Read Online Just Another Angel by Mike Ripley - Free Book Online Page B

Soho, but his jive was pure Malibu surf talk. ‘Large’ was the word of the year, rapidly replacing ‘awesome,’ which had ousted ‘outstanding’ around 1985. I’ve always found, though, when dealing with someone like Lloyd, that it pays to let him be one step ahead – if, that is, you want something from him.
    â€˜So, you’ve got a record contract for them. Hey, that’s really great, man. It’s about them I wanted ...’
    â€˜Hey, don’t be too previous. Who said anything about a contract?’
    Boot parked his bum on the edge of a desk and put on his Sunday-best sneer.
    â€˜Lloyd does it the easy way, didn’t you know? Gets an album cover, gets a fan club, gets some T-shirts and then plays one recording company off against another. It helps if the band can play, but it’s not essential.’ That was quite a speech for Boot.
    â€˜Someday I’m going to do it without a band,’ grinned Lloyd.
    â€˜And give us decent entrepreneurs a bad name,’ said Boot, dead serious, though a less likely disciple of Milton Friedman I couldn’t think of. ‘Which is why I’ll take cash for this job. No more percentages. Two percent of nothing is fuck-all.’
    â€˜Okay, so give me a bill, Mr B.’ Lloyd’s face lit up. ‘Hey! Mr A and Mr B. What do you know!’
    â€˜And we all know who Mr C is,’ said Boot, leaning forward to pat Lloyd on the cheek. ‘Don’t go away, my man. I’ll get you an invoice.’
    â€˜I think the cover is great, Lloyd,’ I said as Boot moved away. ‘And the band is good. I played with them the other night at the Mimosa.’
    â€˜Oh yeah.’ Lloyd was looking at his band’s album cover, not too aware of me.
    â€˜That’s why I wanted to see you,’ I pushed on. ‘It’s the girl drummer. I need to contact her.’
    â€˜Emma? What you want with her?’
    â€˜Yeah, Emma. I’m looking for a friend of hers and she might know where she is.’
    Lloyd looked up. ‘You got the hots for Emma or something?’
    â€˜No, straight up, nothing like that.’ Well, that was honest enough. ‘It’s a friend of hers I’m after. I just need to talk to her.’
    â€˜Well, okay, Mr A, I’ll trust you, ‘cos you’re not the man to jive old Lloyd here, but you’d better not hassle my protégée.’ He pronounced it pro-tay-jay. ‘She’s at a very delicate stage of her development, man, and I don’t want the little lady upset.’
    â€˜She’s writing songs, huh? Talented lady.’
    â€˜Hell no,’ laughed Lloyd. ‘She’s doing her O-levels.’
    Â 
    About the only thing Hampstead and Hackney share in common is a dropped aitch. Even the pubs in Hampstead are different, being mostly Italian restaurants that accidentally sell beer if you have the required amount of readies, which in some cases meant an Amex card had to do nicely thank you.
    The address Lloyd gave me was impressive. I’m not giving it here because Emma’s father slipped me a few of the folding to keep his secret now that Emma’s getting well-known in the music business. Not her secret, you note: his. He doesn’t want the neighbours to know.
    Anyway, the house was a big, Georgian affair that Daddy probably afforded on a two percent mortgage from the bank he worked for. It took me a while, though, before I realised that Daddy owned all of it. I’d assumed at first that the place would be carved up into flats.
    I had a bit of trouble finding a suitable parking space for Armstrong (Rule 177) among the Metro Citys and those ubiquitous VW Golfs, which I’m sure are breeding somewhere in the backstreets, but I’d sussed the right house, and so it was down to a frontal attack up the six wide stone steps to the door and doing something dynamic like ringing the doorbell. The sound of drums from