TRUMPED Short Story
Trumped by Simon Maltman A Mick Walker Story 1999 New York was New York. It was how you would expect to find it in winter. It was cold, noisy, and the streets were filled with people. Lots of people. I filled my lungs with sweet Marlboro tar, but my nostrils still managed to pick up the scent of grilling sausages, car fumes and somebody’s heavy aftershave. I crossed past The Museum of Modern Art and headed up Fifth Avenue. I finished my smoke and tossed it towards a drain. I stopped to catch my reflection in a shop window. My eyes were a little red, I hadn’t shaved all that well that morning, but other than that I suppose I looked alright. I marched on, getting closer to my destination, but not all that keen on getting there. When I peered through the glass of the café, I saw that McGoohan was already seated, blowing over the top of a cappuccino. He looked rigid as always, still and poised. His eyes met mine, but he didn’t react. I went on in, ignoring ...