“Some kid of Joe Boyd’s. His name didn’t stick. Nick Duck, Nick Lake, or something. I need to clean some of your shit up.”

At the end of its eight-minute journey from the sun, light passes through the stained glass of St. Matthias Church in Richmond, London, and enters the dual darkrooms of Jasper’s eyeballs. The rods and cones packing his retinas convert the light into electrical impulses that travel along optic nerves into his brain, which translates the varying

“The mystery o’ fishing’s this,” said Dean’s dad, “what’s the hook, who’s got the rod, what’s the maggot, what’s the fish?” “Why’s that a mystery, Dad?” “Yer’ll understand when yer older.” “But ain’t it obvious what’s what?” “It changes, son. In a heartbeat.”

If Dean could click his fingers and erase Bruce Fletcher’s existence, no questions asked, no murder investigation, he wouldn’t hesitate. In fact, he clicked his fingers now, just on the off chance it would work.

“Stop. This isn’t a grudge. It’s consequences. If yer want him in yer life, great. Bully for you. That’s yer choice. I don’t want him in mine. That’s my choice. End o’ story. Just…stop.” “Men his age can and do drop dead. ’Specially if their liver’s fucked. The dead can’t sign peace treaties. And he’s still yer dad.”

All that work, those meetings, phone calls, letters, the favors I cashed in, the crap I took from Howie Stoker, from Victor French, from everyone—all to get Paradise recorded and released, all turning to shit… Shut up and listen. The greatest jazz pianist in the world is playing ten yards away.

Dean wished he was safe in the future where this scene was a past mistake and he no longer felt like King Shit.

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” Dean had to borrow fifteen pounds from Moonwhale to pay his quarter share of this “gift.” More debt…I’m going to have to start serving coffees again, at this rate. “Yer should always look a gift horse in its mouth. They’re never gifts.”

Jasper speaks fluent English and Dutch, good French, passable German and Latin, but the languages of face and tone are as impenetrable as Sanskrit.