The meanest Flood

dependent.’
    ‘You could’ve bought all those CDs,’ Geordie said. ‘Put them on a credit card, pay for them later. That’s what every other guy would’ve done.’
    ‘Trouble with that, Geordie, I’d be paying twice as much. Making The Man even richer than he is now.’
    ‘But you’d have them,’ Geordie told him. ‘And right now they’re still in the shop, sitting on the shelf, and you can’t take them home and listen to them. You’ve held them in your hand, you know you’d really enjoy every one of them, and you know you’ll never get hold of them in England.’
    ‘That’s all right,’ Sam said. ‘I can live with it. This is not gonna stop me sleeping nights.’
    ‘And the debt would?’
    ‘Yeah. I’d be wild-eyed. Start drinking again. Sell my music collection and pour it down my throat. This’s the kind of guy I am.’
    They were in the Coco Chalet in Prinsens gate, drinking dark Italian roast and waiting for the Andersens, Holly and her partner, Inge Berit. Sam had taken JD’s glasses off and apart from the beard he looked more or less normal.
    There were candles on the tables, and white paper tablecloths. In one corner was an old His Master’s Voice record player with a brass horn sitting on a carved mahogany dresser. The coffee was hot and as black as night and tasted smooth and bitter in the flickering light. The cafe had mirrored walls and the wooden seats were arranged in small booths and before Sam had finished his first cup of coffee he called the waitress over and ordered another one.
    ‘I woke up this morning with a plook on my neck,’ Geordie said.
    Sam looked over his coffee cup. ‘There’re times,’ he said, ‘you dangle a conversation under my nose and I don’t know what to say. It’s happened before, with other people, when I’ve been drinking, out of my skull. Or sometimes on a case when I’ve come across a psycho, say, or someone who believes the world is a mirage.’
    ‘What’re you saying, exactly?’
    ‘Well, plooks,’ Sam said. ‘You woke up this morning with a plook on your neck. What’m I supposed to say about that? Seems like the most mundane subject in the universe. Somebody’s plook on somebody’s neck. I’ve got other things on my mind.’
    ‘That’s because it’s not your plook on your neck,’ Geordie said. ‘If Sam Turner woke up with a plook on his neck it’d be a perfectly valid subject for discussion. We’d’ve got started on it over breakfast and we’d still be talking about it now. Wouldn’t be long before we were enquiring where the emergency room was, get the fucker lanced.’
    ‘I don’t wake up with plooks,’ Sam told him. ‘Last time I had a plook, Margaret Thatcher was in charge. Since she’s been gone my blood’s purer.’
    ‘It’s this attitude you have,’ Geordie said. ‘Like some things are good for conversation and some aren’t. And you’re not consistent about it. Another time you’d’ve thought plooks was a great subject.’
    ‘Never.’
    ‘You would’ve, Sam. I know you.’
    ‘Never in my wildest dreams would I have anything to say about plooks. I can’t think of anything less interesting. God only invented plooks to bore people to death. It’s one of His ways of making life harder for people who can’t see past the end of their nose. And it keeps all His mates in the cosmetics industry sailing round the Caribbean. Wherever they go, I don’t know. Mustique?’ Geordie smiled. He had this smile that involved his eyes, something between a smile and a frown, and it conveyed a knowing irony. Janet couldn’t stand it and told him not to do it, but Sam had never said anything about it. Geordie spoke through it. ‘See what I mean? You’re talking metaphysics already. God only invented plooks to bore people to death. You start off telling me plooks aren’t interesting and a couple of breaths later you’re considering their place in the order of the universe.’
    Sam sipped from his cup. ‘Great coffee,’ he said. ‘Say what you like about Norwegians, but they know how to make coffee.’
    ‘Is that the end of the plook conversation?’
    ‘Yeah. Tell me something interesting.’
    ‘How about sex?’
    ‘What kind?’
    ‘When I was young,’ Geordie said, ‘I dunno, maybe I was seventeen
    ‘Couple of years back?’ Sam said.
    ‘Funny. D’you wanna hear this?’
    ‘So far my tongue’s not hanging out,’ Sam said. ‘I’m at the stage I’m suspending my disbelief, waiting,