Elvis The Sani Man

by Ian Todd

  “At least ye’re no hivving tae be confronted wae him if you’re up in Possil and he’s based doon in Central?”

  “Central?”

  “You being based in another area ae the toon.”

  “Senga…Ah’m…Ah’m sorry, bit Ah don’t think ye quite understaun where Ah’m coming fae,” the patient replied, looking and sounding utterly desperate.

  “Oh?”

  “Ah’ve been hivving a…a liaison…an affair wae that married boss ae mine…Inspector Dougan, bit noo the basturt’s decided tae pass me oan…well, he wis planning tae, jist like that pal ae his doon in Central, like some used rag, tae some other inspector pal ae his oot in Yoker. He’s noo claiming that it wis aw jist a stupid misunderstanding and that Ah’d goat the wrang end ae the stick. Ah’m no sure if Ah believe him though.”

  “Bit…” Senga started.

  “Of course, Ah’d heard the rumours, we aw hid…aboot that happening tae other WPCs…especially the young recruits, bit Ah didnae really believe them…until noo.”

  Chapter Nine

  Elvis lifted up his Elvis mug wae the tea bag still floating aboot oan the tap ae it. Wae it level, in front ae they eyes ae his, it looked like a shark wis oan the hunt. He gently blew across the tap ae the liquid tae the sound ae the theme tune fae that new film ‘Jaws’ in that heid ae his, sending a blustery wee gust ae hot steam aff ae the man-made waves he’d created. The shark shot aff in the wake ae wan ae the mair athletic lassies, who’d jist rushed past his table in The Tear Drap Café, doon in the basement, in floods ae tears, before he partook ae a wee cautious sip ae the milky, boiling liquid.

  “Ahhhh!” he sighed loudly, smacking they lips ae his, acknowledging the knowing, furtive smiles fae a few ae his fellow travellers, sitting there oan their lonesomes, wae whit looked like well-slapped arsed expressions splashed across their coupons, at the tables scattered throughoot the big room in front ae him. Awready, jist wae that wan wee sip, he felt the trials and tribulations ae the day’s events slip away, as he lay the chipped mug carefully doon oan tae the well-worn, still wet, Formica-topped surface, that hid jist been wiped clean by the jolly sounding wee canteen cleaner. He sat watching her in admiration, as she expertly managed tae manoeuvre the galvanised tin bucket forward in front ae hersel in amongst the misery tables, while at the same time, effortlessly wringing the excess water aff ae the balding mop-heid, before swishing it across the flair, wiping the tables oan either side ae her wae the cloth in her other haun as she went. He swithered whether tae intervene efter he noticed the hauf-inch length ae silvery fag ash suddenly drap aff ae the end ae the fag that wis sticking oot fae between her toothless gums in tae the delicate bone china cup ae Miss Robertson. Miss Robertson wis The Tear Drap Café’s longest serving patron and resident spinster, who usually sat in plain sight ae everywan, anchored oot in the public entrance reception in George Street, facing the front door wae a fixed, pleasant smile oan her coupon, as she manned The Corporation’s complaints desk. He decided tae leave her tae it. Fur some strange reason, the expression, ‘clean food never fattened the pig,’ sprung in tae that heid ae his. He studied her o’er the rim ae his shark-infested mug. She looked a delicate wee soul, sitting there, perched oan the edge ae that scuffed and scratched chair ae hers, as if aboot tae take flight, wae her face stuck in her Spare Rib magazine, as her long slim fingers and well-chewed fingernails blindly lifted up the cup, clearly no wanting tae lose her place in the absorbing article she wis digesting. He still swithered whether tae alert her, bit hid allowed himsel tae be seduced by his surroundings, as he tried tae figure oot the name ae the tune the wee cleaner wis humming.

  “Pretty Wummin!” he exclaimed proudly, bit far too loudly, as a few ae his co-abused colleagues visibly jumped in their seats, startled at the interruption, though a few smiling tentatively, nodding in agreement, before falling back in tae their shell-shocked states ae abused stupor, as the wee humming cleaner disappeared oot the door, in tae the corridor, pushing that bucket in front ae her as she went.

  The Tear Drap Cafe wisnae its real name. It ended up wae that tag because ae its oot-ae-the-way location, doon in the bowels ae The Corporation’s headquarters, oan George Square. Female Corporation staff hid started using it as a makeshift canteen way back in the 1920s efter spending maist ae their working day being abused by cooncillors, their managers or the general public, day in, day oot. Although nowan wid ever admit tae hivving darkened its door publicly upstairs in the offices and departments, it wis universally recognised as a place ae sanctuary by the lowliest employee tae the highest director in the building. It wis said that Frank Davidson, the auld heid ae the warrant sales section, hid plapped that arse ae his oan the very seat that Elvis wis noo sitting oan every single day fur sixteen months before finally jumping aff ae the Kingston Bridge the day efter the Queen Mother hid opened it back in 1970. He hid a forty-pound anvil attached tae a rope aroond that neck ae his. Seemingly, the coroner at the inquest hid said that if it hidnae been fur the puffer sailing past underneath, shipping coal up tae the west coast, he’d probably hiv survived the water. That poor wife ae his hid put his misery doon tae some bunch ae mad wummin who’d been harassing him and his staff fur years every time there hid been a warrant sale up in the Toonheid. Drove him demented, so they hid. Whitever the reason, it wis the only seat in the room that wis always guaranteed tae be vacant, which suited Elvis jist fine. Although there hid been many changes tae the inside ae the main building o’er the years, the stark, bare interior ae The Tear Drap Cafe, wae its constant boiling hot water geyser up in the corner underneath the flaked ceiling and lagged heating pipes, hid always been left untouched. The only person who’d ever brought the cafe in tae any kind ae disrepute hid been a fat, rich Tory cooncillor, by the name ae Granger Louden-Blakely, the owner ae a fine tea baron period mansion across in the west end. Louden-Blakely hid admitted in his memoirs back in the forties that if he wis ever feeling doon in the dumps, he’d waddle doon tae The Tear Drap tae cheer himsel up, surreptitiously laughing at aw the miseries sitting by themsels trying tae figure oot a solution roond aboot him. He claimed that efter hauf an hour ae sitting trying tae guess whit wis gaun oan behind the pained, suicidal expressions oan display in front ae him, he’d be aw set tae face another day…never failed, he claimed. Elvis hid forgotten aw aboot that aspect ae The Tear Drap. Everywan…well, 99 percent of them…sitting there oan their lonesome, wur wummin. He supposed if he wis really honest wae himsel efter admiring that face ae his in the mirror, he could probably be perceived by some as a bit ae a fraud. He wis seldom ever doon in the dumps and when he wis, he always shared whitever it wis that hid been bothering him wae Pricilla, rather that go and sit, staring intae space doon in the gunnels ae The Corporation building oan George Square. Naw, whit he appreciated aboot The Tear Drap Café wis that, apart fae the occasional sobs, emotional breakdoons and the odd loud eureka moment when some poor soul convinced themsels that they’d go and confront whitever it wis that wis bothering them, before sheepishly sneaking back tae the same chair at the next morning’s tea break, the place allowed him tae sit quietly and collect they thoughts ae his.

  All in aw, the day could’ve been worse, he supposed, knowing fine well that tae an ootsider or wan ae his compatriots sitting at the surrounding tables, he wis probably fooling nowan bit himsel. He thought back tae the earlier meeting, first thing in the morning, wae The Stalker up in Springburn. Oan paper, it should’ve spelt the worse ae the two planned meetings, bit oan reflection, he put this miscalculation doon tae no really appreciating the lay ae the land beforehaun, this being his first day at attempting an actual face-tae-face meeting since he’d taken up his promotion three months earlier. Of course, The Stalker wid’ve been bound tae hiv been aff kilter a wee bit oan the personal and verbal abusive stakes that he wis notorious fur. He clearly hid a lot oan his plate jist noo, Elvis reminded himsel, taking another wee cautious sip ae the shark fin tea.

  ‘Collusion, Cover-up and Corruption,’
the upside doon heidline oan the noo discarded folded-up Glesga Echo, lying two tables tae the left ae Miss Robertson, the wee complaints wummin, who’d jist screwed up her face in twisted horror, efter loudly boaking and spitting the contents ae her mooth back in tae her delicate wee China cup, before rushing oot the door wae her left haun, cupped under that chin ae hers, trying tae catch the sooty ash-covered spit fae drapping aff her chin, aw doon the front ae that white blouse ae hers.

  He knew the truth wis always stranger than fiction, bit efter sitting in front ae him, Elvis widnae hiv put it past The Stalker no tae be in there wae that big sergeant wan, Bumper, setting innocent people up. Ye jist knew wance they angry eyes ae his homed-in oan ye…or maybe he wis jist being prejudiced against The Stalker as a result ae getting caught up in the never ending claim by some young Ned daeing fourteen years fur shooting two polismen in a bank that hid been getting played oot in the newspapers and the TV news these past few months. It wis clear that the press wur divided. The Evening Citizen and Evening Times, alang wae John Turney, the six o’clock newsreader hid the young wan, Taylor, guilty as charged, while The Glesga Echo wis oot there howling that the dodgy wee slippery basturt wis an innocent angel. It hid been the second inspector, Duggie Dougan, across in Possil, who’d freaked him oot the maist. There wis a man wae serious anger issues, Elvis cursed, wincing. It hid been his intention tae up-the-ante if it didnae look like he wis gonnae be getting the response he’d been looking fur in either ae the two meetings. He knew that it wis a risky strategy tae even contemplate. Whit he hidnae expected wis tae upset the Possil inspector so soon efter flashing him his ID badge. He could still feel the acidic spit, sizzling in tae the back ae that neck ae his fae that gaping, screaming, foul mooth. How Elvis hid managed tae put wan winkle-picker booted toe in front ae his other winkle-picker booted toe, tae go back in tae the polis station, overwhelmed by the shame, tae report that the wheels oan his car hid been stolen while he’d been in the meeting wae the inspector, hid been well worthy ae a mention in despatches, any day ae the week. It wis a pity he’d been oan his lonesome. While he’d been pretty disdainful ae those in charge ae the chaos oan display at the front desk before his meeting wae the inspector, he’d been right glad that the continuing chaos hid still been in full flow and hid absorbed the guffawing laughter fae the red heided sergeant and Possil’s maist notorious crusading duo, The Gruesome Twosome, when he’d blurted oot in indignant distress that his good wheels hid gone AWOL.

  “If ye’re ever leaving a car sitting unattended up in Springburn or Possil, then mind and take somewan wae ye tae sit ootside in the car,” Tam Watson, his boss hid warned him oan his first day oan the job, straight efter his five-minute induction session ae being showed his desk and getting introduced tae his team…which hid consisted ae a six-feet two-inch tall skinny lassie by the name ae Mags Hamilton, who looked tae be aboot in her early fifties, whose typewriting skills wur shared between the North Sanitation Team, his domain, and the North’s Debt Collection Team, somewan else’s, whose four personnel wur based across the corridor fae him.

  The empty chair and desk sitting directly in front ae his wan back in the office, belonged tae wan ae his seemingly best sanitation officers, who wis still aff long term sick wae a severe bout ae Shigella, wan ae the worse food poisoning diarrhoeas known tae man or beast, being a close relative ae the dysentery family. By aw accounts, this Harry Foster wan hid practically shat they lungs ae his oot ae his puckered arsehole efter jumping up in the air tae celebrate Kenny Dalglish scoring a thirty yard volley in tae the back ae the net, a few months earlier. If that hidnae been bad enough, the poor basturt hid then gone oan and fainted in amongst everywan in the middle ae the terraces. Luckily fur him, the St John’s Ambulance stretcher-bearers doon oan the track wur able tae find him by the size ae the empty circle ae fans aroond aboot him, even though the sell-oot crowd hid been in full swing, singing ‘Ye’ll Never Walk Alone.’ The stupid basturt hid let his guard doon and hid bought a couple ae pies while waiting at the turnstiles across at Hampden Park at wan ae the semi-finals. Elvis remembered quickly scanning the polis report efter he wis reminded tae sign the continued sick-leave authorisation chitty as he wis trying oot his fancy chair and new desk. Seemingly, the street traders ID badge that the pie-seller hid been wearing, hid been a doctored Micky Moose Club badge. Unsurprisingly, even the Disney badge itsel hid been found tae be a counterfeit. The other members ae his team, Baldy Spittal, Jack Hawks and Norrie Johnston hid aw hung aboot fur a respectable ten minutes before heidin aff oot tae dae a roond ae the shoaps, cafes and restaurants across the patch.

  Dealing wae the polis inspectors wid need a review. He’d speak tae the boys back in the office and get their views oan the best approach. The wan good thing aboot the day’s events hid been the lead he’d picked up. Why wid Black Pat McVeigh, the biggest black butcher in the north ae the city, who ran an illegal wholesale meat business wae a turno’er ae thousands, end up in the dock ae The Sheriff Court, alang oan Ingram Street, fur selling a couple ae rotten mince pies? It jist didnae make sense. Even three blind mice could see that the dapper-looking, mean gangster, staunin scowling in the dock, wae the Tiger’s Eye pinkie ring reflecting aff the courtroom chandelier lights, dazzling everywan in the public benches, widnae hiv been the pie seller wae the tartan bunnet that sent the wee bunch ae artful dodger urchins up the closemooths alang Keppochhill Road, selling rotten pies the previous Thursday. Whit wis gaun oan there, he wondered, managing tae take a bigger slurp ae his tea noo that it hid started tae cool doon. It seemed tae Elvis that Patrick ‘Black Pat’ McVeigh looked tae be mair pissed-aff wae embarrassment, hivving tae be sitting there listening tae the procurator fiscal read oot a lowly charge ae him hivving sold two rotten pies tae some auld retired couple. It hid taken him three months, bit Elvis wis convinced that something important hid jist landed oan tae that lap ae his. Whit it wis, he wisnae quite sure, bit he hid a feeling in the back ae that heid ae his, that the wee fallen, golden nugget, could be whit he’d been patiently searching fur that could be the lead that wid take him up the path tae begin the job ae dismantling and bringing doon wan ae the biggest poisoners in the history ae Scottish poisoning, that wid make the Argentinian corned beef scandal ae 1964 up in Aberdeen look like a WRI tea party oan a sunny efternoon. He looked up. The place wis starting tae fill up again as the wans who’d been sitting there when he’d arrived left in dribs and drabs tae go back fur a repeat performance ae abuse. He swithered whether tae go and try tae comfort a poor wee lassie who wis sitting nearby, by hersel, sobbing intae a scrunched-up paper hankie, bit decided against it. It wisnae called The Tear Drap Café fur nothing and then there wis the tradition ae the place tae think ae, he supposed, as people aw aboot him settled doon tae wallow fur hauf an hour in a right good auld session ae self–worth, self-doubt and misery.

  Chapter Ten

  Black Pat McVeigh stood and coonted tae ten slowly. He’d need tae be careful or he’d end up wae a bullet in that thick skull ae his. He couldnae help himsel and hid jist let fly at the astonished looking pair in front ae him as they’d entered his office…mistake number wan. Number two hid been when he widnae allow himsel tae be calmed doon. By the time his brain hid registered who he wis fucking wae, efter receiving a punch oan that mooth ae his, he’d managed tae settle himsel doon a wee bit. Aw he needed tae dae wis tae get that breathing ae his under control and he’d maybe survive his wee relapse wae jist a burst lip and his pride intact.

  “Right, Pat, before ye explain whit the matter is, in plain English this time, gie yer chin a wee wipe. Ah’ve still tae eat ma tea up at that wee maw ae mine’s in hauf an hour, so Ah hiv,” Charlie Hastie advised, as Peter The Plant picked up an auld T-shirt that hid been sitting oan the erm ae the ripped vinyl sofa and slung it across at him.

  His problem hid started oan the Monday night, two weeks earlier, efter wan ae his boys hid arrived and telt him that his new set ae wheels wis across in the wee lane opposite The Chevalier Casino,
waiting oan him. He’d only hid the fucking thing a month. Efter being bid a bonny farewell wae they empty pockets ae his, he’d jist aboot shat a brick efter discovering that his brand new Rolls-Royce Camargue two-door Coupe wis missing. His initial thought hid been that the polis hid carted it away fur blocking the entrance tae the lane, even though it hid only been there fur nae mair than a minute or two. However, that thought hid only lasted a few seconds before everything roond aboot him turned black. At first, he wisnae sure who the fuck it wis, due tae the thickness ae the hood that hid been swiftly pulled doon o’er that heid ae his and the unmistakable pressure ae a gun barrel pressing hard against the nape ae his neck.

  “Wan mair cheep oot ae you and ye’re fucking deid meat, ya foul beast, ye,” a vaguely familiar voice hid growled next tae his right lug, as the sounds ae thudding blows landing and yelps fae his driver and bodyguard, Four Finger Ralston, shot through the heavy material.

  The realisation that he wis being kidnapped insteid ae assassinated where he’d stood, hid gied him hope, efter he’d felt another set ae hauns clutching his other erm and shoulder, as he wis roughly dragged backwards oan they heels ae his and slung intae the back ae a van.

  “Whit aboot him?” wan ae the voices hid asked.

  “Nah, he’s no needed,” a voice hid replied.

  He’d felt his body jump at the sound ae a boot thudding intae the groaning body lying oan the smelly, pish covered cobbles ae Sauchie Lane, as the back doors slammed shut.

  As he lay oan the flair ae the squeaking vehicle, as it slowly rumbled o’er the uneven cobbles towards the West Nile Street entrance ae the lane, the rubber sole ae some basturt’s boot hid rested oan the side ae that face ae his while the other kidnapper hid rifled through his pockets. Nowan hid spoken. He’d known the van hid turned right before quickly stoapping at the traffic lights oan Sauchiehall Street. He could hear arguing and shouting between a group ae young, aggressive Neds, threatening violence oan each other oan the pavement jist ootside the van before everything hid suddenly quietened doon. Whit did that tell him? Who the hell wis capable ae scaring a group ae young drunken tickets intae quieting doon by the sudden presence ae a van? Bizzies…scowling gangsters…The Mankys…Oh Christ! Even though that young crowd wur supposed tae be keeping a low profile, everywan in the toon knew fine well that it wis they bunch ae young psychos who wur responsible fur carrying oot aw the shootings against the local hash dealers across in Springburn. It wis also a well-known fact in certain circles that they’d been responsible fur taking people oot fur The Big Man, Pat Molloy, and that Wan-bob Broon wan. There hid even been whispers that Gucci, The Atalian, hid been involved in the shooting ae Tam Simpson and that social worker ae his, even though he’d heard oan good authority that that wis a heap ae shite. He’d known he wis in big trouble this time. Before he’d been able tae glean mair information oan whit the hell wis happening oan the other side ae the hood he wis wearing, the van hid taken aff again, quickly shifting up the gears across Sauchiehall Street, before stoapping up at the lights at the start ae Coocaddens Street. Despite being in total darkness, he’d suddenly become aware ae a wee chink ae light at the end ae a long tunnel. Maybe…jist maybe, he’d convinced himsel in desperation, feeling his spirits lift, as he listened attentively o’er the rumbling ae the stationary diesel engine ticking o’er, his brain gaun intae overdrive. He’d prayed it wisnae false hope. If the van turned left, it wis the bizzies, he’d telt himself. If it turned right, then he wis a goner…probably tortured, before a bullet wis put in the back ae that heid ae his in some shallow grave or dumped doon a deep hole in wan ae the scattered building sites in the toon. He remembered lying there trying tae contain his panic when aw ae a sudden, the sneering face ae Simon Harper, The Carpet Blagger, owner ae Carpet Capers Warehoose jist a couple ae hunner yards alang oan Shamrock Street in the Coocaddens, appeared in tae that consciousness ae his. That wis when he’d started pishing himsel, remembering feeling the hot wetness ae the pish spreading oot between his legs, running doon the crevice ae his arse cheeks. Despite his terror, he’d somehow managed tae hing oan, praying fur divine intervention, listening tae his pounding heart growing louder wae every beat, repeating long furgotten words ae Hail Marys, waiting fur the lights tae change. He’d realised that it wis true whit they said, that jist before ye die, yer life flashes in front ae they eyes ae yers, so it dis.