The Long Glasgow Kiss l-2

by Craig Russell

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ I said. ‘It was used in the war instead of morphine. I’ve heard of people getting hooked on it, but it’s less addictive than morphine, I believe. That’s why they used it.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. That’s where everyone behind heroin got it wrong. It was created as a less addictive alternative but it actually creates a higher dependency among those who use it. That’s not been a problem. Here in England it’s still legal and a prescribed medicine. If your kid has a cough that won’t go away, the doctor will write you a script for a dose of heroin drops. In fact, the authorities here only started to keep a record of heroin addicts this year. There are just short of four hundred recorded addicts in Britain. Almost all are doctors or connected to the medical profession. You don’t have a problem here. But in the States we do, and it’s getting bigger. Heroin has been controlled since the Harrison Act and we made it completely illegal more than twenty years ago.’

  He paused as a couple of young men in shabby business suits walked past.

  ‘I work out of the Bureau’s New York office. Last year, in Harlem, New York City, we saw a rapid spread of the illegal supply of heroin. This summer we have an epidemic on our hands… an epidemic of negroes injecting themselves with this stuff.’

  ‘So this is Largo’s business. He’s the one who’s supplying it to the blacks?’

  Devereaux shook his head. ‘John Largo is supplying the people who supply the negroes. The Syndicate. But Largo’s not the only one supplying the Syndicate. Glasgow isn’t the main supply port, and Largo isn’t the only exporter.’

  ‘Who’s the competition?’ I asked.

  ‘Corsicans. Between you and me there’s a rumour that Uncle Sam did a deal with the Corsican Mafia to keep the commies out of Marseille. Uncle Sam in the form of the CIA. The flip-side of the deal is that the same Corsicans are running heroin from French Indochina to Turkey and into Marseille and supplying the stuff to the New York Syndicate. The story is that Largo uses a different route and the stuff ends up here in Glasgow. Then it’s shipped to the States.’

  For a moment, I considered what Devereaux was saying. I leaned back on the bench, hooking my elbows over the back and tilting the brim of my Borsalino to let the sun bathe my face.

  ‘So why are you here and not in Marseille? Sounds to me like Largo is small fry in comparison to these Corsicans.’

  ‘He’s not. Anything but. Largo represents serious opposition, and the Corsicans don’t take kindly to opposition. Trust me, John Largo has more to fear from his swarthy islander competitors than he does from law enforcement. Fact is the Syndicate is largely made up of Neapolitan and Sicilian families. There’s some kind of animosity between the Italians and Corsicans. The Corsicans are the wrong type of Guinea or something, I guess. And Largo has been undercutting their prices. So, he’s slowly been carving out a bigger share of the US market.’

  ‘How did you find out about him?’

  A couple of young women walked past and we again raised our hats. The girls laughed in a stupid way and walked on. No class, I thought. The one nearest to me had on a white linen skirt so lightweight that the sun shone through, outlining her thighs and hips. No class but nice ass.

  ‘Six months ago I got a lead,’ said Devereaux. ‘The Italians don’t talk because of their omerta, but they have to work with others. In the Syndicate and out of it. They’ve been setting up a network of coloured middlemen throughout Harlem. One of them was a guy called Jazzy Johnson, who also happened to be one of my snitches. Johnson wasn’t able to pass on information of any quality because they never told him anything more than the barest minimum he needed to know. But what made Jazzy a good snitch was the way he was all ears and he told me everything he could pick up. One of the things he overheard was a conversation about an overdue shipment that was coming from Glasgow, and the name John Largo was mentioned.’ Devereaux shrugged. ‘That’s it

  … not much to go on, but at least I was able to put the name to a figure we knew was operating in Europe. Still not much information there except he was an ex-soldier…’

  ‘Ain’t we all?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Sure, but Largo is supposed to be some kind of ex-professional. You know, career-type soldier.’

  ‘Which army?’

  ‘Don’t know. US, Canadian… maybe even British. The start of the supply chain has to be out in the Far East and it could be that John Largo started out in some Brit colony like Hong Kong. Or fought the Japs rather than the Krauts. Wherever he did his fighting and whoever he did it for, the rumours are that he is one deadly son-of-a-gun. There’s been a lot of blood spilt across Asia and Europe just setting this thing up.’ Devereaux stopped again and looked around the park. ‘Say, do you think we could do this wet?’

  I looked at my watch. ‘The pubs are open. I know a place near here

  …’

  There tends to be an architectural style or design vernacular that unites buildings used for a common, specific purpose. Glasgow bars seemed to be themed eternal gloom. Where there were windows, the glass was frosted or misted for the twin purposes of concealing the earnest business of Scottish drinking from the outside world and to attenuate any sunlight into an insipid milky-white bloom.

  We didn’t speak further about Largo or the FBI all the way through the park and onto the main road. Instead, we talked about Vermont and New Brunswick. Different sides of the border but pretty much the same way of life and pretty much the same way of looking at life. A few heads had turned in our direction when we entered the gloom of the bar, but we were ignored once we had ordered a couple of whiskies and sat over at a corner table away from the smattering of other customers.

  ‘So your informant. Can’t he find out any more about Largo?’

  ‘He can’t find out anything about anything any more.’

  I raised an eyebrow but Devereaux shook his head. ‘Bar fight. The same old crap… about a woman, or a spilt drink, or a remark. He took a knife in the ribs.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, and a fleeting thought that Glasgow was maybe twinned with Harlem fleeted. ‘And you have no other leads?’

  ‘You got all I got.’ It was the first time I’d seen Devereaux close to gloomy. But it might just have been the pub.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘don’t get me wrong, I’m not haggling… but a thousand dollars isn’t much for the FBI to be offering for information leading them to someone as big, and someone who you have so few leads on, as John Largo.’

  ‘We have other priorities. Commies, mainly. Between Hoover and McCarthy we’ve spent the last five, six years chasing red spectres and letting the Syndicate get away with murder. Literally. The other thing is my bosses don’t put the same importance on Largo as I do. They see the French Connection, as they call it, as the biggest threat. And, to be honest, this problem isn’t a problem as far as a lot of my superiors are concerned so long as it’s in Harlem. Upper Manhattan or Nassau County and we’d have a task force set up with a million-dollar budget. But Harlem… it’s just niggers.’

  I took a breath and let it go slowly. It all fitted. ‘You can keep the reward money,’ I said. ‘If I find anything out about Largo I’ll give it to you for free. Like I said, I’ve got a lot of people paying for my time to find people I can’t find.’

  Devereaux stared at me as if he was unsure if I was serious. ‘Why, Lennox?’

  ‘You liked this coloured guy? Jazzy?’

  ‘He was a cheap hoodlum.’

  ‘You liked him though?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘The reason there’s only a thousand up for this reward is because it’s your money, isn’t it?’

  ‘No one else sees the big picture.’ Devereaux sighed. ‘These people are stuck in a shithole of a place and heroin gives them a holiday. It’s supposed to be the most incredible feeling, puts you in a different place a universe away from your troubles… but it turns your brain to mush and makes you its slave for the rest of your life. And that, my friend, m
eans that it offers the criminal opportunity of the century. There’s no way that it’s going to stay in Harlem or Watts or Englewood. And even if it does, I didn’t join the FBI to watch people rot to death to make a buck for organized crime. Like I said, everything I told you in your apartment was true. My investigation here is private. Or semi-private. The Bureau agreed to pay my transport and accommodation and give me some kind of official sanction as far as the City of Glasgow Police are concerned. But if I don’t come up with the goods… literally come up with the goods, then I have a long and happy career in filing and archiving to look forward to.’

  ‘What do you mean “literally come up with the goods”?’

  ‘The New York Police Department have had to deal with all of the consequences of what’s happened in Harlem over the last two summers. Consequences on the street. It means that NYPD beat cops have become our best source of information. That information tells us that there’s been a hiccup in supply. About three weeks ago a shipment was supposed to arrive. It didn’t. There are a lot of itchy customers on the street as a result and, last I heard, it still hadn’t arrived. Which is why I’m here. There’s been some kind of wrinkle and I reckon that John Largo is here in Glasgow with iron in hand. Let’s just hope it’s a big wrinkle and I have enough time to find him.’

  ‘What about the movement of the stuff itself. Have you spoken to the port authority? There’s a chance you’d be able to track any iffy shipments. I have a contact…’

  Devereaux held his hand up. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. This isn’t illegal gun shipments…’ He shot me a meaningful look: he really did know more than Jock Ferguson about what had happened last year. ‘What you’ve got to remember about this stuff is that you don’t need a freighter to bring it over. It’s small and it can be hidden anywhere and in anything. A suitcase of this stuff in its pure form would be worth a hundred thousand dollars.’

  I thought about what he was saying for a moment. ‘Does the City of Glasgow Police know any of this?’

  ‘Some. They’re not that interested in the heroin. They’re just very keen to be seen to help Uncle Sam.’ Devereaux smiled wryly. ‘We just saved the world, you know.’

  ‘That you did,’ I said, leaving the bitter Scottish beer and sipping at the whisky chaser. ‘That you did…’ I looked at my watch and suddenly had an idea. ‘Do you have your FBI badge with you?’

  ‘Sure…’ Devereaux frowned. ‘I have it with me all the time. Why?’

  ‘Because you could make someone’s day for me.’

  I gave Devereaux the lowdown on the way up to Blanefield. I told him about what had been happening with Kirkcaldy and the forthcoming fight with the German title holder. All of which was just background for why I had really brought him up there.

  ‘I really appreciate you doing this, Dex,’ I said, as we pulled up behind the bottle-green Rover. Sneddon was allowing it to be used as an almost permanent observation post. Davey Wallace took the early evenings, Twinkletoes until one in the morning, then Sneddon would provide another thug to watch the place until daybreak. Davey still approached his duties with fierce dedication, taking notes of absolutely anything and everything that happened. He had looked more than a little intimidated by Twinkletoes at their first meeting. However, Twinkletoes had been positively avuncular with Davey. Which had been even more scary.

  I tapped on the window of the Rover and Davey swung open the door and stepped out. I half expected him to stand to attention.

  ‘How’s it going, Davey?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine, Mr Lennox, just fine,’ he said. He cast a glance across to Devereaux who stood beside me. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s really nothing to report. I’ve not taken my eyes off the place though. You can trust me on that, Mr Lennox.’

  ‘I know that, Davey. I’ve brought someone up to meet you. I’ve been telling Dex here about how you work for me part-time and what a great job you’ve been doing.’

  ‘Dex Devereaux…’ The American said earnestly, almost sternly, and before he shook Davey’s hand he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. He flipped it open and gold flashed in the evening light. ‘Special Agent Dex Devereaux, FBI.’

  It took all of my willpower, but somehow I suppressed a smirk at Davey’s reaction. He stared at Devereaux’s FBI shield, eyes wide, open-mouthed, mesmerized. It seemed to take an eternity before he looked past the badge to Devereaux’s face. Devereaux pocketed the shield and shook Davey’s hand.

  ‘Mr Lennox has told me you’re doing a darned fine job for him here. Darned fine. It’s always good to meet a fellow investigator. Keep up the good work, Davey.’

  ‘Dex is over here carrying out an investigation for the FBI. But that’s strictly between us, Davey,’ I said as gravely as I could manage.

  ‘Oh, yes… I wouldn’t say a thing, Mr Devereaux…’ Davey spoke like a child giving his very best promise. It was the child-likeness of it that troubled me. He was only a kid. I was pretty sure I had placed him in no danger, but I couldn’t be absolutely sure. ‘You can trust me not to say anything,’ he said with the same boyish earnestness.

  ‘I know I can,’ said Devereaux. ‘We are colleagues, after all.’

  ‘I’m sure you have a lot of questions for Dex,’ I said, offering them both a cigarette before lighting one for myself. ‘Is Bobby Kirkcaldy in?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Davey. ‘He came back with his uncle from the gym about an hour and a half ago.’

  ‘Why don’t you two have a chat while I go and see if there’s anything else to report.’

  As I left them chatting, I saw Devereaux take his shield out again and hand it to Davey. At the same time I liked Devereaux and resented him. He reminded me of some of the men I’d met in the war. Men who saw all kinds of shit yet somehow managed to keep their humanity and sense of honour intact. There hadn’t been many of them. And I hadn’t been one.

  The door was answered again by Uncle Bert Soutar. He was his usual charming self and, after I said I wanted a word with Kirkcaldy, he turned his back on me and walked along the terracotta-tiled hallway.

  Bobby Kirkcaldy wasn’t in the lounge this time. Soutar led me further along the hall until there was no hall to lead me along. He opened the door and a few steps took us down into what must have originally been intended as a built-in double garage and workshop. Instead it had been converted into a gymnasium: three benches; a rack of weights and some free dumbbells in one corner of the concrete floor; a couple of heavy punch bags hung like giant pendulous sausages from robust ceiling chains, and a speed ball on a wall bracket. Bobby Kirkcaldy was in the centre of the gym, dressed in what looked like longjohns with boxing trunks over them. The air was filled with the sound of it being sliced repeatedly by Kirkcaldy’s skipping rope. His feet made only the smallest of movements but looked as if they were not actually in contact with the ground at any time. He ignored me as I came down the steps, finishing his set before wiping his face with the towel he had wrapped around his neck.

  ‘Well?’ he asked unceremoniously, breathing hard. I was surprised at how out of breath he was: I’d seen him go the distance in the ring without breaking much of a sweat. I would have been surprised if he had neglected his fitness this close to a fight.

  ‘I just wanted to check that everything’s okay. As you know we’ve got someone watching the house most of-’

  ‘The kid?’ It was Soutar who interrupted me. Maybe that was how his face got the way it was — interrupting people. ‘What the fuck is he going to do if someone starts any shite? He looks about twelve.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said in an offended tone. ‘I don’t hire anyone under thirteen unless it’s for chimney sweeping.’

  Uncle Bert took a step closer to me.

  ‘Bert…’ said Kirkcaldy in a low tone, causing Soutar to check himself and allowing me once more to consider the ignominy of being beaten up by a pensioner. Kirkcaldy turned to me. ‘You can call him off. Nothing’s happened for weeks and I’m getting
pissed off being under surveillance. If I needed that I’d’ve gone to the police.’

  ‘Listen, Mr Kirkcaldy, I’m just doing my job. Mr Sneddon has an interest in you and I’m just protecting that interest. If you say there’s been no more trouble, then fine… I’ll report back to Sneddon and take instructions from him. In the meantime, it’s a free country and if Mr Sneddon wants to park his car outside on the street and have someone look after it, then there’s nothing anybody can do.’

  ‘You done?’ There was no aggression in Kirkcaldy’s voice. He was cool. Always. That was what made him deadly in the ring.

  ‘Not quite. This is all very strange, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’ve been getting warnings and threats and you don’t tell anyone about it until your manager just happens along at the wrong time and sees it for himself. And since I first got involved in this, you’ve gone out of your way to make out that there’s nothing going on.’

  ‘There’s not. And I didn’t mention it because it means fuck all. It was obviously someone trying to put me off. It didn’t work. It was never going to work, and they’ve given up.’

  ‘What about you, Gramps?’ I turned to Soutar. Deep within the folds and creases and pads of puffed flesh, his eyes glittered hard and black. ‘What do you think? Do you think it’s someone trying to spook Mr Kirkcaldy? I mean, I’m asking you for your expert opinion.’

  ‘What the fuck is that meant to mean?’ he asked nasally.

  ‘I mean fight fixing. You know a thing or two about that. I was talking to an old amigo of yours… Jimmy MacSherry. He was reminiscing about the old days.’

  ‘Do you have a point?’ asked Kirkcaldy.

  ‘Just that Uncle Bert here has had a colourful past. Am I right in thinking that you were involved with a bookie? Rumours of fight fixing?’