He nodded his response, then realised he needed to put the trash out so that the smell didn’t build up. He packed up the trash bag and deposited it down the chute which took it to the underground parking and the garbage bins. He had bought no provisions to speak of, he decided to leave the nearly empty bottle of Patrón Silver, with a gratitude to its consumed contents and to the universe that had shared it with him.

Those stars.

He closed up the apartment and opened the front door, by which Lomita was already leaning, turned the lock and dropped the key back inside. He would inform the caretaker in a week of the fact. He was gone, starting his journey towards invisibility.

On the way back, he requested a stop at the Holloway cleaners, not really out of the way, and then his guardians drove him back to Oakhurst Drive. Manita, as usual, had no attitude, or comment to make, as she opened the tailgate where he had deposited his luggage.

Ever’s life had taken a turn that was not only unexpected but had now implicated people. This was never his intention – yes it was – he remembered his desire to meet someone that day, that day an eternity ago in the public parking, for what, for support, did he know he was going to crash emotionally? Lomita had acknowledged, clearly, her awareness of his situation. But time was running out; his mind could never rest on the outcome – how could it?

It would change everything in his life forever.

His phone bird-chirped with the arrival of two emails, one from Miss Money-Root, who being the true professional, was dealing with the minion not the money; mind you, she had no choice. He had opened a special email account for her as well. She sent an electronic invitation, for two, named, at 6.30pm for the preview opening of the Jean-Michel Basquiat exhibition. The other was from a Bruce Wong. Perfect on both counts. Bruce Wong’s communication contained his phone number and a thanks for making contact and a please call to arrange inspection. Bruce Wong sounded perfect.

*

A strangeness hit him on his return to Lomita’s house.

He had lost his independence but gained some sort of trust. He was now a house guest with a difference – one with a gun. He unloaded his bags into his room and acknowledged the need to reply to his two communications. He unpacked his suitcase, then took the plastic off the dry-cleaned suit, hanging it up, not bothering to transfer it from its wire hanger. He looked at it on the rail: he hated wire hangers. He withheld his number and dialled Bruce.

‘Hi. My name is Joe, Joe Smith,’

He repeated, as much to convince himself as Mr Wong,

‘I sent you an email about the car you have for sale.’