Free Angel City by Mike Ripley Page B

said Tigger, slithering across the seat. He was wearing a shell suit with purple and orange stripes. It looked like the sort of garment they give you after they’ve taken away your real clothes and sharp objects and put you in the cell next door to that nice Dr Lecter.
    He turned as he opened his door, but I held up a hand to forestall him.
    â€˜If you say “Trust me” one more time, I’m phoning the Samaritans.’
    â€˜Give ‘em my love,’ he grinned, jumping out.
    â€˜Yeah, I reckoned you’d have an account with them,’ I said to myself.
    I switched off the engine and took the keys from the ignition. I had wound down my window by the time Tigger appeared sheepishly with his hand out.
    â€˜Er … the back doors are locked.’ He saw the dangling keys. ‘Thanks.’
    â€˜Want a hand, to speed things up?’ I offered.
    â€˜No.’ He said it quickly; too quickly. ‘I can manage. Don’t get out.’
    I stayed in the cab, my fingers twitching on the wheel until he had opened the back doors and brought back the keys. Knowing I could at least drive away calmed me down a bit, but not enough. In the wing mirrors I could see Tigger taking two black plastic bags on a trip to somewhere in the darkness of the yard, and once I heard a screech of metal and a crash, followed by a distinct ‘Shite!’ as something gave way under him.
    He made three trips in all; six bags. Then he appeared at my window again.
    â€˜Got a pen on you?’
    â€˜As a matter of fact, yes,’ I said, startled, but handing over a black felt-tip.
    â€˜Don’t ask,’ he said and winked.
    He disappeared back into the yard and was gone for three or four minutes before reappearing in the nearside mirror. As he walked towards the passenger door, I could see him tucking an envelope into the waistband of his trousers. ‘That’s it, we’re out of here,’ he said, piling in.
    â€˜You said something about double the wages.’ I held out a hand. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean I have to ask you twice.’ He sighed and tore open a velcro pocket. ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ he said, handing over a fold of notes.
    â€˜That way I’m rarely disappointed.’
    Tigger held up his right hand as if he was administering a blessing.
    â€˜I abjure thee, vile spirit and by expelling thee, heal all wounds.’
    I started the Transit’s engine. ‘Don’t throw a wobbler on me now, Tigger. Wait till we’re south of the river.’
    â€˜No wobblers.’ He drummed a riff on the dashboard. ‘Job’s done, time to take a break. I’m going to have a monster weekend.’
    â€˜Good for you.’ I was concentrating on my mirror looking for rogue police cars or some of the local tribesmen. It wasn’t a good area to be cruising after midnight. Even the pit bulls went round in pairs.
    â€˜You can drop me at the Ritz,’ Tigger said dreamily.
    â€˜Sure.’ I let him see me eyeing his shell suit. ‘Formal dress tonight, is it?’
    â€˜Now, now, you old tart, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’
    I checked the rearview again and reckoned we were free and clear.
    â€˜I know I’m going to regret this, but tried what?’
    â€˜The Friday night throw-outs from the kitchens. Once the rich people have gone, the street people get to lick the plates.’
    â€˜Tigger, you’ve just given me two hundred notes, so somewhere about your unwashed little person, you’ve got at least the same if not more. You can afford a square meal, for Christ’s sake.’
    â€˜That’s not the point, Angel. You get to meet some interesting street people. Lots of kids from up north, middle-class runaways, druggies, winos – all human lowlife is there. And then, of course, there are the rich punters looking to pick up a bit of lowlife to satisfy their appetites.’
    I said