Outside the hotel the city was black, reflective. In the lobby, a Miles Davis number quietly contemplated heroin. The whole town was in fugue. Rain before and snow to come; nothing now but cloud and calm.
Aidan stepped out smartly as the Jetta rolled up. He was at the driver door before the occupant finished shifting into park. A fast Young Republican type, Brooks Brothers aspirant, tossed Aidan the keys, his eyes already scanning the entrance to the lounge. As if dodging a tackle, he swung smoothly round the quarter panel.
“You scratch it, I fuck you up,” he said, as if to the world in general.
Impassive, Aidan lowered himself into the driver’s seat, engaged the gear and slid away.