It was a clear night, and the light of the sickle moon and the evening stars was bright enough to illuminate her wiggly walk. She had snake-like hips. ‘You are a friend of the Admiral,’ she said, as they set off up the path. She took his arm, balancing against him so as not to fall over on the ridiculous heels. ‘Admiral Picasso?’ he ventured. Picasso was the only Admiral he knew either in Spain or anywhere else. Not that he had ever regarded the title as anything more than an honorific. He had always thought of Picasso as a sort of Gilbert and Sullivan admiral, not someone who would have commanded an Armada galleon in 1588. Italians who had mastered the equivalent of the three Rs were always called ‘Dottore’. Same sort of nonsense. ‘Admiral Picasso,’ she said, rolling the words around her tongue so that they took on a sexy quality that they completely lacked when enunciated by an Englishman like Bognor, ‘Juan. Do you know him through your work?’ ‘No, certainly not.
What do You think about Poison At The Pueblo (2011)?
