Robert Rankin - Waiting for Godalming

“No,” says he. “It’s a bowler.”

We established ourselves at the table near the rear. The one to the left of the gents. It’s a bit of a favourite with me. Secluded. Out of the way. That hint of exclusivity that offers the client confidence. Muted lighting that catches my noble profile just so in the tinted wall mirror and a lot of firm support in the seat, which can be handy if your piles are playing up.

“So,” says I, when we’ve comfied ourselves, “what’s the deal here, fella?”

“My name is—”

“Cormerant,” says I.

“Cormerant,” says he. “And I work for—”

“The Ministry of Serendipity,” says I.

“The Ministry of Serendipity,” says he. “And I …”

I paused.

“What?”

“What?”

“What are you pausing for?” says he.

“I wasn’t pausing,” says I. “I was waiting for you to continue. You paused first.”

“Well, you kept interrupting.”

“I wasn’t interrupting. I was anticipating.”

“That’s the same as interrupting, if you butt in. That’s interrupting.”

I leaned across the table and beckoned the guy towards me. As he leaned forward, I butted him right in the face.

He fell back gasping and clawing at his bloodied nose.

“What did you do that for?” he mumbled, pulling out an oversized red gingham handkerchief to dab at all the gore.

“I just wanted to clear up a matter of semantics,” says I. “ That was butting . I was anticipating .”

Naturally he thanked me.

He got us in another brace of beers and then explained his situation. Clearly, without pause. Apparently he wanted to engage my services as a private investigator in order that I might track down a briefcase of his that had gone missing and contained certain items which, if they fell into the wrong hands, or even the right ones, might spell doom to this world of ours in any one of at least eleven different languages.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” says I.

He counted on his fingers. “Yes, you’re right,” says he. “ Twelve different languages, including Esperanto.”

“Just as I thought.”

“And so I came to you,” says the guy. “Because I’ve heard you’re the best.”

“You heard right,” says I. “So, do you want to tell me exactly what’s really in this briefcase of yours?”

The guy gave his head the shake that meant, “No.”

“Well how’s about telling me the last place you saw it?”

“Do you know Stravino’s barber’s shop?”

I pointed to my crowning glory. “What does this tell you?” I asked.

“It tells me that you asked for a Ramón Navarro.”

“Precisely, and what did I get?”

“You got a Tony Curtis.”

The guy and I chewed fat for a while and then he took his leave. I returned to the bar to find Fangio shuffling cards.

“Pick a card, any card,” says he.

“Three of spades,” says I.

“Correct,” says he. “But how did you know?”

“Let’s call it intuition.”

“Fair enough,” said Fangio. “I was going to call it Rush the Flush, but Intuition is better. So how did you get on with Mr Cormerant? Are you going to take the case?”

I nodded in the infirmary. Wherever the hell that was. “He gave me a thousand big ones up front.”

Fangio seemed lost for words. “I’m lost for words,” he said.

“The guy left his briefcase in Stravino’s, where it was apparently lifted by some petty criminal. It shouldn’t be too hard to track it down.”

“Stravino’s the barber’s shop?” said Fangio.

“You know the place?” says I.

Fangio pointed to his head. “What does this say to you?” says he.

“It says to me that you have a big fat head,” says I.

“Precisely,” said Fangio. “Precisely.”

Now I know what you’re thinking, my friends. You’re thinking, how come this Lazlo Woodbine, a man clearly possessed of a mind like a steel trapper’s snap-trap, hasn’t seen the glaring continuity error here? Surely he’s in a bar in Manhattan and Stravino’s shop is in South Ealing High Street many miles far to the east.

Well, hey, come on now.

You’re dealing with a professional here. A master of the genre. And though I might have said it was another long hot Manhattan night, that didn’t necessarily mean that it was night or that it was actually in Manhattan. Like I told you, I work only the four locations, but if all my four locations were permanently in Manhattan, that would seriously limit my scope of operations, and as you only ever see the interior of Fangio’s bar, it could be anywhere. Like, say, at the end of South Ealing High Street, near to the Station Hotel.

“Remember the time it was in Casablanca?” says Fangio. “Some laughs we had then, eh, Laz?”

“Shut your face, fat boy,” says I.

“Will you be settling your tab now? What with you having a thousand big ones up front?”

I gave my head the kind of shake you couldn’t buy for a dollar. And I took a look at the big bar clock that hung up on the wall. And then I gazed along the bar to where the little brown men with hats on sat, a-strumming at their ukes. And then I peered up at the ceiling where the bumblies hung and the ghost of Christmas past had once appeared to Fangio. And then I glanced down at the floor and then I peeped out of the window.

“Something on your mind?” asked Fangio.

“I’m just wondering where she is.”

“Who’s she ?”

“The dame that does me wrong. The one who always bops me over the head at this point, so that I tumble down into a deep dark whirling pit of oblivion. She should have shown up by now.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Fange. “She phoned earlier. Said she wouldn’t be in this lunchtime. [4] See that, it’s lunchtime, not night at all. Sent her apologies.”

“What?”

“She said that she has to go and bop some other detective over the head today. Some tormented detective with a drink problem and a broken marriage, who’s coming to terms with a tragedy that happened in his youth, and reaching out to his feminine side.”

“ What?”

“ She said that the nineteen-fifties American genre detective is now an anachronism and an anathema. The stuff of cheap pulp fiction. She’s moved right upmarket now. Gone all fancy and post-modern.”

“WHAT?”

“So it looks like you’re out on your own this time, Laz. Or should that be in on your own? Because unless you can get someone else to bop you on the head, I can’t see how you’ll be able to stick with your genre and do things the way that things should be done. After all, the bopping over the head business is a big number with you genre detective lads, isn’t it?”

“ WHAT?”

“ Laz, will you let up on the WHATing already? You’re giving me a migraine.”

“But what am I going to do?” I asked. “She can’t do this to me. I’m Lazlo Woodbine! Lazlo Woodbine! Some call me Laz. She can’t just abandon me. Leave me stuck in a bar. This could be the greatest case of my whole career. The Big One. You gotta help me, Fange. What am I gonna do?”

“Well.” The fat boy scratched at his gut. “We might come to some arrangement.”

“What?” I kept my what small this time.

“We’re old pals; I might be prepared to do you a favour.”

“Go on then,” says I.

“Well,” the fat boy scratched at his gut again, “I don’t think you’ll find that it has to be a dame that does you wrong who bops you on the head. It could be anyone.”

“Anyone?”

“It could even be me.”