“Yep,” I said. Craig gave a thumbs up and finished off his pint.
We both watched as a young woman walked over to the Wurlitzer jukebox.
She was tall with long dyed red hair, a ripped black t-shirt, high heels, leather skirt and fishnet stockings. Craig’s jaw dropped so much that you could have scraped carpet fluff from his bottom lip.
The brunette started to dance to David Bowie’s Fame. Craig couldn’t take his eyes off her. Greg Bardsley wandered over and sat next to us.
“Don’t even think it,” said Bardsley. “That’s Lightning Jones. She’s way out of your league, gents. She wouldn’t touch either of you with Roman Polanski or any other five foot Pole.”
Craig glared at him, his eyes turning black.
I shrugged, thinking about the rent I owed. Needs must.
“So what’s the story, Jackanory?”
