The International Assassin A Sexy Times Crime Thriller Read Free Page B

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    “So this is your mystery man Charlotte?” I asked her with a level of disdain that suggested she had brought a bag of Foxy’s dogshit to dinner.
    “Yes, I’d love you to meet Sean,” she said. Smugly.  She would love me to meet him perhaps but I would rather be introduced to Idi Amin and Pol Pot.
    The scruffy individual stood up and smiled to reveal half his teeth were constructed from gold - probably melted down from Elizabeth Duke sovereign rings stolen off his benefit scrounging neighbours.
    “Awight darlin?” he said in some sort of yardie accent. He offered his hand, which had HATE tattooed across his fingers below an assortment of what appeared to be gold painted costume jewellery - most notable of which was a large ring with what I can only describe as two ladies of questionable character engaged in an act of fellatio on a man sausage. I reluctantly shook hands with him and immediately wiped it on the napkin reminding myself to ask the waiter to take it away, burn it in a secure enclosure and provide a replacement. Picking up Foxy’s poop in Hyde Park was a more pleasant experience than shaking his sweaty working class hand.
    “Oh how quaint ,” I replied in my best Roedean girls English. “Are you an actor?”
    “No luv. I’m in the musik industry innit.”
    “Ah. You own a market stall selling records?”
    He laughed with a raucous bren-gun chatter.
    “No, I’m like a rapper innit. I iz on the TV and everything. Like proper.”
    It was hard to decipher, I couldn’t quite decide if he was simply ill-educated or mentally retarded from his drug consumption.
    “Lovely,” I replied as Johnny pulled out my chair. “Well Charlotte has always been a fan of the arts,” I added.
    “nice. Innit. She’s my bitch innit.”
    “Yes. She is definitely that,” I replied tartly. Charlotte shot me an icicle glare.
    Of course the minute the scrote opened his mouth I had understood he was the musical performer that Johnny had referred to. Quite why Johnny had decided Charlotte’s father was an important enough individual to require Johnny to have him whacked was the real question.
    “So what you innit then luv?” he asked.
    “Well there’s a question,” I replied not sure what the question actually was. 
    “Is he your homeboy?” he asked referring I presumed, to Johnny.
    “No he’s from Surbiton,” I replied.
    “Safe. South landan crew innit. Whats your gig then chap?” he asked Johnny.
    “Public relations,” replied Johnny tactfully.
    “For real. That’s like PR?”
    “That is PR.”
    “Nice. Nice. I got one of dem ting-tings. Nice. Safe. Real.”
    It was like listening to Stephen Hawkin’s voice machine with a software malfunction.
    “So what kind of music do you make then?” I asked politely.
    “Gangsta rap innit. Like about life on the streets with my homies n shit.”
    “Oh I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were a homeless person,” I replied.
    “No luv, I’ve got a crib like.”
    “You’re a little large for that. How do you fit?” I asked.
    “Eh?”
    “Into a child’s crib? Don’t your sort of people usually sleep in cardboard boxes?”
    “No what I is saying like is I has a crib, like a pad. In my manor.”
    “Oh you have a title . One would never have guessed, but I suppose since New Labour they are trying to make the Lords more accessible for your sort.”
    Charlotte glared at me. The musical tramp merely laughed and snorted as he gobbled his mange-tout with pesto drizzle.
    “This isn’t my usual sort of place innit, it’s like all Ramsay stylin ting-tings.”
    “Well I’m sure they will do you a kebab if you ask nicely,” I retorted.
    “You’re funny innit. You’re a funny bird. Chas never told me you was a funny bird. Safe innit.”
    To say the evening’s engagement was the most painful dinner one has experienced would be a gross understatement. He regaled us with his endless tales of council estate thuggery and minor criminal adventures