Angel City Read Online Free PDF Page A

mob who needed lubrication before the minicabs arrived.
    One guy was well out of place. He was about mid-fifties, short, with black, swept-back hair and a black moustache. He wore thick, square, black-framed glasses that made him blink every three seconds. I timed him. There was nothing else to do.
    Sure enough, when Tigger did arrive just as I had decided not to invest in another beer and maybe give the whole thing a miss, he flounced straight by me and sat himself next to the guy in glasses.
    â€˜Umberto!’ he squeaked, or at least that’s what it sounded like, as he took one of the bloke’s hands in his. The guy didn’t look too keen on him borrowing it and he eased the grip free and stood up, saying something and nodding at the bar.
    â€˜Large Southern Comfort ‘n’ coke for me,’ Tigger announced, then looked across at me. ‘And another beer for my chauffeur.’
    The older guy stared at me long enough to blink twice, then went for the drinks. Tigger waved me over.
    He had changed out of his bike-rider’s leathers into a light blue tracksuit and trainers. He perched rather than sat on his chair, folding his legs up under him in a semi-lotus position, and dragged another chair by the arm so I could be close to him.
    â€˜Has Umberto been here long?’
    â€˜Hadn’t noticed,’ I lied.
    â€˜1 don’t think you miss much, Angel,’ he said loudly, and reached out to pat my knee.
    â€˜How old are you, Tigger?’ I asked to throw him, and it did for a millisecond.
    â€˜Nineteen. Why? Do I look younger?’
    â€˜No. Just surprised you made it that far.’
    A bottle of Mexican beer thumped down on the table in front of me. There was a huge wedge of lemon balanced precariously in the top.
    â€˜The barman said everybody drinks these during Happy Hour,’ said Umberto. ‘And he said sorry about the lime as well. Wouldn’t give me a glass, though.’
    â€˜I’ll manage,’ I said, flicking the lemon into the ashtray.
    â€˜Umberto Bassotti, this is Angel, but I don’t think he likes me calling him that.’
    â€˜Roy will do.’
    I nodded at Bassotti and he raised a glass at me. There was Scotch in it.
    â€˜Call me Bert, not Umberto, and don’t for fuck’s sake ask me what bit of Italy I come from.’
    â€˜Sicily, it’s gotta be,’ said Tigger immediately.
    â€˜Tuscany,’ I said, joining in. There were so many people from Hampstead owning property in Tuscany now, it was known as Chiantishire and no genuine Italian in England would admit to coming from there.
    â€˜Pompeii? Pinocchio? AC Milan ... ?’ Tigger rattled on
    â€˜I said not to ask, but if you must know, it’s Bedford. I’ve never been to Italy, red wine gives me an ‘eadache, pasta rots my guts and I couldn’t name the Pope if you paid me. Now if that’s out of the way, is the rest of the evening my own?’
    Tigger put on a fake hurt look. I grinned and took a pull on the neck of my beer.
    â€˜You’re gonna be our driver, then?’ Bert said to me.
    â€˜I need the work,’ I said, though the words didn’t come out easily.
    â€˜What have you driven before?’
    â€˜Rock bands, dry goods, wet goods, a petrol tanker once. Oh yeah, and I used to do the Spitalfields grape run to Bedford, would you believe?’ I said, and all of it was true.
    Bert raised his eyebrows and sipped more whisky.
    â€˜Bedford?’ Tigger asked.
    â€˜The Italian community there used to buy up the remains of the Italian grape harvest from the old London fruit markets and turn them into wine. Kept them going for the next year.’
    â€˜Like home brewing, you mean?’
    â€˜Too right,’ Bert chipped in. ‘They’d invite you round to their houses and there’d be piles of bloody grapes in the bath. Get your shoes and socks off and start trampling. Bloody peasants. They’d make