I tell myself to be calm. After all, hoodlums get bloated stomachs too. Maybe this guy’s here for some aloe.

Barrett looks like an accountant. Expensive haircut, expensive smile, nice golden tan. But he isn’t an accountant. Jason pointed him out to me one night in the club.

You see this guy, with the permatan and the penny loafers. Macey Barrett. Irish Mike brought him back from New York. They call this guy the Crab, on account of this little sideways shuffle he does before he sticks you.

Sticking people is apparently Barrett’s favourite pastime. I knew guys like that in the army; they liked to get their hands red. Liked the feel of the blade sliding in.

‘You waiting on the doc?’ Barrett asks me, like he’s just passing time.

I help myself to a cone of water from the cooler. ‘Yeah, sure. I have an appointment.’

‘You don’t say? You’re not in the book.’

He’s reading the book now. Doesn’t even bother hiding the fact.

‘I’m not an in-the-book sort of a guy.’

Barrett rolls himself out of the chair, coming to his feet casually.

‘So, you and the doc, pretty tight? Talks to you and shit? Confides in you?’

I shrug, conveying: you know, whatever. It’s not much of an answer, and Barrett is not happy with it.

‘I’m just saying, you don’t have an appointment and you got a key in your hand. You give a key to someone, he’s your friend. You meet for a beer after work, shoot the breeze. Talk about who’s getting what done in the back room.’

‘Zeb doesn’t talk about patients. He’s like a confessor with that stuff.’

Barrett doesn’t listen past the first word. ‘Zeb? Zeb, you say? Shit, you two are tight.’

Then he changes tack altogether, goes all buddy-buddy. ‘So, pal. How do I know you? I know you from somewhere, right?’

‘Small town.’

Barrett laughs, like this is some kind of joke. ‘Yeah, sure. Small town. Nail on the head, buddy. But I know you. Come on, man. Don’t tell me you don’t know me.’