Die Rich Die Happy

and we read how evil has been done in our fair city and the tall wog has been belted by another of the same, and is fatally dead.

'I'm sorry I miss that,' says Harry, and then he looks at Lonesome, and Lonesome's eyes are sticking out like chapel hat pegs, so then we look where he is looking, and we see the bird. And I know that I am right about Claudia Cardinale.

She sits at a table near us and orders meat pie and

egg and chips and when it comes she attacks it like it is her first for many weeks, and I am displeased at this behavior because she is beautiful, and one thing I am not adjusted to is birds with big appetites. She sees us staring, and she looks back at us, and when I see her eyes I know something else; this bird is not only beautiful, she's dangerous. Because we have the gear on, and it is black leather, the best; and Lonesome with the gear on would frighten a Martian—but the bird just looks at him as if she could cool him off without trying. She knows this without having to worry; it's just a fact. Then she goes back to her meat pie.

Then Harry remembers he's the leader and promotes some action. He gets up and we follow, and old Charlie behind the counter says: 'Now, boys. Don't let's have trouble,' and is silent. Harry gets between the bird and the door, so no one can see her. This is good thinking, and we do likewise.

'Evening,' says Harry.

'Good evening,' says the bird, and goes on eating chips like there's a famine starts in ten minutes.

'There's a feller wants to see you,' Harry says, and she stops eating.

'Name of Candlish.' She starts on the egg.

'You're mistaken,' she says. 'I don't know anybody of that name.'

And when I hear the voice I know there is trouble, because I know this kind of voice. Last year there is this other bird comes among us from up West, and she claims she is a reporter from the Whores' Gazette, but what she really is is a seeker after kicks of a carnal nature, and this bird commits unpleasantness with Harry and Jigger and even Lonesome, but not with me because I never joined the three musketeers, and the bird resents this, and she is the one who begins to call me 'O Level Edward,' on account of my education, and I am unhappy till Harry kicks her out on account of she is ancient. Twenty-six if she's a day. But what she had, besides old age, is the voice: B.B.C. voice, Declare This Bazaar Open voice, I Name This Ship voice, and I am nervous all over again. This bird is debsville. What's she want with the peasants? And I see that Lonesome is thinking the same thing, because like I say, Lonesome is no dummy, only lacking in fragrance.

'He wants to see you,' says Harry. 'No,' says the bird.

'You better,' says Harry, 'or 111 bust you one.'

What bird could resist such winsome charm? This one puts down her knife and fork, and her hands go into her pockets. I think she is looking for a fag—that's how dim I am.

'Sit down,' she says to Harry, and lacks a chair out for him, and Harry does so, and I am aware that Lonesome has withdrawn from behind me as the air is much clearer, and I am surprised because Lonesome doesn't usually chicken. Then I dig. The phone is near by, and the jukebox is going loud, and the bird is preoccupied, so Lonesome moves.

'What's in my pocket?' says the bird, and Harry looks down at the shape of her coat, and he can't believe what he sees.

'You're kidding,' he says.

'Am I?' says the bird. 'Touch the barrel then—but be careful.'

Harry's hand goes out, and he touches her coat, like reverently, and he says, 'It's a shooter all right,' and the bird says, 'I told you,' sort of impatient, as if she's tired of explaining the obvious. 'You others sit down too,' says the bird, then looks up quick, but Lonesome is behind me again and we are okay.

'Why does this Candlish want me?' she asks, and we say we don't know and explain how it's best just to do what Mr. Candlish says and she laughs in our faces and we take it, because this is a bird who does what she wants, and nobody else. Then I say she better go with us on account of the wog who's looking for her, and the wog worries her, but she can handle it, and she asks us do we know a man called Craig and we don't and she is unhappy. But she sees we're okay and lets go of the shooter and goes back to the calories, and even while I realize this is the way out night of my life I think how terrible it will be if she gets fat.

She tells us how she stays with the Chinaman, and about Sherif, and how the Chinaman comes into her when she is like worried and tells her how it's in the paper that Sherif is dead, and she must go because he never takes murderers, and gives her back their money less two quid use

of the room, and she agrees to go at once because the Chinaman has a gun and two assistants. Then she looks at us, one after the other, and she sighs.

'Very well,' she says. 'I really haven't any choice, have I? Let's go and meet your terrifying Mr. Candlish.'

And we go out of the caff, and it is dark outside, and like deserted, and we go to where we park our bikes, and this girl is as wary as a leopard in the Hons' playpen. There is a light by the bikes and we stand under it, reaching for our keys, then suddenly a wog geezer steps out of the darkness, and what he is holding is a gun. And he says: 'Stop there.' The girl starts to turn. 'You too, princess,' he says, and two more blokes appear out of nowhere, and the bird is still. 'You have a Browning automatic in your pocket,' he says. 'Take it out and put it on the ground.' She does just that.

'Now you boys can go,' says the wog, and maybe Harry is a bit slow in starting. I don't know, but one of the other wogs taps him on the cheekbone with a cosh and he yells, and turns, and like lurches away and we follow, feeling like children, and the wogs move in on the bird. And then it happens—like Harry's yell was a signal.

A big black Jag comes roaring up, and suddenly its headlights go on full and its horns blare and we are blinded, and so are the wogs, and it is still moving when this man gets out, and believe me, Rodney, he moves. And he hits these wogs like a bomb. For a moment they can't even see him, and he is into the first one and I see what happens. His fist comes curling up from his hipbone and he hits this wog in the ribs, and while he is doing so, not wishing to be idle, his other hand comes out flat and the edge of it connects with the wog's ear and he drops him and the second wog lunges at him with his gun, and the new man swings his arm and blocks the blow, and his other hand moves forwards as if it had a knife in it, only there isn't a knife—just his fingers, and they stab into the wog's gut, so then the third wog comes behind him and grabs him around the shoulders and gives the second wog time to straighten up and try again with the gun. And as he comes in the new guy sticks one arm out straight, crooks it and brings the elbow back into number three's belly, and there's a noise like wet cement and number three is falling and as he goes the new guy twists and throws him into number two's way, and number two hesitates, and this is fatal because the new guy doesn't punch this time, he leaps in the air like he's Nureyev's brother and as he goes his right leg straightens and connects with number two's neck, then he's down again ready for more of the same but the wogs aren't ready to go on, being unconscious, and the bird is in his arms, yabbering in wog, and all this time I still haven't moved, and my mouth is open, and I feel about six years old.

Then the new guy puts the girl to one side and turns to face us, and he has one fist clenched and the other straight, like the blade of an ax, and I see this is a very hard man indeed. His clothes are sharp but he doesn't overdo it on account of he is old, and his body moves inside them like a V8 engine. He has very dark-brown hair and eyes gray as the Thames that tell you nothing except he'll kill you if he has to, and I want more than anything to be like this man, and I am afraid. Then I hear gravel crunch behind us, and I look round and there is another man behind us all the time, in the shadow of the Jaguar, but now he comes toward us and he is a deb's delight, curly bowler and all but instead of an umbrella he carries an automatic pistol, and there is what can only be a silencer screwed on to the barrel. And this one's eyes are blue, and screwed up at the corners like he's tired, but the pistol isn't.

He comes over and looks at the wogs lying nice and peaceful, and 'Ah good,' he says. 'You chaps did a splendid job.'

Then he kneels beside the wogs and searches them, and takes away the coshes and the shooter, and in each of their free hands he finds a lead plug, and he looks displeased and shows them to the other man.

'Nasty,' he says. 'These boys were really quite heroic.'

'We didn't do anything,' says Harry.