Frank Stallone rushed towards me and then he slipped on my pool of vomit, fell forward and banged his head. Out cold.
“Fucker,” said Cupid who rushed forward and started kicking Stallone in the balls.
“Yer gunner call the filth?” said Cupid. “He’s a wrong ‘un he is.”
Shit, I thought, best not. Not with all that happy talc in the van. I pulled out my phone and called Jack Martin.
“Ey, hang on, I know him,” said Cupid shuffling up to me, moving in close and conspiratorially like a double-agent in a Harry Palmer film. I held my breath.
“He used to be the Sunderland captain. When they weren’t s**t, like.”
“Narrows it down,” I said. “Narrows it down.”
* * *
The recession clearly hadn’t hit Astros Bar, which was surprisingly packed for a Tuesday lunchtime. Tuc and I were lucky to find a
