Classic car museum
The funeral parlour is over the road, so from the Cadillac Café that’s what you see – the one stretch car we don’t sport on the display-floor cruising up to the tasteful forecourt, making its mortal deliveries while we flip burgers, shoot fries into the vat.
This is my example, as resident jinx, of how things were pretty weird before I got here.
It’s a conference tonight: a bunch of chummy smart-casual terrorists who sketch porny come-ons on their name-badges. Pent-up men in branded polos: not my favourite overtime crowd. The boss reminds me I’m on wheels: a guaranteed getaway should buy a little coyness. I’m supposed to play up the pin-up look and tolerate the ponytail tugs, swing
