Free Take the A-Train by Mark Timlin Page A

soul,’ I said.
    ‘He wants to be a star,’ said Fiona.
    ‘Don’t we all?’
    As if on cue the door to the pub burst open and an apparition in a yellow, hooded T-shirt with an Italian flag printed across the front, purple-flowered tight Bermudas, white-framed Ray-Bans and orange baseball boots leapt through the gap and into the light.
    ‘Heeeeere’s Johnny,’ said Fiona.
    ‘I never would have guessed.’
    Johnny was a star all right, and he loved it. He ran from one group of his fans to another, shaking hands, touching shoulders, generally being a right pain in the arse. Eventually he turkey trotted over to our table. ‘Fiona, sweety poopy! So glad you could make it.’ He pushed the Ray Bans over the top of his gelled hair. ‘And you must be Nicky Baby. Heard a lot about you kid, all good.’
    I thought if he called me Nicky Baby again I’d plant the toe of my Shelley’s special loafers right up the crack of his fat backside, bad leg or no bad leg. Fiona made a placating face behind his back. I gave in. What the hell? If it made her happy I guessed I could take Johnny Smoke like bad medicine and smile all the time.
    ‘Hi, Johnny,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you.’
    He pulled up a chair and sat down. He raised a finger and an acolyte attended with a bottle of Grolsch. Johnny went through a big production of flicking the top one-handed and everyone in the room admired his style. He drank from the bottle, how else? I half hoped the china top that was still attached to the bottle by a clever little metal contraption would put his eye out. After giving his full attention to the temperature of the beer for a second, he turned his charm on Fiona. ‘How’s the career, poopy baby?’ he asked with all the sincerity of a life insurance salesman on Mogadon.
    ‘Can’t complain,’ she said. ‘How’s yours?’
    This was the question he had been waiting for. He flicked his head forward so the shades dropped back on to his nose and was away like the favourite at Harringay. ‘C’est magnifique , baybee,’ he said. ‘Might be going to Marbella, get away from the weather.’
    I felt like telling him he might be slightly warmer if he dressed for a British December rather than a Hawaiian June, but what the hell?
    ‘Nice,’ said Fiona.
    ‘Yeah, I’ve been offered a residency at a big nightclub over there. One and a half K a week and all the puss I can handle.’ Which from where I sat was precisely zip, but maybe I was jealous, just like Phil.
    ‘Fuck off, Johnny,’ said Fiona, bringing a welcome air of reality to the proceedings. ‘You don’t have to impress me, we’re not at Stringfellow’s now. I get that sort of bullshit all day at work. Lighten up and get some drinks in.’
    Johnny pushed his Ray-Bans up over his forehead again and grinned. He held up his hands. ‘I give in,’ he said. ‘You always could see through the old bollocks.’ He turned to me. ‘Don’t let her go, Nick. She’s as good as gold. Better than gold, in fact. What are you drinking?’
    ‘I’ll have a pint.’
    ‘Cold Becks,’ said Fiona.
    Johnny was passing the order over to the bar when the front door swung open again. A swarthy-looking geezer in a long tweed overcoat over jeans tucked into polished riding boots crept through the doorway carrying a cardboard box under his arm. He had a mass of thick curly hair that he pushed back from his face as he sized up the crowd. He saw Johnny and made for him like he was on a piece of elastic.
    ‘Fran-ches-co,’ screamed Johnny, going straight back to being a jerk again.
    ‘Hello, John,’ the swarthy geezer said.
    ‘My man,’ said Johnny. ‘Meet some friends. Francis, this is Fiona and Nick. Fiona and Nick this is Francis.’
    There was no way you could fault the guy for manners.
    ‘Call me Frank,’ said the swarthy geezer.
    ‘Hello, Frank,’ I said.
    ‘Frank,’ echoed Fiona.
    Our drinks arrived over the bar. Frank looked thirsty but no one offered to buy him a drink. He