Apathy Jack writes:
The Devil You Know, by Mike Carey
The man who opened the door to me was presumably James Dodson, the birthday boy's father. I took a strong dislike to him right then to save time and effort later. He was a solid-looking man, not big but hard-packed: eyes like two ball-bearings, salt-and-pepper hair adding its own echoes to the grey. In his forties, but probably as fit and trim now as he had been two decades ago: clearly, this was a man who recognised the importance of good diet, regular exercise and unremitting moral superiority. Pen had said he was a cop: chief constable in waiting, working out of Agar Street as one of the midwives to the government's new Serious and Organised Crime Agency. I think I would have guessed either a cop or a priest,and most priests gratefully let themselves go long before they hit forty: that's one of the perks of having a higher calling.
'You're the entertainer,' Dodson said, as you might say, 'You're a motherless piece of scum and you raped my dog.'