The man they were watching was plump, in his late thirties and wearing a mid-price trench coat. His thin, brown hair wasn't making it all the way over his pate. The two watchers could see this distinctly, because they were four flights up and looking more or less straight down. ‘I don't think he's going to do it,’ said Richard Hermes. ‘I think he's going to go home to wifey.’ ‘I’m not so sure,’ ,replied his companion, Todd Reiser, taking a pull on the joint they were sharing. ‘He almost definitely wants to – it's just a question of getting his bottle together.’ The man on the corner moved to the edge of the kerb, as if about to cross the road and head off, but then turned once more to look at the building behind him. It was a nondescript place, made timeless by grime, the portico studded with bellpushes. Even though Richard couldn't make them out at this range, he knew that above the bellpushes were Sellotaped bits of paper or card with ‘MODEL’ written on them. There was also a freestanding sign to one side of the doorway, like the ones that rotate in the slipstream by roadside petrol stations, displaying first the legend ‘PETROL’ and then the legend ‘DERV’.
What do You think about The Sweet Smell Of Psychosis?
