Mike Dixon

„I‟m on holidays.‟
„Looking for company?‟
„I‟m listening to the band.‟
„That‟s a laugh. Don‟t you want to admit you‟d like a bit of
female companionship?‟
„Not tonight, thank you!‟
„What‟s the matter? Are you gay? If you are, I can arrange
something for you.‟
„I‟ve a sixteen-year-old daughter!‟
„I think you‟re gay. That‟s why you‟ve got a handbag.‟
„It‟s not a handbag … it‟s a camera case.‟
She slid her hand up his thigh.
A short distance away, a man in a white shirt and dark
trousers was watching the incident from the shadows. He
signaled to one of the bouncers.
„What the hell‟s going on over there, Sean?‟
„You mean the clown with the bush hat and shades?‟
„Yes. What do you think‟s going on?‟
Sean shrugged. „Some priest or politician who doesn‟t
want to be recognized … out for a bit of fun.‟
„That‟s not how I read it.‟ The older man picked up a
phone. „What‟s a young tart like that doing chatting up
someone like him? There are hundreds of young guys out
there with dollar bills hanging from their pockets. It doesn‟t
make sense … it‟s a put-up job.‟
„What do you think is going on?‟
„It‟s those new soliciting laws. We‟re meant to keep the
tarts out. That fellow‟s a licensing inspector. The silly bas-
tards think they have to wear fancy dress when they go out
on a job.‟ He started to press up a number. „You get Liz. I‟m
phoning the police. I want that girl charged. I‟ll teach them a
lesson.‟
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