A man in textured cotton trousers stood in the doorway, wearing a heavy smile. The man, not the doorway, that is. Gravity aggrieved him evidently. The drooping corners of his half-grinning, half-grimacing mouth sagged after the same fashion as the tired bow of his shoulders.
He could well have come straight on from a local funeral. The pall of a pallbearer hung around him. Palpably so. All around him. Like a morbid mist of despondency.
This Saul’s first impression of the man who next introduced himself as The Last of the Guacamoleans.