The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (12 page)

‘Bastard,’
I said.

‘Quite
so,’ said Fangio. ‘“Well,” the bloke continued, “we were several days out of
Frisco on this particular voyage and I was enjoying the attentions of a
particularly well-endowed young woman who liked to get it on in the lifeboat.
And one night we were bonking away and she kicked out unexpectedly and I got
tipped over the side. The ship went on without me and I was left all alone
drifting in the sea. I thought I was a goner, I can tell you, but I kept afloat
somehow. I drifted in and out of consciousness and then I saw a bloke go
rowing by using a swordfish saw for a paddle, but he didn’t hear my cries for
help. After what seemed like days I was finally washed up on a desert island.

‘“There
was food enough to eat: I caught fish, and ate fruit and survived. But I was
mad from loneliness and lack of female company. I was dying for a shag. And
then one day, as I’m walking along the beach, I come upon this handbag.”‘

‘A
handbag?’
I said.

‘A
voodoo handbag,’ said Fangio. ‘But let’s let the bloke tell it. “I recognized
it at once,” says the bloke, “because we’d docked a while back in Haiti and I’d
been to one of the voodoo temples to see the black girls dancing with their kit
off.
And on one of the altars I’d seen one of these handbags. All
covered in skulls. Real weird shit. So I pick up this handbag from the beach
and I open it up. And out comes this beautiful woman. A genie like, she
materializes right before me.”‘

‘Get
away,’ I said.

‘Shut
up,’ said Fangio. ‘“‘You have freed me from the voodoo handbag,’ says the
genie, ‘where I have been held captive for a thousand years. In order to reward
you I will grant you a wish.’ Well, I should have said, ‘Get me off the island,’
but I didn’t. All I could see was this beautiful woman and I was gagging for
it. ‘I want to make love to you,’ I said. But the beautiful genie shook her
head. ‘Genies don’t have those parts,’ she said, pointing to her groin regions.
And I was desperate, so I said—”‘

‘What
about giving me a little head, then?’

‘Correct,’
said Fangio. ‘However did you guess?’

‘Because
it’s a crap old joke and I’ve heard it before.’

‘I
haven’t,’ said the fat boy. ‘So you think he was making it up?’

‘I
think
you
made it up.’

‘Oh
yeah?’ Fangio reached beneath the counter and brought out what appeared to be a
tiny Homburg. ‘So what do you make of this then, sucker? He left his hat
behind.’

I
examined said hat. ‘This,’ I said to Fange, ‘is the hat of a glove puppet. The
hat of a Norris the Boil glove puppet, to be precise. Norris was the creation
of an illustrator called Albert Tupper back in the 1950s. Albert wrote a whole
series of books based on Norris’ adventures. Norris was a boil on the back of a
nightclub owner’s neck and he got into all kinds of humorous scrapes. Sadly,
however, the world was not ready for books about buboes and Albert died, the
tragic victim of a freak accident involving rubber bands and a bathing cap.’

Fangio
whistled. ‘You sure know your spin-off products,’ he said.

‘Buddy,’
I told him, ‘in my business, knowing your spin-off products can mean the
difference between crawling the kerb and fouling the footpath, if you know what
I mean, and I’m sure that you do.’

‘Excuse
me, chief,’ said Barry, ‘and I do hate like damn to break in on you like this.
But much as I know that talking a lot of old toot in bars is an important part
of the Lazlo Woodbine methodology, I can’t help feeling we’re losing the plot
here.’

‘Patience,
Barry. It will all become clear.’

‘Yeah,
right.’

‘So,’
said Fangio, ‘I’m sorry you don’t believe me about the man with the little
head. Perhaps if I showed you the handbag.’

‘He
left the handbag here? The voodoo handbag?’

‘Said
he felt embarrassed carrying it around. Said it made people stare at him.’

‘Show
me this handbag and show it to me now.’

‘Sure,’
said Fange, reaching down. ‘No, wait just a moment, I have to serve this
customer.’

I
turned to look at the customer in question, and frankly confess that I liked
what I saw. She was beautiful. A goddess. A Helen of Troy. An Aphrodite. A
Venus. She was graceful and majestic, leonine and lovely, radiant and
ravishing, cute and curvaceous— ‘I like the way you think,’ she said, and she grinned
through a gap in her teeth.

‘Let me
get this for the lady,’ I said to Fange, who was pulling her a pint of mild.

What a gentleman
you are.’ She grinned again and swung round in my direction.

‘The
name’s Woodbine,’ I said. ‘Lazlo Woodbine. Some call me Laz.’

‘Pleased
to meet you, Chas.’

‘Er,
Laz,’
I said. ‘Laz is my name.’

‘Oh,
excuse me.’ She turned her head on one side and bashed her right ear with her
fist. ‘Got a bit of carrot stuck in my left ear,’ she explained. ‘You know how
it is, as much as you can eat for a fiver, so you get your head right down into
that old salad bowl.’

I
concurred. (Well, you would!)

‘Stuff
it in while you can, I always say,’ she grinned, gappily.

‘I do
so agree.’

‘Well,
you would.’

Fange
served the lady with her pint. ‘Another for yourself, sir?’ he asked.

‘Just a
look at that handbag,’ I said.

‘Oh
yes, handbag, handbag, now what did I do with that handbag?’

While
he was looking I thought I’d engage the dame in conversation. Chat her up a bit
and see where it led. Dazzle her with the old sparkling repartee. Mould her
like putty, then play her like a violin.

‘You
don’t sweat much for a fat lass,’. I said.

‘Smooth
talker,’ she replied, giving me a slap across the jaw that loosened several
fillings. ‘And don’t think I don’t know your game.’

I smiled,
charmingly. ‘Haven’t I seen you in movies?’ I continued.

‘Perhaps.’
She swallowed her ale and wiped froth from her chin.

‘I know
I have,’ I said. ‘I’ll get it in a moment.’

She
turned her face in profile and pointed to her nose.

‘I’ve
got it,’ I said. ‘You’re Jabba the Hutt.’

She
smacked me right in the gob. ‘Casanova,’ she giggled, ‘you’ll be the death of
me.’

I
clicked my jaw. It didn’t seem to be broken. ‘You’ve got a good right hand
there,’ I said, in the voice of one who knows these things. ‘Try this one for
size,’ and I kicked her in the stomach.

She
doubled right over, but came up fast. ‘You really know how to treat a lady,’
she said as she head-butted me in the face.

I fell
hard on my neck, but I knew I was winning her round. I got to my feet and I hit
her with a stool. ‘Your place or mine?’ I asked her.

‘Mine,’
she said, pulling a knife.

‘I hate
to interrupt you two love birds,’ said Fange. ‘But I’ve found the handbag.’

I
kicked the dame’s knife from her mitt and laid her out with a blow to the skull.
‘I’ll be right back, honey,’ I told her.

Fangio
placed the handbag on the bar counter. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked.

I cast
a professional eye over the handbag. ‘My goddess,’ I said. ‘I think this is it.’

The bag
was about twenty inches high, handbag-shaped, covered in skulls and cast in
plaster. Billy’s mum had said that I’d know it when I saw it, and now that I’d
seen it I knew it.

I didn’t
know what to say. I’d been searching for this handbag for ten long years. The
search for this handbag had taken me from Bramfield to Brentford. And into
another dimension. I’d crossed trackless deserts, wandered in the hinterlands,
plundered the tundra, hitch-hiked and mountain-biked, staggered and swaggered,
sallied forth and headed north, looked in high places and vast empty spaces,
abseiled down— ‘Put a sock in it,’ said Fangio.

‘I’m
speechless,’ I said.

‘No
kidding?’

‘I
am
speechless. I’m lost for words. Struck dumb, choked for utterance. Made
mute. Put to silence. Robbed of all—’

‘The
secret, chief,’ said Barry, ‘is in knowing when to stop.’

‘You’re
right, Barry. But we’ve done it. Pulled off the big one. Solved the case. Got
things sorted.’

‘That
we have, chief.’

‘Swept
aside all obstacles. Stemmed the current. Weathered the storm. Come home safe
to port—’

‘Hand
over the handbag, shithead!’

I
turned in some confusion.

Danny
stood in the doorway to the dingy hall. He had a pistol in his hand.

‘Danny,’
I said. ‘This is a surprise. I thought we’d said our fond farewells in the
alley.’

‘Just
slide the bag along the bar counter. Slowly now, don’t make any sudden moves.’

‘Why
are you doing this, Danny?’ I did as I was bid. ‘Because I know the truth, and
I know what must be done with the handbag.’ Danny reached out his hand.

‘Don’t
touch it, kid!’

I
glanced around. Fangio had pulled his Colt Peacemaker out from beneath the bar.
He was pointing it at Danny.

‘Put
down the pistol, kid,’ said Fangio, and Danny put down the pistol.

‘Nice
one, Fange,’ I said.

‘But
not nice enough!’

I
glanced around once more. The dame was back on her feet. She was holding a
Derringer and pointing it at Fangio. ‘Drop the gun,’ she said. ‘The handbag
comes with me.’

Fangio
laid his gun upon the counter.

‘Nice
one, dame,’ I said. ‘No, hang about. The handbag comes with me? That can’t be
right.’

‘Only I
know the
real
truth,’ said the dame.

‘I’d
have said that I knew the
real
truth,’ said Fange. ‘But you didn’t give
me a chance.’

‘Only
I
know the real truth,’ said someone else. Which gave me the opportunity to
have another good glance around.

A man
stood in the main doorway. He was a well-dressed man, nice tie, polished shoes.
But there was something odd about his head. was tiny. About the size of an
orange.

‘Drop
the Derringer,’ he told the dame. And the dame dropped the Derringer.

‘Drop
your
gun!’ said Danny, who had snatched his up again.

‘Drop
yours!’
said Fange, who had done likewise.

‘And
yours!’ said the dame, who had done likewise, likewise.

And I stood right there in
the middle. It was the now legendary Mexican stand-off Fangio pointed his gun
at Danny. Danny pointed his gun at Orange head. Orange head pointed his gun at
the dame. And the dame pointed her gun at Fangio.

And as no-one was pointing
anything at me, I picked up the handbag and buggered off.

Mills on Wheels

Mr Mills of twenty-three

Said, ‘Look at this and envy me.’

He’d kitted himself out with trolley wheels.

I said, ‘Yes, well, very nice.’

I’d seen that trick done once or twice

But cared not for it either time, preferring
house-trained seals.

House trained,

House trained,

Rat and mouse trained,

In and out,

And roundabout trained.

Mr Mills of twenty-three

Was given out the OBE,

For services to pe-des-tri-an-ism as a whole,

I said, ‘Yes, well very nice.’

I’d seen that trick done once or twice

But cared not for it either time, preferring the
house-trained vole.

House trained,

House trained,

Rat and mouse trained,

Up the spout,

And all about trained.

Mr Mills of twenty-three

Became a big celebrity,

And opened up the Summer fête for three years in a
row.

I said, ‘Yes, well, very nice.’

I’d seen that trick done once or twice

But cared not for it either time, preferring Jean
Cocteau.

But then I went to art school, so what else would you
expect?

8

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