Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  Chanel, the journo, seems to have absconded, so Carl sits drinking steadily, making heavy-handed passes at the hostess. He’s pretty fucked off. His heart wisnae in that gig. In order tae gie the lassie, whae’s just daein her job, some respite fae his predatory attentions, I pull him aside and try tae say reassuring things. — Vegas will never be acid house.

  — What the fuck am I doing here, then? he shouts as Conrad cuts up some more pop hits tae a dangerously rammed and intoxicated dance floor.

  — Making money. Getting your name back out there.

  Carl took the split with his missus Helena very hard. I got him this gig supporting Technonerd, which neither of them is happy about. But it’s Surrender at the Wynn, one ay the best nightclubs in the USA. So the term ‘ungrateful cunt’ resonates in my head a little.

  Surrender is opulence personified, and we are making a fortune, but as usual, it’s no enough. It’s never enough. Not for Carl, and not for Conrad, who after the gig, is singing the same old tune as we have a drink before making our way tae the airport. — Why do I not get a residency in XS? Guetta has one in XS!

  XS is the Wynn’s other nightclub, which is even bigger and more opulent than Surrender. It’s bigger and more opulent than anywhere, an ancient Roman palace of vice and decadence. — Because Guetta’s Guetta and you’re Conrad Technonerd, I snap in tetchy exhaustion, climbing down in face of his pout. — Next year you’ll be up with him, mate. Let’s just enjoy that express elevator ride to superstardom.

  — So next year we will play in XS?

  Jesus fuck. Greedy fat cunt. — We’ll see, buddy boy. But the prognosis is good.

  — There is a girl … I said that I would take her and her friend back to LA. He nods over to a storm of sexy in the form of two lassies, all tans, hair, teeth, eyes, breasts and legs, who have managed to slip past security into our box.

  Fucksticks. It means I have tae arrange passes, documentation and insurance for these sleazy-but-hot youngbloods who have targeted the fat Dutch boy. And I’ve already set the gluttonous cunt up wi an expensive hooker back at the Standard. I hope they all like the taste ay pussy and polder plug. We get into the minibus. Carl is pished, slumped in the very back seat and shouting about coke. At least Emily is quiet; she’s talking to Melanie.

  — It must be so shit to know that you are finished as a DJ, Conrad shouts back to Carl, as Jensen chuckles and the two girls gasp in fake admiration.

  — Fuck off, dickhead. Play some music, and he pulls out his phone, showing pictures of Conrad with the dildo attached.

  I roll my eyes as the storm of squabbling builds. Franco turns to me, nods behind us. — However much you make, you deserve it, having to babysit them!

  I learned fae babysitting the master; trying tae have a night oot withoot you cutting some cunt’s heid off. — I keep telling myself that, I say.

  The private airfield is adjacent to McCarron, and thus a short hop from the Strip. I’m on the phone the rest of the way, trying tae arrange clearance for the two lassies, one of whom Conrad is sweatily pawing, while Jensen is hanging on Emily’s every word as she pontificates about her influences, no realising that he has zero chance. Carl has fallen intae silence. I dinnae like seeing him in that frame ay mind. We get into the jet and are LA-bound with minimum fuss. Melanie is impressed, and so is Franco. He keeps looking at me with that you flash cunt expression of disbelief.

  — It’s a tax write-off against expenses, I stress. — Uncle Sam pays us to fuck up the environment, so we can get to our beds without having tae spend another sleepless night as high as kites in an oxygenated Vegas hotel room.

  — Aye, right, Franco says doubtfully.

  Although it’s a short flight, I’m jittery without the Ambien, and feel my mitt sweaty on the yellow container in my pocket. We land at the private airport in Santa Monica, where I say goodbye to Franco and Melanie, who are getting picked up by obviously loyal friends at this hour. Emily has hooked up with her party pals and Carl has a couple of sleazy druggies meet him and vanishes into the dark LA morning. I’m about tae get Conrad, Jensen and the girls intae a taxi and myself intae an Uber, but he’s having nane ay it. — You must come with me to the Standard, to make sure that the bitch whore you hired shows up, he commands, pushing a Hershey bar he got from the vending machine into his clammy pus.

  My Santa Monica pad is ten fucking minutes away. I’m beyond exhausted and my jaw rattles as I think ay that bed. No a particularly great structure, but boasting a very expensive mattress. West Hollywood is around thirty minutes away, even in the clear roads at this time of day, and the same back. But he’s the talent. This fat, obnoxious, spoiled misogynistic little prick who calls women ‘hoes’ and ‘bitches’ because he’s a stupid rich white kid, trying to imitate some dumb black rapper twat he once met at a hip-hop conference: he is the fucking talent.

  — Okay, I say, feeling my soul wither a wee bit mair.

  I zone out at the front by the driver, trying tae block out Conrad’s charmless patter, and the fake, sycophantic laughter of Jensen and the girls. I’m already looking forward tae getting back tae Edinburgh for the New Year. I’ll even kip on the dodgy mattress in my old boy’s spare room. But then I think of Victoria, and realise that LA has its charms.

  Thankfully, when we get to the Standard, the escort, Brandi, is waiting, and she’s pretty cool. Conrad vanishes with her and both ay the girls, shutting a miserable Jensen out ay the party. But he has a room, paid for by Citadel Productions, to be later charged to their client Conrad Appeldoorn as a management expense. I take an Uber back tae Santa Monica and my bed. I try to get to sleep, craving that fluttering comma induced by two Ambien and half a bottle ay Night Nurse. I resist, in spite of my eyes snapping open at intervals and devouring the ceiling in creeping dread. When sleep comes it’s in the dreamscape of a theatre stage, where I seem to be taking part in a Noël Cowardesque play, with a monocled and smoking-jacketed Franco, and a ballgown-wearing Vicky/Melanie mixture.

  My apartment in Santa Monica is in a dreary complex on the corner of a block. The orange paint covering the exterior walls has been diluted to save money, tapering out from brash and showy, to a meagre, insipid covering, pallid as it bends into the side street. On the plus side, it has a communal rooftop sundeck, with a pool rarely used by anybody other than two chain-smoking French queens. In the mornings, as I call the afternoons – I tend tae operate on DJ hours – I like tae sit up here with my laptop and dae emails and deal with calls. Up comes one I’ve been avoiding, a promoter back in Amsterdam. The poor cunt is so persistent that I have tae take it. Fucking time zones. — Des! We’ve been playing phone tag!

  — We need Carl at ADE, Mark. He has relevance. Carl Ewart is acid house. Yes, that movable feast we know and love has fallen on hard times. But it will be back. Next year is the thirty-year anniversary of Ibiza ’87. We need N-Sign in that booth and on top form.

  I’m silent in the face ay his rigmarole. It’s a heartbreaker when somebody is bringing their A-game and you ken that you’re still gaunny disappoint them.

  — Mark?

  I look at the blinding sun, screwing up my eyes. Should have put on sunblock. I consider hanging up or telling Des I cannae hear him. — We can’t do ADE, mate. We booked another gig in Barça.

  — You bastard. You promised me at Fabric that you’d be at ADE!

  I was coked. Never make promises on drugs. — I said we’d try. The Barça gig is a good stage for Carl, Des, we couldnae pass it up. They gave us the Sonar slots this year. Can’t disappoint them.

  — But you can disappoint us, right?

  — Des, I’m sorry, mate. You know the score.

  — Mark …

  — Yes, Des?

  — You’re a cunt.

  — I’m not going to fight you on that one, Des. I stand up, walk over to the parapet and look across at the freeway traffic, moving slowly towards the beach. Up ahead, the rumbling ay a new metro train on the downtown Santa Monica stop, at last connect
ing the beach towns with LA and Hollywood. There was a time when I’d have been excited about that; now I realise I haven’t even been on it, and tae ma horror, I can’t think ay when I’d need tae. Instead I’ll charge around in rental cars on choked freeways, looking for parking validation in hotel and office underground lots. Fuck sake.

  — Wise move, Mark. Fuck you, you double-crossing motherfucker! If you knew the hassle I had to get your washed-up druggie homeboy on that fucking bill!

  — C’mon, Des, let’s take it down a notch.

  He sighs. — Fair enough, but fuck you anyway.

  — I love you, Des.

  — Yeah, sure you do, he says and hangs up.

  I do feel like an absolute cunt, but as soon as ah acknowledge this, it just fades away. Back in the day, I never had that much ay a thick skin, even though ah pretended tae. Then, suddenly, it was just there. Like ah was a fuckin Tony Stark whae’d invented a psychic Iron Man suit. The upside ay developing that armour is the obvious one: fuck all bothers ye that much. The downer? Well, it’s like antidepressants. You dinnae get the lows, but ye sure as fuck miss the euphoria ay the highs.

  The last few days have been so disorientating. Travel, time zones, sleep deprivation. I seem to be on the phone constantly, without making any inroads. Muchteld in the office back in Amsterdam, calling in various states ay alarm about it all. All this pish about online banking: it disnae work so smoothly when you’re between countries. Ah’ve spent most ay the eftirnoon talking tae ma bank in Holland, the ABN AMRO, to get them tae transfer money intae ma Citibank account here in the USA. Of course, trying tae withdraw cash is still a fucking hassle because … just fucking banks.

  As is trying to withdraw fae Ambien. My eyeballs feel full of grit and my pulse trashes in them. Thankfully Vicky helps, coming round and dragging me tae bed. She tells me no more pills, just sex. After we make love I fall intae the deepest sleep I’ve had in months. In the morning, I’m delighted tae find that she’s stayed over. It feels great tae wake up with her. Even though it’s criminally early for me, I feel rested for the first time in ages. She even talks me into going for a run down the beachfront. Although she’s taking it easy, I’m struggling tae keep up, sweat surging and lungs burning. I dig in, pride at no being perceived as a past-it cunt propelling ays on. Afterwards we get some brunch then go back tae the apartment and bed. As Vicky stretches out, a big yawn, her sun-bleached locks sprawling over my pillow, it hits me through my ain exhaustion that I’ve no been this happy as I am at this precise moment in years.

  In the evening we head tae Franco’s exhibition, or ‘Jim Francis’ as he now professionally styles himself. I suggest we take the metro. At first she looks doubtful, then agrees, and we glide in jocular relaxation towards downtown LA. Vicky is wearing a knockout glittering black dress and pumps, her hair pinned up. I feel an exalted, lucky bastard.

  The gallery is in a single-floored warehouse conversion about fifteen minutes’ walk from Pershing Square in a neighbourhood full of cool street art. We chat to Melanie, with whom Vicky has already struck up a fine rapport. Although Vicky is English and shorter, there is a galling similarity in the way they talk and move. It seems bizarre that Franco and I can have similar tastes in women. Wearing chinos and a V-necked T-shirt, he stands a bit apart from everyone. He still gives off something that makes strangers reticent about approaching him, but it’s now more of a weary aloofness than naked aggression. Melanie provides the charm, excusing herself as she greets some more visitors, who are probably potential buyers.

  We head over to Franco who welcomes Vicky and myself warmly. I haven’t told her his backstory (and mine) other than he was a bit rough and ready in the bad old days, doing some jail time before discovering art. As he chats to her about a painting depicting the crucifixion of Cameron, Miliband and Clegg, I look over at a grinning, charismatic wee guy with dark hair, who is being fussed over by an entourage. — Is that Chuck Ponce?

  Franco nods, and Vicky remarks, — I’m working on the overseas sale of his latest film for Paramount. Not that I’ve met him!

  The enthusiastic, slightly autistic star beams at Jim Francis, the artist formerly known as Begbie, and rushes over to us. Vicky and I get a nod and a cheesy smile, before he focuses on Franco. — Jimbo! My man! Long time no see!

  — Yes it is, Franco concedes, his face immobile.

  — I need a head! I need you to give me head, bro, he laughs. Franco remains stoical. — Charmaine, my ex … he drops his voice, as Vicky excuses herself and heads for the restroom, and I pretend to look at the art hung on walls and mounted on plinths. I pick up that Ponce is obviously trying tae get Franco tae dae a head ay Charmaine Garrity, his ex-wife and fellow Hollywood star. I grab a gless ay red wine fae a server’s tray and inch closer, hearing him urge, — Help a brother out, dude.

  — I did already. The Hunter Strikes, mind?

  — Yeah, man, pity about that movie. I had real problems with the accent. But you’ve been doing great work, and I want an original Jim Francis!

  — Shut up, I hear Franco say, as I look at the crucifixion painting, — I like these sort ay commissions to be confidential.

  — You got it, bro. How do I get in touch?

  — Give me your digits and I’ll get in touch with you, Franco goes. I’m looking at Cameron’s greetin baw pus. It’s pretty good, as is Miliband, hapless and nerdy, but that looks fuck all like Clegg.

  — Sure thing, pal, Ponce beams, reciting his number as Franco keys it into his phone. — You ain’t still sore at me, huh, dude?

  — No. Not in the slightest, Franco replies.

  Ponce play-punches him on the shoulder. — Cool. Get in touch, bro! Name your price. I gotta have one while I can still afford you!

  As the grinning Chuck leaves, heading back to his crew, tracked aw the wey by Franco, I slip back ower to the artist’s side. — So you’re big mates with Hollywood idols and rock stars?

  — Naw, he says, looking at me soberly, — they urnae your friends.

  Vicky returns from the restroom – I hate myself for calling the lavy that – but is intercepted by Melanie and they start talking to two other women. I take my chance, delving into my bag and thrusting an envelope at Franco. — Here it is, buddy.

  — Naw … naw … yir awright, mate. He pushes it away like I’m trying to gie him dog shit.

  — It’s yours, bud. The money at today’s value. It comes tae fifteen thousand four hundred and twenty quid sterling. We can quibble on the method ay calculation –

  — I dinnae need it. He shakes his head. — You have tae let go ay the past.

  — This is me doing that right now, Franco. I hold out the envelope — Take it, please.

  Suddenly this guy wi black-framed glasses, whom I’m assuming is his agent, rushes across tae us. He’s obviously excited and says to Franco, — Sam DeLita has just bought a piece for two hundred thousand dollars! The Oliver Harbison head!

  — Tidy, Begbie says, completely unmoved, as he scans the crowd. — Axl Rose no here?

  — I’m not sure, the guy says, puzzled at the crushing anticlimax, — I’ll check. Rumours abound, and he looks at me. Franco reluctantly introduces us. — This is my agent, Martin. This is Mark, a pal from the old country.

  — Pleased to meet you, Mark. Martin shakes my hand firmly. — I’ll catch you guys later. There’s a room that needs worked!

  As Martin heads off, Franco says, — See? I’ve got everything I want, mate. There’s nothing you can dae for me. So keep yir money.

  — But you’d be helping me oot if ye took it. You could do something for me.

  Franco’s head turns slowly in the negative. He looks across the room, nods and smiles at some people. — Listen, you ripped me off and I forgive you, he says, his voice low. He waves at a swankily dressed couple, and the guy salutes back. It’s another actor cunt that was in a film I saw recently on a plane, but I cannae think ay the boy’s name or the movie. — The bad choices I made would have happened anyway,
that was just where I was at that point in ma life. He gives me a wee smile. — But I’ve let go ay the past.

  — Aye, and I want tae n aw, I tell him, fighting doon ma exasperation.

  — Delighted for you, he says, not that sardonically, — but you have to find your own way, ma auld buddy. The last time you tried to dae that ah was a fucking vehicle for ye. He pauses, and the old coldness fuses intae his eyes.

  It sears my insides. — Franco, I’m sorry, man, I –

  — I’m no gaun there again. This time it has tae be a solo gig, and suddenly eh smiles and punches me softly on the airm, almost in a parody ay the auld Begbie. It hits ays: this cunt is taking the pish.

  — Fuck sake … this is perverse! I’m offering ye money here, Frank! Money that’s yours!

  — It’s no mine, it came fae a drug deal, he says, poker-faced. Then his hand is on my elbow, guiding me ower tae a painting ay Jimmy Savile, unknown in America, lying battered tae a pulp outside the Alhambra Bar. Savile’s eyes have been torn out and blood from his genitals stains his white tracksuit groin like dark red piss. Underneath it bears the title:

  THIS IS HOW WE DEAL WITH NONCES IN LEITH (2014, oil on canvas)

  He points tae a rid dot on it, indicating that a sale has been made. — This is mine. I used tae fuck up people’s faces and get jailed. Now I dae it and get paid.

  I’m looking aroond, scanning the portraits and cast heids that he’s produced. I have tae say it, even though ah confess that ah don’t know much about art: this is the biggest pile ay shite I’ve seen in ma fuckin life. He’s totally gaming those thick, spoiled rich fuckers, whae probably think it’s cool tae collect the works ay this savage jailbird. Fair play tae the cunt, but fuck sake, casting somebody’s face and then mutilating it: that’s no fucking art. Ah observe the occupants ay the gallery, shuffling fae one exhibit tae the next, eyes screwed up, pointing, discussing. Tanned men and women with bodies honed in gyms, decorated wi nice clathes, impeccably groomed, stinking ay top cologne, perfume and wealth. — Do you know where their money comes fae? Drug trafficking? Human trafficking, for fuck sake! A few people in a proximate group turn roond in response tae ma raised voice. Fae the corner ay ma eye, a security guard cranes his neck. — You must have a charity you like, something ah can gie it tae?