For Those Who Know the Ending

by Mackay, Malcolm

  Usman Kassar. Jesus, the first time Martin met him he was convinced the boy was a halfwit. Had a big puffy jacket, oversized red headphones draped round his neck and some goofy cap or hat on. He was dressed for attention. They were exchanging a large sum of money for a significant quantity of pills and his outfit could scarcely have been less suitable. Doing a drug deal in an outfit you’d have to be high to wear. Could have carried round a neon sign and he wouldn’t have been any more conspicuous.

  It was in the back office of a hairdressers in Hillhead that the deal was done. A group of Pakistanis with Scottish accents and Eastern Europeans with Eastern European accents. Everything had long since been agreed, this was just the twitchy handover. You do the negotiation first, separately. Don’t negotiate with the gear on the table, that has a habit of clouding stupid people’s judgement, which is typically not clear to begin with. Martin didn’t know who any of them were, not even the guys he was there with. One was Polish, the other might have been Ukrainian, maybe Russian, didn’t speak enough to clarify either way. Didn’t matter, Martin was just there to make up the numbers.

  There were polite handshakes to begin with. The gear was handed over, the cash moved the other way. The possible Ukrainian pocketed the packet of money, the man Usman was with took the bags of pills. That fellow seemed jolly, he and Usman happy with the deal. The sellers though seemed to be trying to play up to some inscrutable Eastern European stereotype, all scowls and shrugs that would disappear when there were no strangers around, so Martin played along. Give the people what they expect.

  The possible Ukrainian and the other guy on Martin’s side left together. Left him, nothing more than hired muscle they didn’t need any more, to make his own way home. He was starting to stroll down the street, hoping to bump into a bus stop, get himself closer to Joanne’s house in Mount Florida, which was neither a mountain nor in Florida. They were good with names round here though, he would give them that. He heard footsteps scuffing along the pavement behind him.

  Usman Kassar made up an excuse with his brother, told Akram he was going to meet a mate so couldn’t take the pills back with him. Story accepted, and Usman went scuffing off down the street to catch up with the foreigner. A lazy person running, not getting their feet off the ground properly and not caring about the noise they made. Struggling to catch up with that little guy.

  Wouldn’t make a good first impression and he knew it, the little skinhead frowning over his shoulder at the approaching Usman. You’re unarmed and alone and some guy you’ve just done a drug deal with is running towards you. Usman was on his own too, sure, but that didn’t mean anything. He would be on his own if he was looking to attack. Akram would then drive up alongside so that he could jump straight into the car for a getaway. Sort of thing the foreigner had probably done before, back in the day, before he graduated to more complicated things.

  Usman assumed he looked as impressive as he felt, young and tough and bristling with masculine energy. He was busy hanging on to his oversized headphones, and his attempt at running had neither the pace nor the urgency of a man in a real hurry. Also, he sure as shit wasn’t afraid of being seen.

  ‘Here, mate, wait up,’ he said, wheezing out the last couple of words. He had run fifty feet, at most. ‘Slow down, slow down, man.’

  Martin wasn’t walking quickly. He stopped and looked at this young man. Martin was thirty-one, but he looked older; Usman was twenty-five, but he looked younger. Thin as a rail, smooth cheeked and full of grins. He stopped beside Martin with one of those trademark grins all over his face, leaning forward with his hands nearly at his knees, panting.

  ‘You are not fit,’ Martin said quietly. Going for the deadpan approach, because that was what they had played in the hairdressers.

  ‘Aye, no, I’m not. Smoking too much good stuff. I know it, man, I know it. Listen, pal, you’re Martin, right, Martin Sivok?’

  Martin frowned at that. First time anyone here had known his name before he’d told them and that made him suspicious. Someone had mentioned him to this kid and this kid had some way of profiting from it. Something else Martin had seen before. You hear a name and hear a few things that that name has done. You put pressure on that person, try and work an angle that puts money in your pocket. Blackmail, mainly. You give me money or I tell local police about you. Simple stuff if you can persuade the other person you have the balls to follow it through.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ Martin said. Low tone, taking a single step forward to make the distance between him and this guy uncomfortably close. Let him see how quickly this could turn very nasty.

  ‘Here, Jesus, calm yourself, man. It’s nothing bad. Fuck’s sake. Man, he said you’d be cool.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘Przemek. That how you say it? Przemek Krawczyk?’ Neither pronunciation anywhere close to correct. ‘I don’t know how to pronounce his name. We just call him PK. Everyone round here does, or we’d be falling over our fucking tongues. The Polish guy. Big hair, big beard. You know him, right?’

  Martin nodded. The name, a mangled spit of vowels, sounded at least in the ball park of the hairy Pole’s. He knew him, just didn’t know why he’d be talking to this guy about him.

  ‘So?’

  Usman looked at him and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Man, you’re hard work. He said you’d be cool about this. I don’t know, maybe he was wrong. Look, he told me you were a serious guy, you know, a guy who did big jobs. Said you were bored of the shitty stuff they have you doing for them. Said you might be looking for something a wee bit better.’

  Martin said nothing for a few seconds. They were out on the bloody street and this wasn’t a conversation that sat comfortably in public, Usman knew. Two people had walked past them already and there were others coming into range. You don’t approach a serious guy in the middle of the fucking street where people can see you. But, maybe Martin wasn’t that serious any more. The Pole had said it was a while since he had pulled a big job, and reputations got swallowed fast.

  ‘I’m interested in good work,’ Martin said eventually. ‘If it’s serious. If it’s properly organized. If it’s with people I know and I trust. I don’t know you,’ he said, and turned away.

  That reaction wasn’t a surprise, the tough guy thinking he was swinging on the top branches of the tree. Always took men like him a while to realize that their celebrity only burned bright in their own neck of the woods, and now that they had left their home city some younger spark would be filling that vacuum.

  Martin started to walk away, made it a few steps and found Usman bolting in front of him. He stood blocking the path, a big grin still on his face.

  ‘Look, wee man, I know you’re reluctant. Sure you are. You don’t know me from Adam. Probably don’t know the city very well either, am I right? You come over here and you don’t get the sort of respect you got back home. People don’t treat you the way they should. Am I right? Yeah I am, I’m right. I seen it before. We got guys come over and they think they can be the same thing here they were back home. Doesn’t work that way, does it? You left behind whatever reputation you had back in the old country. So you need to find some right good jobs for yourself. Can’t lean on your old chums, you need to find good jobs for yourself, and I got a couple of belters.’

  ‘These belters,’ Martin said, only half sure of what the word meant. ‘You take them to your friend back there. Or another friend. I don’t know you well enough to trust you.’

  He made a step to walk past Usman. Shove past him, if that was what it took. You wouldn’t know it to look at him but Usman was a determined man, happy to push his luck if it needed a nudge. He blocked Martin’s path again and held up a placating hand.

  ‘Right, here’s the thing. I need a serious guy, right. I know you’re a serious guy. You done the sort of thing I need help with, so this’ll be easy for you. I got a bunch of jobs planned out, I been scouting for ages, got all the detail, right. But I get that you don’t trust me because you don’t
know me, that’s fine, so here’s what we do. I’m going to give you my number, because I know you won’t want to give me yours. You call me when you’re ready and I’ll tell you about one job. Just one to start, that’s fair enough. You and me, we talk it out. I tell you all about it, and how you can make a good fifteen grand off it. A week’s work, tops. Right?’

  Martin stood and looked at him, considering it. Usman smiling, trying to look reasonable and persuasive. Couldn’t do any harm to take the phone number even if he had no intention of ever phoning the guy. Everyone promised big money for little work. It was the detail that would separate Usman from the criminal herd, but Martin had little intention of phoning to hear it, he just wanted this conversation to be over.

  ‘Fine, I will take your number,’ Martin said, taking his phone out of his pocket.

  Usman told him the number, told him how to spell his name as well. As Martin turned to walk away Usman put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

  ‘I bet you’re thinking that I’m some kind of bullshitter, eh? Big mouth kid and all that. Well I ain’t. This job, it’s a good one. I got all the plans and info to make it work clean. Just needs a driver and gunman, two-man job, me and you. But you wouldn’t have to pull the trigger, no way. Minimum thirty grand return. Minimum. You think about it. Call me and we’ll discuss it, I’ll give you the details. Don’t have to say yes, but at least talk to me about it. How are you ever going to get to know people in the business if you won’t work with them?’

  Usman nodded, convinced he’d nailed the speech with that last gem at the end. Throw in a catch-22 that only he can solve for the new guy in town. He turned and walked back down the street, his tall and thin frame rocking side to side as he walked. An affectation, an attempt to look like the coolest man in Glasgow. Hard to say who he thought he was impressing, but he seemed committed to it. Going for a gangster swagger.

  Martin took a walk to the nearest bus stop, still unsure of where everything was here. Best way to learn your way about was to travel in ignorance, watching the city going past and waiting for it to get familiar. He would make a little money just for turning up at the drug handover they’d done today, but only a little. Working security, a job he was no good at. Not in Glasgow, anyway. Here he was just a short man with a mean look and a funny accent whose threats were mostly misheard. God, funny accents summed up half the city from where he was standing, but he was the odd one out. So he wasn’t even intimidating here. No reputation. Nothing. He was starting from scratch, and how do you start from scratch without taking a chance on new people?

  2

  It was the bill for the car insurance that changed things. Joanne had decided, partly because Martin had unofficially moved in and Skye had unofficially moved out, that it was time to get another car. She’d had one until Skye was nearly old enough to drive, then quickly sold it. She didn’t want to teach that girl how to drive; she was quite dangerous enough on foot.

  Joanne had enough money to buy the car by herself, but Martin insisted on chipping in. It was pride, more than anything. Go halves on everything this early in the relationship to make Joanne see how useful he was. So he had to take two thousand, two hundred out of his savings. He told her he had the money and Joanne had little choice but to believe him.

  ‘I have money of my own,’ she told him. ‘You don’t have to match me penny for penny.’

  ‘I have money too,’ he said.

  She knew what it was. This macho little guy who had earned his own money and paid his own way his whole life, unwilling to have his girlfriend provide anything for him now. She had no idea how much money he had, but he hadn’t done much work since they’d got together.

  Joanne was going to pay for vehicle tax, so Martin insisted on paying for the insurance. And that was it. She saw a change in him now. Martin seemed like he was worried about something, and that something could really only be money. It became obvious that he was looking for work, phoning people who could help him out. They had separate accounts, didn’t talk much about money. Didn’t talk about what he would do to earn some either.

  They didn’t talk about his work because it wasn’t a subject either of them was sure their relationship was strong enough to handle yet. Joanne worked with her older sister in a book store that their parents had owned before them. The parents were dead now, Joanne’s house had been theirs before they passed away. So Joanne had a nice house that she didn’t have to pay for and just enough money coming in from her job. She didn’t know what Martin was bringing to the table.

  She didn’t put pressure on him; he put all the necessary pressure on himself. She didn’t ask about money, didn’t ask about his work, didn’t ask about his history. She was too smart for questions.

  ‘I had to leave in a hurry,’ he had told her early in the relationship. ‘I was working for some people. Not good people.’

  ‘I never thought you were a social worker, Martin.’

  He wasn’t 100 per cent on what social workers did over here, but he was 95 per cent sure it was a long way from what he had done. Beating people, torturing a few and killing some. He did what was required to make the money he wanted. Over here? Standing in the back of a hairdressers while other people did deals, silent and simple. Only there so that his side would have one more person at the handover than the other side. He was a fucking statue.

  Those savings had been hard earned. Took him years of brutal work to put it all together, but he had expenses back home as well. A nice flat, a nice car, a lifestyle that burned through disposable income quickly. When you work those jobs to make that money, you become determined to enjoy it. And when you flee the country in the night, get yourself across Europe and find yourself hardly employable for a few months, the savings dwindle. If it had been him alone he wouldn’t have called Usman. He would have lived poorly; worked with people he vaguely knew and worked his way up very gradually through the crowds of industry men in this city. He had to be careful, a man in his position. Make a wrong move and he’d be running from another country, this time without help. Don’t let people know who you are or what you did. Pick the people you work with carefully. Problem was that he didn’t need to earn just for himself, he was part of a couple now. When he woke up in the morning with Joanne wrapped around him, he knew he had to make the call.

  Martin was alone in the house, sitting at the big kitchen table. The kitchen felt old, solid, classic. Everything looked expensive, almost antique, leftovers from Joanne’s parents’ time. He had his phone in front of him, Usman’s name and number on the screen. Thinking about that goofy smile and that silly walk. No. No way. He couldn’t work with a guy like that, too much risk. He would never have given him the time of day back home. Guy like that, he would have laughed in his face. Thirty grand minimum take with an even split, he had said though. A week’s work, at the most. Top up his savings and he wouldn’t have to work again for a few months. Wouldn’t even have to pull the trigger.

  It was funny, but he hardly thought about the police, not back home and not here. He’d never been caught. Came close, obviously, or he wouldn’t have been bundled off to Glasgow in the first place, but he’d always got away. Wasn’t scared of getting caught now, even if he was in unfamiliar surroundings. He believed he had the talent to do most jobs clean. It was the thought of the other half of the two-man job botching it, getting him a bad reputation, that put some fear in him. The thought that Usman was a clown and everyone knew it but Martin.

  He phoned the hairy Pole instead.

  ‘Przemek,’ he said, getting the pronunciation right this time. The good start he needed. ‘It’s Martin Sivok. I want to ask you about this Usman Kassar.’

  There was a pause of a few seconds, a memory being searched. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Why did you give him my name?’

  ‘I knew he was looking for someone like you. I knew you were looking for someone like him.’

  ‘You make it sound like you’re sending us on a fucking date.’ His En
glish improving to the point that he now knew where to drop the customary swear into a Glaswegian sentence.

  ‘Hey, what you two get up to is your business. He got in touch with you?’

  ‘He says he has a job. He seems stupid to me. Very stupid. If I work with him, I feel like other people will not want to work with me, they’ll think I’m stupid like him.’

  ‘Usman? He’s young, that’s all. He dresses stupid, but all young people dress stupid, always did. Talk funny too. But he has reputation. His brother, maybe more, but he has too. People know that he’s good at what he does. He’s done things that are outside of dealing, that’s the thing. His brother is just a dealer, we have worked with him, a reliable man. Usman, he does some things that his brother doesn’t, so when he needs someone to help he can’t go to Akram. Needs someone to do some of the things you used to do. I thought you and him would make money.’

  ‘Huh.’ It sounded reassuring. Almost reassuring enough. ‘These jobs, what are they?’

  ‘You would have to ask him, I suppose, he doesn’t share his secrets with me. I think he targets single jobs, high value, some risk. Good money though. You have robbed places, I know this, you can do it again. It would be that sort of thing, I think. Look, talk to him. He is from round here so he knows the targets. I don’t know them, not my area.’

  That was all he could get out of the Pole and he had nobody else to ask. Nobody who would know Usman and his record in the city. He needed to make better connections among the local organizations. Something he mistakenly hadn’t tried to do. Now he knew he was staying, it looked like Usman would be his first.

  If he could just trust the boy more. If Usman had made a better first impression. The impression of youth. The impression of brashness. The impression of difference. These weren’t attractive to Martin. Deal with them individually. Youth. Well, he was definitely younger than Martin, but maybe not by much. Acting young in the street wasn’t a definite indicator of how he would perform on a job. A smart kid was a better colleague than a dumb adult. Brashness. Lot of brash people in the criminal industry, that was universally true. It was a defence mechanism sometimes, a second skin for those who had grown up in the business. Many were drawn to the industry because it matched their own bold and aggressive attitudes. And it wasn’t like he had to love the boy, just work with him. Difference. Well, he was different. A Pakistani, although he was Scottish and spoke like it. But there were two other issues relating to difference. The first was that everyone here was different to Martin. The second was that every difference was forgiven when you were profitable. That was universal too, applied to the business in Brno as much as in Glasgow. Colour, nationality, religion, those were all clothes you wore. As long as the person underneath made money, nobody paid a whole lot of attention. You stop being profitable, people look for reasons to hate you and your differences become an issue.