…LONDON…
‘What’s he say?’
‘He says congratulations on the good work, love you. What do you think? He says find him or die. We’re going to carry this like nail holes in our fucking palms, you know that? Ten to the woman, twenty to the fink, six hundred in the bag. Plus we have to pay these idiots. And for what? Caddyshack. We get an ex-rental video starring Chevy fucking Chase. I hate the cunt. Is he still alive?’
‘He’s alive. It’s his hair that’s dead. The biker, I don’t understand. That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Now this boy knows he’s dealing with incompetents. Be comforting, wouldn’t it? To know you’re dealing with pricks? Two of them run out after him and they don’t get the bike number. I still cannot believe that.’
‘Hire for a week, next day you park in a garage, your intention is not to come back, you’re going to be picked up by a bike. No.’
‘The hospitals?’
‘Nothing local. They’re going wider. On a bike, could have gone anywhere.’
‘He won’t stick around. If he’s alive, he’s running. Just make sure these fucking Germans don’t miss some fucking ferry, charter flight to Ibiza, balloon, something.’
‘We could ask for help. Ask Carrick. They’ll find him.’
‘Find him, they find the fucking film. The bike, that’s what we need. Find the bike, we nail the cunt. Ring of steel, now that would have helped.’
‘Just around the City, no use. Although…’
‘What? What?’
‘I read they were trying out cameras in other parts for when Bush was here…’ ‘Who would know? Who would know?’
‘I don’t know, how would I…’
‘Ask the fucking Germans, ring the fucking Krauts, they’re supposed to know everything.’
‘How much can you tell them?’
‘Just tell them everything we know. Okay? We’re hanging out here. Time, the bike, the place, two people, the fucking direction, anything you can think of. Now. Please?’