Elvis The Sani Man

by Ian Todd

  “That basturt hisnae been lifting his hauns tae ye again, his he?” Jean McGee, wan ae The Fluffys hid asked her the day before.

  She’d always regretted bursting intae tears in front ae Jean the time she’d turned up tae work wae a black eye under her heavily made-up face, no long efter they’d goat married. Jean hid sworn tae keep it between them, bit the fact that she knew aboot it meant that she’d hid tae keep in wae Jean, even though they hid nothing in common wae each other. Teddy wis hated and feared in equal measure by maist ae the wummin in Pitt Street, due tae him being an inspector in personnel. As far as she wis concerned, whit he’d been up tae in his personal life before she’d met him, wis nothing tae dae wae her…bit raping a serving poliswummin? Surely no? Collette hid made it crystal clear that there hid been other instances where inspectors wur involved as well and that they wur aw getting flushed doon the lavvy intae the sewers where they belonged.

  “Where who belongs?” she’d demanded tae know.

  “Aw that Irish Brigade,” she’d cursed back.

  God almighty, why her? Why noo? She wis bloody-well kicking hersel. She knew she should’ve telt Teddy that same night. Noo he’d want tae know why she’d left it so long. She’d need tae own up and confess that she’d been meeting up wae Collette. Shit! Shit! Shit! Why them? This wis gonnae destroy her…them. Who wid’ve guessed that wee bitch wid’ve turned oot tae be so poisonous?

  “The Irish Brigade? Fur Christ’s sake, Collette, aw that crowd goat pensioned aff years ago, if there wis ever a so-called Irish Brigade!” she’d spat back at her.

  When she’d received the phone call, she’d jist aboot drapped the receiver. Millie Pratt, the wee squinty-eyed telephonist hid informed her that there wis a Madge Hughes oan the line and that she’d know whit it wis aboot.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Lesley? Lesley Bare?”

  “Aye, who’s speaking?”

  “Listen up. Ah hivnae goat much time before ma money runs oot.”

  “Bit…”

  “Go tae Harrisons, the wee camera shoap oan Sauchiehall Street, jist across the road fae The Berkley, doon towards Charing Cross…”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Buy a wee camera called a Photo Pack Matic. It’s a throw away wan that the French hiv come up wae. It takes twelve photos. Take a couple ae pictures ae the folder we’re efter and then haun it in tae Tarberts, the photo processing shoap doon oan Hope Street. Make sure it’s the wan that takes colour photos ye buy. Don’t go back and collect the prints when they’re done. We need tae see whit that folder looks like by Tuesday at the latest.”

  “Bit…’

  “Ye’ve tae haun that wee nurse’s file across tae wan ae the lassies that ur dishing oot the cakes at ten o’clock next Thursday morning in the corridor ootside the reading room. Failure tae deliver and that letter ye’re efter will be included in the big spread that The Glesga Echo is waiting tae run wae.”

  “Cakes? Whit cak…” she’d squawked, as the caller hung up oan her.

  Cakes? Whit cakes? Who’s dishing oot cakes? Oh, mother ae God. Whit wis she tae dae? She couldnae go through wae this. She’d asked some ae the typing pool lassies she wis friendly wae, if they wur aware ae any cakes being handed oot, bit nowan hid heard anything. The only people in the building haunin oot anything these days wis the sanny lassies and they didnae sell cakes. She’d jist aboot jumped oan wan ae the big ugly wans, the wan they called Soiled Sally, who hid hauns like shovels and fingers as rough as a bricklayer’s arse.

  “Er, Ah’ll hiv a wee cake, hen,” she’d asked, scanning the egg box full ae sandwiches that her and her mate wur carrying, working their way towards each other through the lines ae typists.

  “Cake? Oh, Ah’m sorry, hen. We’re no supplying cakes the noo. Maybe sometime in the future, eh?” Mrs Hacket Features hid rumbled back at her. “How aboot a fine apple jeely piece insteid?”

  She wis sure she’d detected a twinkle in Penny Persil’s eyes at that response, although she couldnae be sure. Persil wis married tae wan ae the superintendents, so she couldnae exactly go up and grill her aboot some cakes being dished oot next Thursday. If her and Teddy wur lucky enough tae survive this, she’d never speak tae that wee bitch, Collette James, ever again, she promised. She looked aboot. Nowan seemed interested in whit she wis up tae. She stood up and heided fur the door at the far end ae the office, trying tae walk normal, under the circumstances. She’d spent a day trying tae figure oot where the hell she’d put the camera. Nowan wis allowed tae take bags intae the reading room. She’d tried taping it tae the inside ae her thigh, bit she’d ended up swaying fae side tae side wae her legs bowed like Charlie Chaplin’s. She’d tried putting it oan the ootside ae her leg, bit it looked like a big lump ae coal jutting oot through her skirt. It hid been her granny that hid solved the problem when she’d been up visiting her. Aw it hid taken wis fur her tae snatch a pair ae her granny’s orange bloomers fae her pulley when she wis in her wee scullery making her a cup ae tea. Efter taping the bottom ae the legs ae them roond the taps ae her thighs, she slipped the camera doon intae the crevice between her legs, making sure the lens part wis facing inwards. It wisnae perfect, bit if she kept her hauns doon in front ae her, remembering tae press the camera in every noo and again wae the backs ae her thumbs, she jist might get away wae it. Wance oot and intae the corridor, she felt the sweat break oot oan her face as the frosted-glass doors ae the reading room loomed up in front ae her. Dishing oot cake? Whit the hell wis that supposed tae mean?

  “Lesley, doll, ma wee sweetie pie. How’re ye daeing the day, hen?” Marybell Raminsky greeted her alang wae hauf the building.

  “Ach, ye know whit like,” she replied nervously.

  “Aye, ye’ve a wee guilty sweat moustache breaking oot oan that tap lips ae yers, so ye hiv,” Marybell chortled.

  “Ma period’s aboot tae kick in. Ah always get hot, sweaty flushes two days before it arrives, so Ah dae.”

  “It’s no flushes Ah get aw hot and bothered aboot. It’s trying tae get a towel the size ae a bloody horse blanket, that’s ma problem, so it is. They basturts jist don’t take us buxom wenches intae consideration when they’re trying tae make maximum profit aff aw they wee skinny runts…oh, apart fae people like yersel, that is. Christ, and that’s no aw. Ah’m bloody well scared tae sneeze these days, in case Ah blow a bloody hole in the gusset ae they good Arnotts’ drawers ae mine, so Ah am,” Marybell breezed.

  “Right, well, Ah’ll need tae sign oot a file, Marybell. Ah’m looking fur a name, so Ah am.”

  “Here ye go, hen,” Marybell said, lifting up her pen. “Whit ur ye efter?”

  “The Showgirls.”

  “Whit wan?” she asked, scanning the card she’d taken oot ae the file card drawer.

  “Number two.”

  “The Showgirls two,” The Sarge repeated, scribbling the name in the column. “Whit a name fur a bunch ae mad arse bitches, eh? That file sounds like a repeat performance,” Marybell quipped, gaun aff intae wan, sounding like a donkey braying oan heat.

  “Okay, thanks, hen. Cheers,” she replied, fighting tae keep her voice natural, before the fat sergeant goat her second wind, as she heided fur the wire caged door, trying no tae walk funny as the lens jammed intae that fanny ae hers.

  Wance inside, she scurried tae the far end ae the long shelves ae files. She stoapped in the semi-darkness and leaned her hot, sweaty foreheid against the cauld metal frame ae the shelving unit.

  “Calm…keep calm, Lesley, hen. You kin dae it,” she murmured, hearing Marybell tell everywan how she’d miraculously managed tae get hersel a trap the night before.

  Despite her panic, she shuddered, thinking aboot the state the poor basturt must’ve been in this morning when he woke up. Efter feeling her heart rate drap, she made her move by heidin south insteid ae north. It took her a couple ae minutes tae track doon whit she wis looking fur. Wance found, she didnae hing aboot. She lifted oot the whole contents ae the thick
file, cursing under her breath, as a few sheets fluttered oan tae the lino. Looking between the shelves tae the reading room beyond, she quickly bent o’er and picked up the sheets tae the sounds ae disgusting laughter coming fae the front desk. She scurried north, coonting the wee narrow corridors till she found the wan she wis efter. There wis nae messing aboot this time. She knew exactly where tae go. Efter slipping oot The Showgirls’ second file, she rushed tae the back ae the shelving units and lay the file and thick bundle ae paper oan the ground. The sweat wis drapping aff ae her noo. Staunin up quickly, she hiked up her skirt and stuffed her haun doon the front ae her granny’s bloomers. Gripping the camera like a miser hinging oan tae his last penny, she knelt doon again. She ripped the serrated edge alang the tap ae it and folded back the packaging before pushing up the wee lens slot. Her hauns wur shaking like a leaf. A wee green light instantly lit up as she again turned and peered between the shelving units. There wis three sets ae black nylon legs across at Marybell’s coonter.

  “C’mone, Lesley,” she muttered, breathing deeply, before silently whistling oot the hot air fae they panting lungs ae hers.

  She peered through the wee windae, bit couldnae see a thing. She shifted the cover ae the folder across intae the light a bit. Again she peered through the wee Perspex windae. She jist managed tae see the ootline ae the file. Bending o’er closer, she took another deep breath again, this time haudin it in, as she pressed the shutter button.

  “Shit!” she yelped, blinded, looking aboot wae fireworks gaun aff in aw directions in front ae they eyes ae hers.

  She wis in total blind panic, convinced that everywan across at the desk hid heard her yelp or clocked the flash. Wance her sight reappeared, she dived forward, face first, pressing the side ae her face flat against the flair, looking alang towards the reading room. Nowan hid budged. They wur aw cackling away noo as Marybell starting tae reach the climax ae the night before. She flipped open The Showgirls’ folder and lifted oot the stack ae papers, replacing it wae Rose Bain’s wans. Efter replacing the file back tae where it wis supposed tae be, she scooped up the contents ae The Showgirls’ file in baith hauns and scurried back tae where Rose Bain’s empty file wis sitting. She lifted it doon and slid The Showgirls’ papers intae it before staunin up. She then rushed back tae retrieve the camera. Efter hitching up her skirt and stuffing it doon her bloomers, this time at the back ae her thighs, between the cracks ae her arse, she heided fur the cage door.

  “Did ye get whit ye wur efter, hen?” Marybell asked, as her and the other two younger fluffys turned and looked at her walking towards them.

  “Aye, nae bother, Marybell,” she replied, steering her body aff tae the right, walking roond a table and chairs, before veering back tae her left, still facing them as she slipped through the frosted glass doors.

  Wance intae the corridor, she yanked up her skirt and hauf squatted, wae her knees bent, her haun and hauf her erm jammed doon the front ae grannies bloomers, scrambling fur a good grip ae the camera at the back ae her thighs. Wance she hid it firmly in her haun, she pulled it forward tae the front and stood up, heidin fur the open plan office and her desk wae her hauns folded discreetly in front ae her groin.

  Chapter Sixty Eight

  “Right, as soon as Four Fingers shuts the wee entrance door behind him, we’re across there, okay?” The Inspector growled, wiping away the condensation wae the back ae his leather gloved haun, leaning forward and peering oot the windscreen at the garage door.

  “Should we no jist’ve let The Marine boys deal wae the basturt?”

  “Eh? Whit fur? And miss aw the fun? Aye, that’ll be the day,” Dave McGovern snorted, fingering the big baton sitting oan his lap as Shane Priestly fearfully peered oot ae the back windae intae the dark lane.

  The basturts hid kept him locked up in the polis station until the Thursday night before blindfolding and dumping him back oan tae Cumbernauld Road tae that car ae his. The engine ae the car hid been running, which hid telt him they’d jist delivered it back.

  “Enjoy the rest ae yer holiday,” The Brick Shithoose hid said as they departed, the first signs ae humour fae any ae them.

  Of course, he never made it doon tae his wee holiday hut. He’d heided straight hame and hid lain in his bed fur the remainder ae the weekend, dashing back and forward tae the lavvy, the shite flying fae him. Despite him trying tae develop a wee rapport wae The Inspector, it hid been question efter question, morning, noon and night.

  “Let’s go back to the evening you dropped Dave McGovern across in Alexandra Park for his meeting with One-bob Brown,” he’d ask, suddenly jumping fae a particularly harrowing explanation ae the time they’d frizzled Black Pat McVeigh’s baws wae a cable attached tae a car battery.

  “Ah’ve awready telt ye till Ah’m blue in the face. Ah jist drapped him aff. He wis meeting wae Charlie Hastie first, who frisked him fur a wire, before getting Wan-bob across intae the park tae talk tae him.”

  “You claimed that you never spoke to Charlie Hastie that night. Why?”

  “It wis Dave McGovern that wis passing oan the intel. Ah wis only the driver.”

  “Yes, but surely Charlie Hastie would’ve known you were in the vicinity? Everyone knows that The Gruesome Twosome go everywhere together. Why would somewan as smart as Charlie Hastie not acknowledge your presence?”

  Silence.

  Oan and oan it hid went, wae the wee lassie stenographer typing fast wan minute and the next, they slim fingers ae hers lingering in mid air, waiting fur him tae continue. During the first efternoon session, efter she arrived, he hidnae thought she wis that particularly good-looking and then she’d started tae change. He wisnae too sure if it hid been the perfume she wis wearing, which he didnae recognise. It smelled ae the wild summer flowers that grew in the forest near where his holiday hut stood. She’d dressed differently each day, bit the perfume never changed. By the Monday, he couldnae get shot ae his hard-on, despite choking the basturt tae death every night. There hid been wan particularly rough session when The Brick Shithoose hid threatened tae gie him a clout oan the lug fur cursing and swearing at the inspector.

  “There’s a young lass present, ye filthy dog,” the basturt hid shouted at him, lifting his erm threateningly.

  Other than that, she’d sat stiffly, wae her back straight, aw week, in that chair ae hers, wae her funny wee typing machine oan its stand, clacking away. He’d been embarrassed hivving tae confess tae aw the shite him and Dave McGovern hid goat up tae, especially tae aw the shagging ae the wummin they’d let aff wae a warning efter convincing them tae drap their knickers rather than be charged. He’d asked if he could talk tae them withoot her being present, bit they’d refused point blank. They’d made him go o’er and o’er the situation regarding Duggie Dougan’s brother-in-law getting run o’er by a lorry.

  “So, you expect us to believe that Inspector Dougan wasn’t involved. Is that what you’re telling us?’ Chookter Arse hid kept asking him.

  They’d spent nearly a full day gaun o’er the income that they’d been getting paid by Blind Bill and The Black Butchers, which included baith regular payments and the recent extortion being played oot.

  “Why do you think One-bob hasn’t retaliated against Inspector Dougan? Surely that’s not like him, is it?”

  “Nowan in their right mind wid go against an inspector in the toon, no matter how hard they wur. They know fine well that the force wid come doon oan them like a ton ae bricks, so they dae. Wan-bob might be a lot ae things, bit stupid isnae wan ae them.”

  When they’d informed him that he wis tae be released, he’d gone intae panic mode.

  “Why?” he’d wailed in fright. “Ah thought Ah wis yer star witness?”

  ‘You are and we’ll call on you when the time’s right,” The Chookter hid replied soothingly.

  “Bit…”

  “You chust go back to your work and forget all this ever happened and wait until we call on you,” The Basturt hid hit him wae.

  “Bit
, they’ll find oot…everywan will know. The toon is like a sieve, so it is.”

  “Sergeant Priestley, please be assured that no-one knows about our presence in the city. We’re the true professionals,” The basturt’d hid the cheek tae say tae him, the inference aboot his polis work evident in that smarmy fucking voice ae his.

  “Ah’ve no always been like this, y’know.”

  “What? A crook?” The inspector hid asked, sounding cheerful.

  And noo here he wis, sitting in the back ae a polis car across in Partick, aboot tae jump oot and set aboot a dirty gangster, in revenge fur his inspector’s extortion money no coming through this week. When Dave McGovern hid explained whit hid been gaun oan wae that wee fucking hairy bitch, Collette James, he’d wanted tae jump up and confess aw, that he knew whit she wis up tae. He knew exactly who ‘The Skulks’ wur, bit of course he didnae say anything. He widnae hiv put it past that basturt tae arrange a bullet in the back ae his heid, cop or no cop. He knew he wis gonnae be daeing time, aye, lots ae it, bit surely he’d hiv a liberation date, unlike the other pair sitting up front, eager tae start the rumpus aff. Hidn’t the bitch wearing the braid said so? Fuck, why wur they pair ae basturts making things ten time worse fur him, he thought, tossing his baton on tae the seat beside him.