The Long Glasgow Kiss

by Craig Russell

  ‘You want a drink?’ Costello asked, his tone neutral.

  ‘Whisky.’

  Costello nodded to my dark-haired abductor, who headed off through the fug and throng to the bar, leaving us alone. Maybe this wasn’t going to be the adventure I thought it would be. The singer over by the piano seemed to enter a paroxysm of passion. She was a thick-bodied woman in her fifties, about as curvaceous as a beer barrel, with a round, white face, small eyes, hair that was too dark and too long and lips that were too red. She was clearly a singer of the traditional sort, insofar as she was following the age-old Glasgow tradition of adding an extra syllable to every lyric and then singing them through her nose. A Glasgow pub is the place to be if you have an aversion to consonants. The singer informed me and anyone else within a five-mile radius that – apparently – the pipes, the pipes were calling Dhmnnaa-anny Bhee-hoy.

  My escort arrived with two whiskies and a pint of stout, then left us alone again.

  ‘You gave my boy Paul a hiding,’ said Costello. No anger. He sipped his stout and looked at me with little interest.

  ‘He asked for it, Jimmy. He went for a blade. Is this what this is all about?’

  ‘No. And that’s not why I sent Tony and Joe to pick you up the other day either. All of that shite … it was unnecessary.’

  ‘Like I told your monkeys, if you want to talk to me, pick up a ’phone.’

  ‘Listen, Lennox, don’t fuck about with me. I’m letting the thing with Paul go. I’m letting the thing with Tony and Joe go… and believe me, Tony and Joe don’t want it let go … So stop talking to me like I’m a piece of shite. You’ve made it clear what you think of me, but you’re on my ground now. I could hand you over to the boys and send you home with your nose out of joint.’

  I was about to answer when the singer in the corner reached new heights of volume and tunelessness. ‘Dhmnnaaany Beh-ho-oy… dnhe beh-ipes, dnhe beh-ipes harr caw-haw-hing …’

  ‘You could try,’ I said. ‘I’m working for Willie Sneddon. And that’s one nose you don’t want to put out of joint. So let’s cut the crap. What do you want?’

  ‘Why did you beat up Paul?’

  ‘I thought this wasn’t about that.’

  ‘It isn’t. Not directly. I just need to know why you and him had words. Was it about this Gainsborough boy?’

  ‘Sammy Pollock is his real name. Yes it was, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘He’s missing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So’s Paul.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Or there would have been if Govan’s answer to Maria Callas hadn’t continued to pipe up.

  ‘Fuh-hum glemn to glemn … hend de-hown dnhe mowmn-teh-ain say-hide … dnhe suhmner his ge-hon, hend hall dnhe flouw-wurs fawhhaw-ing …’

  ‘What do you mean missing?’ I asked.

  ‘What the fuck do you think I mean? He’s missing. He’s not around and no one’s seen him for three days.’

  ‘And you think I’ve got something to do with that?’

  ‘No. That’s not why you’re here. I want you to find him.’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Aye … and one of the things you is busy with is finding the Gainsborough boy. It’s all connected. Paul was going around with him. They had big ideas. Fuck knows what, but they had big ideas.’ Costello’s ugly mouth drooped even further beneath the moustache. ‘That’s all Paul has … is big ideas. No fucking guts or brains to make anything of them ideas.’

  I sipped the whisky. In comparison, the stuff they had served at Sneddon’s pikey fight was nectar.

  ‘Diss heyoo, diss heyoo ewho mnuss ge-ho, hend heye mnuss stuhhay …’

  ‘And you have no idea where he’s disappeared to or why?’ I asked.

  Costello shook a sullen, ugly head.

  ‘The two monkeys who brought me here … what are their names?’

  ‘What?’ Costello looked confused. ‘The dark-haired one is called Skelly. His pal is called Young. Why?’

  ‘Did you tell Skelly to stick a gun in my ribs to get me here? I take exception to people pointing guns at me.’

  Costello looked at me dourly and shook his head. ‘He’s a fucking bampot. I told him to make sure you came here. None of my crew should have shooters unless I say so. I’ll sort him out.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a word with him. I think it’s better coming from me, if you know what I mean. But that’s not why I was asking about Skelly and Young. I was told they were hanging about Sammy Pollock before he went missing. If it wasn’t them, it was their twins, going by the description I got.’

  ‘They’re younger than the rest of my people. They hang around with Paul a lot. Maybe they think that he’s the future. Some fucking hope. But that’s all there is to it: Paul hung around Sammy, and Skelly and Young hung around Paul.’

  I made to take another sip of the whisky, then put the glass back down again, deciding I’d rather keep my stomach lined. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’m still looking into this Sammy Pollock business. If I find out anything about Paul, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘I’ll pay you …’

  ‘No need. But you’ll owe me a favour. The other thing is I need you to forget about what happened between me and Paul. And with your other three monkeys.’

  ‘I already said …’

  ‘There’s more …’ I looked across at the bar where Skelly was talking to his sandy-haired chum. ‘I’m a man of principle, you could say. One of those principles is I don’t let people point guns at me.’

  ‘Aw … for fuck’s sake …’ Costello looked over to Skelly at the bar then back at me. ‘Couldn’t you let it go? I can’t have you slapping all of my people around.’

  ‘That’s the deal.’

  Costello paused for the clapping and raucous cheering that accompanied the conclusion of Dhmnnaaany Beh-ho-oy. I felt like cheering myself. When the applause died down, Costello nodded, acquiescing in the only way he knew how: sullenly.

  ‘Now, back to young Paul,’ I said. ‘The first thing I would have thought you would have done is to speak to this guy Largo?’

  ‘What? Who the fuck is Largo?’

  ‘You don’t know anyone called Largo?’

  ‘Should I?’

  I leaned back and sighed. ‘No reason you should. Everybody I’ve asked about Largo has never heard of him. When I came across Paul at Sammy’s flat, he started off thinking I was a copper.’

  ‘He took you for polis?’

  ‘Yeah … I know,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I’m making a formal complaint to my tailor. Anyway, when he realized I wasn’t, he asked if Largo had sent me. When I asked him who Largo was, he gave me the brush-off, but he did say it was somebody he owed some money to.’

  Costello looked at me. His was the expressionless kind of face that was difficult to read. ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ he said at last. ‘Why would Paul be borrowing money from someone? And if he did, how come I’ve never heard of this fucker Largo?’

  ‘I caught Paul on the hop. It could be that this thing about owing Largo money was just the best explanation he could think of on the spur. Anyway, like I said, I’m looking into who this Largo might be because he could be connected to this thing with Sammy Pollock. And Paul dropping out of sight is probably connected, as you’ve already guessed.’ I paused for a moment. ‘What about the “Poppy Club” … that mean anything to you?’

  Costello shook his head. ‘Has that got something to do with Paul?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe to do with Sammy Pollock. Maybe nothing to do with anything.’ I stood up and picked up my hat. ‘Okay, would you tell your monkey to give me my keys back. I’ll be in touch if I find out anything about Paul.’

  ‘Tell me something, Lennox,’ said Costello. ‘This thing with Sammy Pollock … and now with Paul … are you looking for people or bodies. It doesn’t look good does it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Them disappearing doesn’t mean they’re dead, Jimm
y. I’m beginning to suspect they were doing a bit of business on the side, probably with this guy Largo who no one knows anything about. It could be that he’s after them for money and they’ve both had to take a powder for a while. Who knows.’

  ‘He’s my boy, Lennox. My son. He’s a waster and a wanker, but he’s my son. Find him for me. I don’t care what you say, I’ll make it worth your while.’

  I nodded. ‘Okay, Jimmy. I’ll see what I can find out.’ I put on my Borsalino. ‘I’ll be waiting at the car, tell Skelly to bring my car keys out to me.’

  Fresh air was a relative term in Glasgow, but it was good to get out of the Empire and onto the street. I ignored the grubby tenements and looked up above the roofs and smoke stacks. It was past ten but the sky was still reasonably light. Scotland’s latitude made for long summer evenings. There was a burst of noise behind me as the pub door swung open. I turned and saw Skelly come out; his stooge Young was at his side.

  ‘Here’s your keys, Lennox.’ Skelly smiled his yellow-toothed smile and held them out to me.

  ‘Thanks.’ I took the keys in my left hand. ‘And I’ve got a tip for you …’

  I reached inside my jacket pocket with my right hand. For a minute, from the expression on his face, I think Skelly really thought I was going to hand him a ten-bob note. I pulled out the flat, spring-handled blackjack and in a continuous, backhand movement, whacked him in the side of the mouth with it. The sound was somewhere between a snap and a crunch and he dropped like a stone. His friend took a step towards me and I held out my hand, making a beckoning gesture with my fingers for him to keep coming. Young clearly decided to decline the invitation and backed off.

  I leaned over Skelly. He was coming round. His face was a mess of blood. From the look of it, I had done him a favour: he clearly wasn’t too keen on toothpaste and I reckoned he would have a few less teeth to clean in the future. I patted him down with my free hand until I found what I was looking for, reached into his jacket pocket and took out the small Webley Three-Two.

  ‘Here’s your tip, Skelly … never, ever pull a gun on me. Even an antique like this. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll kill you. That’s not just an expression: I’ll stop you breathing. Got it?’

  He made an incoherent moaning sound behind his broken teeth. I took it as his assent. I pocketed the Three-Two and turned to the sandy-haired goon.

  ‘If I see your face again, it’ll end up in a worse condition than his. Have you got that?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Have a nice night, girls,’ I said amiably, then I climbed into the Atlantic and drove off.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I spent the next couple of days paddling hard and getting nowhere. Nowhere with what had happened to Sammy Pollock. Nowhere on what was going on with Bobby Kirkcaldy. I was considering changing the name of my business to Sisyphus Investigations. The one good thing was I was able to leave a message with Big Bob at the Horsehead for young Davey to get in touch. I would maybe have something for him to do after all.

  Sheila Gainsborough was back in town. She called me on her return from London and didn’t sound at all pleased that I had so little to report. She insisted on talking face-to-face and asked if I would meet her at Sammy’s apartment. I drove over that afternoon.

  When I got there the place was unrecognizable. The disorder was tidied and the air in the apartment was scented with beeswax.

  Sheila had gathered her blonde hair up with pins and was dressed for serious housework: a red checked shirt-style blouse, the shirt tails tied in a bow at her navel, exposing a couple of inches of pale midriff above the sky-blue Capri pants. She had none of the sophisticated couture she had worn at our last meeting and her face was naked of make-up, other than a quick sweep of crimson around the lips. And she still looked a million dollars.

  ‘I had to tidy the place up,’ she said. ‘It makes me feel better. Getting it nice for Sammy to come back to, I mean.’

  She asked me if I wanted a coffee and I decided to risk it: coffee in Glasgow was typically some chicory sludge from a bottle, mixed with hot water. But Sheila was anything other than typical Glasgow. She returned with a tray encouragingly laden with a percolator, two cups and a plate of pastries. She poured our coffees and sat down opposite me, her knees angled, ankles together, finishing-school style. I thought again about how good a job they had done on her.

  She offered me one of the pastries. It was one of those over-sweet things that had become popular since rationing had ended: a doughnut with cream and jam filling – what we used to call a Burlington Bun back home in Atlantic Canada. I didn’t know what they called them anywhere else.

  ‘No thanks.’ I smiled. ‘I don’t have a sweet tooth.’ I noticed she put the plate back down without taking a pastry herself. That figure was a piece of work.

  ‘The last time we spoke I was really worried about Sammy disappearing …’ She bit into her crimson lower lip and I found myself wishing she had been biting into mine. ‘Now I’m frightened, Mr Lennox. He seems to have vanished from the face of the Earth. And you don’t seem to have the slightest clue …’

  ‘Listen, Miss Gainsborough. I have found something out. I didn’t want to tell you on the ’phone, but do you remember Paul Costello, the guy we came across at Sammy’s apartment?’

  She nodded. I could see the trepidation in her eyes.

  ‘Well,’ I continued, ‘I’m afraid he seems to have gone missing too. Same set-up.’

  The trepidation became fear and Sheila’s eyes glossed with tears.

  ‘I really think you should contact the police,’ I said, placing my coffee cup on its saucer and leaning forward. ‘I know you’re really concerned and, if I’m honest, so am I.’

  ‘But the police …’ She paused and frowned. ‘Why do you think they’ve both disappeared?’

  ‘My theory is that there is some truth in what Costello said about this mysterious Largo. I don’t think Costello owed him money, the way he claimed, and I don’t think this Largo would send heavies here to Sammy’s place if he wasn’t in some way involved. But Costello denied that too.’

  ‘So what do you think is going on?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, but I’m guessing that Sammy and Paul Costello were involved in some kind of deal with Largo and something has gone wrong. If I’m right, that’s not necessarily bad news. It could mean that Sammy and Costello have simply gone into hiding. Voluntarily. That would explain why they’re so hard to find. That’s the way they want it. But it’s just a hunch. I think you should go to the police. There’s something clearly not right here. Even if Sammy has headed off under his own steam, it would suggest that he’s got something to be afraid of.’

  ‘No. No police. If what you’re saying is true, then there’s a good chance Sammy’s broken the law. Seriously broken the law. He wouldn’t be able to stand prison.’ She frowned her cute frown for a moment then shook her head decisively. ‘No. No, I want you to keep looking for Sammy. Do you need more money?’

  ‘I’m fine for the moment, Miss Gainsborough. The only thing I’d ask is that you tell your agent that I don’t work for him. I’ve nothing to say to him about anything. I deal with you directly. Are you okay with that?’

  She nodded. I reached into my pocket for a cigarette, but my case was empty.

  ‘Oh, hold on a minute …’ She stood up and looked about herself. ‘Sammy smokes. I’m sure I found some cigarettes when I was tidying up. Oh yes …’ She crossed to the dresser against the wall and brought over a silver desktop cigar box. She flipped it open and offered me one.

  ‘They’re filtered,’ she said apologetically. Then she frowned. ‘Look … they’re the kind you asked about. The butt you showed me with lipstick on it.’

  I took a cigarette and examined it. It had two gold bands around the filter. ‘Yeah … they’re Montpelliers. A French brand. There’s a lot of them about, it would seem.’ I lit the cigarette and drew on it. It was like straining steam through a blanket. I ni
pped off the filter between finger and thumb and dropped it into the ashtray, pinching the ragged end tight.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Filters are okay for women. But for me they kill the flavour.’

  Sheila smiled the smile of somebody responding to something they hadn’t listened to. ‘So you’ll keep looking?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll keep looking,’ I said, pausing to pick a couple of tobacco strands from my tongue. ‘I know you don’t want the police involved, but would you mind if I spoke to a couple of police contacts. Strictly on the Q.T. and off the record.’

  ‘What if they get suspicious?’

  ‘The kind of cops I’m talking about don’t get suspicious, they just get expensive. Leave it to me.’

  We talked for another half hour. I asked if she could remember anything more about the people her brother had been hanging around with, particularly the girl, Claire. I also asked her to think again about the name Largo. I drew a double blank. I asked if there had been any places with which Sammy had a particular attachment: anywhere he may have sought sanctuary in. She tried. She really tried, the poor kid, but she couldn’t think of anywhere, anything or anyone that might bring me closer to finding her missing brother.

  I left her to her desperately methodical housework. As I was leaving, I said that at least Sammy would be coming back to the place all nice.

  The truth was that we both suspected she was simply dressing a grave.

  It was on the Thursday night that I got a break. Such as it was. I had been doing the rounds of clubs and bars. Most knew Paul Costello only as Jimmy Costello’s son. And the few that had heard of Sammy Pollock/Gainsborough again made the link only through Sheila Gainsborough. I struggled to find any musicians or singers who had heard of them, far less been approached with offers of representation. I worked my way from the few hep joints Glasgow had, like the Swing Den and the Manhattan, to the rougher workingmen’s clubs that abounded across the city.

  The Caesar Club was one of the latter category. It combined industrial drinking with performers so bad that you had to drink industrially to tolerate them. I arrived about nine-thirty.