“All right, fair enough. So what do you want to talk toot about?”

“Well, actually, Laz, I’m thinking about buying a sofa. Is there anything you’d particularly recommend?”

“Hm,” said I. “A sofa. Well, it all depends on getting one that’s the right size and shape, at the price you can afford.”

“Go on,” said the maitre d’ with the slender, yet perfectly proportioned, physique.

“You see, you have your chesterfield, your G Plan three-seater, also available as a two, your classic chaise-longue, your Le Corbusier chaise-longue and your drop-end Bavarian chaise-longue with the tapestried upholstery and silk vanity tassels.”

“You sure know your sofas,” said Fangio.

“Buddy,” I told him, “in my business, knowing your sofas can mean the difference between buttering scones on a battered settee and licking lard on a love couch. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”

“I know where you’re coming from,” said the Fange. “For I’ve been there myself, on a cheap away-day to Norwich. What else would you suggest?”

“Well, there’s your studio couch, your box ottoman, your oak settle, which with the addition of cushions can easily be converted into a sofa.”

“I had an aunt who converted to Islam once,” said Fangio. “She thought she was converting to North Sea gas, but she ticked the wrong box on the application form.”

“Did she have a sofa, your aunt?”

“No, just an armchair and a pair of pouffes.”

“Ample seating. Did she live on her own?”

“She does now, the pouffes moved out. They’ve opened a candle shop in Kemptown.”

“The air’s very bracing in Kemptown. Someone told me that it was good for rheumatism. So I went there and caught it.”

“You can’t catch rheumatism, can you?”

“It all depends who’s throwing it,” I said. “Boys will be boys.”

And we paused for a moment to take stock and think of the good times.

“My problem regarding the sofa remains unsolved,” said the slim boy. “I’d like the best, but I can only afford the very worst.”

“Ah,” said I. “What you have there is a Couch 22 situation.”

Oh how we laughed once more.

Fangio dried his eyes upon an oversized red gingham handkerchief. “My, I did enjoy that,” said he. “That was top class toot. But look, here comes Mr Godalming.”

“Colin Godalming,” said Johnny Boy. “This would be the third child of God, who inherits the Earth. Mr Woodbine told us all about him.”

“Yes,” said Icarus. “I’m well aware of that.”

“And it makes sense,” said Johnny Boy, “if God’s family have all been forced to move down here to Earth. Colin has his father murdered and falsifies His will. So he now owns the planet.”

“Yes yes,” said Icarus. “I get the picture.”

“And he’s teamed up with the wrong’uns, which is why he came up with this scheme to massage everyone’s heads, so they can’t see what’s really going on. He’s been planning it all for years.”

“Yes,” said Icarus. “I understand what you’re saying.”

“That Mr Woodbine is a genius,” said Johnny Boy. “He knew it was Colin from the start.”

“No,” said Icarus. “Just stop that. It all fits too easily together.”

“Well, it would if it’s correct. Why go looking for a more complicated solution?”

“Because this is my brother we’re talking about. My mad brother. And if we get drawn into his madness we won’t be able to escape from it. It’s infectious. It’s like a disease. I’ve come down here to try to solve this myself. All I have to do is stay away from him for a week. If that’s possible.”

Johnny Boy stared up into the face of Icarus Smith. “Please don’t take offence at this,” he said, “but surely I detect a bit of sibling rivalry here. If Mr Woodbine really is your brother, then you should be proud of him. And if he’s not your brother, then you’ve projected the face of your brother onto him, because your brother is your hero. Which might explain why you are as you are. The lad who seeks to make a name for himself as the relocator who set the world to rights. Either way it means that you really do look up to your brother, but you can’t bring yourself to admit it.”

“No,” said Icarus. “It’s not true. I am what I am because I had a dream. My brother lives in a world of dreams, but I inhabit reality.”

“You’re just digging a deeper pit for yourself,” said Johnny Boy. “This is all dead Freudian.”

“Let’s go,” said Icarus.

“To where?”

“To find Colin Godalming, of course.”

“Mr Godalming?” I said, sticking out my hand for a shake. “Mr Colin Godalming?”

The dude looked me coolly up and down. It was clear that I had the right guy here, I could tell by the way he shone. Streamers of light twinkled prettily about him and a golden glow, which wasn’t just the mullet, drenched his shoulders.

“And who might you be?” asked the third child of God, declining my offer of a hearty handclasp.

“I’m a private investigator,” I replied, in a tone which left no doubt exactly where I stood on the matter. “The name’s Woodbine, Lazlo Woodbine.” And added, “Some call me Laz.”

The guy regarded me as one would a pigeon squit plopped on a pampered pompadour. “Well, Mr Woodless,” he said, in a tone which left no doubt exactly where he stood on the matter. “I don’t need a private investigator.”

“It’s Woodbine,” I said. “And believe me, buddy, you do.”

The guy gave me the kind of look I wouldn’t waste on a whippet. “What is this all about?” he asked. “I don’t have time to stand around here talking toot with a chap dressed up as a handbag.”

“A hand bag?” said I, in my finest Charlie’s Aunt. Or was it The Importance of Being Earnest? I always get the two confused. Or perhaps it was HMS Pinafore. No, I’m sure it was Charlie’s Aunt.

“It might have been my aunt,” said Fangio. “She used to have a handbag.”

“Keep out of this, Jiffy,” I told the emaciated maitre d’. “This is between me and Dolly Parton here.”

“Handbag!” said Colin and he tossed back his hair and primped at his golden shower.

“Fella,” I said, “let me ask you one question. What’s red and white and lies dead in an alleyway?”

“I have no idea,” said Colin.

“A bullet-ridden corpse,” said I. “And that corpse is your dad.”

“That was subtle,” said Fangio. “And who’s this Jiffy, anyway?”

“My dad?” said Colin. “What are you talking about?”

“Your dad bought the big one.”

“My daddy is dead?”

“Deader than a stone gnome in a whore’s window box,” said I. “Colder than an Eskimo’s nipple at an Alaskan alfresco piercing party. More bereft of life than a rerun of the Monty Python parrot sketch.”

“That dead?” said Fangio.

“And then some. Kaput.”

“No,” said Colin, getting a blubber on now. “It can’t be true. Not my poor dear daddy. Tell me that it isn’t true.”

“It’s true,” I said. “Truer than the noble love that wins the heart of a maiden fair. More unvarnished than a dunny door in a pine restorer’s stripping tank. As factual as a …”

“Fat fop in a foolish fedora?” said Fangio. “Only a suggestion, you don’t have to use it.”

“Oh my poor dear daddy.” Colin took to wailing and gnawing his knuckles and carrying on like a silly big girl.

“You’ve upset him,” said the bone-bag of a maitre d’.

“Enough of the thin-boy jibes,” said Fange. “I’m only human too, you know. Cut me and do I not bleed?”

“We can check that out,” I said. “Give us a lend of the knife you use to hack up your chewing fat.”

“No, really, Laz. I’m not kidding. You can be very cruel sometimes. And the guy’s really upset. Look at him, he’s crying.”

“He’s faking it,” I said.

“I’m not,” blubbed Colin.

“You are too,” said I.

“Blubb blubb blubb,” went Colin.

“Give him a hug,” said Fangio. “That sometimes helps.”