A Variety of Hooks

"I suppose," Crowley said, leaning against one of the heavy, hanging slabs, "you're wondering why I asked you here."

The man in the pinstripe suit gaped. "Uh, you didn't so much ask-"

"I'd like you look around." Crowley indicated, idly, the hanging carcasses, the powerful hooks on which they hung, the general smell of blood. "Look familiar?"

Mr. Pinstripe scowled. "Nah."

"If you aim to keep it that way, I suggest leaving the girls in that lovely place you've got in Soho alone."

"Sod off. They work for me."

Crowley pulled a hook down, caressing it. "Not," he suggested, "anymore."