"Greasy Eddie?" asked Doyle impatiently. The Boozer was half empty with only the dedicated afternoon lowlifes nursing pints. There was a pervading odor of pork pies and stale farts. Doyle's face was inches from the grass's unshaven and sweaty face. The halitosis was nearly unbearable.
"'ees doing ten years in the scrubs" belched the informant. He was shivering despite wearing a duffel coat buttoned up.
"Uncle Stavros?" persisted Doyle, wondering if a bit of Bodie-like armwork was going to be required. He reluctantly balled his fist in view of the wretched informer.
"Legged it to Torremolinos!" breathed the grass.
"Hard Vinnie?" Doyle continued, getting frustrated and inching closer despite the pong.
"Had the op! "She" is now doing cabaret in Peckham!" the grass gurgled an ugly laugh, akin to a death rattle.
"Bent Bobby?" shouted Doyle. This was his last guess.
"Like I told you, Mr Doyle, all the old firm are out of the picture. These new mob, they're a bunch of psychos. Not like the old days" the grass looked misty eyed at Doyle.
"Yeah" scowled Doyle" Nostalgia ain't want it used to be. 'Eres a monkey and next time I expect better than the old pony you just came up with"
Bodie was in the Capri, playing with the Eight-track.
"You've got sod all worth listening to. It's all beardy stuff. What about a bit of heavy stuff?" said Bodie.
"Do I look like Alan Freeman? Anyway, I 'eard that these were going out soon. It's not worth getting any more." Said Doyle, "On a less positive note, Smelly 'ad nothing on the Blag."
Bodie looked worried.
"What?. They're getting rid of Eight-track? Flippin 'eck, just as long as they never get rid of L.Ps" he mused.
"That's just stupid, what else are you gonna listen to music on" replied Doyle, "Anyway I'm stuffed if I 'ave to replace my record collection"
The Capri peeled into the London traffic with Tangerine Dream belting out the speakers. Bodie winced and wished he had his Status Quo Eight-Track with him.