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His warm, predatory smile flashed through. “You know Mira and I moved in together.”
    â€œTell her I’ve still got her Jeff Buckley record if she wants it back.”
    â€œI’ll make sure to tell her that. Take care, Mike.”
    The pickup peeled out in reverse, launching into traffic with a guttural roar of exhaust.
    I walked back up Main to where I’d parked the Camry, wondering if Gavin Fisk was right, if I did want him to have made the wrong call so I could wave his failure in his face. Any chance I was that petty? I asked myself. Maybe a little.
    B en lived a block off East Broadway in a standalone building leased by reasonably-trustworthy Bohemians. The street-level storefront sold pottery and hand-carved African djembes. Four or five people lived on the second floor, sharing a kitchen and bathtub and toilet. “One of those old claw-footed tubs,” Ben said with obvious pride. “The kind that pop up in novels about struggling artists in Manhattan lofts.”
    â€œOh those kind,” I’d said.
    Today he was waiting on the corner across from the Fogg’N Suds, dressed in a black raincoat and matching vest, navy slacks and a pearl-coloured shirt and red and black silk tie. Except for the vest, it was the same outfit I was wearing.
    â€œJesus,” I said. “Do I have time to go home and change?”
    â€œCompany uniform,” Ben said.
    â€œWhy don’t you stay home and brainstorm like you’re supposed to?”
    â€œI was,” he said. “I had three pages of ideas this morning. I was working on a prequel game about Rosalind and Magnus before they met, showing how they were always just missing each other as they chase the same assassin. The player would alternate characters on each level. But the logistics sunk it. Too many coincidental near-misses and it becomes cute. And my audience hates cute. They want to see them tear someone’s larynx out, not narrowly avoid meeting each other like some bad Robert Altman movie.”
    â€œI’m no expert on anything game-related,” I said, aiming the car toward Kroon & Son. Up Granville then left on Marine Drive, then right into a cluster of industrial parks. Midday traffic on Granville was slower than usual, and I saw why: up ahead, flaggers in hard hats and reflective vests were funneling traffic down to one lane.
    â€œYou were saying?”
    â€œSorry?” My thoughts had been on the Szabos.
    â€œYou were saying,” Ben said, “that you’re not an expert on games.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œBut?”
    â€œBut what?”
    â€œWeren’t you getting ready to upbraid me about not working?”
    I made the left. Marine Drive was no less busy, but traffic flowed more efficiently. “I don’t get why you don’t just write game three, you know? Like we were discussing the other day, how Indiana Jones is better than Star Wars ’cause at least the series moves forward. No one gives a shit about stuff that already happened.”
    â€œThat’s your entire job, isn’t it? Telling people things that already happened?”
    It was a fair point. “But yours is to tell people what happens next,” I said. “So why not pick up where you left off?”
    â€œI can’t,” Ben said, exasperated at the question. “It has to be note perfect. After three years’ hiatus, if it’s not note perfect, exactly the right blend of wisecracks and philosophy and gore —” He shrugged. “It’ll let down the fan base.”
    â€œHell with the fan base.”
    â€œBut I’m one of them,” he said. “We’re Legion. It’s got to be true to the original vision. If it’s not, I’ve let myself down.”
    I ticked off the street addresses as we passed them, eyes out for 851. “You were seventeen when you had this quote-unquote original vision? Nineteen when game one came