Zip Gun Boogie Read Online Free PDF Page A

Keith,’ said Roger Lomax.
    â€˜Hi,’ said Pandora, looking at me.
    â€˜This is Nick Sharman.’
    â€˜I’ve heard about you,’ said Pandora. ‘Welcome aboard.’ I nodded.
    Up close he looked his age. His hair was still thick but his face was deeply lined and tired-looking under its tan. He was handsome in a self-indulgent way, with full, pouty lips and a large, hooked nose. He was dressed in what I imagined was rock-star chic: a black leather biker’s jacket, a size too small, over a satin cowboy shirt with white piping and silver arrowheads on the points of the collars. Tight, faded jeans and black boots. ‘Is Dodge looking after you?’ he asked.
    â€˜Dodge?’
    â€˜Roger the Dodger,’ said Pandora, and smiled showing yellow teeth. ‘The best in the biz. Ain’t that right, Dodge?’
    â€˜So they say.’
    â€˜I’ll tell you how he got the name one day, Nick,’ said Pandora. ‘Right now I’m busy.’ He grinned, and I thought how satisfying it would be to punch him in the mouth and mash his fat lips on to his big teeth.
    â€˜I’ll look forward to it,’ I said, and didn’t know if I meant the story or the punch.
    â€˜See you later then.’ And Pandora turned on a cowboy-booted heel and left.
    â€˜You shouldn’t show your enthusiasm so much,’ said Lomax. ‘You almost bowled him over.’
    â€˜I’m working for the band, I don’t have to like them,’ I said. ‘Get that straight now.’
    He raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK, I gotcha.’ Just then the door burst open and the short guy in denim I’d met in the garage entered with his little gang. They made for the booth where Lomax and I were sitting. The guy in denim half fell across the table and said to Roger, ‘Hello, Dodge, going into town tonight?’
    â€˜No,’ said Lomax. ‘I’m staying here.’
    The guy in denim slid into the booth next to me. ‘Hello,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Who are you? Do you work here?’
    I looked at Lomax. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is Nick Sharman. He’s a detective, private. He’s looking into our trouble.’
    â€˜Is that so?’ said the guy in denim.
    â€˜Nick, this is Tony Box, his wife, Barby.’ The woman in the red spangled dress smiled a greeting. ‘And Pat, who drives them round, and generally takes care of business.’ The big geezer nodded to me.
    â€˜We’ve met.’
    â€˜No,’ said Box.
    â€˜In the garage. You tried to buy my car.’
    Tony Box looked askance. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘Did I? Did you sell it to me?’
    â€˜No.’ It was my turn.
    â€˜Good. I’ve got enough cars as it is, and I’ve got no dough. Get us a drink, Dodge.’
    Lomax did another of his invisible signals and beamed the barman in. ‘What?’ he asked.
    â€˜Jack Daniel’s,’ said Tony Box. ‘A bottle for me, large brandy for the wife, Perrier for the driver, and whatever you two are having.’ He sat next to me and breathed whisky into my face. If I’d had a match handy I could have set fire to his breath.
    â€˜What is it?’ he asked me.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Your car.’
    â€˜Seventy-two E-Type, V-twelve hard top.’
    â€˜Nice car. Maybe I’ll buy it after all.’
    â€˜Fine,’ I said.
    I looked over at Roger Lomax. He spoke to me as if Tony Box wasn’t in the same room. I was beginning to wonder if he was from the same galaxy. ‘He forgets everything,’ he said softly. ‘Except his lead lines and the number of his bank account.’
    This guy was reaching levels of cynicism that even I would have had trouble scaling. Tony Box and his party hadn’t heard a word of it.
    Lomax shrugged and grinned, and his teeth reflected the light. He excused himself to Tony Box’s wife like a perfect gentleman.