Read The Fish Kisser for Free Online Page A

northern outskirts of London, to the ferry port had been straightforward. With the exception of a ten minutestop at the tiny terraced house on Junction Road, he’d poodled the Renault along at a modest pace to north Essex, sticking to main roads, avoiding bottle-necks.
    Animosity between the detectives in the surveillance vehicle had flared during the trip, although there had been a number of times during their week of watch-keeping when they had volubly disagreed on tactics. As Sergeant Jones drove, with Senior Officer Bliss in the passenger seat keeping his sights on Roger’s Renault, the other two detectives lolled in the back planning the excursion to Amsterdam.
    â€œRed light district first, mate,” said Wilson, digging Smythe in the ribs.
    â€œI wanna try one of those brown bars,”
    â€œWhat,” laughed Wilson. “A Mars bar?”
    â€œNo you dork, one of those hash …”
    â€œI know you fool. I was pulling yer plonker.”
    â€œLeave me plonker out of this—I got plans for me plonker,” he laughed. “I’ve heard the broads sit in windows starkers; showin’ everything.”
    â€œHaven’t you seen one before?” cut in Bliss.
    â€œBet it’s a long time since you seen one,” said Smythe, poking Bliss’ shoulder, giggling stupidly.
    Bliss ignored him, as he tried to shut out painful memories and focussed on the road. Concentrating on the green Renault half a mile ahead, he wondered whether either of them would actually pluck up the courage when faced with the opportunity. Regardless of the wares in the window, they’d probably be disappointed to discover one knocking shop to be much like another. The visual “sizzle,” he guessed, would lure them to a steak cut from a tough old cow. Their ardour would be dimmed almost immediately by the request for cash in advance, and, having paid, and not before, would they discover the Venus in the window wasunavailable—taking a break between rounds of sexual wrestling. Finally, after choosing an inferior model with a puritanically grim face and blubbery breasts, the fifteen minute performance would take place on a creaking bed in a room lit only by a couple of cheap candles. No amount of scent from burning wax would mask the chalky odour of spent semen from a thousand previous temple worshippers. The eternal triumph of hope over experience, thought Bliss, remembering his days on the morality squad and the universal sense of dissatisfaction. “You think I enjoyed it?” they would ask—pimps, whores and Johns alike.
    â€œYou lot make me sick,” he said, turning on the two detectives accusingly.
    â€œYou make
me
sick,” shot back Wilson, unable to come up with a sensible response.
    â€œYou catch some poor hooker in Brixton with a few ounces of grass,” countered Bliss, “and you think you’ve cracked the world’s drug problem. Then off you go to Holland to get blasted, and get your leg over some whore young enough to be your daughter. You’ve got the morals of a tomcat in heat.”
    â€œTomcats don’t get in heat, Guv. Thought you’d know that. It’s only the females that get in heat. Tomcats are good for a screw anytime.”
    â€œPrecisely,” replied Bliss, turning back to the road, his point made.
    Sergeant Jones had stayed out of the argument, and Bliss had no doubt he would be with the others when the time came.
    â€œI’ll take you to the captain now,” the deck officer was saying, but Bliss was miles away, still worried about LeClarc, and listening to the tannoy blaring overhead.
    â€œAttention all passengers. If there is a doctor on board would you please report to the captain’s office, ten deck for’ard, immediately. Thank you.”
    â€œSomebody must be pretty sick,” he said as he followed the officer to the bridge.
    â€œI bet the guy in the water isn’t feeling too great