. Other teams on the leaderboard included UNECHANC EDETROP , GIRTH - VADER (probably a friend of HUNGSTALLION12 ), and MOMMY ’ S - BASEMENT (honesty—finally, a self-aware gamer).
    The heavyset Indian raised his hand slowly, like a conductor about to begin. He looked over at a thin black man by the keyboard.
    “Now!” the heavyset Indian said, lowering his arm.
    The thin black man clicked a key.
    For a moment, nothing happened. Then the leaderboard changed so that the top name read FAT GANDHI47 .
    The men in the room cheered and high-fived one another. That transitioned to backslaps and hugs. Myron and Dog Collar just stood there until the celebrations slowly wound down. The other three men got back behind their computer terminals. Myron could see the reflections from the screens on their glasses. The big monitor in the middle, the one that had been tracking the leaders, turned to black. As it did, the heavyset Indian turned to Myron.
    “Welcome.”
    Myron glanced at Dog Collar. The kid looked petrified.
    Calling the Indian heavyset was being politically correct. He was rotund, with slabs and slabs of skin and a belly like he’d swallowed a bowling ball. His T-shirt couldn’t quite reach his waist and hung out almost like a skirt. His neck fat flowed directly into a smoothly shaved head, so that it looked like one trapezoidal entity. He had a small mustache, wire-rimmed glasses, and a smile that one might mistake for gentle.
    “Welcome, Myron Bolitar, to our humble offices.”
    “Nice to be here,” Myron said, “Fat Gandhi.”
    This pleased him. “Ah yes, yes. You saw the leaderboard?”
    “I did.”
    He spread his arms, his triceps flapping in the no-breeze. “Does the name not fit?”
    “Like a well-tailored sock,” Myron said, even though he had no idea what that meant.
    Fat Gandhi turned his gaze toward Dog Collar. The kid withered to the point where Myron felt the need to step in front of him.
    “Aren’t you going to ask how I know your name?” Fat Gandhi asked.
    “The kid asked for it on the subway,” Myron said. “He also asked me where I was from and where I went to school. I guess you must have been listening in.”
    “We were indeed.”
    Fat Gandhi offered up another beatific grin, but now—and maybe this was just his imagination—Myron could see the decay behind it.
    “Do you think only you can use your phone as a listening device?”
    Myron said nothing.
    Fat Gandhi snapped his fingers. A map appeared on the big screen. There were blinking blue dots all over it. “All of my employees carry such phones. We can use them as listening devices, as GPSs, to page. We can keep track of all our employees at all times.” He pointed at the blue dots on the screen. “When we get a match on one of our apps—let us say one of our clients has a desire for a malnourished white male with a studded dog collar . . .”
    The kid started to shake.
    “. . . we know where such an employee is and can arrange a meeting at any time. We can also listen in if we wish. We can discover if there is any danger. Or”—and now the smile looked positively predatory—“we can see if we are being cheated.”
    The kid reached into his shoe, pulled out the five hundred pounds, and held it out toward Fat Gandhi. Fat Gandhi didn’t take it. The kid put the money on one of the desks. Then he actually slid behind Myron. Myron let him.
    Fat Gandhi turned toward the map. He spread his hands again. The other men