”He said, “Madam, I need some proof of who you are before I can do that.” I got the impression that he had a gun stashed behind the pile of old ...ewspapers and magazines next to him.I said angrily, “Proof? You need PROOF of WHO I AM? You KNOW who I am. What I need to know is who YOU are.”He said with some menace, “Show me something that proves that you are Helen Larson.”I huffily dragged out a passport and handed it to him with one hand, while shoving the Bluetooth booster that I had palmed into. I could smell it right away—pot. Fairly good stuff, too. He saw me pretty much right as I saw him, and he gestured in my direction with the joint, quietly asking me if I wanted some in that tight voice that potheads use when they’re holding a lungful. Sure, why not, I said, figuring it’d make the next little while more pleasant. I took the joint and drew a haul off it, savouring the taste as I inhaled. I passed it back, not wanting to be greedy, and he shook his head no, raising his hand to. More

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