The iron railing sagged beneath your elbows when Tempo leaned on it beside you.

The iron railing sagged beneath your elbows when Tempo leaned on it beside you.

"Fag?"

Take it.

You take the proffered cigarette, light it on the flame that follows. He points his own at a group of men standing on the gangway, overseeing the last arrivals for the night.

Representatives of whichever syndicate happened to control illegal imports at that time.

"Docks are wasted on these cunts. There are two classes of people like us -- them who know how business works, and them who know how culture works."

"What do you mean 'people like us'?"

"Criminals, you dick. Good ones."

"There must be some who know both."

"Not enough of us, sadly." He inhales. "We don't form a class."

"Business up there with the silly cunts. Culture down here, between the cracks."

"You're full of shit. You wish you were them."

"Them? Nah. They're in the right place and the wrong position."

"Hey, cunts!" he yells suddenly. "Watch your backs!"

The figures turned to look, and the two of you vanish laughing into the night.

"Show them how it's done."

"Oh, I will. It's all in the works, Hershel."

"No thanks."

He lights a long black cigarette, inhales. Points the tip at a group of men standing on the gangway, overseeing the last arrivals for the night.

Get out of my head. (Dispel memory.)

You shake your head and lose him, again.