A fine bit of strut-playing from Mr. Erroll Garner, you know that conga player sitting just in and under to accent, to highlight, and it was not only alright, but all good. He sat back and supped the whisky, fingered the lining of his pocked, flicked the lint out on the floor. Lit the smoke, kicked back, shoes off – socks on – feet on the desk. And a huge billow of smoke that cascaded in time with the music. He was on form today. Certainly tonight. Everything in its right place, well particularly since the dead guy from the boot of the car had been removed.