I shout over the tweeting. ‘Come on, guy. How many times I gotta tell you people. I am a recycling engineer, not a trash man.’

Ghost Zeb chuckles. Nice. Build your character.

Build my character? What are you? Al Pacino now?

‘I could give a fuck what you call yourself. Get off the ramp. Or maybe you want me to tear one of your ears off.’

‘That’s a real specific threat,’ I say, trundling closer. ‘Sounds like you might actually do that.’

Doorman is proud. ‘That’s my thing. Specific threats. People don’t believe the vague stuff, but you go specific on their asses, then it’s a whole different thing.’

I stamp on the dumpster brake so it doesn’t slide back down the ramp.

‘I get it. Specific like I’m gonna open this lid and a big pissedoff cop is gonna put your lights out with the butt of her shotgun.’

Doorman chews this over. ‘That’s a little bit overkill. You know. Too much information. By the time I get through digesting that, shit is long over.’

‘Pre-cisely,’ I say in my Moriarty voice.

‘Huh?’ says Doorman.

‘Private joke,’ I say, then pull the lever.

Deacon pops up and puts Doorman’s lights out with the butt of her shotgun.

So now Doorman is in the dumpster with Deacon and I’m the new doorman. When they come with Goran, me and Deacon are going to take the car. Simple as that. Two of us, ready for action. Maximum four of them, not expecting trouble. It should be stressful, but easy.

Unless someone comes to check on you, says Ghost Zeb, ever the pessimist.

Okay. There is that.

And so long as Faber is not in the car. He knows your face.

Point taken. Now can you let me watch the lot?

And let’s not forget the possibility that Goran called someone else, not Faber. You could be in the wrong part of town.

This is a depressing thought and more plausible than Hairy Hands and Goran actually turning up here.

The doorway is a pretty typical delivery entrance, set atop a concrete ramp and flanked by reinforced double doors. From the corridor behind emanate various kitchen sounds and smells as the staff get the food started for the lunch trade, and from somewhere in the bowels comes the dull thump thump of a dance track’s bass line. A big screen over the bar, I’m guessing. A couple of kitchen workers pass me with barely a grunt, shoulders hunched against the chill, cigarette smoke trailing behind them like morning mist.

A black Benz with smoked passenger windows pulls into the lot doing about thirty m.p.h. more than it should be. The car whacks its underside on the ramp, shunting the dumpster across the asphalt. I see Hairy Hands gripping the passenger dash.