Jonny Cohen, the third king, was a perfect illustration of the variety of personality and type within the criminal fraternity. Known as Handsome Jonny because of his film-star looks, Cohen was a decent kind of guy and a devoted husband and father who lived a quiet life in Newton Mearns – Tel-Aviv on the Clyde, as it was known in Glasgow. Or at least he was a decent, quiet-living kind of guy when he wasn’t holding up banks, organizing jewel robberies, running illegal bookies, that kind of thing. It was also true to say that Jonny had moved a few souls closer to the Lord in his time, but they had all been competitors or active playmates in the big Glasgow game. No civilians. I liked Jonny. I had good reason to: he had saved my neck. And when I first arrived in Glasgow, it had been Jonny who first suggested he and his colleagues could perhaps make use of my skills.
Don’t get me wrong. I had known exactly the kind of people I was getting involved with. And I had known that some of the enquiries I carried out for them took me very close to, and often over, a very fudged border between the legal and illegal. I’d gotten involved in some seedy and unpleasant shenanigans and, as time had gone on, I had felt like I was sinking deeper and deeper into a personality that I really didn’t care for. That’s why, over the last twelve or thirteen months, I’d been making a real effort to straighten myself out; and that meant having less to do with the Three Kings. Instead, I had been doing fine upstanding work for the community, mainly staging infidelities in seedy hotels for divorce cases. But the two cases I was now working on threatened to drag me back into the cosy embrace of Glasgow’s most dangerous men.
One thing that unites the criminal fraternity is that they don’t tend to keep banker’s hours. Extortion with menaces, vice, armed robbery and running brothels takes it out of you, and your average gangster tends not to be a morning person. So I decided to wait until the following afternoon before paying Jonny Cohen a house call, even though I knew that he, of all the Kings, had the closest to a normal daily schedule. I gave him a ring after lunch and we arranged to meet, conveniently, at the Pacific Club that evening about five.
I stood before the Pacific Club and contemplated glamour. It’s a funny thing, glamour. The word itself was as Scottish as they come, meaning a spell or an enchantment cast over someone to enrapture them. It was odd that, having invented the word, the Scots were totally at sea with the concept. Whenever they strived to achieve it, it just came out all wrong. No, that wasn’t entirely true. There were exceptions: Sheila Gainsborough had glamour in spades. Naturally and effortlessly. A rare achievement, given the lack of it in her origins.
The Pacific Club was intended to be glamorous. It failed. More than that, its failure was the kind that would have helped Neville Chamberlain feel better about Munich. The Pacific Club was the ground floor and basement of a soot-blackened building on Broomielaw, down on the north bank of the Clyde as it dissects the city centre. It was a gloomy place even in daytime, being almost tucked under the latticed ironwork of the rail bridge over the river. The sun was still blazing when I got there and it was a relief to step into the club’s clammy coolness, like walking into a subterranean cave.
Officially, the Pacific was a private, members-only club, a legal wriggle that allowed Handsome Jonny Cohen to circumvent most of the licensing laws. Like all such night-time venues, it had that depressing tacky look during the day. Like a seaside resort off-season. The air in the club was clear but the greasy odour of stale cigarettes clung to every surface. There were two dozen chair-stacked tables, a small stage and a bar in the corner. The nautical theme was represented mainly by ship life rings, emblazoned with ‘SS PACIFIC CLUB’, on the walls, and by some netting half-heartedly arranged over the stage. The small curved bar had a driftwood sign above it stating that it was the ‘HAWAIIAN HULA BAR’ and some more netting draped around it. There were crab shells dotted about the netting. Maybe it was just me, but I couldn’t image anywhere within the known universe and probably several parallel ones that could possibly be further away from some sun-drenched, azure-sea tropical island than the Broomielaw in Glasgow.
Although, I had to admit, the Pacific Club was probably as good a place as any to catch crabs.
I got there about ten before five just as the staff were arriving to unstack the chairs from the tables and start preparing for a long night of overpriced drinks, under-clad girls and mediocre jazz. Handsome Jonny was already there. He beamed a searchlight grin of perfect teeth above the Cary Grant cleft in his chin. He looked clean, cool and fresh. I am definitely no slouch at turning myself out, but I had the distinct feeling that Jonny’s tailor and barber had gotten together to conspire to give me an inferiority complex. I was suddenly aware that my shirt was clinging to my back with sweat. Jonny’s thick, dark hair had been immaculately cut and for a second I wondered how feasible it would be to travel to Hollywood from Glasgow once a fortnight for a trim. I decided to keep my hat on for the moment.
‘Stands Scotland where it did, Lennox?’ He reached out his hand and I shook it.
‘Wrong character.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got the wrong Macbeth character. MacDuff asks Ross: “Stands Scotland where it did?” The character of Lennox doesn’t say anything much to anybody. Just sticks by his king and ends up getting killed for it.’
‘Is that the kind of Lennox you are? The question is which king would you stick by?’ Jonny didn’t wait for an answer and grinned. ‘You know what I like about you, Lennox? Talking to you is always an education.’
‘It’s the company I keep. I’ve been hanging around with Twinkletoes McBride. Sometimes it’s just like the Brains Trust when we get together. Anyway, I think it’s fair to say you and I have learned a few things from each other … about each other… don’t you, Jonny?’
Jonny’s smile stayed in place but changed a little, like a wisp of cloud passing across the sun. ‘What can I do for you, Lennox?’
‘Well, I’ve got two cases on at the moment and you’re involved in both, in a way.’
‘Oh? I take it one is the Bobby Kirkcaldy carry-on.’
‘Willie Sneddon has asked me to speak to Kirkcaldy. Looks like someone’s trying to spook your fighter.’
One of the staff started to vacuum and Jonny winced at the noise. He beckoned for me to follow him and we sat at a table right at the back of the club, on an elevated section that over-looked the small stage. It was odd seeing Handsome Jonny Cohen here: he could not have looked more out of place; which was even more odd because it was, after all, his place. If you had seen him here as a customer, with his looks and expensive haircuts and tailoring you paid for in guineas, not pounds, you would say to yourself: ‘That guy’s slumming it.’ But he wasn’t a Pacific Club customer: he was the owner. And Jonny the businessman knew that he didn’t need to lavish his good taste or better cash on the place.
I took my hat off and ran a smoothing hand through my ’Pherson’s cut. The finest one-and-sixpence could buy you in Glasgow. But it still wasn’t Hollywood.
‘Just a minute …’ He got up again and went across to one of the girls preparing the bar. He sat down again and once more hit me with his searchlight smile. ‘I’ve got a treat for you.’
The girl came back with a bottle and two glasses.
‘Thanks, Fran …’ he said and took the bottle from her and held it towards me, cradling it in both hands as if presenting me with an award.
‘All the way from Bardstown, Kentucky. Heaven Hill Bourbon. I know you prefer ryes to Scotches. Go on, try it.’ He poured me a glass and I took a sip.
‘Perfect …’ I said. And it was.
‘You know Sneddon and I both have a share in Kirkcaldy?’
‘Yeah. But Murphy hasn’t?’
Jonny shook his head as if I’d suggested he sell me his sister for sex. ‘Not likely. And it’s best he doesn’t know anything about this. He’s always moaning that we leave him out of stuff. Well, this time we did. He’d start throwing his weight about and there are other people involved wit
h Kirkcaldy who’d run a mile if they took one look at Murphy.’
‘I know the feeling,’ I said.
‘Sneddon’s got this bee in his bonnet about Kirkcaldy being got at,’ Jonny said with an almost sigh.
‘I can see his point.’
Jonny shook his head. ‘Something’s not right about it, Lennox. It’s not just a spook job. All of this shite … nooses left on his doorstep.’
‘Nooses?’ I put my drink down. ‘Sneddon didn’t say anything about nooses. He said Kirkcaldy had had paint poured over his car and a dead bird put through his letterbox.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jonny. ‘Those too. But someone laid out a hangman’s noose on his doorstep. And did Sneddon tell you about the paint on the car? The colour, I mean?’
I shook my head.
‘Red. Blood red. And the dead bird wasn’t just a sparrow or shite like that. It was a dove. A white dove. Now what the fuck’s all that about?’
‘Put it all together and it looks like someone’s making some kind of death threat,’ I said. ‘I’d say that would fit with warning him off winning this fight.’
‘Naw … something doesn’t feel kosher about it all,’ said Jonny. ‘It was me who suggested to Sneddon that we put you on to it. There’s more to this than some kind of half-arsed attempt at fight fixing. You know what I mean?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ll explore every avenue, as they say in all the best cop movies.’
‘You said two.’
‘What?’
‘You said there were two cases you were looking into that I was involved in some way.’
‘Oh … yes. Well, not you so much as this place,’ I said, looking around me. ‘You know the singer Sheila Gainsborough?’
‘’Course. Glasgow girl made good. Nice singing voice.’
‘And the lungs to go with it,’ I said. ‘Anyway, her brother has gone missing.’
‘Oh yeah. Sammy Gainsborough.’
‘Sammy Pollock. Gainsborough is her stage name. She’s legally changed it now to Gainsborough but it was Pollock. Her brother is Sammy Pollock.’
‘I’ve got news for you. He goes by the name Gainsborough now, at least professionally. Cashing in on Big Sis’s success, I’d guess.’
‘So you do know him.’
‘Sure. He’s sung here a couple of times. He’s nothing to write home about. Okay voice, but he’s no match for his sister.’
‘When did he last sing here?’
‘About three weeks ago.’ Jonny took a cigarette case from his pocket and offered me one. We both lit up. ‘Sammy was filling in for a cancelled act. Last minute thing. He wasn’t a regular booking here. Haven’t seen him since, even as a customer.’
‘Was he a regular?’
‘Reasonably. That’s why we were able to get him to stand in for the act that cried off sick. He wasn’t just available: he was here.’
‘Did you know that he’s involved with Jimmy Costello’s son?’
‘Paul Costello?’ Jonny frowned. ‘No I didn’t. Now that is one greasy little shite. Now that you mention it, he’s been around the club a few times. I wouldn’t have linked him with Sammy though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them together. Not here. Do you think young Costello has something to do with Sammy Gainsborough’s disappearance?’
‘I don’t know, Jonny. He says he didn’t even know that Sammy was missing. Maybe he isn’t. Could be he’s off on a bender somewhere and he’ll wash up in a couple of days or so.’
‘If he is missing, I would take a long hard look at Costello. If he’s anything like his old man he’s a twisted wee bastard trying to squeeze cash from anything he can lay his hands on.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. How well do you know Costello? I mean Costello senior?’
‘I haven’t had a lot of dealings with him. He runs a bookie and a pub in the East End. Pays tribute to Hammer Murphy and Murphy calls on him for stuff now and again. Borrows extra muscle, that kind of thing. Murphy really does run his patch as a kingdom. Or a fiefdom. Costello does as he’s told, pays what he’s told and is left to do his own thing so long as Murphy’s kept in the know.’
‘That’s pretty much what I thought. And is Costello Junior learning the trade from his old man?’
‘Costello has two sons. Paul and his older brother, Michael. I don’t think Costello has much time for either of them. Paul is a wanker and Michael turned out to be a real disappointment to his old man.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah … imagine the shame of your son turning out honest when you’ve devoted your life to thieving. Must have been a huge blow to Costello to see the fruit of his loins turn out to be law-abiding. Michael even considered the priesthood, apparently, but instead moved to Edinburgh and works as a civil servant.’
‘Shit …’ My tone and expression registered my sympathy for both father and son. ‘A civil servant in Edinburgh. No one deserves that. Do you know of a Frenchman called Barnier?’ I asked.
‘Alain Barnier? Sure. What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘According to Sheila Gainsborough, he’s been hanging around with Sammy Pollock.’
Jonny smiled. ‘Alain Barnier doesn’t hang around with anyone. They hang around with him. He’s a smooth operator.’
‘Who’s he with?’
‘No one.’
‘Come on, Jonny, everyone who’s got a piece of action in this town is aligned with you, Murphy or Sneddon.’
‘Barnier is mainly legit. Sure, I think he’s got a few tasty deals on the side, but nothing that we would be interested in. I do the odd bit of business with him.’
‘What kind of business? What’s his line?’
‘Officially he’s an importer. He imports wine, mainly. And spirits. He also brings in stuff from the Far East. Furniture, ornaments, that kind of shite. He’s lived here for about a couple of years and he supplies some of the fancier restaurants in town. Edinburgh too. But if there’s anything else you need brought in, he probably can arrange it for you.’ Jonny poured us another each and tilted the Heaven Hill bottle’s label in my direction once more. ‘Barnier was my contact for this stuff. Cognac too.’
‘Let me guess, he doesn’t like to put the customs man to any trouble?’
‘He’s very considerate that way. Saves our hard-working public servants a lot of paperwork. But the stuff he brings in has always been at the quality end, you could say. Nothing you’d find at Paddy’s Market. Word is that side of his operation isn’t as good as it was. Rationing coming to an end has been bad for business.’
‘What about cigarettes? Does he smuggle those too? Fancy French brands?’
Jonny shrugged. ‘Doubt it. Suppose it’s possible, though.’
‘Have you ever heard of the Poppy Club, Jonny? It’s maybe got something to do with Barnier. It definitely has something to do with Sammy Pollock.’
‘Poppy Club?’
‘It’s not listed in the ’phone book. Maybe it’s not licensed.’
‘Never heard of it, Lennox.’ By the time he poured the third Bourbon, I was beginning to glow. I reappraised the Pacific Club, but the glow didn’t catch: it still looked depressing.
‘Where would I be able to find Barnier?’ I asked.
‘He’s here if we’ve got a good jazz act on. Fridays. But not every Friday. You’re best trying to catch him down at the river. He has an office of sorts down there. More a shed. Near the bonded area.’
‘Is that where he liberates his goods from bondage?’
Jonny shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know. If he does, it will be through bribery. The odd brown envelope to a watchman, copper or taxman. Barnier is no out-and-out crook, like I said. Just sails close to the wind. Law wise. You two should get on.’
‘I better go,’ I said, draining the glass. ‘Thanks for the whisky.’
Jonny saw me to the door and, after the gloom and Bourbon of the Pacific Club, we stood squinting for a moment in the bright sunlight.
‘Lennox?’ said Jonny, shielding hi
s eyes with his hand.
‘Yep?’
‘This other case. Sammy Pollock. I know you have to follow it up, but don’t let it get in the way of finding out what the fuck is happening with Bobby Kirkcaldy. Sneddon’s getting as antsy as hell. The fight’s in just over two weeks’ time. And, like I say, there’s something about the whole thing stinks as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I’ll see him tonight. Thanks again for the Bourbon.’
Jonny had, of course, been right. Whenever I thought of the Sammy Pollock case, I smelt grief; whenever I thought of the Kirkcaldy case, I smelt money. There was a lot of it riding on Kirkcaldy and I guessed Jonny Cohen and Willie Sneddon would be in a big bonus mood if I got it all sorted out for them. And I had, to a certain extent, done the sniffing about that I’d promised Sheila Gainsborough I’d do. But there was something about the thing with Sammy that was nagging away at me. Anyway, I hadn’t had a chance to practise my French for a long time.
CHAPTER FIVE
The British Empire, the most avaricious piece of land theft since Genghis Khan saddled up a pony, was a remarkable thing. What made it particularly remarkable was that it had been carried out by the British, probably the most apologetic race on the planet. I always imagined them as some kind of impeccably well-mannered, latter-day Vikings, frightfully embarrassed about all the raping and pillaging. I suppose my interest in the globe-spanning collection of Raj, colonies, dominions, mandates and protectorates lay in my being very much a product of it: I was born in Glasgow but shipped off with my folks when I was still a baby and Canada was still ‘the Dominion’ as far as everyone was concerned. Then, after twenty-one summers, the ‘Mother Country’ of which I had had no direct contact, or even recollection, suddenly and urgently needed my assistance. Four thousand miles away.
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