In the concealed safe in his office – a walk-in room he was extremely proud of – on a shelf he had put up himself, and had recently needed to put up again when it fell down, was a leather vanity case,

‘Hell of a goofy dog,’ said Fat Charlie’s father. ‘Like that friend of Donald Duck’s. Hey, Goofy.’ And what once had been Best in Show suddenly slipped and shifted. For Fat Charlie, it was as if he saw the dog through his father’s eyes, and darned if it wasn’t a pretty goofy dog, all things considered. Almost rubbery. It didn’t take long for the

Fat Charlie went back down to the end of the corridor, and knocked on the door. ‘What is it now?’ ‘I want to talk.’ The door clicked and swung open. Fat Charlie went inside. Spider was reclining, naked, in the hot tub. He was drinking something more or less the colour of electricity from a long, frosted glass. The huge picture windows were now wide