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The fat man laid his hand on Crispin's shoulder and guided him into the hotel. "I just got checked in myself," he wheezed. "Fuckers put me in a non-smoking room, like that's gonna stop me. Came down here to get a drink, saw you standing there catching flies." They walked into the glass and steel bar, Crispin glancing nervously over his shoulder, trying to catch sight of the man who took his suitcase.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but perhaps I should just check in first, before, uh, before we. . . I say, you are a doctor, aren't you?"

The man barked out a laugh and shook his head. The effort left him winded, and they walked on a few paces before he could respond. "No, never got that far. Journalist. Writing up this convention fuckery for the Colorecto. Just through here, patio." His hand on Crispin's shoulder grew heavier as they walked through the bar and out into a dusty, brick paved patio containing a dozen cast-iron tables complete with umbrellas and uncomfortable-looking iron chairs. They reached the first table and the fat man collapsed into it like one of these plastic water jugs for camping. The collapsable kind. Only fatter.

He gasped and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. Crispin loked around worriedly, then decided to sit with the man for a minute, out of politeness. He perched on the edge of the wrought-iron chair and watched his companion strike a match and ruthlessly suck the hell out of his cigarette. Smoke billowed up over his head, until he finally exhaled with a soft moan and leaned back in his chair. The chair moaned, too.

"Paul," he said, and extended his meatloaf-sized hand out to Crispin.

Crispin shook the man's hand, frowning. "No, actually, my name is. . . Oh! Oh, I see. Yes. I'm Dr. Crispin Simth-Cri. . ."

Paul waved his hand, brushing Crispin's introducton away. "I know. Did a write-up about you last year, that home prostate kit? Talked on the phone. You make any money off that thing?"

Crispin decided to ignore the unbelievably rude question. Then decided to answer anyway. "Well, to be honest, it's become something of a 'hit', if you will, in London. Home prostate exams seem to have become quite popular."

Paul grinned. "Oi bet they 'ave, oi bet they 'ave!" he said.

"Sorry?"

"Monty Python. You know. Pho-to-graphs? Eh? Miss!" he shouted to someone behind Crispin. "Bring us out a couple of moose and some nuts, please."

"Moose. . . nuts?" Crispin felt that he was completely in over his head. Canadians weren't anything like they said back home. He was expecting something a little more, oh, Celine Dionish. Or Bryan Adamsy. Not this chain-smoking walrus with his snide implications. Crispin considered becoming annoyed. Or peeved. Yes, he could definitely see himself becoming a little peevish.

He was just about to work himself up into a proper peeve when she walked out to the patio. Blonde, slender, dynamite little dress, and a smile that could make a man forget to breathe. Crispin suddenly didn't feel peevish at all. He surreptitiously put his hands in his lap, trying to hide his sudden not-peevishness from view.