‘One for the road.’

The barman gave a sour laugh.

‘Didn’t have to worry about being over the limit, know wot I mean.’

David looked him full in the face, said, ‘I believe I catch your drift.’

Enough with the history I thought and moved us to a table, said, ‘Cheers.’

‘Whatever’

‘So David, what do you do?’

‘I’m a poet.’

‘Wot?’

‘Ever listen to Stevie Nicks?’

‘Not unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.’

‘She said – “they are poets of nothingness”.’

‘Are you any good?’

‘Well, there isn’t anyone good enough to know if I’m hot or not.’

‘You should meet the Doc, he’d know. But a poet – bit like being a shepherd in London.’

He took out a pack of Camels, a Zippo, cranked it, blew out a batch of smoke, coughed, said, ‘Hits the goddamn spot I think.’

‘I thought Americans were violently anti-nicotine.’

‘I like one of your writers, the Martin Amis guy, one of his characters wants a cigarette even when he’s smoking one.’

‘Sounds like madness to me.’

‘Hey, what I did say – I said I was a poet – did you hear me say I was sane, did I run that by you. Amis reckons cigarettes are a relaxant and writers are the great un-relaxed.’

‘David, I could give a toss whether you smoke through your arse.’

‘Whoa, testy – I’m only making conversation here, OK’

‘What about yer sister, wot am I to…?’

‘Lemme play a hunch here – you did her a good turn?’

He laughed loud, said, ‘I imagine John Dillinger said similar as he walked outa the Bijou Theatre and into the guns.’

‘I’m not Dillinger.’

‘And heavens-to-Betsie, neither was Warren Oates but go figure. I made a shit-pile of bucks back in the manic ’80s when Ginko was hoodwinkin’ Wall Street. But heck, what have I got to show for it – a crazy sister, some property, and a heap of bad poetry.’