of the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. “And do you think Mr Godalming might come in here tonight?”
Fangio shrugged. “He might do. You could wait for him,” and Fangio began to giggle.
“What are you giggling at?” I asked.
“You could
wait
for Mr Godalming. Get it?
Waiting for Godalming
, as in
Waiting for Godot
. That’s a good ’un, eh? Haw haw haw.”
“Lost on me,” I said. “But I’ll wait.”
And so I waited.
The Crimson Teacup began to fill up. But not with crimson tea. These dudes and dudesses had taken pretty seriously to the idea of coming as their favourite food.
“Excuse me.” A dame stood before me. And some dame she was. Five feet two and every inch a woman. She had hair the colour of cheese souffle. Her lips looked more at home around a champagne flute than a chipped enamel mug and her eyes were the windows of her Dover sole. She was wearing nothing but two fried eggs and a doner kebab.
“Interesting hat,” I said. “How did you sew on the fried eggs?”
“Mr Woodpile?” says she.
“Wood
bine
,” says I. “The name’s Lazlo Woodbine. Some call me Laz.”
“I’m Phil,” says the dame.
“Well, you shouldn’t eat so much,” says I. Always happy to inject a little humour into any situation.
“Phil
omena
,” says the dame in a manner which led me to believe that she didn’t quite grasp the subtle nuances of my outstanding witticism. “Philomena Christina Maria O’Connor.”
“That sounds like a line from an Irish jig.”
“You’re a real funny guy, Mr Woodpile. It’s a pity you’ll meet such a tragic end.”
“Tragic end?” says I. “What’s this?”
“I overheard you asking after Mr Godalming.”
“But you weren’t in the bar at the time.”
“Walls have ears, as well as sausages,” says she. And who was I to argue with that?
“So what’s the deal?” says I.
“The deal is, stay away from Mr Godalming.”
“No can do,” I told her. “I’m working for his wife. She wants the guy back for his tea tomorrow.”
“His
wife
?” The dame went “haw haw haw” in a manner I found most upsetting. “Mr Godalming
won’t
be coming home for his tea tomorrow,” she said, and then went “haw haw haw” again.
“Enough of the hawing, already,” I told her. “You’ll get us picked up by the vice squad.”
The dame raised two fingers, then turned round and left me.
“What was
that
all about?” I asked myself.
“She’s a real bad lot,” said Barry.
“I was asking
myself
,” said I. “Not you.”
“Any luck then, Laz?” The thin boy tapped my shoulder with a delicate digit.
“None,” said I, a-shaking of my head. “There’s no shortage of Grant lookalikes in the place, though. I’ve seen three Russells, two Hughs, a General, and a council grant for getting your loft insulated. But ne’er a sniff of a Dick, if you catch my drift and I’m pretty sure that you do.”
“Pervert,” said the thin boy, but he said it with a smile.
I cast a professional eye around and about the place. The joint was truly jumpin’ now and the DJ was layin’ down the good stuff. Above the wild gyrating crowd, the bar’s logo revolved, an oversized teacup and saucer crafted from red vinyl and black lace and fashioned to resemble a corseted female torso.
And then I saw him.
“Him, chief, Him. Where? Where?”
“By the gents. I’m going over.”
“Just take care, chief. Take care.”
I elbowed my way through the dancers. Making my presence felt, but taking care that nobody rubbed up against me. I mean these folk were covered in food and this was my best trenchcoat. And although the fabric is waterproofed — in fact I’d had mine double-coated with that special stuff they treat office carpets with — you can still get greasy stains that are the very devil to wash out. Red wine’s always a killer, but almost anything from an Indian restaurant can be the kiss of death.
The way I see it is this: the way a man treats his
Fangio shrugged. “He might do. You could wait for him,” and Fangio began to giggle.
“What are you giggling at?” I asked.
“You could
wait
for Mr Godalming. Get it?
Waiting for Godalming
, as in
Waiting for Godot
. That’s a good ’un, eh? Haw haw haw.”
“Lost on me,” I said. “But I’ll wait.”
And so I waited.
The Crimson Teacup began to fill up. But not with crimson tea. These dudes and dudesses had taken pretty seriously to the idea of coming as their favourite food.
“Excuse me.” A dame stood before me. And some dame she was. Five feet two and every inch a woman. She had hair the colour of cheese souffle. Her lips looked more at home around a champagne flute than a chipped enamel mug and her eyes were the windows of her Dover sole. She was wearing nothing but two fried eggs and a doner kebab.
“Interesting hat,” I said. “How did you sew on the fried eggs?”
“Mr Woodpile?” says she.
“Wood
bine
,” says I. “The name’s Lazlo Woodbine. Some call me Laz.”
“I’m Phil,” says the dame.
“Well, you shouldn’t eat so much,” says I. Always happy to inject a little humour into any situation.
“Phil
omena
,” says the dame in a manner which led me to believe that she didn’t quite grasp the subtle nuances of my outstanding witticism. “Philomena Christina Maria O’Connor.”
“That sounds like a line from an Irish jig.”
“You’re a real funny guy, Mr Woodpile. It’s a pity you’ll meet such a tragic end.”
“Tragic end?” says I. “What’s this?”
“I overheard you asking after Mr Godalming.”
“But you weren’t in the bar at the time.”
“Walls have ears, as well as sausages,” says she. And who was I to argue with that?
“So what’s the deal?” says I.
“The deal is, stay away from Mr Godalming.”
“No can do,” I told her. “I’m working for his wife. She wants the guy back for his tea tomorrow.”
“His
wife
?” The dame went “haw haw haw” in a manner I found most upsetting. “Mr Godalming
won’t
be coming home for his tea tomorrow,” she said, and then went “haw haw haw” again.
“Enough of the hawing, already,” I told her. “You’ll get us picked up by the vice squad.”
The dame raised two fingers, then turned round and left me.
“What was
that
all about?” I asked myself.
“She’s a real bad lot,” said Barry.
“I was asking
myself
,” said I. “Not you.”
“Any luck then, Laz?” The thin boy tapped my shoulder with a delicate digit.
“None,” said I, a-shaking of my head. “There’s no shortage of Grant lookalikes in the place, though. I’ve seen three Russells, two Hughs, a General, and a council grant for getting your loft insulated. But ne’er a sniff of a Dick, if you catch my drift and I’m pretty sure that you do.”
“Pervert,” said the thin boy, but he said it with a smile.
I cast a professional eye around and about the place. The joint was truly jumpin’ now and the DJ was layin’ down the good stuff. Above the wild gyrating crowd, the bar’s logo revolved, an oversized teacup and saucer crafted from red vinyl and black lace and fashioned to resemble a corseted female torso.
And then I saw him.
“Him, chief, Him. Where? Where?”
“By the gents. I’m going over.”
“Just take care, chief. Take care.”
I elbowed my way through the dancers. Making my presence felt, but taking care that nobody rubbed up against me. I mean these folk were covered in food and this was my best trenchcoat. And although the fabric is waterproofed — in fact I’d had mine double-coated with that special stuff they treat office carpets with — you can still get greasy stains that are the very devil to wash out. Red wine’s always a killer, but almost anything from an Indian restaurant can be the kiss of death.
The way I see it is this: the way a man treats his
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