Everything is Permissible: The Second Book of Farouk by John Whitbourn

Author:John Whitbourn [Whitbourn, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The PARVUS Press
Published: 2019-05-02T04:00:00+00:00

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And so he had - in a minor, Monégasque, way. The motor launch proved to be stolen (Everett preferred ‘borrowed’) and its owner, waiting at the dock, difficult to placate. He’d been planning to impress a prospective new mistress (aged seventeen, just), by taking her for a spin round the harbour. And then, judging by his boiling frustration when we met, take her. Whereas, temporarily deprived of his vessel, they couldn’t go. And so she’d gone: as in gone off with another, more maritime-mobile, man.

‘That’s them out there now!’ roared the leathery Lebanese ex-pat, pointing to a distant boat’s light bobbing on the horizon. And, goodness gracious, how it was bobbing. ‘But it should be me! But it’s not me! And it’s all your fault!’

First he wanted blood. Then, when Zog loomed up to his full height and majesty, the Lebanese scaled that down to informing the police. Plus outraged outrage that could only be soothed by ‘compensation’. Then I deployed Les and Chrysanthemum. Whereupon he shut up and settled for survival.

History was thus set back on its previous course from which Everett had nudged it. Or so I then thought. And Everett chose not to disabuse me.

Which was the right choice, because just then I’d had a bellyful of anything abuse or even disabuse related. My Biretta felt underused and hot-to-trot in its shoulder holster.[615] This business with the lecherous Lebanese had merely been the discordant coda to a disagreeable concert of a day. First, I - I! - had been asked to leave the joint. Then the chimera of returning in gloating triumph via buying up all Monaco was wafted before me, only to be whisked away. With, let it be said, a gratuitous helping of GROSS INSULT. About a digital insertion and disgusting glove puppetry. Then I’d been made party to murder - albeit an understandable one.

Maintaining the tone, when Ari received my final and authoritative ‘no’ he’d asked me to quit the Christina - in his own inimitable way. Thus, pursued by Greek obscenities and anatomically impossible suggestions until out of hailing range, we returned to shore in Everett’s craft - now more proficiently piloted by Zog. Whereupon I found myself marooned in Monaco again. Where I was still subject to unofficial exile and thus not safe on the streets. For at any moment some Principality employee might walk up and assassinate my reputation by asking:

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