Read Online Angel Hunt by Mike Ripley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Ripley
Tags: Drama, Fiction, Death, Romance, series, Lust, music, London, Revenge, Murder, Novel, angel, Comedy, Animal Rights, Jazz, mike ripley, comic crime, crime writers, fresh blood, lovejoy, critic, birmingham post, essex book festival, 1980, 80s, thatcherism
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much thought. The morning was wasting away and I was on a promise to deliver women for Simon down in Southwark.
Simon the Stripping Vicar had also in his time been Simon the Sex Ton, the Curvy Curate and even the Randy Rabbi. You name it, heâs taken off the clothes for it. He used to work for an outfit in the City called Even Rudergrams, but about a year ago the market fell right out of the bottom of the stripping kissogram girl (or boy) business, and the company packed up and moved into something else. Probably private health insurance or personal pensions. Ever wondered where the old door-to-door encyclopaedia salesmen went?
Simon bought up the costume store and set himself up in premises in Southwark, under the name Snogogram International. It was basically the same old idea of stripping kissograms, but he had one or two speciality lines. The most popular was undoubtedly the stripping policewoman or traffic warden â always good for a laugh among Londonâs paranoia-ravaged motorists. Once, when very drunk, Simon had phoned me late one night to try out a new concept, the âUzi-O-Gram,â which had the catchline âShoot up your girlfriendâs wedding, just for fun!â I had explained that while this was probably in the best of taste and unlikely to be very illegal, it was already being done in California and heâd be pushed to get third party insurance cover. This latter piece of logic had been the clincher, and heâd dropped the idea as soon as heâd sobered up, the following week.
He had come up with one idea, though, that had turned out to be a blinder at Christmastime. He called it Boozebusters, and the idea was that wives (and, more rarely, husbands) who were fed up with their partnerâs non-stop round of office parties would hire a Boozebuster squad to snatch the miscreant from the pub or wine-bar or restaurant, or even the office itself at a pre-arranged time. Needless to say, the âsnatch squadâ (yes, I know, but thatâs what they called themselves) were usually scantily-clad kissogram girls armed with water-pistols and cans of projectile shaving foam. The girls all had wodges of visiting cards in their stocking tops, which they threw as they grabbed their victim, and these had the Boozebusters logo â a picture of a drunk in a red circle, with a red slash â and Simonâs phone number on them. That Christmas, the Boozebuster girls were the sharpest thing in town.
Naturally, Armstrong was the perfect vehicle for transporting a hit team, especially if they were dressed as policewomen. At Christmastime in the City these days, there were more fancy dress police than real ones.
I checked in with Simon just after 12.00.
âGot a good one for you, Roy,â he said. âA four-hander at the Princess Louise in Holborn. Know it?â
âDo fish swim? Thereâs no parking around there.â I like to think Simon paid me for my expertise.
âThatâs why I wanted Armstrong,â he said.
Okay, so he paid me for my taxi. I didnât mind; I was happy that he still talked to me at all. Iâd once had to miss a rendezvous with him after heâd done his own stripping vicar act for some giggling secretaryâs twenty-first birthday, and heâd shot out of the pub stark bollock naked to find me somewhere else. Ever-resourceful, heâd stolen a copy of the Evening Standard to hide his blushes and gone home by Underground.
The Snogogram building wasnât really a building, it was a converted railway arch. There was just one room, rather like a small warehouse. Simon had a desk and three telephones near the door, and the rest of the place was taken up with racks of costumes and boxes of party stuff such as balloons and streamers. There was even a cardboard birthday cake about ten feet across, which a couple of girls could leap out of if somebody paid for their time and the hire of a van.
I sat on the edge of
Simon the Stripping Vicar had also in his time been Simon the Sex Ton, the Curvy Curate and even the Randy Rabbi. You name it, heâs taken off the clothes for it. He used to work for an outfit in the City called Even Rudergrams, but about a year ago the market fell right out of the bottom of the stripping kissogram girl (or boy) business, and the company packed up and moved into something else. Probably private health insurance or personal pensions. Ever wondered where the old door-to-door encyclopaedia salesmen went?
Simon bought up the costume store and set himself up in premises in Southwark, under the name Snogogram International. It was basically the same old idea of stripping kissograms, but he had one or two speciality lines. The most popular was undoubtedly the stripping policewoman or traffic warden â always good for a laugh among Londonâs paranoia-ravaged motorists. Once, when very drunk, Simon had phoned me late one night to try out a new concept, the âUzi-O-Gram,â which had the catchline âShoot up your girlfriendâs wedding, just for fun!â I had explained that while this was probably in the best of taste and unlikely to be very illegal, it was already being done in California and heâd be pushed to get third party insurance cover. This latter piece of logic had been the clincher, and heâd dropped the idea as soon as heâd sobered up, the following week.
He had come up with one idea, though, that had turned out to be a blinder at Christmastime. He called it Boozebusters, and the idea was that wives (and, more rarely, husbands) who were fed up with their partnerâs non-stop round of office parties would hire a Boozebuster squad to snatch the miscreant from the pub or wine-bar or restaurant, or even the office itself at a pre-arranged time. Needless to say, the âsnatch squadâ (yes, I know, but thatâs what they called themselves) were usually scantily-clad kissogram girls armed with water-pistols and cans of projectile shaving foam. The girls all had wodges of visiting cards in their stocking tops, which they threw as they grabbed their victim, and these had the Boozebusters logo â a picture of a drunk in a red circle, with a red slash â and Simonâs phone number on them. That Christmas, the Boozebuster girls were the sharpest thing in town.
Naturally, Armstrong was the perfect vehicle for transporting a hit team, especially if they were dressed as policewomen. At Christmastime in the City these days, there were more fancy dress police than real ones.
I checked in with Simon just after 12.00.
âGot a good one for you, Roy,â he said. âA four-hander at the Princess Louise in Holborn. Know it?â
âDo fish swim? Thereâs no parking around there.â I like to think Simon paid me for my expertise.
âThatâs why I wanted Armstrong,â he said.
Okay, so he paid me for my taxi. I didnât mind; I was happy that he still talked to me at all. Iâd once had to miss a rendezvous with him after heâd done his own stripping vicar act for some giggling secretaryâs twenty-first birthday, and heâd shot out of the pub stark bollock naked to find me somewhere else. Ever-resourceful, heâd stolen a copy of the Evening Standard to hide his blushes and gone home by Underground.
The Snogogram building wasnât really a building, it was a converted railway arch. There was just one room, rather like a small warehouse. Simon had a desk and three telephones near the door, and the rest of the place was taken up with racks of costumes and boxes of party stuff such as balloons and streamers. There was even a cardboard birthday cake about ten feet across, which a couple of girls could leap out of if somebody paid for their time and the hire of a van.
I sat on the edge of
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