“So – it’s my autograph you’re chasing?” I asked. His story was transparent bullshit.

“W…Well, yes sir!”

He held an open notebook out for me but offered no pen. Notebooks are carried by people who need to record observations. In the city, that meant PIs or reporters. The feckless attempt at shadowing me told me he wasn’t a PI. A reporter then. Fuck.

I was in no mood for this. I took my own pen and hurriedly wrote Fuck off on the paper and thrust the notebook back at him. I unbuttoned my overcoat.

“Get outa my face, whoever you are. You’re a goddamn liar and if I shee… see you again any time soon, you’ll … regret it.”

I turned slightly and watched his face. A slight widening of his eyes showed that he had seen the handle of my handgun in its shoulder holster.

“Now, get the hell out of here.”

He stammered, “Y…yes, s…sir,” then turned and hurried off. I watched until he disappeared into the evening. He hadn’t so much as glanced at the notebook.

I looked at my watch. It was 7:15.