"Worse every year," Vance nodded.
"So, where'll it be, my lords and ladies?" He hit the ignition.
"How about heading down to the Thames, say Victoria Embankment Gardens, around in there."
"Lovely spot for a stroll. Private like, if you know what I mean." He winked, then revved the engine and started working the vehicle down the narrow street, headed toward the avenue. "Thing about the States, you'd be daft to walk in a park there after dark." He glanced back. "So how was it?"
"What?"
"The Wellington, mate. You know, I take plenty of Arabs there, bleedin' wogs, them and their fine Soho tarts."
"We made do."
"If you've got the quid, why not. That's what I always say." He smiled above his mustache. "Guess you know IRA bombed the front room about ten years back, bloody bastards. Lobbed one right through the big window."
"We were hoping they'd never hit the same place twice."
"With those bloodthirsty micks you never know, mate, you never know. Only good thing about the States, no bleedin' IRA." He made a right turn off Goswell Road onto Clerkenwell Road. Even at this late hour, the traffic was brisk, black taxis side by side.