He left Rothman chuckling to himself, letting himself out into a corridor in the apartment block where the quack had set up practice. The hallway stank of urine. A little way up the hall a kid no older than sixteen was huddled in a doorway. Rickard walked past him and the boy stuck out a grimy hand. “Any change, sir?”

“Yes,” Rickard said, “the doctor’s a miracle worker: I’m feeling quite good now.”

The boy blinked at him in confusion, hindered by his latest fix. He slowly withdrew his hand as Rickard walked away, laughing at his own joke.

He was three floors up but there was no way he would use the elevator. He suspected the lift was the source of the smell. Instead he went down the stairs, negotiating the trash and puddles while he made a call on his mobile phone. He’d finished the call by the time he pushed through an exit door on to the sidewalk. It was a fine morning in SoBe. The shadows of the buildings across the way blocked much of the sunlight, but it was already growing warm. By midday these streets would be bleached out, so the sunglasses were a good idea.

He walked across the street, flagrantly ignoring the jaywalking laws and approached his newly acquired Honda Fireblade. The bike was a beauty, voted top for its looks and performance by many aficionados, but it was just a tool to Rickard. And part of his new disguise. Two young gangbangers were leaning on the hood of a muscle car, the bumper of their Chevrolet Camaro almost nudging the Fireblade. They stirred as he approached.

“Thanks for watching my ride, guys.” Rickard peeled a couple of twenty notes out, thinking that he might have to withdraw some more pocket money from his emergency stash. He’d already given the young toughs a hundred bucks each, but the extra cash would sweeten them even more. He wasn’t afraid of them, but at least this way he wouldn’t be troubled by having them follow him with the idea of taking everything from him. On any other occasion he’d lead them somewhere remote and then show them who the fuck they were trying to roll, but he had a more pressing date with Alisha.

The gangbangers accepted the money with their chins lifted. They looked like they were sniffing the air, trying to decide if he was friend or foe.

“Call it a bonus,” Rickard said.

He straddled the Fireblade, flicked them a quick salute then started the bike. He shot off along the road and took the next corner almost leaning into the asphalt. Let them try to follow me now, he thought.