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more likely a simulated athletic gesture – before scooping up his papers and bouncing out. As he banged the door, one paper slipped from the thick file and fluttered back into the room.
    ‘Um,’ Fred said, but Boswell was gone.
    The paper was called ‘Form 249A: Personnel Entry Evaluation’. One side of it was covered with boxes with cryptic names.
    Under ‘Remarks:’ Boswell had scrawled: ‘Not recommended. Seems inarticulate, slovenly, slow even for a. Can’t we do better than this? Hire only if nothing better turns up. DB.’
    Even for a what? Yet, however mysterious the crossed-out bit, the rest was plain enough.
We’re on your side alla way
, are we? You
have my recommendation
. What a shit. Fred slipped the paper into his torn breast-pocket and limped out to the secretary. The name-sign on her desk said MAUVE TOASTER. Could this possibly be her name?
    ‘Hi!’ she said, grinning brightly. Some of her black lipstick was on her teeth – though that might be deliberate. ‘Hey, I really like that one shoe.’
    ‘Well, actually, it’s – uh, Mauve?’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘I wonder if I could borrow some whiteout fluid?’

    ‘You mean like Liquid Paper?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Neat. Sure.’
    She handed over the tiny bottle and watched him closely, to see whether he would sniff it or paint it on himself. Instead, he brought out Form 249A and whited out a few remarks until it read: ‘recommended. … Can’t … do better … DB.’ Then he limped over to the photocopying machine and made a copy of the form. The original went into the waste-basket, and the copy went on Mauve’s desk.
    ‘I think Mr Boswell dropped this page.’
    ‘I’m cool.’ She offered him a stick of black chewing gum.
    ‘No, thanks.’
    ‘Hey, you wanna see the Condoms?’
    Not sure what the question implied, he hesitated. Fortunately, Mauve decided that hesitation was cool. Everything he did or didn’t do was cool. ‘They’re playing uptown at Ed Gein’s.’
    ‘Why not?’
    That broke her up, too. When she grinned, the tiny tattoo on her cheek vanished into a dimple. When she sneered or scowled normally, it became a tiny perfect portrait of a nut and bolt.
    Just now she was laughing hard. Everything he said or didn’t say seemed to amuse her mightily. Between coolness and amusement, Fred seemed to be doing all right just existing.
    ‘Around seven?’ she finally managed to gasp.
    ‘I’ll call round for you.’
    ‘Call? No, just come over.’
    ‘Or I could meet you there.’
    ‘Cool.’ She slid Form 249A into his folder and stood up, her toilet-chain clanking. ‘I gotta take you to meet Mel Pratt.
    He limped after her into the bowels of the company.
    Mansour Efrahim Jones announced himself to the hard-looking middle-aged woman at the reception desk. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Boswell,’ he said.
    ‘One moment,’ she said coldly, and continued to watch him while she punched buttons. ‘There’s a Mr Jones here to see Mr Boswell … He
claims
he has … I see … Just a minute.’ She lowered the receiver. ‘Mr Boswell seems to be gone for the day. Are you sure about the time of your appointment?’
    ‘Eleven o’clock,’ he said. ‘I’m on time.’
    ‘Maybe you’ve got the wrong day?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you fill out a job application?’
    ‘Yes, I did. Look, if this is some kind of runaround, skip it.All you gotta do is put it in your ad:
No niggers need apply
. Save everybody a lot of time. Instead of all this “affirmative action” jive – crap.’
    Her eyes widened, but remained cold. ‘My, we have a chip on our shoulder, don’t we? I assure you, Mr Jones, we
are
an informative action company. We couldn’t give you the runaround if we wanted to!’ Her tone indicated that if she had her way, however … ‘So, if there’s been some little mix-up, why don’t we just make another appointment, h’m?’
    He sighed. ‘OK.’ He was a sucker for cold motherly types.
    ‘And, while you’re here, you