Read by Silas Hawkins
Outside, a tonne of air sits on Manhattan like a squatting golden Buddha. Inside, James Mercury searches for a friend in his Rolodex.
‘David – nope. Janice – no: how can I call her after last time? Louie Sweeney. Who the hell is Louie Sweeney? So no. Harry, Murray, Cathy – no, no, no.’
It seems that there are no friends to be found within James Mercury’s Rolodex.
Outside, men in shirtsleeves toil and smell richly of takeout coffee. The heavy sweat of the Buddha clings shirts to bellies and to damp small-of-backs. There is a June riot of horn-honking and much profanity from the taxicab drivers.