Almost there!
The good thing about slaver dens is that they don’t have too many big pointy things. Your average slaver likes clubs, because it ain’t as easy to kill somebody with one by accident. Neither did I. Shamuses can do it, but we don’t like to. Usually it’s for the law to decide if somebody’s gotta take the long dive into the dark.
Irene wasn’t as fussy about it, though. The first guy we found got that piece of iron right in the — look, she killed him quick, okay? I didn’t say anything, because I was too busy keeping him from yelling, but I didn’t say anything afterward, either. I didn’t ask her what it was like, being locked in here for a couple of days — and she didn’t give any details, either. Probably better that way.
Besides, the guy had a club, and a real dagger. And some keys, which was real nice to see. It was gonna be easier to get out of this warehouse with ‘em.
Great, now I’ve got “Livin’ on a Prayer” stuck in my head.
Mew