Dillard Farthing didn't recognise the twenty-something youth who shuffled toward him in the college bar, but he recognised the low-slung trousers and baggy vest, the swept-over hair style and the mascara tattoo. Art student. Second year. He gave him an upward nod in greeting.
"Filby says you've got some gear, yeah?" The art student had flecks of crimson in his hair. Blood or paint, Dill couldn't tell. He nudged Sam, who was staring at the fruit machine, counting the plays.
"Look after my drink for me, yeah?"
Sam nodded, his attention unwavering from the flashing lights.
Dill went to the toilets, the arty kid following. "Thing is, it's an investment, right? Money now, gear tomorrow. Fifty gets you an ounce."
"I've only got twenty."
Dillard shook his head. "All right. Same time tomorrow." He took the twenty.
"Got a quid?" Sam stared at him from behind dark glasses.
"Sure." Dill passed him a coin. "Why?"
Sam nodded at the fruit machine. "That'll pay out a jackpot in three spins."