Outside and drawn up close to the kerb was the long dark automobile. As Johnny Boy and Icarus approached it, a rear door swung open.
“Get inside,” said the chauffeur.
Johnny Boy peered in, then jerked back in horror.
“Go on,” said the chauffeur, “both of you get in.”
Icarus climbed into the car. Johnny Boy followed him.
Stretched out on the rear car seat was a single occupant.
The single occupant was not a human being.
The long quills glistened and twitched, moving singly or in pairs, probing, sensing. The cold reptilian eyes swivelled in their scaly sockets. The complicated mouthparts moved and chewed and sucked.
“So,” said the creature in a cold dead voice. “We meet again.”
“We do?” Icarus Smith whispered the words. His throat was dry and he was shaking terribly.
“Well, briefly,” said the creature. “In Stravino’s barber’s shop. You stole my briefcase, I believe.”
10
Now, when I found myself standing in an alleyway, at the back of the Crimson Teacup, looking down at the dead body of God and turning up my collar to the howling hurricane, I stayed as cool as a Conservative councillor caught with a Cockney castrato in a curate’s cloakroom.
“Deny everything,” I shouted to Barry, above the wind and weather. “We’ll just have to deny everything. Hide the body. Pretend this didn’t happen. Spin some line to God’s wife that He’s off on a fishing holiday in Norfolk and I’ll change my name and grow a beard and become a Muslim.”
“Neat thinking, chief.”
“You think there’s a chance I can pull it off?”
“About as much chance as Dr Harold Shipman becoming the Queen Mum’s personal physician.”
“Quite a slim chance, then?”
“Somewhat thinner than Fangio’s waistline, chief.”
“Then that leaves me with only one alternative.”
“And what’s that, chief?”
I shoulder-holstered my trusty Smith and Wesleyan chapel, dropped to my knees in the rain, hail, fog and snow and sleet and sunshine, closed my eyes and clasped my hands in prayer. “Please forgive me, God’s widow,” I wept. “It wasn’t my fault. I tried to save Him. I shot the two hoods who gunned Him down. Have mercy on me, miserable sinner that I am.”
“Turn it in, chief.”
“Sssh please, Barry, I’m praying.”
“She won’t be listening, chief. People don’t pray to Her, because they don’t know She exists. So She doesn’t listen to praying. Got me?”
“Gotcha,” I said. “So it’s bury the body, grow the beard and Allah Akbah till the sacred cows come home.”
“Comparative religion not really your strong point, eh, chief?”
A rain of frogs came down upon my head.
“I think we’d better discuss this back at my office,” I said. “My trenchcoat can’t take this sort of punishment.”
Now the last thing I needed at a time like this was another client showing up. So when I walked into my office to find a broad sitting behind my desk, you could have knocked me down with an auctioneer’s gavel and bathed my butt in borax.
I’ve seen some ugly fat dames in my time, but this one took the dog biscuit. She made Mo Mowlam look like Madonna. I didn’t figure this dame looked good for anything but using as a roadblock in Belfast. But always being the gent that I am, I gave her the big hello.
“Hi, babe,” I said, as suave as Sinatra. “Did the circus leave town without you?”
She shot me a glance like she was chewing on a stewed chihuahua and moved more chins than Chairman Mao on his glorious march to the south.
“Did you just shake your head?” I said. “Or was that a Zeppelin docking?”
“Sit down, Mr Woodworm,” she replied, and she didn’t smile when she said it.
“The name’s Woodbine,” I said. “Lazlo Woodbine.” And added, “Some call me Laz.”
“Well, I shall call you cadaver, boy, if you don’t sit down when you’re told.”
This dame had more front than Frinton. But I wasn’t in the mood to take a donkey ride.
“Listen, lady,” I told her. “I’ve had a rough evening. I’ve just left three dead men in an alleyway, and the world won’t weep for a fat lass. So kindly shift your wide load off my chair and your whole damn trailer-park out of my office.” And I made the kind of shooing motions that you do to a dachshund that’s doodling on your dahlias.
Which, as it turned out for me, wasn’t the smartest of moves.
The dame lifted a mitt the size of a silicone implant[10] and zapped me with a lightning bolt that singed my decorum and set my fedora ablaze.
I went up like Crystal Palace and down like a funk soul brother.
“Oooh! Aaagh! Eeek!” I went. “Oooh! Aaagh! Eeek!” and “Waaaaah!”
I didn’t cotton on at first to just what was happening to me. I figured it was a case of spontaneous human combustion. I get that every once in a while, if I’ve eaten too much coleslaw. But usually this just makes my socks smoulder. Which is no great shakes.
But what was happening to me now had nothing to do with coleslaw. This was the full B. K. Flamer.[11]
I beat at myself like a borderline self-mutilator and hopped and howled like a hedonist.
And then the dame moved her mitt again and my water cooler sort of lifted itself off its stand, swung across the room and emptied its contents all over my head.
Which had a more than sobering effect.
I did a couple more ‘Aaah!’s and ‘Eeek!’s and then I got down to a bit of serious grovelling. “Please forgive me, God’s widow,” I wept. “It wasn’t my fault. I tried to save Him, I shot the two hoods who gunned Him down. Have mercy on me …”
“Shut it!” said Eartha, widow of God, because that’s who She was.
“Shut it!” She said.
And I shut it.
Eartha raised her bulk from my office chair and leaned across my desk. She glared me glances that jangled my nerves and set my knees a-knocking. “Mr Woodworm,” She said (I didn’t correct Her). “Mr Woodworm. Am I right in assuming that my husband is dead?”
“Well, ma’am,” I went. “You see, I, well, in as much as, which is to say …”
“Yes or no, Mr Wormwood?”
“It’s yes, ma’am, I’m afraid.”
“Be afraid,” said Eartha. “Be very afraid.”
“I am, ma’am,” said I. And believe me, my friends. I was.
“Dead.” She dropped back into my chair to the sounds of splitting floorboards.
“I’m truly sorry, ma’am,” said I.
“Shut up, you fool, I’m thinking.”
I shut up and I kept my head well down. Outside my office window, the hurricane was gaining further strength. I glimpsed a chewed chihuahua and a pair of Ford Fiestas blowing by.
“Cease that infernal racket.” Eartha raised Her mighty mitt and the storm died all away. “Get up, Mr Wormwood,” She said. And I got up. “All right,” She said. “Now I understand that you were not to blame. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. The old fool was asking for trouble. But what I want to know is this: who murdered Him and why?”
“Two guys,” said I. “I shot them dead. Two slugs, two corpses. That’s the way that I do business.”
“And I like the way that you do business. But there were two gunmen. Were they professional assassins, and if so, who ordered the hit?”
I was warming to this dame. She obviously had the hots for me in a big way. “Ma’am,” I said. “I shot them dead. And as dead men tell no tales, that ain’t my province. Why don’t you have a word with their souls? I’m sure you could persuade them to spill all the beans.”
“Because that is not how it works any more. And if you don’t put a bit more respect into your voice, I’ll burn off your bollocks, got me?”
11
A quarter-pounder of prime char-grilled steakburger, done to perfection and served with a crispy salad topping and a choice of dressings, in a golden toasted sesame seed bun. I’ve tried others, but these are the best. Yes siree, by golly.