Mr. Johnson’s apartment was two rooms, much bigger than my own. An utterly featureless place, it had obviously been rented out for the sole purpose of conducting Business, for no one could have lived there. Its dazzling white and cream walls, carpet, and furniture were brand-new, and the abstract prints hung here and there looked like soda crackers. The suit fit right in, with his hideous artificial grin. He was pleased to receive Nadia Mirin’s file days ahead of our agreed deadline, but he didn't seem at all surprised to hear that it was a fake. I lied, telling him I had yet to crack it. He unblinkingly accepted the amount I asked to do so. Once again, I had to conceal my considerable surprise. I had set the amount ridiculously high, in hopes of bargaining down to what I really wanted. Feeling very pleased with myself, I began to nibble expensive, real pistachio nuts from a little dish on the white coffee table. When I cracked them with my implanted fangs, Mr. Johnson gave me a horrified expression that made me feel even better. After handing me a large advance, he showed me to the door rather too quickly. I lingered in the entryway and chatted about the soda cracker art until he began to sweat.