He said to relieve the need for explanation; puzzled that he had used the word in the first place.

‘Back, thanks.’

‘Give me a ten, we’ll call it quits.’

It wasn’t a deal.

But Ever didn’t argue. He parted with a twenty-dollar bill and received a ten in return. Did he detect a pause in the passing? Not another tip surely? Forget it, my friend: just a thought.

*

He was standing at the foot of what looked like a slice of communist architecture.

Imposing itself a few hundred yards off the main drag, on the appropriately named Bunker Hill Avenue. The apartment building, built in the last ten years he imagined, with less imagination than Ever had just used to guess the age. It looked like a bunker, maybe that was the architect’s brief. Which came first? The building to appear appropriate in the street of that name; or had they given up on seeing the building and thought fuck it, let’s make it look intentional and rename the street? The bottom two floors were encased by metal railings behind which cars were parked.

Ever supposed this was where they would be ending up for the viewing.

He pressed the bell, having with some difficulty accessed the entrance. The bell with the name, Wong, written on a piece of paper, in capitals, inserted behind a blurred plastic holder, was followed by the Chinese version. He presumed. Calligraphy. He guessed that the 8b against the name suggested the eighth floor. There was an 8a, an 8c, an 8d, an 8e, he was counting, thinking they must be small apartments as the block was not that big, then a voice came through the intercom.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Mr Smith. About the car.’

He was now Mr Smith, and his thoughts and actions would be as Mr Smith: that was Mr Smith’s decision.

‘Stay there. Come down.’

He stayed there, for what seemed like a long time; it occurred to Mr Smith that maybe there was no elevator. Then the door opened.

‘Mr Smith.’

A statement.

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Wong.’

A man of about fifty, fit-looking, save for a literal pot of a belly, otherwise slim. Long black hair, slightly greying in a ponytail that, as he turned to close the door, he could see was not far short of his waist. And a goatee beard, a long goatee beard, again greying.

‘Round the back, we need to go.’

Obediently, Mr Smith followed and not a word was spoken during the walk round to the back of the building.

‘In lowest level. But ground level, not a problem.’

For who and why? Thought Mr Smith. From this different street the building looked exactly the same. So back and front were interesting definitions. Conformity, yes, but not a conformity with style. On purpose? Why was Mr Smith so fixed on his disappointment with the building? He cleared the thought. Could Mr Smith do that?