“So tell me about this case of yours, Laz,” says Fangio.

“Well,” says I. “I’m looking for this old guy. He might be a regular here. Has a thing about Jewish virgins. Ring any bells with you?”

Fangio stroked at his chiselled chin. “Well,” says he, also. “We do get a lot of Jewish virgins coming in here. A lot. But as to this old guy, what exactly does he look like?”

“Well,” says I, once more. “Can you imagine what God must look like?”

“Richard E. Grant,” said Fangio.

“Richard E. Grant?”

“Richard E. Grant. Tall and slim and dark with devilish good looks and a twinkle in his eye. Not unlike myself, in fact.”

“With the corner up,” said I.

“He’s spot on,” said Barry.

“He’s what?”

“Who’s what?” said Fangio, for none can hear Barry but me.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Fangio. “Were you talking to Gobbo the magic gnome? Because he’s moved out of my nose. He’s taken up residence in my pert bottom cleavage now. Hold on a minute while I get my trousers down.”

“Don’t you do any such thing.” I took off my hat and holding it carefully in front of my face I feigned an interest in its interior. “What are you saying, Barry?” I whispered. “Are you telling me that God looks like Richard E. Grant?”

“Well, wouldn’t you, if you wanted to pull Jewish virgins, chief? Or any virgins at all, for that matter.”

I lifted my hat from in front of my face and stuck it back on my head. “Aaagh!” I went. “Pull your bloody pants up, Fange!”

The fatless boy buttoned his fly.

“So,” said I. “A Richard E. Grant lookalike.”

“That’s me,” said Fangio.

I shook my head. “Does a guy who looks like Richard E. Grant ever come in here?” I asked.

“All the time,” said Fangio. “That would be Mr Godalming.”

“Mr Godalming!” I made the face of the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. “And do you think Mr Godalming might come in here tonight?”

Fangio shrugged. “He might do. You could wait for him,” and Fangio began to giggle.

“What are you giggling at?” I asked.

“You could wait for Mr Godalming. Get it? Waiting for Godalming, as in Waiting for Godot. That’s a good ’un, eh? Haw haw haw.”

“Lost on me,” I said. “But I’ll wait.”

And so I waited.

The Crimson Teacup began to fill up. But not with crimson tea. These dudes and dudesses had taken pretty seriously to the idea of coming as their favourite food.

“Excuse me.” A dame stood before me. And some dame she was. Five feet two and every inch a woman. She had hair the colour of cheese souffle. Her lips looked more at home around a champagne flute than a chipped enamel mug and her eyes were the windows of her Dover sole. She was wearing nothing but two fried eggs and a doner kebab.

“Interesting hat,” I said. “How did you sew on the fried eggs?”

“Mr Woodpile?” says she.

“Woodbine,” says I. “The name’s Lazlo Woodbine. Some call me Laz.”

“I’m Phil,” says the dame.

“Well, you shouldn’t eat so much,” says I. Always happy to inject a little humour into any situation.

“Philomena,” says the dame in a manner which led me to believe that she didn’t quite grasp the subtle nuances of my outstanding witticism. “Philomena Christina Maria O’Connor.”

“That sounds like a line from an Irish jig.”

“You’re a real funny guy, Mr Woodpile. It’s a pity you’ll meet such a tragic end.”

“Tragic end?” says I. “What’s this?”

“I overheard you asking after Mr Godalming.”

“But you weren’t in the bar at the time.”

“Walls have ears, as well as sausages,” says she. And who was I to argue with that?

“So what’s the deal?” says I.

“The deal is, stay away from Mr Godalming.”

“No can do,” I told her. “I’m working for his wife. She wants the guy back for his tea tomorrow.”

“His wife?” The dame went “haw haw haw” in a manner I found most upsetting. “Mr Godalming won’t be coming home for his tea tomorrow,” she said, and then went “haw haw haw” again.

“Enough of the hawing, already,” I told her. “You’ll get us picked up by the vice squad.”

The dame raised two fingers, then turned round and left me.

“What was that all about?” I asked myself.

“She’s a real bad lot,” said Barry.

“I was asking myself,” said I. “Not you.”

“Any luck then, Laz?” The thin boy tapped my shoulder with a delicate digit.

“None,” said I, a-shaking of my head. “There’s no shortage of Grant lookalikes in the place, though. I’ve seen three Russells, two Hughs, a General, and a council grant for getting your loft insulated. But ne’er a sniff of a Dick, if you catch my drift and I’m pretty sure that you do.”

“Pervert,” said the thin boy, but he said it with a smile.

I cast a professional eye around and about the place. The joint was truly jumpin’ now and the DJ was layin’ down the good stuff. Above the wild gyrating crowd, the bar’s logo revolved, an oversized teacup and saucer crafted from red vinyl and black lace and fashioned to resemble a corseted female torso.

And then I saw him.

“Him, chief, Him. Where? Where?”

“By the gents. I’m going over.”

“Just take care, chief. Take care.”

I elbowed my way through the dancers. Making my presence felt, but taking care that nobody rubbed up against me. I mean these folk were covered in food and this was my best trenchcoat. And although the fabric is waterproofed — in fact I’d had mine double-coated with that special stuff they treat office carpets with — you can still get greasy stains that are the very devil to wash out. Red wine’s always a killer, but almost anything from an Indian restaurant can be the kiss of death.

The way I see it is this: the way a man treats his trenchcoat tells you everything you need to know about him. Some say it’s shoes, and they may have a point, but in my business, keeping a spotless trenchcoat can mean the difference between cutting a dash at a debutante’s do or cutting the cheese in a chop shop. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.

“Out of the way there,” I went, and, “Don’t you get cream on my trenchcoat, buddy, or I’ll punch your lights out.”

I made my way to the gents with sartorial elegance intact, leaving only two men dead on the dance floor. Oh, and one woman too, but that had been an accident.

The Richard E. Grant lookalike had his back to me now and as I didn’t really know the correct form when addressing God in person, I thought it best to ask Barry.

“Just be polite,” said the little green guy. “And call Him sir. He always likes that.”

“Fair do’s.”

The dude hadn’t come as his favourite food, but I guessed God had more class than that. He wore the kind of suit that doesn’t come off the peg, or out of the Next catalogue. I’d only ever seen a suit like that once before and that was on the body of a businessman, who’d spilt soup on me at a Masonic maggot roast in Barking, back in ’93.

Mr Godalming was chewing the fat with a dame done up as a Danish. She looked to be about sixteen years of age, had long black hair and a tiny moustache and answered to the name of Sarah.

“So Sarah,” I heard Him say. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” A real class act.

“Er, excuse me, sir,” I said, in a manner calculated to give no offence, “but are you Mr Godalming?”

He turned slowly to face me and high above the DJ’s din I heard the angels sing. He fixed me with a stare from His clear blue eyes and my piles began to shrink. He opened his mouth to speak to me and I knew at that very moment that I, Lazlo Woodbine, private eye, stood in the presence of God.

And I damn near soiled my underlinen.

Well, it was that close.

“Excuse me, sir,” said I, and I backed at some speed to the gents.