He was carrying a tray with three large coffees and a dozen donuts. He pushed the door shut with his hip before setting the tray on the table.“I nee...ed some coffee and thought you two might want some, too. The donuts are mine, but I’ll share if you’re nice.” He grinned, proving the statement a lie. “Why don’t you start your story at when you changed your name to Abdul Jamal Al-Fayed, and why you changed your name? I’m Flan, by the way,” the man introduced himself before sitting in the other. Jackson stood with his huge arms crossed formally across his chest, like some kind of Arabic bodyguard, watching the guests with moronic enchantment, as though they were putting on a play for his benefit alone. In particular, he watched two people: his boss, Peter Lessing, whom he always kept on eye on, and Laura Wilson. As for Lessing, Jackson felt a deep, almost dog-like devotion to the man who had found him in the gutters of skid row and elevated him to the position of trust and. More

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