Tom glanced around the late-night coffee shop while Jicaque placed their order at the counter. Scattered tables of twenty-somethings huddled together over the yellow Formica, speaking in low, serious voices. Middle-aged men stared out stoically through the menu-cluttered windows, seemingly reluctant to go home to their empty apartments. A couple, he too young and she too old, looked lovelorn at each other over untouched lattes. Tom felt oddly at home here, just one more person in the coffee-shop crowd hiding from the sharp truths of life for a few short hours.

Jicaque returned, placing a cup of coffee down in front of Tom. ‘You’re disappointed,’ he noted, sitting opposite in the grimy booth. ‘You were expecting someone more impressive to bear the name of Jicaque, right?’

‘No,’ Tom protested.

His companion smiled wryly. ‘And a bad liar. But you, more than most, should appreciate that outward appearances count for little. Not in the world that we inhabit.’ He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Take these.’

‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’

‘I mean, take them by way of example. I am an old man now, and I have survived the attentions of many enemies only through being prepared.’ Jicaque’s smile grew wilier, and he lowered his voice. ‘I don’t always carry a frying pan, and I don’t smoke, either. But I carry cigarettes powdered with a special compound of magnesium. Should I find myself in trouble, I take out a cigarette and light it. The resultant flare is a useful distraction.’

‘Ouch,’ Tom said. ‘Should I be worried about this coffee?’

‘At fifty cents a cup, maybe we both should,’ Jicaque replied.

Some oldster music, jazz or something, was piping through little speakers in the corners of the room. Jicaque clearly approved, shaking his head in time to the shifting beat. ‘Stan Getz,’ he said, with a sigh of contentment. ‘Pure genius. You know his work?’

‘I think maybe my dad’s heard of him,’ Tom said.

‘Kids.’ The old man grimaced, then sipped his coffee. ‘Won’t you drink?’

Tom felt dazed. He had rehearsed this momentous meeting in his dreams so many times; somehow, he’d never imagined it would take place over a Formica table with corny old records playing in the background. He shrugged, raised the cup to his lips and sipped.

Jicaque watched him intently, expectantly.

‘It’s good, thanks,’ Tom said, remembering his manners. Jicaque went on staring, and Tom shifted uncomfortably. ‘Do I have a coffee moustache or something?’

‘I thought as much,’ the old man said at last. ‘The powder I just slipped in your drink would’ve made you violently ill by now if you weren’t what I believe you to be.’

Tom stared at his coffee cup in alarm, then half-rose to his feet. ‘There’s poison in this?’