Body Line

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‘You look terrible,’ Slider said as Atherton slid into the car.

‘I feel terrible. I’d have to be dead three weeks to feel better than this,’ Atherton said. His voice gave him away – he sounded as if he’d been smoking forty a day for a week. ‘You, on the other hand . . .’ he added resentfully.

‘You shouldn’t mix your drinks,’ Slider said mildly.

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t sit in a jazz club and sip wine. It isn’t hip.’

‘If you were any more hip you wouldn’t be able to see over your pelvis.’

With Emily away in Ireland covering the elections, and Joanna doing a concert in Harrogate, Slider and Atherton had had an all-too-rare-lately boys’ night out. They had gone to Ronnie Scott’s for a Charlie Parker evening: Gilad Atzmon on sax, with a septet backing. Later on some of the Central boys coming off duty had arrived and the session had turned into a long one, moving from Ronnie’s to the flat of one of them nearby.

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