trenchcoat tells you everything you need to know about him. Some say it’s shoes, and they may have a point, but in my business, keeping a spotless trenchcoat can mean the difference between cutting a dash at a debutante’s do or cutting the cheese in a chop shop. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.
“Out of the way there,” I went, and, “Don’t you get cream on my trenchcoat, buddy, or I’ll punch your lights out.”
I made my way to the gents with sartorial elegance intact, leaving only two men dead on the dance floor. Oh, and one woman too, but that had been an accident.
The Richard E. Grant lookalike had his back to me now and as I didn’t really know the correct form when addressing God in person, I thought it best to ask Barry.
“Just be polite,” said the little green guy. “And call Him sir. He always likes that.”
“Fair do’s.”
The dude hadn’t come as his favourite food, but I guessed God had more class than that. He wore the kind of suit that doesn’t come off the peg, or out of the Next catalogue. I’d only ever seen a suit like that once before and that was on the body of a businessman, who’d spilt soup on me at a Masonic maggot roast in Barking, back in ’93.
Mr Godalming was chewing the fat with a dame done up as a Danish. She looked to be about sixteen years of age, had long black hair and a tiny moustache and answered to the name of Sarah.
“So Sarah,” I heard Him say. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” A real class act.
“Er, excuse me, sir,” I said, in a manner calculated to give no offence, “but are you Mr Godalming?”
He turned slowly to face me and high above the DJ’s din I heard the angels sing. He fixed me with a stare from His clear blue eyes and my piles began to shrink. He opened his mouth to speak to me and I knew at that very moment that I, Lazlo Woodbine, private eye, stood in the presence of God.
And I damn near soiled my underlinen.
Well, it was
that
close.
“Excuse me, sir,” said I, and I backed at some speed to the gents.
“Very stylish, chief,” said Barry, somewhat later as I washed my hands in the sink.
“The guy’s God, for God’s sake. I’ve never been face to face with God before.”
“No, I guess not, chief. I should have warned you. He can have that effect on people.”
“But it
is
Him, Barry. It’s definitely Him. I solved the mystery of His disappearance, in less than a couple of hours. Mind you, it hasn’t had the usual gratuitous sex and violence, nor the alley full of corpses leading to the final rooftop showdown, but hey, I’ve solved the Big One.”
“You haven’t persuaded Him to go back to His wife yet, chief.”
“Mere detail, Barry. I’ve found God and that’s a pretty big number.”
“So Cliff Richard says.”
“Right.” I dried my hands on a paper towel and readjusted the tilt of my fedora. “Let’s get this done,” said I.
I swung the gents door open and returned to the bar of the Crimson Teacup.
“Damn and damn and double blast,” said I. “The holy bird has flown.”
I thrust my way into the chaos of culinary cavorters. Pushed past a guy dressed up like a dog’s dinner and a dame dressed down in duck a l’orange. Glided by a geezer in gammon gateaux and two in taramasalata. Squeezed between a sassy sal in a sexy seafood salad and a white-faced wimp in a whitebait waistcoat, waving a waffle iron. I was carefully manoeuvring myself around a red-necked raver in a rabbit-fish ragout, when I spotted the sweetmeat known as Sarah standing soberly by the sound system, swigging Sauternes and savouring a sauerkraut sandwich.
I unholstered the trusty Smith and Wessex-Arms-Wednesday-night-chef’s-special.
“Where is Mr Godalming?” I shouted in Sarah’s shell-like. “Spill the beans or eat some lead, it’s all the same to me.”
She shot me a glance like she was gobbling Gumbo, or chewing on cheap chitterlings. “You’ve just
“Out of the way there,” I went, and, “Don’t you get cream on my trenchcoat, buddy, or I’ll punch your lights out.”
I made my way to the gents with sartorial elegance intact, leaving only two men dead on the dance floor. Oh, and one woman too, but that had been an accident.
The Richard E. Grant lookalike had his back to me now and as I didn’t really know the correct form when addressing God in person, I thought it best to ask Barry.
“Just be polite,” said the little green guy. “And call Him sir. He always likes that.”
“Fair do’s.”
The dude hadn’t come as his favourite food, but I guessed God had more class than that. He wore the kind of suit that doesn’t come off the peg, or out of the Next catalogue. I’d only ever seen a suit like that once before and that was on the body of a businessman, who’d spilt soup on me at a Masonic maggot roast in Barking, back in ’93.
Mr Godalming was chewing the fat with a dame done up as a Danish. She looked to be about sixteen years of age, had long black hair and a tiny moustache and answered to the name of Sarah.
“So Sarah,” I heard Him say. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” A real class act.
“Er, excuse me, sir,” I said, in a manner calculated to give no offence, “but are you Mr Godalming?”
He turned slowly to face me and high above the DJ’s din I heard the angels sing. He fixed me with a stare from His clear blue eyes and my piles began to shrink. He opened his mouth to speak to me and I knew at that very moment that I, Lazlo Woodbine, private eye, stood in the presence of God.
And I damn near soiled my underlinen.
Well, it was
that
close.
“Excuse me, sir,” said I, and I backed at some speed to the gents.
“Very stylish, chief,” said Barry, somewhat later as I washed my hands in the sink.
“The guy’s God, for God’s sake. I’ve never been face to face with God before.”
“No, I guess not, chief. I should have warned you. He can have that effect on people.”
“But it
is
Him, Barry. It’s definitely Him. I solved the mystery of His disappearance, in less than a couple of hours. Mind you, it hasn’t had the usual gratuitous sex and violence, nor the alley full of corpses leading to the final rooftop showdown, but hey, I’ve solved the Big One.”
“You haven’t persuaded Him to go back to His wife yet, chief.”
“Mere detail, Barry. I’ve found God and that’s a pretty big number.”
“So Cliff Richard says.”
“Right.” I dried my hands on a paper towel and readjusted the tilt of my fedora. “Let’s get this done,” said I.
I swung the gents door open and returned to the bar of the Crimson Teacup.
“Damn and damn and double blast,” said I. “The holy bird has flown.”
I thrust my way into the chaos of culinary cavorters. Pushed past a guy dressed up like a dog’s dinner and a dame dressed down in duck a l’orange. Glided by a geezer in gammon gateaux and two in taramasalata. Squeezed between a sassy sal in a sexy seafood salad and a white-faced wimp in a whitebait waistcoat, waving a waffle iron. I was carefully manoeuvring myself around a red-necked raver in a rabbit-fish ragout, when I spotted the sweetmeat known as Sarah standing soberly by the sound system, swigging Sauternes and savouring a sauerkraut sandwich.
I unholstered the trusty Smith and Wessex-Arms-Wednesday-night-chef’s-special.
“Where is Mr Godalming?” I shouted in Sarah’s shell-like. “Spill the beans or eat some lead, it’s all the same to me.”
She shot me a glance like she was gobbling Gumbo, or chewing on cheap chitterlings. “You’ve just
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