(When one talks about “a new life,” that could mean one of two things. The first begins with conception – the other, with desperation.)
He is on the sofa, wrapped up in a trench coat, pouring himself a Scotch from the decanter on the table. He raises the glass to his lips slowly, his lips in a sneering half-smile. I find that I hate him.
“So, you’re Gray?”
“Yes. And you’re…” He takes an envelope from his coat pocket and reads the name I wrote down. “Mr. Peter James.”
“Yes, I am.”
He looks me over. “You don’t look like a Mr. James.”
“Well, I will be.”
He puts his glass down on the table and sets the envelope beside it.
“Good luck with that.”