This afternoon Busker Rahim was sporting a large bandage wound on the crown of his head. At first the thought was a Muslim cap, such as the Busker used to wear while back. Man had taken a slide. Wet underfoot. Yep, that was right, treacherous after rain. The other factor we could ignore. (Rahim was back on the juice.) But where was One-eyed Jack, then? Oh. Working at his taxi rank. That's right, up at JC Complex. There the man indeed was found, dealing with a queue that had gotten outta hand. Opening doors, loading the bags, the authoritative manner held Jack in good stead. Some of the oldies were still getting used to riding in the chariots, managing the drivers, all the ins-and-outs. Man said he would come to the table tonight—Al Azhar, confirmed—for the little something waiting for him. No sign. Perhaps he was on overtime. Maybe tomorrow, Sunday. The crowds usually brought Jack round. Having him in the chair casting over that page of his life while a teh was fetched would be mighty fine. No doubt later he'd roll up the envelope and stuff it in his back pocket, before he had reached the Haig slipping out and swept into the gutter. Still, that five minutes squinting at the sheet with his good eye. My oh my.
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