by Ray Banks
“I hear you’re working down Paulo Gray’s club.’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s a good lad, Paulo. You ever see him fight?’
‘Not professionally.’
“I saw him fight once down the Apollo. He had a good combination on him, but he didn’t have the balls to follow through on it. He could take a knock with the best of ‘em, though.’
“I heard he was a good fighter.’
‘He still work out?’
‘We still spar.’
‘Got to keep on top of your game.’ He folds the paper, drops it on the seat next to him. Then he takes a long drink from the Guinness. His Adam’s apple jumps as he swallows.
He replaces the pint glass on its condensation ring and regards me. ‘So you’re a hardboiled dick now,’ he says, making it sound like a personal threat.
‘Sorry?’
‘You do detective work. That’s what I heard.’
‘Nowt as flash as that, Mr Tiernan.’
‘You find runaways?’
“I have done.’
‘Good. I need you to find me a runaway.’
I feel sick. ‘Listen, no disrespect, Mr Tiernan ‘
‘People say that, Callum, then they say something really fuckin’ rude.’ Morris’ fingers tighten around the pushchair handle. The toddler’s still asleep. He looks like he’d reach into the buggy and snap the kid’s neck just to prove a point. And here I am with the spit gone from my mouth, trying to think of a way to say no.
‘Nah, I don’t mean to be rude.’ I clear my throat. ‘I’m not going to be rude.’ Cut myself off before I start babbling. ‘All I’m saying is that I might not be the guy for the job.’
Morris lets go of the pushchair. He lights a cigarette and stares at me through the smoke, unblinking. ‘You’re a good lad, Callum. Don’t think I forgot what you did for Mo. That was beyond the call. You’re straight; I can respect that. That’s why what I’m offering is on the level. I wouldn’t want you to get recalled. That’s a kick in the bollocks.’
I nod to myself, try to control my breathing. Jesus, why am I so scared?
Because I know what he’s like. I know how dangerous he can be. It’s not like Mo. Mo’s just a headcase. He’d top you and then puzzle about what to do with the body. Morris is the kind of bloke who has a shallow grave already prepared. And right now, the idea of a woodchip burial is enough to make the back of my neck sweat.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Like I said, you find me a runaway. Simple as.’
‘What kind of runaway?’
Morris flicks ash from the end of the cigarette. ‘He’s a dealer. Used to be, anyway. He worked for me until last week.
That’s when he went missing. And so did a sizeable amount of my money.’
‘A dealer?’
He smiles; his teeth look bleached. ‘Cards. I have a vested interest in some of the clubs round here. He was a blackjack dealer.’
‘How much money are we talking about?’
‘Ten grand.’
I try not to look surprised. “I thought casinos had strict security.’
‘Who said anything about casinos? I said clubs.’
‘Right.’ So the job’s not legit. I had no reason to think it would be. But it’s a hell of a lot more legal than I was expecting. ‘What’s the dealer’s name?’
‘Rob Stokes.’
‘Anything more formal than Rob?’
‘It’s short for Robbin’ Bastard. Who cares? The guy took my money.’
‘So this isn’t a runaway. This is a thief.’
‘He ran away. That makes him a runaway. The fact that he stole from me’s just another reason I want him found.’
‘You have any leads?’
He bristles. ‘If I had leads, I’d be chasing them up myself, son. It’s not my job to have leads.’
I wish I’d bought a drink now, something to calm my nerves. And I wish I’d had the guts to say no straight off the bat. ‘What happens when I find him?’
‘You got a mobile?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then I’ll give you Mo’s number. You find him, you give Mo a call and he’ll take care of the rest.’ six
‘Mo! Mo money, mo problem?
That were Rossie, shouting across a crowded pub at me and Baz when we came through the doors. Rossie were wearing that leather jacket he said were Ted Baker, which were fuckin’ bollocks, and made him look like double the twat he already was. Honest, like, a ginger cunt like Rossie, he’d look a twat in most stuff. But this jacket were his pride and joy. It hung off him like it were three sizes too big, which it probably fuckin’ were. And Rossie didn’t have the kind of hardness to carry it off. He were too small to be dangerous looking, but that’s why I liked him. Cunts reckoned they could start on him until he jammed that butterfly he carried in their balls. Surprise, surprise.
The place were chocka, the lunch trade in full swing. The landlord here did a fine line in proper Corrie Betty hot-pots, all meat and gravy and rank veggies. I wouldn’t touch ‘em with yours, like. Because I knew the lad what punted the meat on to this place. And beef didn’t used to fuckin’ miaow, know what I mean? Rossie did his upward nod from the bar and I jerked me head in response, did a saunter through the crowd.
Digged a fucker in the ribs like I wanted to. He turned with a full-on wanker face. I gave him the teeth and he backed right off. Like I reckoned, soft as shite.
‘Y’alright, Mo? Baz the spaz?’
‘Fuck off,’ said Baz.
‘Get us a Kronie,’ I said.
‘Kronie,’ said Rossie to the barman.
‘And scratchings.’
‘And scratchings.’
‘What’s up?’ said Rossie.
‘Eh?’ I got me Kronie and sipped it. Cleared out the shite in me mouth.
‘You look like someone pissed in your porridge.’
‘I’m alright,’ I said.
But I weren’t. That cunt Innes put us right on edge.
Couldn’t get to sleep last night, so I kept pilling it. Feeling bone-cracked tired now, like. And I had to go over that cunt’s place and play messenger?
As the Cockneys say: ‘Faaack youse.’
Got Paulo giving us the evils as soon as I got through the door. Like I were summat he just scraped off his shoe. No way does a fuckin’ cock-jockey get away with that, like. But nah, not right then. I were there on business, so I had to be ice.
Suffer the fucker when I wanted to break his face.
Waited on Innes and took a look round his office while I was there. Nowt, man. If the lad was a private detective, he should have a bottle in the drawer or summat, but there were nowt. There was me, I were in the need to half-inch summat, just to keep me hand in, and there were nowt. So I got fuckin’ edgy. Innes had put on weight since the last time I saw him.
Fat fucker. Prison’s supposed to harden a lad up, innit? Strip him lean and build him out of rock. But then, what the fuck did I know, eh? I’d never seen the inside of a cell. Been too fuckin’ smart.
I supped me Kronie. Cadged a snout off of Baz. He had a mate what robbed them out the Kwiksave warehouse, so he were always flush. Lit it up and, through the smoke, I saw this boat I knew.
‘That Dougie Harris?’ I said.
Rossie picked at his teeth, followed me stare. ‘Aye,’ he said.
I hadn’t seen him in a coon’s age. Last time were when we was kids, like. He used to hang out with us in the tram station down Piccadilly. That were when I were on the cider and the blues. Dougie were always out his fuckin’ skull on pills, like.
Last I heard, he were on the smack. And it looked like it an’ all. He had a bowling ball for a head, nowt in the way of hair and legs that’d break in a strong wind. The kind they said had a hard paper round, know what I mean? And top that off, it looked like Dougie’d seen the wrong end of someone’s fuckin’ boots. Burst mouth and two shiners. He were drinking a pint like it nipped his skull.
�
��I’m gonna chew the fat,’ I said.
‘C’mon, Mo. The lad’s a fuckin’ ghost.’
‘Get off it, Baz. He were a mate.’
‘Was, like.’
I went over to Dougie’s table and slapped him hard on the back. His eyes swivelled in their sockets. When he looked at me, the colour went from his face – from white to fuckin’ see through. ‘Y’alright, Doug? Rossie, get Doug another pint.’
‘Tell him to get his fuckin’ own,’ said Rossie.
‘You what?’
‘Nowt.’ And Rossie went back to the bar.
‘How you doing, Dougie?’ I said. Baz came up and took the other seat, looked from me to Dougie, then back again. He didn’t know what the fuck were going on. And neither did Doug, from the looks of him. ‘You look like pan-fried shite, son.’
Doug flickered with a dirty yellow smile. ‘Bad night last night.’
‘Tell us about it. What you doing these days?’
Baz shook his head. I looked at him.
‘Nowt much,’ said Dougie. ‘This and that.’
‘Same here,’ I said. ‘This and that. More of that. You working legit?’
‘Nah.’
‘You working?’
‘Nah.’
‘You need work?’
‘I’m alright, Mo,’ he said.
‘I’m asking ‘cause I might have some work for you, you need it.’
‘I’m alright.’ Dougie started gulping at his pint. Tried to neck the whole fuckin’ thing rather than talk to me. Now what the fuck were up with that? A lad can’t have a friendly how-you-doing without some cunt getting edgy?
I sipped me Kronie, slipped a hand in me pocket and watched Dougie out the corner of me eye. ‘You need owt, Doug?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah, I’m off it.’
‘Off it? You fuckin’ must be, son. Baz, you remember that time Dougie took a dump in the canal?’
‘Aye.’
‘By Castlefield, wunnit? You just ripped your keks down and curled one right in the canal. Man, I fuckin’ ended meself.’
Rossie came over with two pints. He sat one in front of Doug. I said, ‘You brew it yourself?’
‘Eh?’
‘Where you been?’
Rossie frowned. ‘At the bar.’
‘Your face looks painful,’ I said to Doug. ‘You want a couple pills?’
Doug glanced at his fresh pint, looked like he was gonna throw. ‘Nah, Mo. I’m fine. I’m clean now.’
Clean, my arse. I didn’t need to see the tracks to know he’d been trainspotting, know what I mean?
‘Aye, well,’ I said. ‘You can have a half I broke a pill and slid it up close to his new pint. He drained the old Kronie and chewed his bottom lip. He shook his head.
‘You don’t have to pay us nowt, Dougie-son. I know you’re strapped. You always was. It’s a freebie.’
“I told you, Mo.’ He were smiling like it were a joke.
My left eye hurt. I had all snot in me nose, so I sniffed it back and swallowed. Cleared the rest out my throat with a gulp of beer. Picked up the half-pill and held it up to Doug.
Then I dropped it in his pint. Bubbles fizzed all around it, like. Dougie Harris just looked at us, big old black eyes dead to the world, not a light in ‘em.
Nah, it weren’t a joke.
‘Tell you what, I fancy a Courvosier. You want a brandy, Baz? Rossie?’
‘I could drink a brandy,’ said Baz.
‘You want one, Doug?’
He looked like he were about to shit his pants. I got to my feet, slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Course you do,’ I said.
‘Who turns down a brandy?’ Lit a ciggie on the way to the bar, all fuckin’ swagger and shit. Doug Harris turning down a pill.
Pull the other one; that one’s got fuckin’ bells on it. That cunt what used to knock ‘em back like Smarties and now the lad had a clean-living bullshit halo over his head?
Nah, man.
Leopards. Spots.
I leaned against the bar, waiting on the brandies. Watched the back of Doug’s head, looked at Baz. If anyone were gonna help the cunt out, it’d be Baz ‘cause Baz were a soft cunt even though he were a big cunt. And if he helped Doug out, I’d have it out with him.
Doug were talking to Baz. I couldn’t hear him. The way Baz were talking back, they both must’ve reckoned I were having them on. I wanted to go back over there and stove the pair of them fuckin’ nobheads in.
As the brandies arrived, I saw Doug knocking back his pint.
Got back to the table, and he weren’t finished with it. Felt my gut knot up so I dropped a couple of full kilt moggies into Doug’s brandy and necked one myself. Sat and watched until Doug swallowed the rest of his pint, one eye on the brandy in front of him. ‘That’s it, Dougie-son. You sup up.’
‘Mo, I’m off it.’
“I know, son.’
‘Nah, I mean it, Mo. Joke’s a joke, innit?’
‘Sup up, Dougie.’
‘Mo’
‘You a simple cunt, Dougie? Fuckin’ tapped or what? Sup up.’
After another couple brandies spiked with half me stash, uppers and downers, Doug were having it large in his own back yard. Rossie and Baz and me, we watched him turn all the colours of the rainbow, watched him blink slow like his brain were fizzing out hardcore. Dougie Harris had turned into a proper lightweight. He looked like one of them rats they test the vaccines on, itching like a fucker. I watched him squirm and drank some more.
‘We going out tonight?’ said Baz. He weren’t looking at Doug. Like he couldn’t stomach it.
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘We got to go see Columbo.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Rossie. ‘Columbo’s a creepy cunt.’
‘You ain’t gonna be in there, Rossie. I need you to do us a sly one.’
‘What?’
I’d been thinking about it while I watched Doug wind down. Dad wanted Innes to do this job for him, find Stokes, I still weren’t comfortable with that. Innes were a fuckin’ pisshead and whether he was a proper private eye or not, he had nowt in the way of bollocks. Certainly not enough to carry out a job like this. So fuck him and fuck Dad. I needed to sort this out on me own. ‘I’ll tell you in the car, Johnny Nob-Rot.’
Baz spluttered on his pint, laughing. Aye, I were a funny cunt. Doug giggled like a fuckin’ girl, like a nah-ha-ha-nah, and choked out quick.
‘You heard then,’ said Rossie. He had a face like a cat’s arse.
‘Yeah, I heard. Now sup up and let’s get the fuck out of here.’
We drank ‘em off as Doug leaned on the table. He were dozed right out. Before I left, I went through his wallet. The lad had a score on him so I took it.
Way I saw it; it served him right for being a cheeky cunt.
SEVEN
Half now, half when I call Mo. I haven’t opened the envelope Morris gave me, but it feels heavy in my hand. He gave me the address where Stokes used to work, a tattoo parlour on Hanover Street. I didn’t know people gambled there, but then that was probably the point. It’s a members only club.
Morris said I’ll be expected. Just head to the first floor and give my name. They’ll let me in, no problem.
Morris promised me that we’d be even after this. I had no choice but to believe him.
And now I’m sitting here in my local, I’m wondering. Even for what? I’ve never done anything to Morris, I don’t owe him a bloody thing. If anything, he owes me.
Find a runaway, simple as.
It’s always simple as. Do a little work for Uncle Morris.
Yeah, he’s a little shady, got a few fingers in a few pies, but that doesn’t make him a proper criminal, does it? It’s good money and you know he pays in full.
A job, simple as. Keep your mouth closed, simple as. End up doing half a five-year sentence in Strangeways so a judge can prove a point. Keep a look out over your shoulder and try not to get killed.
Simple fucking as.
I sip my
pint and stare at a framed picture of Manchester in the grimy days when it had an industry that wasn’t customer service. A group of blokes wearing shellsuits are at the bar, talking loud and laughing louder. I try to ignore them. Tap the envelope with the tip of my finger until it becomes too much for me and I open it up, peek inside. About five hundred in twenties. I close up the envelope. A lot of money for someone like me, too much to explain away.
I have to tell Paulo about this. That, or avoid the club altogether. I don’t see that happening, though. Paulo’d get suspicious. And then what? Out on my ear.
I could tell Morris I’ve thought about it, but I’ll have to turn down the job. Life would be easier that way.
But then, according to The Uncle, I owe him. And I’ll still owe him if I turn this down. The next job he offers me might be mandatory, and it might throw me back in the ‘Ways.
Fuck. I have to do this. I don’t see any way around it.
This runaway dealer, he’s either ballsy as fuck or just plain stupid. I’m banking on the latter. That way maybe I can clear all this up before Paulo gets wind of what I’m doing, who I’m working for. Because I know I’ll be up the creek if Paulo finds out. I drain my pint and push back my chair. Tuck the envelope into my jacket pocket, reckon I might as well get to work straight away.
The sooner I’m done with this, the sooner I can get back to normal.
The pub door opens as I’m putting out my cigarette. It’s Paulo. Got a face on him. He heads straight for me. Fuck.
‘Cal,’ he says. ‘Fancy one?’
I check my watch. ‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’
‘You already started by the smell on you.’
He orders at the bar, two pints. He looks at his with the eyes of a guy who used to enjoy his drink too much. Paulo shouldn’t be drinking, not if his doctor has anything to do with it. But having Mo at the club’s put him in a drinking mood. Paulo’s got a good thing going on at the club, but it’s precarious. He reckons it’s because he’s an ex-con, and that’s probably got something to do with it. No matter how open minded people say they are, you mention either mental illness or prison and they start looking for the nearest exit.
Paulo’s had both in his life. One led to the other. He used to fight. Started out amateur when he was sixteen, turned pro in his twenties, but he never rose above mediocre. The way some of the old lads tell it, Paulo had flashes of brilliance in the ring, and he could take a punch or twenty. They kept mentioning Jake La Motta with his iron jaw. The guy was a bull, built like the proverbial shithouse.
