The Night the Rich Men Burned

by Malcolm Mackay

  While she’s making her breakfast at lunchtime, he’s thinking about Marty. Needs to get in touch with him. Call him up, see if there’s anything to do. Must be, surely. Could do with a little extra money. Actually, scratch the word ‘extra’. He needs money. Right now his wallet contains a video rental card he hasn’t used in two years. That’s it.

  He’s left her to it, walking through to the living room. She likes to be alone when she’s making food. A little bit obsessive about it. Started baking as well, the other afternoon. Made a banana loaf. It was okay. She loves that, cooking and baking. Likes to drag him round the supermarket, picking out ingredients.

  He has a number for Marty, but Marty’s fussy about answering. He made it very clear that he doesn’t want to be called all the time. Doesn’t want every little nobody calling him every time they’re short of cash. Well, Glass has been careful. He’s only called once before, and Marty didn’t seem to mind. So he’s got his phone in his hand and he’s tapping on Marty’s name. Holding it up to his ear and worrying that he’s pushing his luck. But he isn’t. Truth is, Marty loves it when people call him up. Loves it because he gets to feel important. Tell people that he has work for them. Or tell them that he doesn’t, and listen to them deflate.

  ‘Hi, Marty, it’s Alex Glass. Is now a good time to talk? Good, cool. Listen, do you have any work needs doing? I’m happy to do whatever, you know, anything at all.’ Now he’s standing there and he’s listening. You wouldn’t need to hear what Marty’s saying to know that it isn’t good news. You can read the expression on Glass’s face. ‘Okay. Yeah, that’s fine. You know, whenever you need any work, I’ll be around. You know I . . . Sure, I’ll let you go. Bye, Marty.’

  He’s dropped his phone onto the couch and he’s standing in the middle of the room. He can hear Ella moving around in the kitchen. She expects to go out to Fourteen. She wants to be there, and if he can’t take her, someone else will. He can see how tenuous this is. He needs to keep impressing her. So he’ll get the money. Hook or crook, he’ll get it.

  Ella’s out of the kitchen with a poor excuse for a sandwich in one hand and a mug in the other. Not much effort went into that, but she’s tired. Dropping into the chair that happens to have the TV remote on the arm of it. Looking up at Glass and smiling. He’s standing there in the middle of the room, for no obvious reason. He smiles back and nods.

  ‘Just going to head out for a wee while. Bit of work, maybe,’ he’s saying.

  She looks disappointed. Always does when he does anything to compromise the domestic bliss. She hoped they’d have an hour together before she went to work. It’s always nice to spend time with Glass. He’s always nice. Always considerate. Always different from all the others.

  ‘Right, sure. I’ll be away in an hour. So, I don’t know, I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he’s smiling, and leaning down for a kiss. She likes that. Proper couples kiss goodbye.

  He’s getting his coat and his phone and he’s out of the flat. Got to think about this. Think, man. Think of an alternative. There isn’t one. He knows what he has to do; something he doesn’t want to do. Got to make sure he gets this just right. Make the wrong judgement here and he’s under the thumb for years.

  3

  You can make all the plans you want. Doesn’t matter. Not a damn bit. Potty spent the thick end of two months trying to come up with a clever way of getting to Patterson. All through those two months, Patterson was growing and growing. Getting stronger, taking more clients away from him. All the time, Potty stewed. Trying to come up with some ingenious route to the heart of Patterson’s business. Trying to find a weak spot and the silver bullet to exploit it. Two months wasted.

  Then it fell right into his fat lap. Straight out of nowhere. A rumour that one of his muscle heard and passed on to him. Muscle didn’t even know that it might be important. Dickhead. Even muscle should have the basic sense to keep their ear to the ground. To know what matters and what doesn’t. Hardly brain surgery, is it? But some people . . .

  Potty would have found out eventually. Everyone found out eventually. Not the sort of thing that could be hidden. Jamie Stamford ends up in hospital and the city gets to hear about it. Now, Stamford was the first one to try and cover the whole thing up. Didn’t reflect well on him. Premier muscle, beaten to a pulp. But details leak out. People find out. They have to, otherwise the message Patterson was sending isn’t heard. It was in Patterson’s interest to make sure the story got out. But that was always going to piss important people off. Impressed some important people, no doubt, but pissed a whole bunch of other ones off.

  So Patterson had sent one of his boys to smash up Stamford. Punishment for not paying a debt Patterson had bought. Potty was offered that debt. Turned away the two bookies that had come together to try and sell it. No way Potty was going looking for trouble with Alex MacArthur. Everyone knows MacArthur likes Stamford. One of the muscle he keeps close. He trusts. So you ignore his many debts.

  Patterson made the mistake of buying it. Of thinking he could act without consequence. All men are equal, and all that. Nope. Not true. You don’t treat everyone the same. You’re never in your own little bubble. People won’t accept your behaviour just because you’re right. Being right means very little in this business.

  Potty knew all that when he made the phone call to Alex MacArthur. He knew MacArthur would talk to him. The Cruickshank name still carries a lot of weight in this city. In the right circles, at least. And MacArthur is the master of his circle. Just about the biggest criminal network in the city. One of the big three. Not a man a little shit like Billy Patterson should be picking a fight with. Potty chatted to MacArthur. Mentioned Patterson’s name just the once. Casual, in passing. The mention of a mutual problem. That got him an invite to one of MacArthur’s offices.

  A good office. You can tell a lot about what he thinks of you by the office you meet him in. He has a lot to choose from. Clubs and pubs, shops and companies. You name it, he’s either got it or got access to it. He’s been in the business so long. A fixture. One of those people you don’t want to see leave. Not that anyone really likes him. Rasping, chainsmoking old egomaniac. But what replaces him? He’s one of the few big old sharks that know how to keep order. If that goes, you don’t know what’ll step in to fill the gap he leaves. Nothing deserves greater fear than the unknown. Stick with this old devil, he’s familiar.

  Potty’s being driven to the office block where the meeting will take place. Have a driver, have an expensive car. Make sure MacArthur can see that the Cruickshanks are still in the money business. The office block is nothing special to look at, but it contains the heart of MacArthur’s operation. His office on the top floor is one of his favourite offices. Probably makes him feel legitimate. Potty knows that a meeting here is a sign of respect. It’s MacArthur acknowledging that Potty is a man worthy of respect. Two big beasts of the old guard, meeting on equal terms. Up in the lift, and being shown through to the office straight away by a young secretary. More respect. It’s a good start to the meeting.

  ‘Ronald, good to see you,’ MacArthur’s saying. Standing up from behind the desk in the office. There’s always a desk for the boss to sit behind. Doesn’t matter if he needs it. Doesn’t matter if he never uses it. Sitting behind it makes him feel important. Makes him feel like he’s in charge, the rest of the room facing him. Potty understands that. Does it himself. He does appreciate that they’ve put a large cushioned chair in front of the desk for him. Making an effort. MacArthur’s domain, but Potty’s welcome.

  ‘Alex. How are you keeping, sir?’

  ‘I’m a decrepit old bastard, Ronald. Can’t say more than that.’ Said with a smile, but nobody’s going to argue with the truth of it. That smile is sad and knowing, not funny. Been rumours about his health recently. Smoking God knows how many a day will do that.

  As will eating too much, Potty is thinking to himself. MacArthur’s a skinny little fellow. Always looked weak, now looking frail.
A little wisp of a man, aware that he’s survived all the dangers just long enough to kill himself with his own lifestyle. Something Potty’s doing, just at a faster rate. Should have taken up smoking instead of eating.

  Ray Buller is in the room too, but he’s sitting off behind them at a small table. Buller has been one of MacArthur’s senior men for decades. If MacArthur’s age and health are worrying, Buller won’t make you feel any better. At sixty-four, he’s two years older than MacArthur. His health is better, sure, but better is relative. Better doesn’t mean healthy. He’s not a replacement. That’s probably why MacArthur keeps him so close. Nobody wants the man standing next to them to be eyeing up their seat.

  It’s quite the office. Paintings on the walls, furniture designed to look expensive. Good views, if you want to spend your time looking out the window. Even got a TV up in the corner of the room. Supposed to give a more casual feel to the place. A thin computer monitor and keyboard on the desk, no sign of the hard drive. No filing cabinets or stacks of paper, that would cheapen the place. This is an office in which you reflect on your success. There are other, more functional, offices where you go to earn the money to pay for this.

  ‘I hope I’m not intruding with this wee problem I have,’ Potty’s saying. Careful to call it his problem, not theirs. You never imply that MacArthur has a problem, not unless he brings it up. Not some bullshit ‘you must respect the boss’ routine. Just good manners. Uncle Rolly always stressed the value of good manners around the wealthy and respectable.

  ‘Never an intrusion. I’ve been interested in this Patterson kid for a while. Little shit’s been running round without anyone slowing him down. Thinking he has the run of the place.’ And that’s as much of a mention as Jamie Stamford will get. MacArthur likes the boy. He’s not going to embarrass him by discussing this in front of an outsider. Potty knows, and MacArthur knows. That’ll do for detail.

  ‘Well, I’ve been looking to do something about him for months,’ Potty is saying with a shrug. Trying to sound casual, but he knows he’s leaving himself open to criticism here. ‘Haven’t had a chance. The lad has some mean bastards around him. Toughest crew I’ve seen coming up in a long time. He’s been careful putting it together. I intend to do something about him, but I think it will take some support to wipe him out.’

  MacArthur’s nodding. He likes that Potty is talking about wiping this boy out. Not holding him down or setting him back. Getting rid. Clean out the filth; don’t just shove it out of the way. Never mind that Stamford’s always been a good boy. Never mind the personal insult delivered. The real issue is that people know Patterson had one of MacArthur’s men put in hospital. Gave him a real kicking. MacArthur has to be seen to do something about it. If he lets this pass, everyone thinks they can get away with it. Come up with some flimsy excuse and start kicking lumps out of people working for him. Be seen to be weak once, and vultures will circle. Besides, whose fault is all this? Not Stamford’s, that’s for damn sure. It’s the bookies’ fault. If you have a guy with big debts, you refuse to let him keep gambling. Common sense. If they were too scared to refuse Stamford, whose fault is that? Theirs again, you’ll find. MacArthur won’t pay a price for another man’s cowardice.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ MacArthur’s asking.

  ‘Well, he has a group of guys around him that are tough. Take them away and there’s nothing left. I want to pick off the most important ones. Not all of them need to be attacked. One or two will be bought. If I’m sure of anything, I’m sure that there are always one or two that can be bought.’

  MacArthur’s smiling. Here’s a man that shares his vision of the business, his understanding. Buy the people you can. Remove the ones you can’t. There have been so many times in the past when that strategy has worked. Almost none when it hasn’t. You just have to pick the right targets for each option. The key is making sure you don’t miss anyone out. Either buy or remove them all.

  ‘I want to start working on them right away. Pick away at it until he’s good and exposed. Then I can get rid of him,’ Potty’s saying.

  ‘You know I’d be more than happy to help you with that, Ronald. All the manpower you need.’

  That’s what Potty came here to hear. This was never about funding. Potty will have to pay for anything that costs money. But manpower is another matter. MacArthur has far more of that than Potty. He has people better equipped to do the kind of work that needs to be done. This is a union. An agreement that they will now work together to destroy Billy Patterson.

  Potty is smiling by the time he gets back into his car. The rest of the conversation with MacArthur was small talk. Bullshit. Two men of experience, chewing the cud. Remembering a few old stories about the good old days. This is a good day too. This is a day when he can start to stamp on Billy Patterson. Reinforce his position at the top of the collecting tree. A sloppy mistake. Thinking that they could target Stamford like that. Real sloppy. The kind of mistake that costs you your business.

  4

  They haven’t had a happy conversation since the Stamford incident. Patterson thinks Bavidge went too far. He’s right, of course. Bavidge knows it. He wasn’t going to go that far. Stamford was actually trying. He was failing, but he was trying. He hadn’t gone running to MacArthur this time. He was trying to put some money together. Working hard to solve his own problem. Trying to pay the debt, or at least some of it.

  But Stamford’s an addict. Can’t stop gambling. He called Bavidge up, told him he had seven grand to put towards the debt. Bavidge was positive. Made it clear he still wanted the other thirteen, but seven was a decent start. Tried to sound encouraging. Said they would meet the following day. A handover. They met. Stamford had three grand. He’d gone gambling with the seven he’d accumulated. Thought he could double it, maybe more. Thought he could cover the twenty grand with a bit of luck. Lost four. Bavidge called him on it, told him what a moron he was. The meeting turned brutal. Two nasty men and a poisonous atmosphere made for an inevitable conclusion. Stamford learned how nasty Bavidge is capable of being.

  Stupid thing is, if Stamford had called and said he had three grand, Bavidge would have settled for that. He doesn’t expect a moron like Stamford to come up with every penny in one go. He should be getting it faster than he is, but he was trying. That was as much as Bavidge ever expected. It was the sheer stupidity of it. Throwing good money down the hole that sucked your wallet dry last time. That’s what made him lose his temper.

  He’s into the little poker room, Patterson sitting at the table. Bavidge sitting opposite him. These have been awkward conversations lately. Patterson trying not to imply that Bavidge has gotten them into a shitload of trouble, when they both know he has.

  ‘We’ve got a problem,’ Patterson’s saying as an opener.

  Bavidge is grimacing, because he thinks this is going to be about Stamford. Patterson’s smiling a little in response to the grimace. This isn’t about Bavidge’s mistake. This is about Patterson’s.

  ‘Jim Holmes,’ he’s saying. Sitting back and waiting for the reaction.

  ‘Already?’ Bavidge is leaning back in his chair. Not going to make any more of an issue of it than that. The boss makes a mistake, you don’t rub his nose in it. Even if you saw the mistake coming. Besides, Patterson’s been determinedly gentle with him over the Stamford beating. He’s earned the right to the occasional mistake of his own.

  ‘Already. Spent last night going through a few figures. He’s been skimming a few per cent for a few weeks. In the last two weeks he’s gone from about 5 per cent to around 20. He must know I’m going to spot it.’

  ‘Does he have protection?’ Meaning has he already organized to go work for someone else? Is this sabotage rather than stupidity?

  ‘None that I’ve been able to spot. If he’s gone to someone, then he’s keeping quiet about it.’

  ‘Doubt it,’ Bavidge is saying quietly. ‘Who would take the bastard?’

  ‘Exactly. Which makes me think he might be about t
o do a runner. I don’t think working for me has turned out to be everything he thought it would. Thought he could come here and be some big shot. I haven’t let him have any important jobs. Gutter work. I think he might be ready to bolt. I mean, he ain’t going to jump to skimming 20 per cent of my money without me knowing. Even he has to see that. He must have a foot out the door already.’

  Bavidge is nodding. This is something that has to be done fast. ‘Can we get the money back?’

  ‘If it’s in the house, great,’ Patterson’s saying with a shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter too much. He was taking 20 per cent of small jobs. Only took about a grand and a half. I’m not going to turn the city upside down looking for it. But I want a message sent. A real message.’

  Patterson’s messages are dark. Even by the standards of the inky-black collection industry. Might just be the most brutal part of the criminal industry, and he might just be the most brutal person in it. The most brutal person of influence, anyway. There are plenty of dickheads setting up shitty little operations, going too far and being shut down inside a few months. They don’t count. Short term. Of the people that count, Patterson goes closest to the edge with his punishments. Bavidge is his favoured means of delivering those messages.

  ‘It’ll need to be done tonight,’ Bavidge is saying. Then grimacing.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘I have a date tonight. Shit, forgot about her.’

  ‘Serious?’ Asked with a hint of hope in Patterson’s voice.

  ‘Nah,’ Bavidge is saying, shaking his head. ‘Not really. She’s shacked up with some driver for Peter Jamieson. Nice, though.’

  Patterson’s nodding. It’s good that Bavidge has someone in his life, but it doesn’t seem to be cheering him up much. Never does. He only ever goes in for relationships that he knows won’t work. Never wants something that might matter to him. Depressing is what it is. Making his own life more miserable than it needs to be. He’s never going to stop being a man to worry about.