![]() ![]() It'll keep your mind off your wife being away." "Not poisoned, then?" Gene asked, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He picked up his napkin and dabbed at a slow dribble that had escaped. Sam rolled his eyes, mouthing, "ha ha," then spooned up some minestrone and concluded he was worried about nothing, it tasted good. "There's something super in my fly and you don't hear me grumbling." "There's something that looks like a fly in my soup." It was set down with a flourish and Sam lifted his spoon tentatively. They stopped talking as the waiter came with their minestrone. I meant to go for something sweet and tasty." "Bloody hell, did I order a lecture with my pasta? Must get my eyesight checked out. But it's a load of crap, innit? You have a reputation you're determined to uphold and woe betide anyone or anything that damages it." "Y'know people are always saying you just don't care what other people think. "God forbid." Sam took another sip of wine. "I always wanted a Zephyr," he was saying, enthusiastically, eyes lit by the candle flame. Gene was always putting on a show when they were around, but with Sam he was often quieter, more relaxed, more willing to reveal aspects of his personality that contradicted his façade. Sam stared at Gene over the rim of his glass and reflected how he liked spending time with him out of work, out of the eyesight of their colleagues. For once, they were actually agreeing, although Gene was talking about the first run, and Sam was talking about wanting a DVD boxed set. They ordered their meals and a bottle of wine and waited for the food to come, talking about missing Z Cars. "You and your spaghetti - why not live a little? Go for the Fettuccine Barcarola?" Sam asked, pointing. "You? Couldn't even fit in a hoof." Gene looked at the menu again. "I already told you I could eat a horse." "Starters? Just how long d'you think we're gonna be here?" "I'm ordering the minestrone for starters, what're you having?" "Right." Sam scratched the side of his nose. ![]() Never Spanish, or Chinese, or, I dunno, Jamaican. "It's always I-talian restaurants," Gene said, looking disgruntled as he gazed at the paper in front of him. "Here are your menus, I'll be back shortly to take your order." "Yes, thank you," Sam said, frowning slightly as he was guided opposite Gene at a little table with a candle in the centre. He could have been speaking to either of them, but Sam answered. There wasn't a cockroach in sight, which put the place in Sam's favour, so they walked in.Ī tall dark haired waiter with Italian features but Salford accent assailed them as they stepped through the door. Eventually, they came upon this small Italian restaurant, tucked away in a side-street. Only, the two pubs they'd passed didn't offer food, and the one take-away joint they'd passed looked decidedly disgusting - not that that had bothered Gene in the slightest. Gene was complaining about back pain, Sam was starving hungry, and they stumbled along the road together, looking for a pub to get some rest and relaxation. It was the end of their shift staking out Trembath. ![]()
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