Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

And Fangio smiled, which brought joy to the world. ‘God bless you, Lazlo,’ said he.

The guy sipped at his cherry brandy and asked me whether it was a cocktail. I didn’t want to complicate things and so I nodded that it was, discreetly, without any fuss.

‘Tastes just like a cherry brandy,’ said the guy. ‘But I was asking you about the toot.’

‘Kid,’ I said, ‘we’ve been through that. And repetition does nothing more than labour a point. It’s the way things are done and that’s that. I’m on your case now, so everything that happens from now on will be pertinent to your case. These folk in this bar – pertinent. Those Dacks and that McMurdo lying on the floor-’

‘The one who was sitting on your bar stool?’ said the guy.

‘Same one. All pertinent. What we have to do is to wait here, talking the toot, until she arrives.’

‘She?’ asked the guy.

‘The dame that does me wrong. You’ve read the novels, right? Everyone’s read the Lazlo Woodbine Thrillers, right?’

‘From the poignant pen of Penrose? Yes.’

‘Well, you must then understand that you must never mess with a winning formula. All the big guys know this, which is why they are big guys. Right?’

‘Right,’ said the guy. ‘So we sit here talking the toot until the dame that does you wrong turns up. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘Right. And is this the same dame every time, or a different dame?’

‘Different dame.’

‘Right,’ said the guy. ‘Because if it was always the same dame, you’d probably be forewarned that she was going to do you wrong. Right?’

‘Right,’ I said once more. ‘So it would lack for the element of surprise. Which would mess with the format. The dame that does me wrong always furnishes me with some vital clue that is necessary to the solving of the case. But she will do me wrong, in that at the end of the chapter she always strikes me hard on the back of the head and sends me down into that whirling pit of black oblivion that all genre private eyes get sent to in that chapter.’

‘This chapter, right?’

‘Next chapter.’

‘Quite so.’

‘Don’t you mean “right”?’ I asked.

‘Right,’ said the guy.

And then I saw her. And she was beautiful. She breezed into that bar like a bat out of Hell that would be gone when the morning came. But without a hint of the bat about her. By the way she walked I could tell that here was a dame who knew what the sound of one hand clapping was like. And if she wasn’t built for the pleasures of the flesh, then Rome was built in a day with a bucket and spade. She was long and blonde and when God designed her, She wasn’t kidding around.

The guy nudged the elbow of my trench coat and asked me, ‘Is that the dame?’

‘I wish, kid,’ and I shook my head. ‘It’s that great fat munter behind her.’

Now, I retract that word ‘munter’. It’s a cruel word, that, and although it rarely fails to raise a titter, that’s no need to go using it willy-nilly. Especially in a derogatory fashion.

And especially when referring to Mama Cass.

‘Hi there, Laz,’ said the legend from the Mamas and the Papas.

I tipped the lady the brim of my fine fedora, told her to pull up a bar stool and park her big butt and join me in taking a drink.

‘I can’t stay,’ said the rather broad broad. ‘I need to use the phone. Our limo broke down and we have to get to Woodstock for the festival.’

‘I’m playing at Woodstock,’ said the guy, ‘with my band The Sumerian Kynges. Perhaps you’ve heard of us – we closed the Hyde Park gig for The Rolling Stones.’

‘Don’t go getting all bent out of shape,’ I told the guy. ‘The Rolling Stones closed the Hyde Park gig for The Rolling Stones, and I should know, I was over there on a case. And Mick Jagger let me into the green room. He’s a big fan of my work, you see.’

‘But-’ said the guy.

‘It’s a true story,’ said Fangio. ‘Tell him about the kid, Laz, the one who got really stoned on a Banbury Bloater and had to be chucked out of the green room. How uncool was he?’

‘What?’ said the guy.

‘What indeed,’ said I.

‘ Woodstock?’ said Mama Cass. ‘You and your band are playing Woodstock?’ But she didn’t address this question to me, rather to my client, the kid.

‘Yes,’ said the kid. ‘I think we’re on just after you. This is a real pleasure.’ And he stuck out his hand for a shake.

But I edged this hand aside. ‘Kid,’ I told him, ‘you’re muddying the waters here. Sending the plot off on a tangent. Lazlo Woodbine doesn’t do tangents. He’s a real straight arrow. He talks the toot, yes, but he gets right on with the job in hand. So kindly step aside and watch how the dame that does me wrong does me wrong. Pay attention, now – it will be an educational experience.’

The guy made a noise that sounded like ‘Hmmph’ but which might have been ‘Yes, sir’ in Swiss.

‘So,’ said Fangio to Mama Cass, ‘ Woodstock, eh? I’ve heard tell of this. An outdoor Hippy Life-Affirming Cosmic Celebration. Or as we right-minded Republicans would say, a bunch of them no-good peace-queers and drug fiends smoking reefers and supporting the cockney work ethic.’

‘What?’ said the guy. And I for one joined him in this.

‘Are you for real?’ asked Mama Cass of Fangio.

The fat-boy felt at his person.

‘That is disgusting,’ said Mama Cass.

‘It’s my person,’ said Fangio, ‘and I’ll feel at it if I wish.’ Adding, ‘And as it’s also my bar, I can propound right-wing bigotry also, if I so wish. It’s the prerogative of the barlord. That and fiddling the change.’

‘And skimping on the toilet rolls in the gentlemens’ John,’ I added.

‘That goes without saying,’ said Fangio.

‘So, where is the phone?’ asked Mama Cass.

‘Now that,’ said Fangio, ‘is a question.’

‘But you do have a phone?’

‘It depends on what you mean by “have”,’ said Fange. ‘I had measles once, but I’m damned if I know whatever became of them.’

‘I had a lost weekend once,’ I said to Fange. ‘But I’m damned if I know whatever happened to that.’

‘I was with you on that weekend,’ said Fangio. ‘And I do know, but I’m not telling. Being enigmatic is also the prerogative of the barlord.’

‘So, no telephone,’ said Mama Cass.

Fangio the barman shook his head. ‘Don’t you just long for the invention of the mobile phone?’ he asked. ‘Or cell phone as we’ll call it over here. Because people will use them in prisons, I suppose.’

There was a small but perfect silence.

‘My mum predicted that,’ said the guy. ‘And do you know what? I miss my mum.’ And he got a rather sad face on.

‘You’re going off on a tangent again, kid,’ I told him. ‘Never take your eye off the ball. Except if you’re in a gay pub quiz.’

‘But where is this leading?’ he pleaded.

‘Just stick around and you’ll see.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mama Cass. ‘Well, if you don’t have a phone here, I suppose I’ll have to go elsewhere and look for one. I must get in touch with Mr Ishmael.’

‘Mr Ishmael? ’ went the guy. But I silenced him with a raised fist and single look so intense that it could have swallowed a pigeon, beak and trotters and all.

‘Mr Ishmael?’ I asked Mama Cass. ‘Who is this Mr Ishmael of whom you speak?’

‘You have a lovely way with words,’ said the talented, if slightly overweight, chanteuse. ‘Would you care for some free love in the back of the limo?’

‘Lady,’ I told her, ‘in my line of work, I don’t have time for love. I have time for danger and time for trouble. And time to talk the toot. But to Lazlo Woodbine, love is a stranger who wears a tweed jacket with ink on its right lapel. And leather patches on its elbows. Which can say so much, whilst still remaining mute, if you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.’