Angel Hunt by Mike Ripley Page B

Place, which isn’t a ‘place’ in the French sense, just an alley that cuts between Oxford and Wigmore Streets. It has a fair cross-section of shops selling fashion, books, military models and bathroom smellies. There were also places to eat if you fancied (a) a very expensive hamburger, (b) authentic Austrian cuisine, if you didn’t mind the creaking of lederhosen as you ate, or (c) high quality Japanese food, some of it dead before it got to the table, if you had all day.
    Because we were standing outside the Japanese restaurant, I told Chase to go in and order some takeaways for about two o’clock, while Martin and I would scout either end of the Place for Bunny’s truck. He looked suspicious at first, and so did the Japanese waiters as they helped him pull his tuba case through the very narrow doorway. By the time he’d got inside, I’d taken Martin’s arm and we were down the alley outside the Pontefract Castle just as the doors opened.
    â€˜Bit early isn’t it?’ asked Martin, reaching for his wallet.
    â€˜Iron rations,’ I said, tapping my nose.
    I ordered two coffees with rum at the bar – Watson’s Trawlerman’s rum is the best, if you can get it, as drunk by Scottish fishermen – and while that was coming, I emptied the pockets of my parka. Now unless you’re a skinhead of the old school, or have been time-warped for 20 years, parkas are not exactly in when it comes to neat threads. If, however, you need deep pockets, a fleece lining and a hood, because you know you could freeze your butt off on the back of a truck, they’re the business. If the parka also has USS Ticonderoga printed across the left breast and you won it in a backgammon game on San Francisco’s Pier 39, then you have enough kudos to carry it off.
    I pulled out some money and laid it on the bar, followed by a pair of black leather driving gloves with the tops of the three middle fingers cut off the right hand, a tube of mint-flavoured lip salve and a metal hip-flask engraved with the words: ‘I am not a diabetic; in case of accidents, please rush me to the nearest public house.’ Gross, I know, but it came in handy.
    â€˜Can I have four brandies and two shots of ginger wine to put in here, please?’ I asked the barman, who didn’t bat an eyelid.
    Martin peered over the top of his coffee.
    â€˜What do you call that?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Brandy and Stone’s ginger.’
    â€˜It’s a Brandy Mac, the best thing for keeping out the cold. And it’s gonna get chilly out there.’
    â€˜I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, looking down at his sports jacket, shirt and tie. (He wasn’t senior enough at the BBC to wear a suit.)
    â€˜You’ll need some of this too,’ I said, holding up the lip salve. ‘There’s a chemist’s round the corner.’
    â€˜Good idea,’ he nodded.
    In the days before Aids, I’d have thought nothing of offering it to him, but nowadays you didn’t even have to mention it. I suppose it’s the same for people who used to pass joints around at parties.
    I’d just finished filling the hip flask when it went dark in the bar as a truck pulled up at the traffic lights outside. I turned to look through the windows. It was a flat-backed Bedford, a homemade job by the look of it, with bits of a drum kit and an ancient upright piano waving around dangerously. I saw Chase hump his tuba case over the tailboard and climb in after it, just as Dod climbed out.
    The lights changed and the truck pulled off with Chase trying to keep his balance and looking thoroughly bemused. The pub door opened and Dod stalked in.
    â€˜Pint of Bass, please,’ I ordered, so that it was half-pulled before he got to the bar.
    â€œMornin’, Angel,’ he said gruffly, and nodded down at Martin. ‘Anybody else here?’
    â€˜Just Chase,’ I said. ‘You passed him