Waiting for Godalming

7

Now I’m not into autoerotic podophilia, so I don’t shake in my shoes at the first sign of trouble. Nor am I some taurophiliac, so you won’t find me going off like a bull at a gate. I reason things out and then I leap into action.

I put my feet up onto my desk and lit up another Camel.

“This would be the reasoning it out bit, then, would it, chief?”

“No, Barry, this would be the me with my feet up on the desk while you get your little green bottom in gear bit, actually!”

“Don’t quite follow you there, chief.”

I blew a smoke ring out of my nose and smiled a winning smile. “Tell me, Barry,” said I. “How exactly would you describe yourself?”

“Chirpy, chief. Chirpy and chipper and cute as a cuddler’s cuddly.”

“I meant, what are you?”

“I’m your Holy Guardian, chief.”

“Exactly, and as a Holy Guardian, I’ll just bet you have lots of other Holy Guardian buddies, don’tcha?”

“Millions, chief. We’re all one big happy family.”

“So why don’t you put the word out on the old celestial telephone? Because if God’s down here on Earth, one of your big happy family is bound to have seen Him.”

“Smart thinking, chief, but no can do.”

“Come again, please, if you will.”

“Against the rules, chief. We’re not allowed to speak to one another.”

“But I clearly recall you saying you’d put ideas into a couple of heads to get me my hat and my gun back. Weren’t you talking to the Holy Guardians then?”

“No, chief, just the human schmucks.”

“Damn and blast,” said I. “Then I’ll just have to do this myself. So what do we have, Barry? Do we at least have a photo of God, so I have something to go on?”

There was the kind of silence that I for one wouldn’t pay you five cents for.

“That would be a no, then, would it, Barry?”

“That would be a big no, chief.”

“OK. Fair enough, we’ll just have to do it the hard way. If you had a thing about Jewish virgins, where would you go to meet some?”

“Israel, chief?”

“Would you care to narrow that down a little?”

“Isl?”

“Most amusing.” I gave my head a violent shake. “Ooh” and “Eeek” went Barry.

“I would go to the Crimson Teacup,” I said.

“The Crimson Teacup, chief? Not the Crimson Teacup! Don’t tell me you want us to go to the Crimson Teacup?”

“You know the place, Barry?”

“Never heard of it, chief.”

The Crimson Teacup was a gin and ginseng joint on Brentford’s lower east side. The Jewish quarter. It was not the kind of venue that I’d want to take my granny to. But hey, I wouldn’t want to take my granny anywhere. The old bag’s been dead for three years.

The Crimson Teacup was one of those leather bars, where guys and gals who like to dress as luggage get together and sweat it out beneath the pulsing strobes. Fuelled on a diet of amphetamines and amyl nitrate, they strut their funky stuff to the tribal rhythms of the techno beat and discuss the latest trends in nail varnish while the DJ’s having his tea break.

I loaded up the trusty Smith and Kick butt west of the Pennines and rammed it into my shoulder holster. Cocked my fedora onto my brow at the angle known as rakish. And, with more savoir-faire than a pox doctor’s clown, was off and on my way to glory.

The Crimson Teacup was having one of its specialist evenings. It was a theme night and the theme was “Come as your favourite food”. Now I thought that I’d seen every kind of cuisine that could possibly be splattered over the human form in my time as a private eye. Because, let’s face it, in my business you get to meet some pretty messy eaters. But when I walked into the Crimson Teacup that evening, I was ill prepared for the startling sight that met my peering peepers.

“The joint’s empty,” I said.

“It’s early yet,” said Fangio. “Care for a piece of chewing fat?”

I swanked over to the bar and settled my bottom parts carefully onto a stool. “I didn’t know you worked here, Fange,” I said.

“I bought the place. Thought I’d branch out. And a house without love is like a garden overgrown with weeds, I always say.”

“Well, set ’em up, fat boy,” says I.

“Ah. Excuse me, sir,” said Fangio, a-preening at his lapels.

I looked the fat boy up and down, then up and down some more. “Is this a mirage?” said I. “Or am I seeing things?”

The fat boy was no longer fat!

In fact he was freer of fat than a scarecrow in a sauna bath. He was willowy as a whipping post and pinched as a postman’s pencil. I’d seen more flesh on a supermodel’s shadow. This guy was wasted. He was scrawny. He was gangly, wire-drawn, waif-like, spindle-shanked, spidery, shrivelled …

“Turn it in, Laz,” said Fangio. “I’m not that thin. I’m svelte.”

“Svelte?” said I. “Svelte?”

“Svelte,” said the sylph-like barkeep.

“Now just you turn that in,” I said. “You’re Fangio the fat boy. Always have been, always will be.”

Fange shook his jowl-free bonce. “Remember our deal?” said he. “Remember back in my bar at lunchtime, when you didn’t have the-dame-that-does-you-wrong to bop you on the head and I whispered to you that I’d do it, if we came to an agreement?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I must have amnesia. I got this bop on the head.”

“You lying git. I agreed to bop you on the head, as long as I didn’t have to be the fat boy any more. As long as you would refer to me in future as the handsome snake-hipped barkeep with the killer cheekbones and the pert backside, and you said—”

“That’s outrageous!”

“That’s exactly what you said. But you had to agree, so you could stick to your genre and do things the way they should be done. Am I right, or am I right?”

“Huh!” I made the kind of grunting sound that goes down big in a piggery, but tends to turn a head or two at the last night of the Proms. “I didn’t think you meant that thin. I thought you just meant a couple of stone off your big fat bum.”

The handsome snake-hipped barkeep with the killer cheekbones and the pert backside poured me a gin and ginseng.

I sipped at it and cast a steely eye about the place. It hadn’t changed much since the last time I had been in. There was the same old junked-up jukebox, the same old spaced-out salad bar, the same old trippy tables and the same old stoned-again stools. The bar counter looked as if it had been on a five-day freebasing fallabout in Frisco and the ashtrays had chased more dragons than a St George impersonator at an Anne McCaffrey convention.

“Oi!” said the svelte boy. “Turn that in. There’s no drugs allowed in this bar.”

“Since when?” says I.

“Since last week,” says Fangio. “I recently had a bad experience with drugs. I snorted some curry powder, thinking it was cocaine.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “What happened?”

“I fell into a Korma.”

Oh how we laughed.

“But I’m not here to talk toot tonight,” said I. “I’m here on a case.”

“The briefcase case?”

“No, this case is bigger than that.”

“A suitcase case?”

“No, bigger than that.”

“You don’t know how big a suitcase I was thinking of,” said the wasp-waisted wonderboy. “This one’s really huge. I used to get inside it when I was a kid and go through this doorway into a snow-covered land where I met a lion and a witch.”

“Surely that was a wardrobe?”

“No. It was definitely a witch.”

I whistled a verse of “You’re a twat, Fangio” and sipped on my gin and ginseng.

“So tell me about this case of yours, Laz,” says Fangio.

“Well,” says I. “I’m looking for this old guy. He might be a regular here. Has a thing about Jewish virgins. Ring any bells with you?”

Fangio stroked at his chiselled chin. “Well,” says he, also. “We do get a lot of Jewish virgins coming in here. A lot. But as to this old guy, what exactly does he look like?”

“Well,” says I, once more. “Can you imagine what God must look like?”

“Richard E. Grant,” said Fangio.

“Richard E. Grant?”

“Richard E. Grant. Tall and slim and dark with devilish good looks and a twinkle in his eye. Not unlike myself, in fact.”

“With the corner up,” said I.

“He’s spot on,” said Barry.

“He’s what?”

“Who’s what?” said Fangio, for none can hear Barry but me.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Fangio. “Were you talking to Gobbo the magic gnome? Because he’s moved out of my nose. He’s taken up residence in my pert bottom cleavage now. Hold on a minute while I get my trousers down.”

“Don’t you do any such thing.” I took off my hat and holding it carefully in front of my face I feigned an interest in its interior. “What are you saying, Barry?” I whispered. “Are you telling me that God looks like Richard E. Grant?”

“Well, wouldn’t you, if you wanted to pull Jewish virgins, chief? Or any virgins at all, for that matter.”

I lifted my hat from in front of my face and stuck it back on my head. “Aaagh!” I went. “Pull your bloody pants up, Fange!”

The fatless boy buttoned his fly.

“So,” said I. “A Richard E. Grant lookalike.”

“That’s me,” said Fangio.

I shook my head. “Does a guy who looks like Richard E. Grant ever come in here?” I asked.

“All the time,” said Fangio. “That would be Mr Godalming.”

“Mr Godalming!” I made the face 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.

“Woodbine,” 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.

“Philomena,” 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 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 missed him. He went out the back door with two guys.”

I beat my way back through the crowd. Battering the beanfeast barn-dancers and shovelling sitophiliacs to the right and left of me. Certainly I would have liked to have indulged in a bit more alliterative whimsy, all that fellow in falafel and a flapjack fez kind of caper, but I was in a hurry here and when time is tight you don’t count sheep or lard the lambs, or even munch the mutton.

Now normally I open doors with caution. I mean, you never know what lies beyond them and like I’ve said before, I work only the four locations. My office, the bar, the alleyway and the rooftop. So I can’t go off kicking open every door that lies before me, no matter how big the temptation. But the way I see it is this, a bar’s back door always leads to an alleyway. So I put my boot to this one and kicked down the son of a—

BANG BANG BANG and BANG again.

The sound of gunshots came to me and they weren’t music to my play-my-ears. I pride myself that I can identify almost any handgun in the western world, simply by hearing it fire. And so I knew right off that the sounds of firing were coming from a pair of P37 Narkals, Greek army issue revolvers, pearl-handled probably, with the blue metal finish.

I took a peek round the doorpost to gauge the situation and then ducked back to regain my wits and then burst forth with my gun held at the ready.

BANG BANG BANG then BANG again.

There were two guys at the alley’s end, pumping bullets, thus and so, into a third on the ground. I didn’t ask any questions and I didn’t offer any deals. I let off just two straight shots and the two guys joined the third.

“Nice shooting, chief,” said Barry.

“Thank you, Barry,” said I.

I made it down the alley, checked out the gunmen to make sure they were dead and then turned over the victim who was lying face down in the mud and red stuff.

And then I leapt up all in a lather and damn near soiled my underlinen for a second time off.

“Oh God!” I cried. “It’s God! I felt His power and now He’s dead. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!”

“Hold on to yourself, chief, easy now.”

“But God’s dead, Barry, He’s dead.” I began to do the wee-wee dance.

“Then he can’t have been God, can he, chief? God wouldn’t go getting Himself shot dead in an alleyway. That’s not how God does business. This must be some other Richard E. Grant lookalike.”

“Yeah, but if God was being a man. So He could pull the Jewish chicks and everything. He’d be vulnerable. He could be killed.”

“Well, chief, I suppose He could. But it’s not very likely, is it? God getting Himself shot in an alleyway.”

“So you reckon it’s the wrong guy? Do ya, Barry? Do ya?”

“Has to be, chief, has to be.”

I breathed a mighty sigh of relief. “That had me going for a minute,” I said. “I mean imagine if it really had been God. I’d be in really big trouble with His wife, wouldn’t I?”

“Big, chief. Bigger than big. The biggest that ever there was.”

“And what about the weather, Barry? What with God controlling the weather, the way He does. Imagine what might happen to the weather with Him no longer in charge of it.”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about, chief.”

“Well, phew,” said I. “All I can say is phew.”

“I’ll join you in that one, chief, phew.”

I straightened my hat and turned up my collar. “Let’s go back inside,” I said. “It’s getting chilly out here.”

“You’re right, chief, downright bitter.”

“And it looks like rain.”

“Snow, chief, looks like snow.”

“Not at this time of year, surely?”

Something hit me right upon the snap-brim. “Hail,” I said. “It’s hail. No, it is snow. No, it’s rain, no, it’s, oh, the sun’s come out again. No it’s not …”

“Chief,” said Barry.

“Barry?” said I.

And then the hurricane hit us.