He could still remember his name in lights, neon beacons blazing above Broadway, ten feet high. Fate had blessed him with matinee idol looks; a chin to die for and rouge’s rapier wit. His smile had melted a thousand hearts and broken a thousand more.

“I even met Sinatra once,” he mumbled round a Lucky Strike, as filthy, half eaten cuticles fumbled with a battered zippo. The last few glugs of Wild Turkey sleeked back to the bottom of the bottle, slow and seductive, receding just like all his other friends had.

He watched a nickel flip in slow arcs towards his begging bowl, “Dude, aren’t you Joe Carnigan?”

“Maybe, in a past life.”

“Tough break, dude.”

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