‘If you want to buy a good pigeon,’ a small man in his early sixties, wearing a flat cap and a tropical shirt tells me, ‘you have to come to my house.’
‘Oh yeah? OK,’ I reply in a tone that I really hope indicates I won’t be doing that.
‘They’re the best of the best,’ he continues.
‘Is there no competition for you?’
‘You ask everybody, yeah – they know Fast Eddy.’
‘Fast Eddy?’
‘Fast Eddy, that’s what they call me.’
‘OK.’
