‘You’ve made your selection.’

‘Indeed I have. Have you got a pump shotgun, double loader.’

He was dismayed, spread his arms out, said, ‘You don’t wish any of these pieces?’

‘Naw.’

Jeez, was he pleased, bundled up the gear with sighs and tut-tutting. I could give a fuck. Went and got me the pump and two dozen shells. Said in a sarcastic tone, ‘I trust this is sufficient.’

‘Yo Joseph, don’t trust so easily eh. Tell you what though, if I run out, I’ll give you a bell.’

I was handing over the wad of money as I said this. He paused mid-note, said, ‘Oh, I don’t think so. One feels a car boot sale would answer your requirements.’

I wasn’t offended, offered, ‘You ever in the market for a car yerself, give me a shout.’

‘I very much doubt that Sir. I can’t ever picture myself in the market for whatever it is you hustle.’

As he let me out, I tapped his arm, said, ‘If I’m ever throwing a party, a wild one, you’re top of my A-list pal cos fuckit, you’re just a fun fella.’

He shut the door.

MOROCCO AND POINTS SOUTH

Got home and shit, I was tired. Weapons and funerals, they’ll do for you every time. Out of the car, gave the yuppie ‘ping’ and turned to my door.

Cassie literally materialised before me, staggered and I barely caught her before she hit the ground. She was out cold. Carried her over the threshold – yeah, I bet she enjoyed that – and laid her on the settee. Doused a cloth with ice water and mopped her brow. She was wearing late-evening hooker ensemble. Black bomber jacket, white and tight T-shirt, short black skirt, black stockings. Sure, the obvious crossed my mind but I tried to ignore it. She came round with little groans and whimpers, not unlike the sounds she’d made when we had sex. I asked, ‘Are you OK?’

‘Osteoporosis.’