FRANK BECKER was exceptionally good at his job and took great pride at being so exceptionally good. He took his client’s orders promptly
and carried them out with professionalism and attention to detail. This was not simply being a sound businessman or even demonstrating
altruism. It was very much in Becker’s interests to sweat the details, to obsess over them in fact. If he wanted to survive.
He was a small man with an ego many times the size of his body. A fat baby, he’d grown into a trim, methodical adult who did
not overindulge in anything. He was single, lived quietly except when he was working, and had seen a large slice of the world
because in his particular area of expertise there were no borders. He never expected to marry because that would be complicating,
and he never desired to have children because that would be pointless.
He now stood outside on the curb in front of a modern building in the middle of a city that had seen more prosperous days.
It was making a comeback of sorts, to the extent that steel, asphalt, and concrete and the populations that reside in and
on them can have second chances. And it was a historical city with many sites of cultural significance that could draw tourists.
