Beyond the Rage

by Michael J Malone

  32

  The time and place were the very next day. Lunch, where else but Malmaison? Kenny needed to do his research. He had his suspicions about this guy and felt that this would give him the opportunity to work a face-to-face meeting and see what his gut told him.

  Kenny was a man who believed in gut instinct, although his recent form wasn’t going to win him any prizes. So, on this occasion he would find out as much as he could about the man before he met him.

  He phoned his I.T. sleuth.

  ‘Whassup?’

  ‘Dimitri, if you insist on talking to me like that I may have to sack you.’

  ‘Aww, boss, it’s how all the young trendies are talking.’

  ‘Aye and it’s sad when middle-aged men try to copy it. Anyway, I’m not on the phone to talk about language. You got anything for me?’

  ‘Early days, Kenny,’ said Dimitri. ‘Let’s not get too excited. I’ve only been working for you for...’ – Kenny heard a sound like the rustle of cloth as if Dimitri was holding his phone away from his ear – ‘officially, it’s now three hours.’

  ‘So do I have three hours’ worth of Dimitri?’

  Dimitri sighed. ‘Okay. Here’s what we’ve got so far. Not a lot. There’s some good search places on the web...’

  ‘The web?’ asked Kenny. ‘Surely it wouldn’t be so straightforward?’

  ‘You’ve got to discount the obvious and the easy first. There’s a great site called 192.com and the voters’ roll is online too. Lots of material there. We could do with a likely location and a name though. Can’t imagine that someone who’s managed to stay hidden for eighteen years is going to keep his original one.’

  Kenny allowed his thoughts to take sound. ‘What do we know of him? He’s a patriot. My uncle said he dreamed about going to Canada. Canada, my hairy hole. When I was a kid he was forever taking me round the cliché Scottish tourist stops. It’s a wonder he didn’t tattoo a tartan on my legs.’ As he spoke, Kenny thought about his uncle’s answer and wondered if the man was trying to give him some misdirection. And if so, why?

  ‘Good,’ said Dimitri. ‘That gives me something to go on.’ He stopped talking and Kenny could hear the sound of chewing. Teeth on pencil. ‘What about a name? How close would he stick to his own name?’

  ‘If it were me, I’d keep my first name. Would make it easier to live the lie.’

  ‘What about a surname?’

  ‘My mum’s maiden name was Marshall. You could try that.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Dimitri. ‘I’ll see what I can do with that.’

  ‘Nobody says “cool” anymore,’ said Kenny, wondering when he’d become such a language pedant. ‘Oh, I have another guy I want you to look into. This one has a name and can you do this first, please?’

  Sigh. ‘Okay.’

  ‘His name is Tommy Hunt. Reputable businessman. I want you to dig up some dirt on this guy for tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No rush, then?’ asked Dimitri.

  • • •

  Later that day, while some cop series blared across his TV, Kenny caught up with his cousin by text.

  how’s your ma?

  hangin in there. Asking 4 u. Wants to c u, was the instant reply.

  will try and pop in 2morrow

  do better than try dude. Thinks she’s dyin

  He sat up in his chair sharply.

  what does doctor say?

  doc says she recovering well. She’s convinced she’s going to die

  That wasn’t like his Aunt Vi. She was a glass-full-to-the-brim kind of woman.

  you worried about her? Kenny asked.

  nah. Doc seems to know his stuff. Blame an old woman’s imagination

  Ok. Thanks. Take it easy, dude

  jeez, he’s turning yank!!!!

  if I was I’d be saying ‘love you’ man. instead here’s a great big fuck you muthafucka

  Kenny felt the warmth of a smile as he pressed send. Over the years, as the adults swooped in and leaped out of his life, Ian had been a constant. They rarely met in person these days, which was in truth the way Ian preferred it. He had enough pride not to want his wee cousin to see him in thrall to the dragon or the weed or whatever substance he was currently ingesting.

  • • •

  The best sleep he’d had in an age, a three-mile jog, a shower and Kenny was ready to face a new day. As his lunch appointment with Tommy Hunt drew closer he couldn’t help but be buoyed by a sense of optimism. His Aunt Vi had passed the worst. He was looking for his father and he would find him. Alexis was the only smudge on his hopefulness, but he was convinced she was alive and well. She was just hiding. The fact that her mother’s death by shooting hadn’t been reported anywhere in the Scottish media suggested that she somehow had the wherewithal to deal with such a tricky situation.

  In the spare bedroom that acted as his wardrobe, Kenny examined his clothes. He was highly aware that most of what he did was based an illusion. People in his experience were too quick to base their instincts on what they saw. A certain look. A presentation of confidence. The right words delivered with certainty. All of this gave him an edge and this edge was completed by the correct clothing.

  Along the wall on his right were suits, trousers and jackets. He picked an expensive suit. Designer names did nothing for him but he enjoyed the cut of a nice piece of cloth.

  A suit would be needed for an old stager like Hunt. He picked a dark brown one that said the wearer was conventional but liked his own sense of style. Under this he chose a white shirt but neglected the barrage of ties to his far left. Hunt would expect a suit and tie. A suit showed that he was respectful and the missing tie would suggest that he was his own man.

  Or not.

  He dressed and then checked his appearance in the full-length mirror behind the door.

  Yeah. He would do.

  In the car, he called Dimitri.

  ‘Morning, boss,’ said Dimitri.

  ‘What you got?’

  ‘What, no small talk? No how was your evening? How’s the wife and kids?’

  ‘How’s the wife and kids?’

  ‘A royal pain in my arse. Every single one of them. Don’t have daughters, Kenny. Or if you do, say goodbye to a long comfortable shit in the morning. My God. You have to wait, like, hours to get in and as soon as you’ve bared your backside, the door’s knocking and someone else is–’

  ‘Dimitri, have I ever given you the impression that I give a fuck about any of this stuff? Forgive my momentary weakness. I’ll get back to my original question. What you got?’

  Dimitri didn’t bother to hide the chuckle in his voice. ‘I was only messing with you, Kenny. What have I got? On your father: nothing, nada, zip. On Tommy Hunt... now there’s an interesting man.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Came from money. Money of a dubious source, I might add.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Nothing certain, just a few comments in the articles I read that suggested Daddy’s riches weren’t completely kosher. Hints that he was in bed with the Campbells’ – Kenny knew that the Campbells were a notorious Glasgow crime family in the Sixties and Seventies – ‘but nothing was ever proven. Anywho, Tom takes his father’s millions and instead of whoring it up, he makes more millions. North Sea oil. Engineering. Seems something horrible happened in his early-thirties and he handled his grief by throwing himself into business.’

  ‘You got anything on the “something horrible”?’

  ‘Still working on that, boss.’

  ‘Right. Go back to the search for my old man, will you? And keep me posted as soon as you find something.’

  Next he phoned Liam Devlin. The older man answered his phone with a curt, ‘Devlin.’

  ‘It’s Kenny. Just wanted a quick word.’

  ‘Sprint.’ Liam chuckled.
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br />   ‘Jings, I’d better find someone with some needle and thread on account of my split sides here, Liam.’

  ‘You need to have a wee laugh, Kenny.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever. You coming to this meeting today?’

  ‘No,’ said Devlin. ‘I have other stuff on. Besides the man prefers you two to meet on your own.’

  ‘Any ideas why he wants a meet?’

  ‘Just what I said the other day. He admires someone with balls and he thinks you and he could work together.’

  ‘Tell me something about him. I need to get more of a handle on who I’m dealing with here.’

  ‘He’s a successful guy. Took Daddy’s millions and made more–’

  ‘Tell me something I’m not going to read on a business pamphlet. That first time I met him you said he was a dangerous man to get on the wrong side of.’ This was less of a statement than it was a question.

  ‘He was accused of bribery in the late-Seventies. He wanted a contract that some local jobsworth put the scuppers on. Before the case went to trial, the jobsworth recanted his evidence and took up a job in a Caribbean tax haven. Six months later his house was broken into and he was murdered. The thieves stole a TV.’

  ‘Proves nothing.’

  ‘Exactly. Think Teflon. Nothing sticks. There was also a family tragedy in the –oh... lemme think – late-Eighties or early-Nineties. His wife and daughter died.’

  ‘What?’ Kenny’s attention was gripped. There were parallels here with his own story.

  ‘A big broom and an even bigger rug was found to hide it all under. He never talks about it, but it seems to have spurred him on to even bigger success. The view is he has nothing in his life but work. And that’s why he lets nothing and no one get in his way.’

  • • •

  Kenny found a parking space just round the corner from Malmaison in Blythswood Square. As was his wont, he was early. He couldn’t find a space where he could watch people entering and leaving the hotel, which was also a habit. In the usual circumstances it was because he wanted to make sure there were no plainclothes policemen loitering with intent to slap some handcuffs on him. Today he would have liked to get a measure of the man he was about to meet, but Glasgow’s perennial problem of parking spaces got in his way.

  He wasn’t happy. By the time they were sat down together, the other man’s mask would be firmly in place. His game face would be in play and he would be a little more difficult to read. He would have preferred some time to watch the man when he had no idea he was being observed. There was certainly something more to this man than successful businessman and darling of the Entrepreneurial Exchange.

  33

  The bar in the hotel was large, bright and airy and filled with the low hum of chatter. There were a few people dotted about the room in pairs. All of them in business dress.

  Although he was ten minutes early, he could see Hunt sitting in the furthest corner of the room with his back to the wall. All the better to observe everyone who came and went. Kenny smiled to himself; he could get to like him.

  As he made the long walk towards his lunch companion he tried to take a measure of the man. While Kenny walked, Hunt was mouthing into his mobile phone. His face was tanned and lean. Lines bunched at the side of his eyes and across his forehead. He was wearing a dark suit, with blue shirt and gold-coloured tie, and he sat in the large leather chair like it was a throne.

  Kenny sat in the chair directly in front of him and waited for an acknowledgement, but Hunt was deep in conversation. He didn’t so much as look at him. Kenny swallowed his irritation and chewed on the inside of his lip. He needed to stay calm but so far he was being treated like he was insignificant.

  A waiter appeared at Kenny’s side. He was a short, chunky guy with a nose almost as wide as his face. Kenny took the measure of the glass in front of Hunt and asked for a mineral water. Hunt smiled at the waiter, apologised to whoever was on the phone with him, and said, ‘Could you get me another one, thank you?’

  Very fucking good, thought Kenny.

  Then he breathed deep and slow as it occurred to him that this was all part of the dance. He leaned back on his chair, rested his right ankle on his left knee and placed his hands on his lap as if he was waiting for his favourite uncle to tell him one of his loved anecdotes.

  Hunt ended his call and stood up with his hand outstretched. Kenny had no option but to stand as well. He hated the fact that already Tommy Hunt was dictating the tune.

  ‘Thanks for coming today, Kenny. I appreciate your time.’ His grip was strong. Kenny gave it an extra squeeze.

  ‘When Liam told me you wanted to meet, I was intrigued.’

  ‘Okay. Here’s the deal. You come and work for me. 100k a year, basic. Nothing outside the law and we both make a lot of money.’

  Kenny was used to all kinds of tactics but this was as brutally frank an opening as he’d ever come across.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘No funny stuff. I know how you make your money and I think that if your energy was deflected onto legal activities, with me by your side, it could be every bit as rewarding.’

  ‘By “rewarding”, you mean great wodges of cash in a Swiss bank vault?’

  ‘You’ll be making so much money you won’t have to worry about hiding it from the tax man. Or cleaning it through a collection of cash businesses.’ Certainty shone from the man’s eyes like a torch and Kenny wanted to dim it with a bucket of ice water.

  ‘You think you know a lot about me.’

  ‘I have my methods.’

  ‘And your great wodges of cash in a Swiss bank vault.’

  A shrug of those finely-tailored shoulders. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘What exactly would I be doing for you?’

  ‘You’d be my number one.’

  Whatever the fuck that means, thought Kenny. ‘I don’t work for anyone but myself, Tommy.’

  ‘Yes, you’re your own man. And look where that’s got you.’

  ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Please don’t use profanities when you’re talking with me, Kenny. English is a pretty expansive language. I’m sure you could find other words that would work just as well.’ Hunt’s eyebrows were raised and he looked over at Kenny as though he was the headmaster and Kenny was the recalcitrant child.

  ‘I have a vocabulary as expansive as anyone I know, Tom, and I’ll tell you something for nothing. There are times when you can’t beat a good loud “fuck”.’

  ‘Well, in that case, this meeting is over,’ Hunt said and stood up. Just at that point the waiter arrived with two bottles of mineral water and glasses on a tray. He looked from one man to the other, waiting for some form of cue.

  Kenny ignored the waiter. ‘You’re kidding me on?’

  ‘I rarely make jokes, Mr O’Neill.’

  ‘Oh sit down, man. You didn’t set up this meeting just to walk out after two minutes.’

  ‘It often takes less than that to make an opinion.’

  ‘You knew what I was like before we came here. This is all just part of your act, Mr Hunt. So why don’t you sit down and we can get on with the conversation?’

  ‘I’ll... eh...’ – the waiter made a face that suggested he wished invisibility was one of his life gifts – ‘…just leave... this...’ He leaned forward and placed the tray on the table and turned away, his shoulders up around his ears.

  ‘Did you ever meet my father?’ asked Kenny.

  ‘What?’ Hunt made a face. He was clearly wrong-footed by the question.

  ‘Peter O’Neill. Did you know him?’

  ‘You’re the first person I’ve ever met with that surname.’ Tommy Hunt said and scratched at the side of his face.

  Fuck me, thought Kenny, if that wasn’t an obvious tell. He stared into Hunt’s eyes. He tried to read the man’s thoughts.
What was going on in his head?

  ‘Did you really think you could work with me?’ Kenny asked.

  Hunt sat back down. ‘You understand this is like turning down Alan Sugar. Nobody walks away from The Apprentice.’

  ‘If I remember correctly, you turned me down because I wouldn’t modify my language.’ Kenny stopped as a thought occurred to him. ‘Why now? You met me more than a year ago.’

  ‘We had an opening. My main man decided he could do better on his own.’

  ‘What about Alexis? You seen her recently?’ Kenny liked to throw in a question from left field.

  Hunt scratched at his face again. ‘Alexis who?’ And Kenny was thinking, how bad a liar is this guy?

  Kenny heard the loud click of high heels as they approached their corner. Both men had been so caught up in their conversation they hadn’t noticed anyone drawing near. They both turned at the same time.

  ‘Did I hear someone mention my name?’ Alexis asked with a small smile and that tilt of the head that Kenny loved.

  34

  Kenny turned on to Argyle Street. Headed west on the Clydeside Expressway and from there the Clyde Tunnel and onwards to the hospital.

  Uncle Colin was standing outside the room talking to a doctor and gave Kenny a look as he walked up.

  ‘Don’t start,’ Kenny said in a voice that brooked no argument and pushed past him and into the bedroom. His Aunt Vi was sitting up in the bed and was almost unrecognisable from the woman he had last seen lying there. Until she smiled and only half of her face moved. Her hair had been washed and brushed, her eye make-up applied and she was wearing a pink cardigan over her shoulders.

  ‘Grrreat to see you, son,’ she slurred. Her left hand was curled like a claw on her lap and her right hand was holding a handkerchief, which she moved to wipe some saliva from her chin. The effort was slow and clearly took some effort, but Kenny knew that his fastidious aunt would be mortified that she was spilling fluid from her mouth in that way.

  Whatever smile was missing from her mouth was leaking out of her eyes.

  ‘Wow, look at you,’ said Kenny, stretching over to kiss her cheek. ‘You’ll be out of that bed in no time doing Zumba down at the community centre.’