Free The Triple Goddess by Ashly Graham Page B

position, in the chest with his pace-stick.
    “Not at this end, sah!”, responded Chinless; and he went on to inform Mr Batters-Hell that, in support of his refutation, he understood that Mr Batters-Hell’s maternal ancestor was the woman who had put the cunt in Scunthorpe.
    The Chinless Wonder, who was a tireless practical joker, had Chimp-speak down pat, and made many an underwriter jump by imitating his unmistakable sounds behind the box. In the mornings when the Chimp left the office, Chinless would give vent to the general relief by scampering across the desktops, dragging his knuckles and screaming until called from the Golden Mile to complain about the noise.
    On one occasion the Chief Executive came round in person. Chinless got off the desk, saluted him, answered a ringing phone and handed it to his chief, informing him that his office was forwarding a call from his mistress. The young brokers occasionally saw the CEO, whose name was Ranulph, in the company of this woman, a sultry Argentinian temptress called Ramona who carried it all before her, at Annabel’s nightclub; after which they were confident that American Express could rely upon their outstanding expense account balances that month being paid in full.
    The boss scowled at Chinless and grabbed the handset. ‘Hello, Honeybunch, how are you?’ he crooned into the mouthpiece—he was proud of his extramarital accomplishments, and did not care who knew about them, with one exception: his wife—‘Is Honeybunch looking forward to putting on her camiknickers tonight, the pair Daddy got her for her birthday, and spanking him for being so naughty? Guess what, Honeybunch: the Old Lady thinks that Daddy’s staying in town tonight for dinner with a client, instead of meeting Honeybunch at the flat at six and eating caviar out of her belly-button.’
    At home in Hove and on the other end of the line, the Old Lady, otherwise known as the Chief Executive’s wife, or Arlene, was chagrined that she was the one to get all the proof she needed so easily of her husband’s latest infidelity, rather than the private investigator whom she had paid handsomely to do the job for her in addition to forking out for his wire-tapping service, which was extra.
    Arlene had only telephoned Ranulph to tell him to order a case of good champagne—she knew nothing about wine except how to drink it—on his account at Berry Bros & Rudd for her to serve at her next ladies’ book club meeting—it was her turn to host.
    Notwithstanding, thanks to Chinless’s penchant for mischief, the Ranulph and Ramona show was over...or perhaps not, though it was hardly likely that Argentina would stick around now that Arlene had everything she required to secure a substantial divorce settlement and marry a man who was wealthier and better-looking than Ranulph, and who did not fall asleep on the job; and if Honeybunch knew what was good for her, and Arlene suspected that she did, she would soon be on the qui vive for someone similar herself.
    Who knew? perhaps Arlene and Ramona could be of mutual assistance again.
    Without waiting for Ranulph’s wrath to descend upon him, Chinless, hooting with hilarity, fell onto all fours, tossed a banana skin over his shoulder, and raced out of the office clawing at his armpits.
    Oink Chandler was a popular individual who was important enough to warrant a glass cubicle of his own outside the brokers’ bullpen, and he was Arbella’s boss. As a black-sheep descendant of the founding family, Oink had gambled and drunk most of his inheritance away, and was working hard at getting rid of the remainder after business hours. He slept, it appeared, in the same brown wrinkled and malodorous suit and shirt as he wore to work. His piggy eyes and features were bloodshot and flushed with indulgence.
    Despite his rotundity and shambling walk, Oink was capable of putting on a surprising burst of speed, especially after work when an open pub door swam into his ken. During