The pen fit neatly in his inside jacket pocket, clipped onto the edge, hidden away when in place and the buttons were done up. You could never tell there was a pen in there, concealed within the line of his suit. You could never tell it was a magic pen in that pocket. You could never tell it was leaking everywhere, and currently turning the lining of his linen suit a permanent blue colour.
Of course, he wasn’t to know. He had a magic pen, that’s all he knew. When it was in his possession he had never had bad luck in a business deal. That pen had accompanied him all over the world. Grozny, Kampala, Papeete, The Sunshine Workers’ Club.
That’s where he was right now: The Sunshine Workers’ Club. He was enjoying the show, as the guest of a local business identity with links to key ethnic communities in the district. The show was exotic dancing, and it wasn’t really his thing, but he maintained his most pleasing smile, to match the look on his host’s face, and he clapped along with the pensioners and the small group of younger tradesmen who were in there for the discount lunch which was offered on Tuesday. Young women on the stage performed a kind of can-can and the clapping grew louder.
His host asked him what was wrong. “Craig, you don’t look like you’re having a good time at all,” he said, with a look of concern.
“No, it’s great. I’m having a great time Mr. Zakarra,” Craig said. “Must be something I ate or something.”
“That can’t be right. We both had the prawns and I feel fine.”
“True.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
Johan Turdenmeier's Miscellany 