like to catch you again sometime, so if you value your work visa, you’ll split. Now.’
Handsome Harry stopped smiling, chipped the joint, gave Vince an appreciative salute for the tip, and split as recommended.
Bobbie drifted back over to Vince in a haze of smoke. ‘Let’s dance,’ she said, her diction slowed by the pungent, multi-papered hash joint that she kept waving around like a magic wand.
‘I think we should go,’ he said.
‘You’re not having a good time?’
‘You’re forgetting something. I’m a copper. I could nick everyone in here. I could even nick you.’
She wrapped her arms around his neck, stoned white girl style, more for support than anything else. Her eyelids were at half mast, yet when he looked into her eyes he saw them light up, her pupils dilating and contracting, in and out. Her head lolled back and she erupted into a peal of laughter; then stopped it as suddenly as she started. Her face rolled towards him as she said, ‘You won’t, will you, Vincent? You wouldn’t put me in jail?’ Her voice was slurred, but managed to sound teasing and coquettish. And altogether incredible.
No answer from Vince, now too busy admiring those hypnotic green-brown eyes. Someone next to them lit up an even bigger joint than the one Bobbie was holding. It crackled and spat like a firework and, even in the smoke-filled gloom, it threw light on to her face. Her eyes widened, till Vince could see his own reflection in them. The sheer proximity made him feel good.
‘Let’s go,’ said Vince again, hands around her waist, guiding her out of the crowd and into the fresh night air.
Just as they hit the pavement, three panda cars and a paddy wagon pulled up. No warning sirens. Ginge was bang on time and, as always, in a hurry. Flushed red and raring to go, he was the first out of the car. He then looked more than a little surprised to see Vince propping up Jack Regent’s girl.
Vince gave him the nod and said, ‘Enjoy yourself, Ginge. You’ve got pills, marijuana, hash and booze being sold down there. A real good collar. Run a check on a fellow named Spider, about five foot ten inches and skinny—’
‘I know him.’
‘He was the one dealing the pills.’
‘Gotcha, guv.’ Ginge raced down into the basement, with six uniforms following him.
Bobbie was now stoned out of her box. The lit-up Sophia Loren eyes were fast losing their glow and turning red and tired-looking . But for her the night wasn’t over. She declared she had a craving for a ‘Nickerbrorrahrrrrrrorlywithasherrryontop’, and kept giggling and slurring, her tongue lolling around redundantly in her mouth and failing to baton out the words. And her legs weren’t feeling too clever, either.
What she had a craving for, it seemed, was a Knickerbocker Glory with a cherry on top; and she knew a Wimpy bar in East Street that served them. Vince tried to explain that it wouldn’t be open at this time of night, but she kept insisting. Vince tried to remind himself that this wasn’t a date, and that he was a copper, and that, with her tongue loosened up by the copious amounts of reefer, this was a good opportunity to get more information out of her.
On the promenade, the sea air worked its magic and sobered her up. Vince tried his best to keep up with her as she performed an Isadora Duncan routine, running ahead, then jumping and dancing around him. To grab her attention he asked, ‘What’s with the surname, LaVita?’
Bobbie stopped dancing immediately. She didn’t like this line of questioning and could sense the cynicism in his tone. Understandably, while on Jack’s arm she never got pulled up about anything, however silly. She could have called herself Helen of Troy and no one would have dared bat an eyelid.
‘Was it you who called the police, party pooper?’
‘I am the police, remember?’
She threw him a playfully alarmed look and said, ‘Then I’d better answer your question, Detective, before you lock me
Handsome Harry stopped smiling, chipped the joint, gave Vince an appreciative salute for the tip, and split as recommended.
Bobbie drifted back over to Vince in a haze of smoke. ‘Let’s dance,’ she said, her diction slowed by the pungent, multi-papered hash joint that she kept waving around like a magic wand.
‘I think we should go,’ he said.
‘You’re not having a good time?’
‘You’re forgetting something. I’m a copper. I could nick everyone in here. I could even nick you.’
She wrapped her arms around his neck, stoned white girl style, more for support than anything else. Her eyelids were at half mast, yet when he looked into her eyes he saw them light up, her pupils dilating and contracting, in and out. Her head lolled back and she erupted into a peal of laughter; then stopped it as suddenly as she started. Her face rolled towards him as she said, ‘You won’t, will you, Vincent? You wouldn’t put me in jail?’ Her voice was slurred, but managed to sound teasing and coquettish. And altogether incredible.
No answer from Vince, now too busy admiring those hypnotic green-brown eyes. Someone next to them lit up an even bigger joint than the one Bobbie was holding. It crackled and spat like a firework and, even in the smoke-filled gloom, it threw light on to her face. Her eyes widened, till Vince could see his own reflection in them. The sheer proximity made him feel good.
‘Let’s go,’ said Vince again, hands around her waist, guiding her out of the crowd and into the fresh night air.
Just as they hit the pavement, three panda cars and a paddy wagon pulled up. No warning sirens. Ginge was bang on time and, as always, in a hurry. Flushed red and raring to go, he was the first out of the car. He then looked more than a little surprised to see Vince propping up Jack Regent’s girl.
Vince gave him the nod and said, ‘Enjoy yourself, Ginge. You’ve got pills, marijuana, hash and booze being sold down there. A real good collar. Run a check on a fellow named Spider, about five foot ten inches and skinny—’
‘I know him.’
‘He was the one dealing the pills.’
‘Gotcha, guv.’ Ginge raced down into the basement, with six uniforms following him.
Bobbie was now stoned out of her box. The lit-up Sophia Loren eyes were fast losing their glow and turning red and tired-looking . But for her the night wasn’t over. She declared she had a craving for a ‘Nickerbrorrahrrrrrrorlywithasherrryontop’, and kept giggling and slurring, her tongue lolling around redundantly in her mouth and failing to baton out the words. And her legs weren’t feeling too clever, either.
What she had a craving for, it seemed, was a Knickerbocker Glory with a cherry on top; and she knew a Wimpy bar in East Street that served them. Vince tried to explain that it wouldn’t be open at this time of night, but she kept insisting. Vince tried to remind himself that this wasn’t a date, and that he was a copper, and that, with her tongue loosened up by the copious amounts of reefer, this was a good opportunity to get more information out of her.
On the promenade, the sea air worked its magic and sobered her up. Vince tried his best to keep up with her as she performed an Isadora Duncan routine, running ahead, then jumping and dancing around him. To grab her attention he asked, ‘What’s with the surname, LaVita?’
Bobbie stopped dancing immediately. She didn’t like this line of questioning and could sense the cynicism in his tone. Understandably, while on Jack’s arm she never got pulled up about anything, however silly. She could have called herself Helen of Troy and no one would have dared bat an eyelid.
‘Was it you who called the police, party pooper?’
‘I am the police, remember?’
She threw him a playfully alarmed look and said, ‘Then I’d better answer your question, Detective, before you lock me
Similar Books
