I was having a breakfast of sorts in the GBC. Still the only old-style restaurant in the city and with prices that were reasonable. The cook, Frank Casserly, came out to say hello and asked,
“Fry-up?”
Indeed.
This was
Two sausages
Two fried eggs
Two rashers
And thick-cut slices of bread.
No black pudding or beans.
My doctor would have had a coronary. Sometimes you just have to f**k with a diagnosis. My food arrived as a man approached my table. He asked,
“May I join you?”
Looked at my food, said,
“Not really.”
He sat, said,
“I won’t need long.”
I had just started on the bacon when he slid a manila envelope across the table. I snapped,
“Hey, if I wanted company I’d have brought my dog.”
He was in his late fifties, good suit, remnants of a tan, groomed silver hair, but an ai
