Read The Boss for Free Online Page B

he’d suggested it, anything to get out of Buzz Shack. I swallowed my mix with frantic haste, spent a moment choking while he gave me a couple of hearty thumps on my back, and we left.
    I could feel their eyes on me and read their minds. What was Fizz doing with the suit? I knew the conclusion they’d come to as well, girls and boys both, their dirty little minds going straight down the one inevitable track: he was bonking me. My face must have been purple but Stephen English appeared not to notice, pausing on the pavement to glance up and down the street as he spoke.
    â€˜In a location like this you can easily appreciate the benefits of the ZX system.
    â€˜In fact, it’s ideal; one principal street with the nuisance bars concentrated into a small area, which acts as a focus and allows the faces of those out on any particular night to be recorded. We’d then have smaller units covering the dispersal zone and any potential hotspots outside town, which would allow us to map the activity of any individual we chose to target, with the data remaining on file for an indefinite period.’
    He was nodding as he spoke, well pleased with himself and in full view of the bar window. I began to move up the street, not at all sure what to say in the face of his enthusiasm for total control. After a moment he followed, still pointing out features as he went.
    â€˜. . . and if installed carefully, the ZX-1 and ZX-2 modules will be invisible from street level, while the automatic facial recognition feature on the ZX-4 and ZX-5 will be able to record the faces of people actually inside the bars, thus avoiding what we like to call the hoodie problem. You don’t usually drink in that dreadful place, do you?’
    â€˜No, no, I’d er . . . just been for a walk . . . along the river, and I was thirsty.’
    â€˜The river walk is beautiful, isn’t it? I jog up as far as the B road and back every morning as part of my workout.’
    â€˜Up to the road? That’s miles.’
    â€˜Ten K. You should join me sometime.’
    â€˜Er . . . right. Well, here’s Cuatro Cortado.’
    We went in and I was immediately struck by the smell of the air, warm and fruity yet somehow old, making me think of Nan’s kitchen when she was cooking a Christmas dinner. The lighting was a dimamber glow and there was no music, only a low buzz of conversation from the customers, most of whom were twice my age or more. To my relief Mum wasn’t among them, but I still felt distinctly out of place as Stephen led me to the bar.
    â€˜What will you have?’
    â€˜I don’t really drink sherry. It’s too sweet for me.’
    â€˜No? Then you’re missing a treat, and real sherry is dry, never sweet, with the exception of Pedro Ximenez which is probably a bit specialist for your first time. Essentially, there are three styles of real sherry, according to the amount of a mould called flor that forms –’
    â€˜A mould?’
    â€˜Yes, but it doesn’t produce a mouldy taste. Just the opposite in fact. A lot of flor keeps the sherry fresh and light, which we call fino and is generally considered the high point of the sherry maker’s art. I am perhaps something of a philistine as I prefer the darker, richer amontillados and olorosos, in which the flor does not develop in the same way.’
    â€˜There’s less mould?’
    â€˜Exactly.’
    â€˜I’ll try that.’
    He spoke to the barman in Spanish but perhaps not very good Spanish as it took quite a bit of gesticulation to get his point across. At last two small dark-brown bottles, two small glasses and some bowls of nibbles were loaded onto a tray which he carried to a table directly opposite the bar. I obviously wasn’t supposed to neck the stuff from the bottle but otherwise wasn’t quite sure what to do, so waited while he twisted the cork loose from his own bottle, poured