The bowlegged little man, whose name was Bakshi, cleared some of the magazines and cat toys from the big leather sofa and gestured to Atif to sit down. But instead of doing as he was told, Atif went over to one of the overblown armchairs and lifted it slightly to get rid of the scrawny, hairless cat lying across the cushion. The animal landed softly on the floor, gave him a long stare, then strolled off into the kitchen. “My girlfriend’s cat, she’s called it Missy Elliott,” the little man grinned. “Missy Elliott, get it? What a fucking name.” Atif nodded. And thought that there were two sorts of rats. The usual blabbermouths despised by everyone, who almost always ended up in plaster or buried in an abandoned quarry. Then there were the others, the exceptions who proved the rule. People who were still accepted, even though everyone knew they talked, for the simple reason that they were useful. Sometimes there was good reason to tip the cops off about what your competitors were doing.
