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friend looks as if he needs one,” the obliging stranger insisted.
    Leo Vanmaele was known for his gentle character and his preference for the stoic approach, but the Duvels he had consumed with too much haste had awakened the Mr. Hyde in him.
    â€œIs he on drugs or something?” the concerned passerby added. “Times have changed, haven’t they? He’s no spring chicken, either. You only get to see the young guys on TV, but you can’t believe everything they show you on—”
    â€œListen, friend.” Leo filled his lungs. “If you don’t cut the crap and fuck off out of here, I’ll have you arrested for disturbing the peace.”
    He fumbled in his inside pocket and produced his ID.
    â€œCrime Squad.”
    The threat sounded serious.
    The talkative Samaritan took a quick look at the card and scuttled off like a novice skater.
    Leo Vanmaele looked at the card and grinned. He had shown the man a supermarket loyalty card by accident.

4
    V AN I N CALLED IN SICK the following morning. His tongue was swollen and there was a cartload of grit under his eyelids. A lump of raw flesh seemed to be thriving in his throat, and it hurt to swallow. Even a twenty-minute shower barely helped ease the pain in his bones. His joints grated like ungreased hinges. He felt as if he’d slept with a block of lead on his chest; he still found it hard to breathe now.
    Van In prodded the most sensitive part of his body with his finger, just beneath his breastbone. The pain almost drove him insane.
    His reflection in the mirror was like a crumpled shadow. The only advantage of his still-murky vision was that he didn’t pay much attention to the expanding rolls of fat under his chin and around his middle.
    The first cup of coffee tasted like diluted heating oil. The obligatory cigarette that usually accompanied the grimy brew caused a dry coughing fit.
    Nothing can spoil my day now, he decided as he hawked, nothing at all.
    Van In saw the mail dropping through the letterbox and went to pick it up with the speed of an almost-empty balloon. The Invest Bank logo on one of the envelopes didn’t bode well. He poured himself a second cup of coffee. The warm liquid dissolved fifty percent of the lump of flesh in his throat.
    â€œCancer? Who said cancer?” he muttered under his breath.
    He lit a second cigarette as he tore open the letter from the bank. It had taken him two days to recover from the tax bill he’d received the month before, but this letter from Invest Bank defied imagination.
    â€œJesus H.,” he groaned. “This is the end.” When Van In got worked up about something, he always wanted to do ten things at once. He headed to the kitchen, letter in hand, unplugged the coffee machine, and checked the collar of his shirt, which he had tossed without thinking on the kitchen table. The caffeine started to work on his intestines and he had to make a run for it. He read the letter a second time on the toilet.
    This can’t wait another day , he thought to himself defiantly. It’s time to show those pen-pushers what Van In is made of. The collar of the shirt on the kitchen table was soiled and greasy, but he put it on anyway. His other shirts were worse: creased and festering in the laundry basket. A palm full of cheap aftershave was enough to camouflage the smell of stale armpits.
    His best suit, of summer weight, was a little tight, but it looked respectable enough.
 
    Invest Bank headquarters was a five-minute walk from the Vette Vispoort, a 15th-century city gate that opened onto the cul-de-sac where Van In lived. He shivered. He refused to wear his winter coat, because it didn’t match his summer suit.
    Fortunately the sun was shining, which made him feel ten degrees or so less ridiculous. But to try to avoid embarrassment, he still took a detour to avoid the busy Sint-Jacob Street.
    Invest Bank had moved to a handsomely restored guildhall three years