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clothes. Every new position revealed more flesh.
    We approached Poughkeepsie and crossed the river, sticking to the quiet roads. Countryside replaced the
urban sprawl, and the air was noticeably cooler. I wound the window down.
    “Hey! Close that.”
    “No.”
    “It’s messing up my hair.” I had no reply for that. “It’s okay for you. You’re bald.” He made it sound like an accusation.
    I ran a hand over the top of my head. “Yes. I’m bald.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Old enough to be your father.”
    He leaned forward, resting his arms on the back of my seat; I could feel his breath on my neck. “I don’t think so. My father’s ancient.”
    “Comes to us all.”
    “So come on. How old are you?”
    On the whole I preferred petulant silence to this taunting interrogation, but perhaps it would pass the time. “I’m thirty seven.”
    He said, “Ha!” as if he’d just scored a major victory, and said, “That’s so old, that’s like nearly forty.”
    “Indeed it is.”
    “And you’re still driving cars for a living.”
    “Looks that way.”
    He picked a bit of thread off the shoulder of my T-shirt. “Didn’t you ever think of doing anything worthwhile ?”
    “Don’t you think this is worthwhile?”
    “You know what I mean. Having a career.”
    “I had a career.” Shit—I hadn’t meant to tell him anything about myself.
    “Oh, yeah?” His tone was jeering. “What?”

    “What do you think?”
    He sniggered through his nose. “Street sweeper? Janitor?”
    “You got it.”
    “No, go on. Tell me.”
    “Why are you so interested all of a sudden?”
    “I’m bored.” He reached out and touched the top of my head. I waved him away.
    “Quit that.”
    He giggled. “Baldie.”
    “Just shut up, McMahon. Go to sleep or something.”
    He threw himself back into his seat, pulled his T-shirt up and rubbed his stomach. “I’m not sleepy.” He caught my eye in the mirror. “I’m hungry.”
    “Okay. We’ll stop soon.” It was after one o’clock, and my stomach was rumbling, too. I need regular feeding, three times a day, plenty of protein, or I get nasty.
    “Where are we sleeping tonight?”
    “Nowhere fancy, I can tell you that.”
    “Where?” He crooked a leg and pushed his crotch forward. He knew exactly what he was doing.
    “Depends how far we get.”
    “I want somewhere with a pool.” He stretched his arms, somehow managing to make his shirt ride up over his tits. “I want to swim.”
    “You’ll be lucky if it has a shower,” I said, but in truth the thought of Stirling McMahon splashing around in a pair of Speedos was kind of interesting, however much of a brat he was, however much he filed his nails and primped his hair.
    Another truck swerved in front of me, horn blaring,
and I had to jab the brakes to avoid a collision. Shit! My concentration was going to pieces. Stop thinking about ass, Stagg. Focus on the job. Deliver the result. Get laid when this is over—and if you need to, jerk off in the shower.
    Stirling laughed, lay back and closed his eyes. For the next hour we drove in silence. I don’t know whether he slept, but at least he was quiet.
    Hunger made me stop. We were getting into the Catskills, giving Albany a wide berth, and I knew that if we didn’t get something to eat soon we’d run out of options. Fresh air and pretty scenery are fine and dandy, but they don’t fill your stomach.
    We passed through a small tourist town, one of those places with a row of motels and tacky souvenir shops. There was a supermarket on one side of the street, a coffee shop on the other—that would do. I parked, wound up the windows and left my passenger snoozing in the back. If he tried to make a run for it, he wouldn’t get far—but I took the precaution of locking the doors.
    I got bread, ham, tomatoes, cheese and apples in the supermarket, and two coffees from the coffee shop.
    “I need the bathroom,” Stirling said when I got back in the car. “Let me go into