Watching the Wheels Come Off by Mike Hodges

that?’
    ‘Maybe the décor’s struck him blind?’
    She sticks two fingers in her mouth, letting rip a whistle worthy of any doorman in New York. The barman swings around.
    ‘Blind but not deaf it seems.’
    She smiles sweetly when he arrives and waits as he wipes the bar top with a sodden tea towel while emptying the ashtray full of butt ends with her lipstick traces. He
    takes his time. When he finally looks up at her, she speaks: ‘Same again.’
    The barman stares at her with pupils smaller than sheep shit. This guy has seen a lot of Spaghetti Westerns. But so has Ursula. She plucks a cigarette from the pack, fires up her lighter, inhales, blows a smoke ring and only then says: ‘Please.’
    A sneer plays on the barman’s mouth. He smacks the wet towel over his shoulder with a loud crack and turns very slowly to face Mark. Unfortunately Mark is in a different film. His order comes fast, too fast and, worse, it’s soft.
    ‘Orange juice.’
    The barman tries to retrieve the scene. He lets his long arms drop to imaginary holsters and doesn’t make a further move. He doesn’t speak either. He just lets his black sheep-shit pupils bore into Mark. Mark returns the stare. One…two…three… and Mark blinks. Then he capitulates: ‘Please.’
    The barman shakes his head sadly and shuffles off. Meanwhile he gathers his long greasy black hair into a ponytail, slipping a rubber band over it. Mark watches him uneasily until he’s out of earshot.
    ‘Where does he think he is? Tombstone City? The cunt hasn’t even noticed he’s supposed to be in Manhattan. Can you believe it?’
    ‘Easily.’
    Mark, now troubled, ponders some more.
    ‘Did he seem psychotic to you?’
    ‘Not anything that exciting, I’m afraid. Somebodyobviously pulled his ponytail and flushed his brains out through his arse.’
    Mark keeps shaking his head, while looking nervously at the barman: ‘Jesus, there are crazy people everywhere. Did you hear what happened to Reg?’
    ‘Of course I did, and it didn’t surprise me.’ She blows another smoke ring. ‘Reg had the IQ of a haddock. Anyway, he made the front pages, which is what he always wanted.’
    ‘Trouble is he’s not around to read them. And I wish I could say his nearest and dearest were a little more appreciative. One of them – a fucking giant one at that – has actually threatened to kill me.’
    ‘Good. I love funerals.’
    ‘Only because you look sexy in black.’
    ‘Do I?’
    ‘You were in black when I first fell for you.’
    ‘Was it the school uniform? Or what was inside it?’
    ‘You haven’t still got that uniform, have you?’
    ‘I’ll wear it to your funeral.’
    ‘Not before?’
    ‘Not before.’
    ‘An erection isn’t much use when you’re dead.’
    ‘God will take care of it. After all, he’s been busy jerking us off ever since we invented him.’
    Mark has stopped listening. His mind is on other matters than God, or even gods. Hare’s threat is still banging around his brain like an angry wasp.
    ‘You’re good at pub quizzes. How old was Mozart when he died?’
    ‘Thirty-four.’
    ‘You’re kidding?’
    ‘Your age exactly.’
    Mark is visibly shaken. He peers anxiously over her shoulder towards the entrance.
    She turns to look; ‘Are you expecting somebody?’
    ‘Rodney Cole.’
    ‘That drip? I thought you couldn’t stand him.’
    ‘I can’t. Unfortunately I need his help.’
    ‘How?’
    Mark tenses, seeing his quarry entering behind her: ‘I’ll tell you later.’
    A tall man has entered from the auditorium. Rodney Cole possesses all the charisma of a tailor’s dummy. Indeed he even looks like one in his immaculate sky-blue suit, pink shirt and matching tie. Huge black-suede shoes seem to keep him upright.
    Shifting his focus beyond the new arrival, Mark can just see Cyril, on stage, disposing of another pint. Most of it runs down his shirt, as his long legs begin to buckle like an aircraft’s landing gear.
    The mob roars, willing