The doors closed and the elevator descended. The walls were mirrored; he looked from side to side and saw endless fractions of himself, scattering away into darkness.

A figure stood with his back to him, close up against the doors. Colourless, black hair and white suit, a pen and ink drawing. It turned.

“You okay Joe?” He seemed nervous, sweat glistening. Joe wondered what he was afraid of. The doors slid open behind him.

*
They met in the bar, one of the usual haunts, although there seemed something new about the place. The memory of a scent rose unbidden: fresh paint, so strong as to make him sneeze.

Tony broke off, stared at him hard.

“Joe, you been listenin to a goddam thing I been sayin?”

“I goddit Tony” he heard himself say. “I’ll be watchin.”

“You better be” said Tony, “and you shout the second that sonofabitch shows up. Merrill Stanton aint getting away from me this time.”

Merrill. Something flipped open in Joe’s mind. A kiss, a promise, a blinking cursor. He felt the cylinder in his pocket.