Crime

by Irvine Welsh

  Lennox stifles a chuckle. Scots have schizophrenic views on the issue of ethnicity. As most of them never see a black face from one day to the next in that whitest of countries, they feel free to be either as racist or as right-on as they like, enjoying the extravagance of unearned certainty.

  In the elevator, Ginger hits the button for the fourteenth floor. In a playful gesture, he gently and in slow motion punches Lennox’s shoulder, then winks at them both. Trudi grimaces in a nervous smile. They emerge into a tight corridor, seeming to herald a depressing uniformity of brown-doored rabbit hutches, before having their expectations again confounded as they enter an apartment both spacious and luxurious. It has an open-plan living room and kitchen, which leads through sliding glass doors out on to a balcony. There are two bedrooms, both with en suite facilities, in addition to another, larger bathroom.

  Lennox can’t believe that a home with two bedrooms can have three bathrooms. He is about to say something when the door opens behind them and an elegant, well-dressed woman who looks to be in her late fifties walks in with a West Highland terrier on a leash. On its release it bounds up to Trudi and Lennox, tail wagging, sniffing proffered, patting hands.

  — This is Dolores. Ginger makes the introductions to Lennox and Trudi, both of whom are greeted with great enthusiasm. — And this wee rogue here is Braveheart.

  The beast evidently does not like Lennox; a shared ‘Skarrish’ heritage means nothing. It hatefully bares its small front teeth below the rubberlike gums. It’s a narky wee bastard, liable to attack, he reckons.

  — Braaay-ve-heart! Dolores warns.

  Then the dog seems to collapse a couple of inches and skulks slowly towards Lennox as he sits down on the couch. It briefly looks up as if to bark, but then drops at his feet, coiling around them. — See! Dolores sings in triumph. — He likes you!

  — Aye, Braveheart, Lennox says warily, tentatively leaning forward and stroking the animal’s neck, becoming more bullish as his hand sinks into fur and he ascertains how thin it really is. Well chokable, he thinks, relaxing back into the sumptuous settee with cheery malice.

  Dolores seems fascinated by Trudi. — Well, aren’t you a pretty one? she luxuriantly observes, looking her up and down appreciatively. Trudi’s coy embarrassment is evident, as her hand involuntarily moves to her hair. Then her face stiffens in anticipation of the wedding guest list rising further.

  Dolores takes the bag she is carrying and waltzes gracefully across to the kitchen area. Ginger had said she used to teach dance. Lennox can see she’s light on her feet and in excellent condition apart from a bit of a distended stomach. Like Ginger, she has a sparkle in her eyes under that lacquered hair, which Lennox and some of the other boys on the force would habitually refer to as ‘shagger’s glint’. They wouldn’t be going quietly into old age.

  Dolores and Ginger give Trudi and Lennox separate tours. Everything in the apartment is new: pristine, gleaming and dust-free. Lennox notices the smell; that slightly burnt aroma that many places in America seemed to have. It’s probably the cleaning agents they use. He wonders if the UK has a distinctive scent for American visitors and what it’s like. In the master bedroom, Ginger shows off his electronic coin distributor. — You put all the coins in and it sorts them out, up to twenty at a time. Automatically stacked and bound intae paper wrappers. Amazing, eh?

  — If you accumulate that many coins, then why no just take them tae the bank?

  — Fuck the banks. Ginger drops his voice, taps his skull and winks. — These cunts take the fuckin pish as it is.

  In the other room, in spite of herself, Trudi is warming to the earthy candour of this American woman, who is older than her own mother. — My mom married a cop, and she told me not to make the same mistake, Dolores laments. — I did, twice. Two words of advice: short leash.

  — I’ll bear that in mind.

  Hearing talk of weddings, dresses and venues filtering through the walls, Ginger whispers to Lennox, — The girls seem to have hit it off. What say we slip our markers and I take ye somewhere special?

  — Okay, Lennox cagily agrees, wondering how he can sell this to Trudi. The problem in acquiescing to the idea that he’s depressed, or even its more benign bedfellow, ‘under stress’, is that it intrinisically means the ceding of his moral assurances. The potential at least existed for every comment he made to be viewed as a symptom of the disease. And he senses that Trudi’s management of his supposed condition is about control (hers) and disenfranchisement (his). Her logic is that his thoughts will take him back to the trauma of his work, therefore all independent deliberation by him is inherently bad. She will replace this with her projects, with nice things to think about, like the wedding, the new place to live, the furniture, the future children, the next house, that limiting narrative unto death that so terrifies him.

  Just then Dolores reappears and announces, — I’m gonna take this beautiful lady of yours away for a little while, Ray, show her some of the bridal stores in town. I guess you boys will have a bit of catchin up to do.

  — Aye, sound. Lennox registers Trudi’s sly smile, then Ginger’s raffish wink.

  They wait for a few minutes after the women’s departure, then leave and get back into the Dodge. Driving west on Broward Boulevard, they pass a large police station before stopping at the Torpedo men’s club on 24th Ave. They park in the lot behind the one-storey concrete building, which, from the outside, looks like a pillbox. At the front entrance it advertises ‘Friction Dancing’. — This place rules, Ginger informs him.

  A huge Hispanic guy in a black T-shirt, pumped up on iron and steroids, stands in the doorway. His threatening scowl dissolves into a broad smile as he sees Ginger. — Hey, Buck, how ya doin, man?

  — Awright, Manny, Ginger says, slapping the man’s big, broad back. — This is my buddy Ray, from Scotland.

  — Hey! Al-right! Manny sings, as Lennox’s mouth creases in a grin and they are ushered into a dark, cavernous space. Lennox evaluates it as one of the type that cops, villains, daft young lads and sad old men all over the Western world frequent. Then he wonders exactly which category he himself now fell into. An elongated catwalk stage, with several pole-dance podiums branching off it, twists towards the Mecca of a large, glittering island bar. Although it is still early, the place is reasonably busy and quite a few of the tables that line either side of the stage are in full tenure. Lennox knows instantly by the alienation from their clothing, that sense of being dressed by somebody else that all uniformed men give off, that the occupants of one space are off-duty cops.

  The waitresses wear tight, white T-shirts that buzz electric blue under neon lights and they work hard keeping the drinks flowing as the dancing girls perform. It’s tame at first, but as the beers go down, they get more raunchy and explicit. Ginger and Lennox order some ribs and fries. — Tell Dolores I was having a tuna salad plate, he says earnestly, — no mayo. She wants me watching my weight. It’s this ballroom-dancing finale we’re in next week.

  Lennox nods slowly. Rubs his shorn skull. — The guy on the door called you Buck. What’s all that about?

  — Buck Rogers; that’s what they call me here, Ginger mouths in proud, emphatic defiance.

  Lennox considers this. Raises his glass to clink it with his friend’s. — Here’s to the twenty-fifth century, he toasts.

  The beers are going down nicely, as are the shots of tequila. Lennox rises to go to the restroom. With the drink and his antidepressants, he feels a bit shaky. He steadies himself with one hand as he pishes, heavy, thick and steamy, into the latrine.

  Life isn’t so bad. We got the bastard that did Britney. He’s gone.

  — Gone like the nonce cunt ye are, Lennox spits at the full-length mirror indented into the tiled wall. He holds his right hand up as if to swear an oath and makes a fist through the slackening bandages and the pain that the drink has dulled.

  Going back outside, he heads towards his seat as Tina Turner’s ‘What’s Love Got To Do With It’ bl
asts from the sound system. But a dancing girl intercepts his journey, rubbing up against him, her pelvic thrusts full on his groin. The girl’s face is garish and almost clown-like under her warpaint, and layers of foundation can’t conceal brutal pockmarks from the harsh overhead spotlights. Wild eyes and a twisted, cruel mouth throw down a gauntlet.

  Lennox freezes; stiff everywhere but where she wants him. This is friction dancing. She isn’t going to cease her gyrations till she’s brought him off. He feels a blaze of anger rise in him. This is for old men and losers, for nerds and retards. Clocking the bitter desperation in her eyes, he sees how he’s now a challenge and he will get aroused and come. To force him to take part in the circus and become as desperate and degraded by it as her – it’s the one way for this crackhead stripper to keep face. He understands this as he’s participated in versions of it so many times back home in Edinburgh on police stag nights. He discerns the uptightness on the men’s faces. Knows he’s implicating them all by not playing the game, by being better than them, and humiliating this woman by rejecting the only thing she has to sell, her sexuality, or this cartoon version of it. It was less a self-esteem issue than a professional pride one; this was what she did for a living.

  But he can’t do anything other than win this terrible stand-off.

  Eventually she gives up and her face contorts as she whispers, — Faggot, spitefully in his ear, then twists with a gleeful smile to rub up against the next sweaty crotch. The men in the bar cheer as one in palpable relief.

  He sits beside Ginger, whose head throbs psychedelic purple from an overhead light. His old friend looks at him, first in hostility then in greasy admiration. — Fuck sakes, Lennox, that dance cost me twenty bucks and ye didnae even blaw yir muck! That Trudi lassie, she’s fair got you sorted oot, eh! The beast has been tamed!

  Lennox bristles at the use of Ginger’s terminology. — Sorry to waste the dosh. Then he thinks: let him believe what he wants. But now his own mental river is diverting again, away from the stripper, Trudi and Ginger. The drink that had distanced the crime now bubbles it up in his head, like percolating coffee.

  Britney Hamil. Now the beast had been tamed. How will Mr Confectioner be serving his sentence? What would he be doing right now? Isolated from all the other prisoners for his own safety – even the other nonces – would his arrogance have evaporated? Lennox suddenly needs to know.

  — Do you ever think aboot these cunts we bang up in Serious Crimes? he asks Ginger. — How they can live with what they’ve done?

  — They live with what they’ve done cause they’re scum. They couldnae care less. Fuck them, let them rot, his reddening face snarls, as he signals to a waitress for more beer.

  It seems to Lennox that this reprimand is as much directed at him as any criminals Ginger can recall. They have another drink, but he senses that things have soured a little.

  When Ginger does speak it’s to call a halt to proceedings. — Better no have any more, I’m way over the limit as it is, he gasps. A girl showily licks the fingers that she had previously used to breach herself as she swivels on the catwalk stage in front of him. — Let’s head back over my side and dump the motor, he says, looking at the girl and raising his glass in appreciation, — after this wee cutey-pie has done her thing, but. Christ, Ray, if I was twenty years younger …

  — You’d still be auld enough tae be her faither.

  — Cheeky cunt.

  Ginger’s driving is better with a drink in him; he takes greater care and actually watches the road, as they get down on to the beach area neighbourhood. It looks run-down in the murky twilight. It seems that many local businesses have gone bust or are hanging on by the skin of their teeth. On the block behind the Holiday Inn, drunk, young vacationers and the transient workers and beach bums who survive on their patronage and carelessness, inhabit the bars and cheap eateries. And all around are old people, solitary and depressed. Lennox comments on this as he and Ginger go into an open patio bar, well removed in its grime and sleaze from the sterile glitz of the Miami Beach establishments.

  — A lot of poor bastards have retired down here with a partner, who’s since kicked the bucket, and now they cannae afford to move elsewhere. I know tons of codgers in that situation. Ginger swirls back a mouthful of beer and signals for some shots of tequila. — The retirement dream becomes a nightmare, he muses. Two men walk in, hand in hand, and sit in a corner of the bar. — This place was meant for retirees. Now look at it, Poof Central.

  They down another few drinks and briefly walk along a strip of beach before heading back up to meet their wives present and future.

  Trudi and Dolores have evidently enjoyed their early-evening shopping. — The best time to do it in this heat, Dolores explains, as Trudi defiantly holds up some purchases at Lennox. — It’s stuff I need, Ray. I know that we’re meant to be saving up … but I never ask what you spend your money on.

  Resentment bubbles in Lennox. As if I care what she spends her money on. — Who’s asking questions? Ah’ve no said a fuckin word.

  — I know that look, Raymond Lennox.

  — What look? Lennox protests through his semi-drunken fug. — You’re makin something oot ay nothing. This is ridic, he appeals to Ginger.

  But it’s Dolores who pitches in. — Shopping’s what we do best, son. Get used to it, she playfully chides, shifting her gaze to Ginger, — right, lover boy?

  — Aye. Ginger flushes through his drink. Lennox thinks it could have been with pride or embarrassment or perhaps a little bit of both.

  Ginger Rogers then presents his guests with two alternatives. Either Dolores can run them back to Miami Beach, as he concedes that he’s drunk way too much, or they can go out for a meal at his favourite restaurant and spend the night in the spare room.

  — We can get a cab, Trudi suggests.

  — Won’t hear of it. Fifty bucks? Robbery! Dolores or me’ll whisk you doon there in the morning.

  — Okay, Lennox agrees, heading out on to the balcony and looking over the rail. The Holiday Inn can’t totally obscure the view of the ocean. The darkness has thickened but some heat is still in the air, despite a thin breeze whistling coolly on his arms. Down below, the soft thump of beats from a disco bar. He can tell Trudi isn’t happy. As she would say herself: he knows that face.

  Ginger comes out to join him, closing the patio door behind them. He has two cans of Miller in his hand; issues one to Lennox. — Paradise, eh? he says, scrutinising his pal’s reaction.

  — Nice, says Lennox, and they bang beer cans together. He knows that he would go crazy here, but each to their own.

  — So why the long face, Raymondo?

  — The long face is on her through there. Lennox twists round and looks in, fuddled and aggressive in drink. — I don’t give a suffering fuck what she buys. And that makes her worse. What I was meant to say was: ‘C’mon, baby, we’re supposed to be saving up for the wedding,’ so she could go, ‘Don’t spend all your money on drink then.’ Ah didnae gie her thet satisfaction, so she got nippy and had the argument anyway: with herself. Only it’s worse now because I supposedly don’t care aboot the poxy wedding.

  Ginger’s eyes take on a manic gleam as they dance in his head. Lennox has the sense that he is watching something moving behind him. — This is your first night here?

  — Aye. He briefly glimpses round, but there’s nothing.

  — And you’re on holiday?

  — Aye.

  — And you’re on med leave after stress breakdown?

  Lennox can see where this is heading. — Aye.

  — And you’re seeing an old buddy you havnae seen in five years?

  — Aye, Lennox hesitantly replies, — but aw the same, I –

  Ginger cuts him off. — And she’s been hassling ye wi wedding plans?

  — Well, aye, I suppose –

  — Tell her those three magical little words every woman needs tae hear now and again, he smiles in defiant cheer, — Get tae fuck!

&nb
sp; The door slides open and Braveheart charges out on to the balcony, barking skittishly in circles as Dolores shouts, — Buck! Get that Caledonian ass of yours in here. You too, Ray! Bill and Jessica have arrived!

  Bill Riordan is a retired New York City police officer. Thin, but looks granite-hewn hard, his whole body like one big bone. The sort of man age had chiselled rather than bloated. His wife, Jessica, is a slender woman with meandering eyes and a lazy smile. Time had given her a light sack of fat under her chin but little anywhere else. They are part of the ballroom-dancing competition, and Lennox is already writing off Ginger’s chances. They move into the kitchen, where Ginger steers Lennox to the hot-dog cooker. — Put the buns and the dogs into vertical slots and they all pop up at once, he announces proudly. — Dolores disnae like me going too crazy with it, he whispers, glancing at Bill, who chats to the women, — likes me to keep the weight doon, wi the competition finals up in Palm Beach next week.

  More drinks follow as the evening dissolves around them. They decide they won’t make the restaurant and phone for a pizza delivery. As the party finds its way back out on to the balcony and the plastic chairs, Ginger’s voice rises in a rasping catcall. Lennox dimly remembers drinking sessions past and an obnoxiousness that could come out in him when he was pissed. — You fuckin Paddies, he turns to Riordan, — all you supplied the New World wi was the numbers, the expendable brawn. Fucking worker ants. The Scots, we provided the know-how. He thumps at his chest. — Right, Ray?