Pudge frowned defensively. ‘Mibbe. Or I could be his brother Fudge.’
‘Let’s assume you’re Pudge. Did you drive a young woman into Glasgow the other night? She was running from Dysart’s old house—’
‘Anybody in their right fuckn mind would run from that place. So what’s your interest?’
‘Where did you take her?’
Pudge rubbed his chin. There were tiny shamrocks on the backs of his hands. He eyeballed Perlman, assessing his cash potential. ‘This’ll cost.’
‘Business as usual.’ Perlman put his hand in his jacket pocket, fumbling for his wallet. He took out a twenty. I’m a cash cow – Tartakower, The Pickler, now Pudge.
Pudge said, ‘Make it fifty. A round five-oh gets you the whole setta bagpipes and no just the chanter.’
Perlman wondered about his bank balance as he watched two twenties and two fives vanish into Pudge’s shamrocked hand. He was on basic sick-leave pay, which left him very little after the handouts he was constantly splashing around.
Pudge said, ‘I took her to the top end of Belmont Street.’
Belmont Street. Perlman felt a flutter in his heart. ‘You dropped her off and left?’
‘Naw naw, she asked me to wait. I didny mind, she’s a looker. Nay sense of humour, didny laugh at any of my jokes, but a right wee stoater. She goes inside a tenement, five – six minutes later she comes back down, hair wet, clothes changed. She’s carrying a bag.’
‘And?’
‘Asked me to let her out at the corner of Bath Street and Campbell Street.’
‘You see where she went after that?’
‘I watched her a wee minute in the mirror. She went back down the block, and I started to drive away. I checked the mirror again, didny see her this time. I’m guessing she went inside one of the buildings along that stretch. There’s a hotel there she might have gone into. She wouldny want to be seen getting out my hearse right in front of a hotel, aw no. No good enough for her.’
Perlman tried to remember hotels located in that part of Bath Street. ‘Did she say why she was running from Dysart?’
Pudge shook his head. ‘She barely said two words to me, mac. She just wanted the hell away from here. Scared blind in my opinion.’
He thanked Pudge.
Pudge said, ‘Any time.’
He went downstairs and back to his car. He turned the key in the ignition and thought of Glorianna, scared blind, running, riding a hearse in the night.
39
Mathieson drove to The Potted Calf, listening all the way to Chuck mutter in the back seat. Sometimes he tuned Chuck out like a Scottish dance band radio station he didn’t want to hear. Sometimes he only caught key words.
Got to be somewhere. Tried all the hotels. Checked the Y. Checked her friends.
‘I turned the city over, Mr Chuck.’ The fuck.
Chuck nibbled on his knuckles. ‘She’ll show up. Bound to. How many hidin places are there for fuck’s sake?’
Thousands, Mathieson thought. But only one.
Chuck was miserable. Heartache and regret, heavy loads. What had he done in his past life to deserve all this?
What past life? Oh aye. That fuckin guru was talking shite.
The onslaught of rain darkened his mood. Glasgow was awash. Foaming rain rushed down gutters unable to cope with the deluge. The street lamps were lit and rainwater changed reflected light into quicksilver. Rain like this, you could scrap the Jag and get a fuckin Ark.
Chuck got out of the car in his parking space behind The Potted Calf and went inside his office at the back of the restaurant. Mathieson followed. Chuck’s room was small, lime-green walls, a mahogany desk, two expensive black leather chairs. An electronic map of Glasgow hung on the wall facing the desk.
Chuck sat. ‘That fuckin garlic again. Smell it?’
Ronnie Mathieson said aye, it was strong. I’m not smelling anything, Ronnie thought. The Big Man’s fucked.
‘The system’s flawed, Ronnie. Those cowboy installers never got the plan right. The smell should bypass my office entirely, but there’s a loosely fitted pipe some fuckin place or a leak so small you’d never see it with the naked eye. Get these cowboys back, Ronnie, even if you have to hold a fuckin shotgun to their heids to make sure they do the job properly.’
Moans, the Big Man is all moans. Chuck crumbles. When you smelled things that weren’t there, wasn’t that a sign of some brainbox junction on the blink?
Chef Pako Sg came in, carrying a bowl of noodles in a vegetable broth, and set it down on Chuck’s desk. Chuck looked at the dish, then at Pako Sg. The wee man’s uniform was spotless white, his hat black with a chequered black and white band.
‘Beef,’ Chuck said. ‘Take this gruel away.’
‘You want beef, Mister Chuck? Beef?’
‘My body’s tellin me, gimme beef. The bloodier the better.’
Pako Sg smiled. He twinkled. He twinkled a lot. Too much for Chuck’s liking. Man who twinkles isn’t always a star. Where did that come from? Confucius or Baba, the Holy Wanker?
‘I sear you some very fine fillet of Aberdeen Angus, free-range, no antibiotics, no ho-mones. Just so perfect.’
‘Bring it on, cookie,’ Chuck said. He fell silent a second, thinking – a drink to fire his spirit, keep him buoyant. ‘Ah, throw in a bottle of gin, Pako. And make Ronnie a sandwich or somethin.’
‘Gin?’ Pako Sg hid his surprise. He bowed, picked up the soup.
‘You all set for the special tomorrow night, wee man?’
‘Under control. 9 p.m. seating. Fifty covers.’
Pako Sg went out, still bowing. Still twinklin.
Chuck thought about the Special, a private affair held every month or so – depending on circumstances. It always brought in big spenders. People with money to pish away. People with diddybrains and cash up the Khyber. Some travelled miles to attend.
He pressed a button on a remote control device that lit the map of Glasgow. Red sensors blinked, each denoting a property that had, so to speak, come Chuck’s way. There were also yellow sensors, which indicated a property he was thinking of acquiring – by legal means, thus obeying the mandate of his lawyer: keep your head down, don’t make any loud noises, and do nice things for charity.
Chuck rose, walked to the map. ‘Ronnie, did you know Glasgow has eighty-somethin parks? All that space wasted on fat wee women pushin prams and boys wankin in the bushes and doddery old tossers walkin their fuckin dogs.’
‘Eighty parks, news to me.’
‘Aye, but not for long, because …’ Chuck winked. ‘I intend to buy a few of them. Startin with Elder Park here, very handy for the Clyde Tunnel. I let some time go past, then I get plannin permission from those crookit flyboys on the City Council, and I build a small development of seven or eight de luxe executive houses in one corner of the park. I’m thinkin steel and chrome and bagza glass, a new look. Then …’ Chuck paused, engrossed in his vision. ‘Park Executive Properties, that’ll be the company name. Like it?’
‘Terrific.’
‘I buy another park and I do the same thing. See here,’ and he jabbed the map. ‘Linndale Park, nice acreage adjoining Carmunnock Road and close to King’s Park, which has a golf course attached. I’ll develop these parks very carefully and with style. Maybe six classy semis in Linndale, then a second wee development in Elder, and probably a coupla mansions in King’s Park eventually.’
Mansions. Mathieson listened to this scheme, then said, ‘Can you actually buy public parks, Mr Chuck?’
‘I can buy fuckin well anythin.’
‘I thought the parks belonged to the people—’
‘The people? Ho ho. Them scruff don’t deserve parks. They shag in them, they vandalize the gardens. Christ, even if I end up purchasin half a dozen, they’ve still got enough parks left for their dogs to shite in. Everythin is locomotion, Ronnie. They’ll have a statue of me one day in George Square.’
Mathieson said, ‘I can see that.’ The Big Man. Pigeons crapping on his s
tone heid. Chuck would never be able to buy a public park, for fuck’s sake. He was going to the dugs. He never had balls enough to be the Big Man anyway, in Mathieson’s opinion. He had insecurities as pronounced as open sores. He felt menace in empty stairwells. He heard gossip behind his back when nobody was there. He fought these enemies with bluster and bravado and a touch of Baba – but who was he kidding?
And now Baba was away.
Chuck stepped back from the map. All these streets, these railway lines, these parks and ponds and colleges and monuments, they seemed unfamiliar to him for a second – where in all this strange jumbled city is she?
Pako Sg returned carrying a tray and a bottle of gin he set on the desk. A fine grilled steak for Chuck, and a ham sandwich for Mathieson. Chuck cut into the steak and blood flowed rich and oleaginous over the plate. When you lose your beliefs, you turn back to all the things you’ve been foolish enough to deny yourself.
Includin sex. Booze.
That bastart Baba swizzled me. Nobody does that to me.
Pako Sg waited for approval.
The beef dissolved in Chuck’s mouth. Delicious flavour, texture of silk. Chuck was blissed. ‘It’s like a fuckin slice of Christ,’ he said.
Mathieson chewed resentfully on his ham sandwich.
‘Very glad Mr Chuck is pleased,’ Pako Sg said.
‘I’m in heaven, Pako.’
‘In heaven, ah, very good, very good.’ Pako went out with a slight bow.
Chuck finished his steak, wiped his lips with a napkin, and drank a good mouthful from the bottle of Gordon’s. How long since he’d had booze? It went like a dragon’s flame to his head. Woo, not such a bad feelin. He’d missed that blast and roar somethin terrible.
‘I keep comin back to that weird git. He knows somethin.’
‘What weird git?’ Ronnie Mathieson mumbled, mouth filled with dry white bread, shredded lettuce and some fatty bits of ham. A ham sandwich, well fuck, thanks a lot. All the things I do for you. And not an offer of a drink.
Chuck glugged another fair measure of gin and belched softly. ‘Comes back like perfume … sweet as a lathered twat. Fuckin Dysart. I’m gonny do somethin about him.’ He stared at Mathieson with that chill, slicing look he sometimes used. It was X-ray and cut through steel. Then he held the gin up to the light and admired its clarity. ‘Mother’s ruin, down the hatch,’ and he jammed back another mouthful.
Ronnie said, ‘Mibbe Dysart knows nothing. Mibbe she’ll show up tonight.’
‘Aye. With some story. Some long complex explanation. I’d just be glad to see her, honestly. Just to see her and know she’s safe. No questions asked. This gin, you know it comes from berries, Ronnie?’
‘Junipers, aye.’
‘Right, jupiters,’ Chuck said. ‘It’s a hell of a kick.’
Mathieson said, ‘I’m sure Glorianna’s OK.’
Chuck clapped a hand on Mathieson’s shoulder. ‘She’s got me goin like banjo string, Ronnie. I swear to God. Somethin I wasn’t expectin. I’m feelin sixteen again.’
Mathieson, unaccustomed to hearing Chuck express any depth of emotion, observed his boss’s face, which was flushing from the booze. He saw a kind of forlorn hurt in Chuck’s eyes, which he’d never witnessed before. He almost felt sorry for him. He almost said, I know where she is. I’ll get her for you, Big Man.
Almost.
But he wouldn’t give Chuck the sweat from his oxters. He looked at his watch. ‘What do you want to do, Boss?’
Chuck wrapped his lips round the bottle, drank, then laughed as if everything was a big joke. ‘I have some restaurant dockets I need to discuss with O’Blunt. Between you me and Paisley Road Toll, I have a funny feelin he’s skimmin. Tenner here, fifty there, soon adds up. Then I want to make sure the kitchen’s runnin right for tomorrow. After that … check on Dorco.’
Long drive to the edge of the city, Mathieson thought.
Chuck downed more gin. He drank like a man with yesterdays to forget. ‘One thing, Ronnie. Any time in the future I tell you I’m off to see a fuckin guru, you have permission to castrate me. OK?’
Mathieson dutifully laughed. I’d cut your balls off cheerfully.
‘Now, where was I?’
‘Dysart, Boss.’
‘Right. Take a wee drive out there and see what’s the score, eh?’
‘Why not.’ Mathieson took the Jag keys from his pocket. ‘Ready when you are, RC.’
‘Wait,’ and Chuck tilted over a little. Whoops—
Ronnie thought, he’s never had the head for booze. Never. It went through him like pish through a tennis racket.
‘First O’Blunt. Then … there was somethin else. Slipped my heid. Ah, shite, Blunt can wait. He’s goin nowhere. It’s Dysart I want to see. Gimme the keys.’
‘Keys?’
‘Whose fuckin Jag is it?’
Ronnie tossed them. Chuck bent for the keys, laughing at his failure to grasp them first time.
‘Your licence is out—’
‘A piece of fuckin paper ten months out of date doesn’t make a man a bad driver. Don’t wait up for me, Ronnie.’
‘Boss, should I come along just in case?’
‘Ah fuck off. I’m capable.’ Jangling the keys, Chuck stepped boldly to the door. ‘Is this Jag automatic Ronnie?’
‘It is. You know your way?’
‘Matter of fact, yes, I do. Cobble Drive.’
Mathieson shrugged. It’s no my funeral, he thought.
40
Perlman parked in Bath Street as close as he could to the place where Pudge said he’d dropped Glorianna. The rain was like rivets shot from the sky. He ran half a block with his coat over his head, then rushed dripping inside St Jude’s, a ‘bijou’ establishment with about a dozen bedrooms and a restaurant. It was the only hotel in the block. Two youthful waiters stood just inside the door of the dining room – spiky-haired and earringed. They stared at Perlman in his shapeless raincoat, as if they expected him to be followed by a retinue of ragamuffin street people asking for alms.
A slender black girl worked the reception desk. She wore a red mini-skirt and a white blouse. She smiled at Perlman nicely, which blunted the edge of his mood. He was flustered on account of circuit overload – a measure of dread about the outcome of the DNA test, persistent uncertainties concerning Dysart, and worry, of course, over Betty. He needed focus, but the film running through his head-sprockets was all over the place.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’
Perlman said, ‘You might have a guest here I want to see.’
‘Name?’
‘Try Cormack.’
The girl checked her computer screen. ‘I’ll call her room.’
‘I’ll just go up.’
‘Oh.’ The girl was apologetic but firm. ‘We don’t allow that, sir, unless the guest agrees. So I have to call ahead.’ She reached for the phone.
‘Wait,’ Perlman said. He showed his ID.
The girl examined it closely. ‘Is there going to be trouble? I mean, anything that would generate bad PR for us?’
‘I’m not here to drag her off in handcuffs, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Perlman offered this lightly, but the girl’s response was a frown.
‘OK … room 12.’
Perlman moved to the staircase, climbed. He wanted to look back and just for the hell of it say, Special Services team right behind me, love, grenades and bazookas, duck.
Up he went. It had been an afternoon of stairways and climbing.
He knocked softly on the door of room 12 and called out his name.
A silence. ‘What do you want?’
‘Five minutes of your time.’
She opened the door an inch, saw that he was alone, then slipped the security chain off.
Perlman stepped in, Glorianna shut the door, replaced the chain.
‘Busy reading?’ Perlman said, looking at the mass of glossy mags on the bed.
‘Very observant. No wonder you’re a polisman. I’m
just killing time.’
‘Until what?’
She lit a cigarette and walked barefoot to the window. She dropped her lighter in the pocket of her white terry robe and turned to him. She was better looking without the make-up, more attractive than the day he’d met her in George Square. Untouched, pale, her skin had a natural luminosity.
‘Do I call you Glorianna or Annie?’
She shrugged: who cares?
Perlman said, ‘Annie has a certain purity about it.’
‘Purity?’ She blew a smoke ring. ‘You’re not here to talk shite are you?’
‘Why are you hiding from Chuck?’
‘What makes you think I’m hiding?’
‘He wouldn’t be looking for you otherwise.’
She opened the mini-bar and took out a small bottle of ginger ale, which fizzed as she uncapped it. ‘OK, I don’t want Chuck near me.’
‘And what did he do to deserve the heave-ho?’
‘As if that’s any of your business.’ She was bold on the surface, but Perlman sensed underlying anxiety, tension – the same guarded nervousness she’d projected at Betty’s.
Her clothes lay scattered around. ‘Messy,’ he said. ‘Just like your flat.’
‘When were you ever in my flat?’
‘Earlier today. Ran into your boyfriend there.’
Annie lit a cigarette from the butt of the old one. Her hand shook. She had difficulty docking the cigarettes. ‘What was my former boyfriend doing there anyway?’
‘Like I said, looking for you. He’s unravelling faster than a cheap cardigan.’
‘And what were you doing?’
‘Same as Chuck. Looking for you.’
She sat on the bed. ‘Why?’
‘Just mooching around, Annie. You probably picked up a fair amount of knowledge about Chuck’s business over the past couple of years—’
‘How much more transparent can you get? Me and Chuck might be on the skids, but you think I’m going to tell you anything? Newsflash – wrong girl here. I don’t know the way he operates and even if I did I wouldn’t tell a soul, and definitely not a polisman.’
She’s a tough wee number in some ways, Perlman thought. He opened the mini-bar and plucked out a bottle of mineral water.
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