The rising sun woke him in the morning, his vinyl jacket over him like a blanket, an empty bottle of whisky between his thighs. The sight of dried blood on the handkerchief stirred his shame. He pushed the memories of last night down.

He squinted against the brightness and pulled his seat upright. The shopping plaza parking lot was still empty. His was the only car. He threw the empty bottle onto the floor and stepped out. The air was cool and crisp. The sky robin’s egg blue. He scanned the L-shaped plaza. Many of the storefronts were plastered with For Rent or For Lease signs. One had a bankruptcy sign, another read GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE! He rubbed his face and patted down his hair, then strolled up to the stores for a closer look.

One space, in particular, caught his attention. A closet-sized space. The sign on the door: IMPERIAL BANK OF ALBERTA. FULL-SERVICE BRANCH: NEW LOCATION! Underneath, a map of the plaza with the northwest corner highlighted. Next to the map, another sign: FOR LEASE. BARGAIN BASEMENT PRICES! An agent’s name and phone number followed. Mansoor pressed his face to the window. Inside were two large cavities where the automated teller machines used to be. But what kind of business could you run from such a small space?

The towering plaza sign read CANYON CREEK PROFESSIONAL PLAZA. Somehow, he had made it to the other side of town. Canyon Creek was a good neighbourhood and bordered several truly affluent neighbourhoods: Bearspaw with its mansions, Pump Hill with its perfect vistas of the city, and Fish Creek with back doors that opened onto a golf course. Just then, a mint-green Mercedes pulled into the plaza and parked in front of the new bank site. Two men stepped out. Both were sharply dressed in suits. One of them unlocked the front door and they both disappeared inside. Bankers! It didn’t matter if the economy was tough for everyone else, they, like all well-to-do types, had money pouring out of their pockets. That’s when the idea came to him. Suits! These people wear suits. Suits need to be cleaned. They need to be tailored. A plan fell into place in his head easily and quickly, like beads in an abacus.

The small space was perfect for a dry-cleaning kiosk. A well-to-do neighbourhood was ideal. The store would serve only as a point of sale, a convenient place for people to drop off and pick up. He would farm the cleaning out to a plant, which would mean low overhead. No capital investment. That’s it! All he needed was a counter (he would build that himself), a cash register (a used one would be fine), office supplies (he’d managed to take some from the gas station). The rent, he guessed, would be cheap. He couldn’t imagine anyone else would want it. He would have to learn about the dry-cleaning business, but that wouldn’t be a problem. How many other businesses had he become an expert in already? Business ran in his blood. Elated, he took out his pen and wrote the agent’s phone number on his palm, then ran back to the car.