Angel Touch by Mike Ripley Page B

that goes down these I days,’ I said, trying to be self-effacing. ‘My jazz is public bar, light-and-bitter, kick-the-chairs-against-the-wall stuff.’
    â€˜But you’re playing to an ageing audience that by the nature of economic progress declines as affluence increases and other alternatives begin to show. Why do you do it?’
    â€˜Somebody has to,’ I said, pretty sure that I followed him. ‘And anyway, when did you get a degree in marketing?’
    â€˜Last year. I start my Master’s in Business Administration at the LSE in September.’ Tim wasn’t flannelling.
    â€˜Just goes to show you can’t trust anybody these days.’
    I turned to Werewolf, pouting my lips.
    â€˜And you; you never came home last night.’
    Werewolf pulled on a brown, soft-leather jacket I hadn’t seen before. A price tag on a length of cotton hung from one sleeve.
    â€˜Ah well, something came up,’ he said, grinning.
    â€˜I can believe that,’ said Tiger Tim to himself as he examined the banjo I’d returned for scratches.
    â€˜I came round to collect my gear and invite you for a gargle but I was told you was out to lunch. I said you’d been out to lunch for the last ten years. Come and meet Sorrel; she’s round the corner.’
    Sorrel? Was this a person or some new street smarts Werewolf had added to his vocabulary?
    â€˜T’anks for the five-finger exercise.’ Werewolf acknowledged Tiger Tim.
    Tim looked down at the guitar case he used to collect his earnings. I guessed there were more pound coins in there now than when he sloped off to the pub.
    â€˜Anytime, big man,’ he said. ‘As long as you don’t make a habit of it.’
    â€˜Oh, all my habits are vurry pleasant.’ Werewolf smiled, then, for the benefit of the tourists, said loudly: ‘C’mon, Angel, let’s go.’
    â€˜Right behind you, darling,’ I said, cringing; but with a name like mine, you get to cringe a lot.
    â€˜Nice jacket,’ I said as we walked back towards the flea market.
    Werewolf shot his cuffs and did a twirl.
    â€˜Yeah, I thought so. So I mentioned it and wallop – Sorrel bought it for me.’
    â€˜Did it cost over the ton?’
    â€˜And the rest, but Sorrel gets discount from the other traders. There she is.’
    A tall, statuesque blonde that I’d last seen on the other side of the pub the previous night was standing behind the end stall of one of the market rows. She was wearing the sister to Werewolf’s jacket, but it looked better on her. I wondered how I’d missed her as I’d walked through.
    â€˜Hi, lovey,’ she said as we got there. ‘With you in a tick.’
    She returned to the business in hand, which was wrapping an old brass miner’s lamp in tissue paper for an elderly American couple. You could tell they were Americans – or maybe they were models for the Burberry collection – and they handed over a 50-pound note without a qualm. Sorrel didn’t even attempt to make change.
    After they’d moved off, she reached below her stall and produced the twin of the lamp she’d just sold. I knew a bloke in Kent who’d kept making them long after the pits closed, but I’d no idea they could fetch that sort of price. The real ones never had.
    Werewolf slipped an arm around her waist. Not exactly lovingly, more like a wrestler would.
    â€˜This is my old mate I was telling you about.’
    â€˜Hi, Armstrong,’ she said sweetly.
    â€˜Er ... that’s not me.’
    â€˜That’s his cab,’ said Werewolf.
    â€˜Oh, sorry. Hemingway, isn’t it?’
    â€˜No, dear. That’s his sleeping-bag. This is Angel.’
    â€˜Oh yes, of course.’ She smiled. ‘The trumpet-player. That’s right, isn’t it? What do you call the trumpet?’
    â€˜Don’t be silly,’ I said, doing an ‘aw shucks’ routine.