Chongo was squirming. He was having such a great time with this dame, Magenta, but he knew that a man had to do what a man had to do. He'd been knocking back whiskeys for some time now, and he could see that Magenta was ripe for the peeling. But Chongo was ripe for the peeing, and he got up and strode off to the men's room, patting his pistol for comfort.

Jacko Kevans, dry face, magic fingers, sat in the corner with his old concertina, squeezing out its haunting rendition of Four Little Johnny Cakes. Magenta was swaying and tapping her foot, her mouth tinged with a liqorice after taste from the Cointreau, when she looked down and saw two very shiny pointed black boots. Her eyes followed up the long, black trousered legs to...