Your Name is No Accident.

'Yeah?' Never give a name. Never give a number.

'Weissman?' A dry, papery voice. Crackly, as though coming through an old, analogue land-line.

'Weissman's.' Wait: people usually get to the point.

'Ahh... It's difficult. Do you have an office? I'd rather....'

'No, I'll meet you.' They'd always rather. Some things are hard to admit, over the phone.

'Yes, yes, I see.' Perhaps he did. I let him ask the question:

'Where?'

'Fengy. The Prom: the Jolly Fisherman.' His answer would tell me something.

'Um, that's Fuengirola, Paseo Maritimo, isn't it?'

He'd get there, and he lived on the Costa del Sol.

'Eleven,' I said. 'You can treat me to breakfast.'

I pressed my favourite button on the mobile.

The chalked items on the blackboard outside such places wear apostrophes like jewellery. More for decoration than meaning. They are not, as the law dictates, translated into Spanish. Outside this example the artwork was like a pub-sign. It showed a relative of Skegness's own jolly fellow, tanned instead of wind burned. The owner himself was a miserable guy, then. One of a long line of disappointed dreamers, not quite making ends meet in the Malaga sunshine. Vic it was, at that time. He said he'd been a very successful sales director for an international company. Perhaps he had; he certainly knew nothing about running a bar.

''A croissant, Vic.' I took a seat inside. The terrace was for tourists.

'Drink?' He was pouring himself something. It didn't look like a smoothie.

'Carajillo.'

Coffee and brandy was good enough for most of the locals, at that time of day: besides, I enjoyed Vic's sigh as he pondered the prospect of another battle of wills with the coffee machine. It ran almost the length of the shelf behind the bar and the noise it made prevented any conversation.

I was early. I always find it best to see guys arrive.

He was late. And old, a little older than the norm. Older people had 'phoned Weissman's in the past, but not often. Usually, they didn't take up the service. No tan. So new or sensible. I knew which I would prefer it to be. After a few minutes looking round the empty bar, he realised he must be meeting me. I stood: he got close, hesitated, then held out a hand.

New, then.

'Will you... you know?' He looked uncomfortable - as if his garish shirt were too tight, although it surely wasn't.

'I might, it depends.' I sat down

'On what?' The height his eyebrows had reached suggested either horror or amazement. Or both.

'The prospect. Your needs. A lot of things.' I lit a cigarette, offered him one. He refused.

'You've done it before?' It had been horror.

I shrugged. 'What is it you want?'

'My wife, you know. She's ….'

'Probably won't be me, then.'

'No, no, you don't understand.' The wattles on his neck shook.

I blew a smoke ring in his face: 'Tell me.'

'She has... it's...' he gulped. 'There's someone else. Someone younger.'

I laughed. Uncrossed my legs.

'Maybe I will do it.'

He hunted in his pocket, pulled out a sealed envelope. I put it in my bag. Looked at him.

He was half-way out of his seat;

'What's your name?'

I didn't see why I couldn't give the old codger my working name:

'Honey Trapp,' I said.