The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller)

by Martin Stanley

  George slid down the doorframe, holding his throat, until he was kneeling on the floor. He coughed a couple of times, spat on the carpet and studied his saliva for something interesting.

  Bob turned and walked back to the chair. He looked at the towel for a second, realised that it was clean, and sat down.

  “You should watch what you say in future,” Bob said, his voice emotionless.

  George looked up from the carpet. “And maybe you should use some of that money you’re hoarding and buy yourself a sense of humour?”

  Bob shifted in his seat. “You’re a smart lad, George. Smart enough to know you don’t mess with a man when his blood’s up.”

  George got to his feet unsteadily, caressing the red finger marks on his throat. He walked over to the Talisker, opened it, and swigged directly from the bottle, guzzling until he gagged and spluttered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat down.

  Bob eyed the bottle and coughed gently.

  George looked at him. “What?”

  “Were hoping to get some of that.”

  “Were you now? Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to tear out my fuckin’ trachea.”

  “I didn’t appreciate the joke.”

  “Isn’t that the understatement?”

  Bob pulled out his wallet and threw two fifty notes on the carpet. George’s eyes locked on the money, then they went back to Bob and narrowed. “What’s that for?”

  “The gossip.”

  “I’m afraid my throat’s a little sore on account of someone’s butterfingers. Having trouble speaking,” he said and let out a pathetic cough to illustrate his point.

  Another two fifties fluttered to the ground.

  “That should help you self-medicate.”

  George scooped up the notes and put them in his pocket. He scooped a dusty shot glass from a cabinet situated between the armchair and the sofa and poured a large shot. He thrust the drink under Bob’s nose and scoffed as the man scrutinised the tumbler. “Don’t get all particular on me,” he said. “Just fuckin’ take it.”

  Bob took the drink and let it rest on the arm of the chair, untouched. George lounged on the sofa with the bottle. “Judging by your temper, I take it summat’s bothering you.”

  “You could say that.”

  George smiled. “I don’t know owt about the Stokesley Slaughterhouse, if that’s what you’re after. Well, nowt that the papers haven’t already covered. Besides, I thought your cover story was holding?”

  “It is. Just.”

  “Then leave it be.”

  “Would you?”

  George’s face took on a faraway look and he shook his head. “No. Probably not.”

  “Then why don’t we talk about things that happened on the same day?” Bob said.

  It was possible that somebody had done something that evening that left a nice big breadcrumb trail all the way to Hollis Haulage’s front door, only he hadn’t picked it up yet. All his years in the trade told him that there was no such thing as the perfect crime. Even the best jobs had flaws, things the criminals didn’t think about because it never occurred to them. Maybe his key to finding the three men was off screen, in the shadows, the places they hadn’t thought to cover.

  George lifted the bottle and glugged. He wiped his mouth and said, “Such as?”

  Bob lifted the glass to his lips, thought about the fact that the bottle had been in George’s mouth and lowered it without sipping. “Fights, robberies, shootings, stuff like that.”

  “Hmmm, let’s see. A poker game got robbed that night,” George said. “A black pimp got shot and beaten by some intruders. Some kid got stabbed a stone’s throw from the Bongo, though it wasn’t fatal. Somebody beat seven shades out of a couple of southern students and left them naked out over the border.”

  Bob’s eyebrows went up. “Naked?”

  “As the day they were born.”

  “And the poker game?”

  George sniffed. “What of it?”

  “Who ran it?”

  George took another swig. “Mike McGarvey.”

  “Didn’t know Mike were a poker fan?”

  “He’s a regular for the right kinda stakes.”

  “And what are the right kind of stakes?”

  “Thieves lifted sixty grand.”

  “That’s right enough,” Bob said, finally supping the whisky, pulling a face as it burned his throat. “And the other players?”

  “Eddie Miles, Don Webber and Gupta Patel. One of Eddie’s heavies got his face caved in, and the thieves shot Don through the hand on their way to the cash. Then got away clean.”

  Bob smirked when he thought about Don Webber getting shot. The arrogant fat prick had caused no end of trouble over the years, whether it was from fighting over territory with that other idiot Alan Piper or just talking and laughing in that loud way he had. He’d done more than most to bring about Bob’s peptic ulcer.

  Bob had pondered killing both loan sharks a few years ago, when their fights over territory were putting people in hospital on an almost daily basis, but eventually he just threatened them with a little help from Jimmy Raffin and a couple of baseball bats. His stomach twinged the moment Don’s visage wormed its way into his brain, and coppery bile burned its way towards his throat, so he decided to think about something else.

  “Who robbed ‘em?”

  George shrugged and took another hit of whisky. “Nobody knows for certain, they were wearing balaclavas, but a hit went out on the Stantons. For sixty grand.”

  Something pinged on Bob’s radar. The Stantons and McGarvey in the same room on the same night. His mind began to extrapolate.

  The Stantons raid Mike McGarvey’s poker game. The victims don’t take kindly to it, so the hit goes out. The Stanton boys don’t like this much, so as an act of revenge they slice up McGarvey’s ex-wife and kid.

  It seemed plausible at first, but when he started thinking about it again the theory fell apart. It didn’t sit right with him. Why the wife and kid? Why not go for the men who ordered the hit? The Stantons didn’t strike him as cowards; they struck him as ruthless, vicious bastards. Those types usually hit other ruthless, vicious bastards, and not women and children. Bob knew he’d need to take it up with Mike McGarvey in the very near future.

  “Owt else about the poker game?”

  “Word went out that McGarvey had Eddie Miles cripple some kid off his lot a day or so later.”

  “Because he gave them the low-down on the game?”

  “Probably. Who knows? McGarvey sometimes takes new workers over to his place, usually because he thinks they’ll be impressed. Motivational training, I think they call it. See where I came from, see what you can have if you work hard enough. What the tanned prick doesn’t tell ‘em is he made his fortune from ringers, or that they’ll be on the worst fuckin’ commissions in the area. Wouldn’t surprise me if one of them thought about robbing him blind. Maybe the kid sold the layout of the place to the Stantons and dropped himself in it the day after the robbery.”

  “Maybe. And what about the pimp?”

  George smiled. “Didn’t catch much about him. Only what I heard from Frenchy Allen.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “You know he is.”

  “I take it he’s still patching up villains?”

  George’s smile broadened into a yellow grin.

  “Don’t ask me what you already know,” he said. “It doesn’t become you. You know as well as I do that Frenchy’s providing private medical cover to your old mate, Jack Samson, probably to spite you. Besides, gadgies like him don’t retire, they die on the job.”

  “So what the hell happened?”

  “The Stantons shot and robbed Frank Brodie. Put one in his dog, too. Not got much time for pimps, but shooting a man’s fuckin’ dog is well outta order.”

  Bob fixed his gaze on George. “Wait a sec. Same night as the poker?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That makes no sense.
”

  George raised his shoulders. “Just what I was told. Frenchy’s not known for his lies. Plus, he had no reason to. I wasn’t questioning him, we were just trading stories over pints.”

  “Maybe I should talk to Frenchy.”

  George chuckled softly and put the cap back on the bottle.

  “What?” Bob said.

  George shook his head and placed the bottle on the floor. “Nowt.”

  “Don’t give me that. Say it.”

  “Last time you had words with the Frenchman it wasn’t exactly pleasant, for him at least. If I was you I wouldn’t go announcing my arrival beforehand.”

  19. – Stanton

  PIPER OWNED a pub and club called The Church, a stone’s throw from the art college. It did a roaring trade catering to students. On any given night you could barely move for moping Emo girls, raven-haired Goths and skinny-jeaned hipsters.

  When we arrived, students were congregating at the bar for the lunchtime pint and meal deal, and the place was filling up quickly. We pushed through a crowd of pallid nerds and grabbed a couple of pints from a pretty boy with a Walter Raleigh beard and enough spray in his hair to cause global warming all by himself. Then my brother terrified a couple of scrawny geeks into giving us their table.

  Supping our pints steadily, we spent fifteen minutes watching the world’s worst barstaff take orders at a pace that made slow motion seem like double-time. The crowd at the bar grew deeper. They grumbled and griped, but stuck around for fear of missing out on a cheap deal. There was no sign of Piper, but we heard his name being bandied about. Mostly complaints, which meant he was definitely in the building. Elbowing our way through a huddle of hipsters, we opened one of the staff doors and walked through it, into a hallway. As we moved towards the set of stairs that led up to Piper’s office, a door opened and a large man emerged and blocked our path.

  He was very tall, and accentuated his gym-toned physique with a tight T-shirt that showed the bulge of his biceps, the lines of his abs and the definition of his disco tits. For a few seconds I worried that he might cause us trouble, but the slight smile on my brother’s face told me everything I needed to know; his muscles were just for show, to get the hipster girls wet. He was a lover, not a fighter. He looked too much like a male model to be working a door in Middlesbrough.

  “Whoa, fella, I think you’re confused,” he said. “The bogs are back that way.”

  “No worries,” I replied. “We know Piper.”

  He sneered and patted me on the shoulder.

  “Aw, that’s nice for you, little fella. So you know Piper. That’ll be a nice tale to tell the grandkids, won’t it?”

  “Look…”

  “No, you look,” he said, gritting his teeth, voice dropping to a growl. “I’ve been nice about it, thus far, but that time’s drawing to a close.”

  “If you just pass on a messa…”

  “I’m passing on a message now. Turn around and go back the way you came and I’ll forget about the fact that you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.”

  My brother gave him an affable grin. “‘Oway, mate.”

  The man stepped towards my brother and accentuated his inch and a half height advantage by standing on tiptoes, so he could look down on him. He prodded my brother’s chest on each syllable to emphasise his point. “I’m not your mate, mate, I’m a total fuckin’ stranger.”

  “Don’t gimme the iron finger,” my brother hissed.

  The man didn’t listen and continued jabbing like it was a knife blade. “Don’t. Tell. Me. What. To. Fuck…”

  My brother grabbed his finger and snapped it before he could finish. It cracked like a dry biscuit. The man wailed and pulled away. He staggered back a few steps and looked down at the crooked digit, bent in the wrong direction. The blood drained from his face, which seemed more angry than shocked. Then it returned with a vengeance, as his skin went the colour of beetroot.

  He gritted his teeth and threw a left-handed hook, but it was weak and slow. My brother ducked it and slammed a right to the solar plexus, folding the man like a paper aeroplane. Then he followed it with an uppercut to the chin that made his opponent’s knees wobble.

  The bouncer tried another swing, which was more reflex than tactics, but it was so feeble my brother barely felt it as he rushed forward. He grabbed the bouncer’s throat and thrust him against the wall. The back of his head struck the pebbledash and he winced with the pain.

  My brother slammed his bony forehead into the bouncer’s face. It landed with an awful crack. The man shrieked and staggered sideways, clawing at his face in blind panic. Blood gushed through his fingers, spattering the floor tiles.

  A couple of dancing steps brought my brother level with the guy, who tried defending himself by swinging his fists blindly. My brother ducked the punches and slammed a right into his ribs. I heard one break with a loud crack and the man wheezed as he folded forward again.

  More left-right combos sent the bouncer tumbling against the wall, his fight fading fast. Each punch landed with a sickening wet crunch as the bones in his face began to weaken and break. My brother was trying to destroy the man’s once-pretty face, and was well on his way to killing him.

  I barged into my brother at speed, using my body weight to knock him off balance. He stumbled a few steps, righted himself, and charged back towards the bouncer with his fists high, ready to finish the job. I put myself between the two men and hissed in his face: “He’s out, you crazy fuck.”

  My brother tried to push past me, but I stood firm. I turned and looked over my shoulder at his victim. Judging by the blood smears, the man had slid down the wall and come to rest on his right side. His face was a mountain range of purple-peaked contusions cut through with rivers of blood. I could barely see his unfocused eyes for all the swelling. His chest rattled when he breathed, but at least he was breathing. That was the important thing. Placing both hands on my brother’s chest, I pushed him away. “Leave him the fuck alone. Gadgie’s just doing his fuckin’ job.”

  My brother looked at the man with cold, dead eyes.

  “And I’m just doing mine.”

  “That’s not doing your job,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s summat else.”

  I made my brother drag the guy into a storage cupboard, turn him on side, and place a towel beneath his head until he could get some help. Then we went up the stairs. There was a real racket emanating from behind Piper’s office door. It sounded like he was having a good time – him and his companion.

  It seemed a shame to interrupt.

  20. – Stanton

  I OPENED the door quietly and we walked inside. The dense stench of sweat and sex hung in the air like vapour. I tasted it at the back of my throat. It wasn’t pleasant.

  A slim, ponytailed, blonde was bending over a wooden writing desk in the far right corner of the room with her trousers and knickers around her ankles. A tall dark-haired man, also with his pants around his ankles, thrust into her from behind. They had their backs to the door, so didn’t notice us watching. Leaning against the frame, I waited for them to either realise they had visitors or finish their business, whichever came first.

  The man grabbed the ponytail with his left hand and pulled it with rhythmic jerks. He spanked her arse with the other hand, each slap landing with a loud, clean crack. She shrieked, giggled, and begged him to fuck her harder.

  His thrusts became erratic. He started huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf. He lifted his head back, grunted, pulled out his cock and came over her back and arse. They took a few seconds to catch their breaths, then he leaned forward and nuzzled the nape of her neck.

  She started pushing him off. “Uh-huh, hun. Gotta get back downstairs for me shift.”

  “You’re screwing the boss, pet,” the man said. “Enjoy the benefits.”

  “The rest of the staff already hate me guts,” she said.

  “Like who?” the man asked angrily.

  She scoffed. “Forget it. Doesn’t mat
ter.”

  The woman turned, saw us staring, and let out a frenzied shriek. A reflex cry caught in her partner’s throat as he stumbled backwards over the desk. The woman yanked up her trousers, rushed into the far corner of the room and dropped into a crouch. She stared at us with wild, terrified eyes. Her just-fucked flush faded white. I wasn’t sure if her reaction was because we’d caught them in the act, or because she thought we were planning to hurt her boss. Either way, she made herself as small as possible, wrapping her arms tightly around her shoulders.

  “What the fuck?” the man bellowed. He jumped to his feet, pulling up his trousers. He made sure he wasn’t poking out of his fly and jerked at the zip. “Didn’t know Billy Smart’s fuckin’ circus was in town again?”

  The woman fixed him with a confused stare. “What’re you talking about?”

  I glanced at her. “Because somebody’s sent in the clowns.”

  “The clowns?”

  “Meaning us.”

  The woman stood up and approached her boss. “D’you know these fellas, Al?” Her expression wavered between grimace and frown, like she was confused by her feelings.

  Alan Piper dropped into the big leather chair behind his desk. “Know ‘em? I should cut their fuckin’ bollocks off.”

  “Now what kind of greeting is that?” I asked.

  We grabbed a couple of cheap looking plastic chairs there were stacked on top of the other beside the door and sat on the other side of the desk.

  “The kind youse get when you fuck with a man’s fun,” Piper replied.

  My brother grinned. “We didn’t spoil your fun. Let youse finish, didn’t we?”

  Piper gazed at the woman, who was edging towards the door. Her body was rigid, like she was ready to run at a moment’s notice. “Go downstairs, pet,” he said. “It’s fine.”

  Her face relaxed into a thin smile, though her movements remained stiff. “They’re not gonna hurt you?”