Free Zip Gun Boogie by Mark Timlin

asked.
    â€˜Fatal.’
    I nodded. I knew about pure horse.
    â€˜Is he a user?’
    â€˜No.’ O’Connell shook his head adamantly. ‘We’ve talked. I believe him. If he had been, it wouldn’t have affected him so much.’
    â€˜Exactly what did happen?’
    â€˜The usual. Nausea, vomiting. He wanted to sleep, but thank God his wife had the presence of mind to keep him awake. If he’d gone into a coma we might not be talking now.’
    â€˜Is he all right now?’
    â€˜As all right as we can make him.’
    â€˜So he can leave?’ I said.
    â€˜One more night should do it.’
    â€˜Good.’
    I turned to go. ‘Take care of him, Mr Sharman,’ said O’Connell. ‘Next time he might not be so lucky.’
    I nodded and left. At the door I turned and said, ‘Don’t lose that,’ referring to the sample he was still holding. ‘We might need it later for evidence.’
    â€˜Trust me,’ he said. ‘I’m a doctor.’
    â€˜I’ll do that.’ I raised one hand in salute and went back to the room where Shapiro and Lomax were waiting. The quiz game was on again. Two naked women were rubbing what looked suspiciously like strawberry Fromage Frais into each other’s breasts. ‘The doctor’s cool,’ I said. ‘He’s given you a clean bill of health. You’re leaving tomorrow.’
    â€˜That’s right. Time’s awasting and we’ve got lots to do.’
    â€˜OK,’ I said, and then to Lomax, ‘You’d better make sure this man of yours is covered with security from the moment he leaves here.’
    â€˜Like fleas on a dog,’ said Lomax.
    Shapiro pulled a face.

8
    L omax and I left soon after and drove back to the hotel. In the car he said to me, ‘What do you think?’
    â€˜Dunno,’ I replied. ‘But I think he knows damn well where the smack came from.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Just intuition. I’m used to people telling me lies. I can pick them out of the air.’
    â€˜So why’s he not telling?’
    â€˜Now that’s the tough part. Have you got that list?’
    â€˜What list?’
    â€˜The list of everyone who was actually in the hotel the other night, and everyone who was hanging round your man’s suite.’
    â€˜No. But Trash’s old lady’ll know. She’s back at the hotel now.’
    â€˜What’s she like?’
    He looked towards the roof lining of the limo silently. His look said more than words could.
    â€˜OK,’ I said. ‘I get the picture. What’s her name?’
    â€˜Lindy.’
    â€˜Nice.’
    â€˜Lindy Hopp with two “p”s. Ex-groupie.’
    â€˜Ex?’ I asked.
    â€˜Sure. She got lucky. Married a rock star. Got the whole enchilada.’
    â€˜Are they OK?’
    â€˜How do you mean?’
    â€˜Together,’ I explained.
    â€˜Oh, sure. As far as I know. Groupies are like geishas. They’re versed in the art of pleasing men. That’s their job.’
    When we got back to Jones’, we went straight to a suite on the third floor, in the far corner from Ninotchka’s. Of her there was still no sign. We knocked on the door of the Bloomsbury Suite at about 1.15. Yet another security bloke came to the door. This one’s name was Sam. He was big and black. I was beginning to wonder if anyone called Maurice or Oswald ever got into the security game, or if they all changed their names. ‘Mr Lomax,’ said Sam.
    â€˜Is Lindy in?’ asked Lomax.
    â€˜Sure. Come in.’
    Together we went into the sitting room. It was the same size suite as Ninotchka’s. One door to the corridor, four other doors where mine had only two. I was beginning to feel deprived. There was a long skinny woman with black hair cropped close to the skull sitting on one of the sofas watching TV. She was wearing a green lurex top cut high at the neck and a