by Shari King
It gnawed at him that he didn’t see it coming, didn’t see who had the kind of death wish that would make them take a shot at Jono Leith. He had a fair idea, though. Couple of the neds around here would do anything when they were smacked out of their nuts. Manny Murphy had warned him that there were a few names that weren’t happy about Jono muscling in on a couple of jobs last month. The jewellers on Byres Road. The building society in Paisley. He’d heard they were going to be hit and how it was going to happen, so he’d stepped in and done the job first both times. Tasty spoils. Worth doing, even if it did piss off a couple of idiots. The way Jono saw it, he was doing them a favour, alerting them to the fact that someone in their crew couldn’t keep their bloody mouth shut.
Yeah, he reckoned that’s what was behind it. That or he’d shagged the wrong bird somewhere along the line. He felt no guilt for that either. If some pathetic specimen couldn’t service his missus, it was only right that Jono step in and make the poor cow happy.
Not that he needed the aggro of a one-night stand. He had a couple of regulars who kept him more than horny and hard. Any more than that was just hassle. There was only so much skirt a bloke could tolerate in his life.
Anyway, the ambush wouldn’t happen again.
No way. He’d be taking precautions from now on. Keeping his back covered.
‘Tea, love. And I’ve put a biscuit on there. Garibaldi. I know you like those.’
Jesus wept, what was she wittering on about now? Could the stupid slag not just put a cup of tea down without War and bloody Peace? What the fuck had he been thinking marrying her? Sure, she’d been a looker, but that was it. Nothing between the ears. And all that holy pish? If he’d known that was ahead of him, he’d have dumped her right after he screwed her up the back of the Barras. He couldn’t even remember what gig he’d been at, but she hadn’t taken much persuasion, just a few large vodkas from the bar and her legs were wide open.
The pregnancy. The prayers. And the kicking from his da’ had come next. Mortified he was, the old bastard. It was a council house and a registry office and a purvey in the front room before he knew what was happening.
Still, at least she knew when to take a telling. It wasn’t his fault that he had to knock her about a bit to make the point. If she’d just cop on the first time and stop her infernal wittering, he wouldn’t have to raise a hand to her. And she did keep a clean house. Aye, he’d keep her around for a while longer. Cheaper than a cleaner and she knew how he liked his mince.
Not that he’d be on the cheap cuts for much longer. He had a move planned. The one he’d been waiting for. Removing another idiot from the picture and taking over his operation. It was time. Jono Leith had been playing in Division Two for too long. Time for promotion. It wouldn’t be quick and it wouldn’t be painless, but he had no doubt he’d pull it off.
‘Hi, Mr Leith. How’s it going?’ Davie boy strolled into the room, all cheek and cocky swagger. Jono liked that. Better than the sullen shit he got from his Sandy. Moody wee shite. He’d always thought that Sandy would follow him into the family business, but now he reckoned the boy didn’t have the stomach for it. Too soft. He had the build for it – would be the man to collect in a few debts, put the fears on the diddies that thought they could get wide and pay late or change a price for a bit of gear. He’d had a bit of hope when he’d heard Sandy had leathered a nyaff from the bottom of the scheme for taking something off Davie, but it seemed like that had been a one-off. Shame.
Jono reached into the inside pocket of the jacket that was over the chair behind him, took out a hip flask and added it to his tea. That would chase the sore head. Not that there was much of it left. Must have drunk more of it than he realized last night.
‘Whit are you looking at?’ he challenged Sandy’s stare.
There was something wrong with that boy. What was his problem?
Christ, the way he looked at him sometimes, he’d swear that the wee shit wanted him deid.
25.
‘Pride’ – Amy Macdonald
Glasgow, 2013
Sarah stood her ground as Ena’s eyes flared. This wasn’t going well. Time for damage limitation.
‘Look, I promise I’m not here to cause trouble. I think Davie’s great. Brilliant. He’s my favourite actor.’
It was door-stepping 101. Reassure. Cajole. Calm. Flatter.
This wasn’t going to be easy, but Sarah had faced worse. And as long as she kept her head and found the right trigger, she usually managed to get what she’d come for. Granted, Ena Dawson was proving to be a considerable challenge. Her stance remained defensive, her gaze suspicious.
‘Aye, well, I appreciate you’ve got a job to do, but I don’t talk about my boy to the press. He’s told me about that before. He’s got one of those PR people and you have to talk to them if you want to know anything. I’ll not be saying a word about him, dear. Sorry.’
The response wasn’t what Sarah had hoped for, but at least it was confirmation that she was talking to the right woman. Ena went back to sweeping, conversation clearly over. Sarah decided there was nothing to lose by throwing in a little more bait and hoping for a bite.
‘But don’t you want to tell the world how proud you are of him?’
Ena didn’t fall for it.
‘The only person who needs to know how proud of him I am is Davie. I’ve no desire to be in the papers or out there looking for attention. That’s why I took my mother’s maiden name when the fame started. Davie might like that celebrity stuff, everyone knowing yer business, but it’s no’ for me. Leave me alone, lass – I won’t change my mind.’
Head down, more sweeping. Sarah gave it one last shot.
‘Then perhaps you can help me with something else. Back in the 1980s, Davie’s best pal was Zander Leith. I’m trying to track down Zander’s father, Jono Leith.’
The bite was both sudden and fierce, with the thudding impact of a steel door banging shut.
Ena’s head snapped up, and for a moment, Sarah actually thought the broom was going to double as a weapon.
‘Then you’re speaking to the wrong person again.’ The apologetic tone had been replaced with high-grade hostility.
‘Now if you don’t mind, I’ve already said I don’t speak to the press and I have work to do here. I’m saying nothing more, so stop wasting my time and yours.’
The turn of her back put a full stop on the conversation. Sarah the woman knew it was time to call it a day and go back to the rainbow trout that was waiting for her at her favourite restaurant. Sarah the reporter couldn’t stop herself from pushing just a little bit more.
‘I’m not going to give up on this. I think something happened to Jono Leith and I’m not going to give up until I find out what it was.’
Ena stopped, sighed and cast her eyes back to meet Sarah’s.
‘Then you’re a very stupid lassie who is making a huge mistake. There’s no point in looking for Jono Leith. You’ll never find him. And trust me, hen, that’s one cage you don’t want to rattle. For your own good.’
The warning was clear. The danger was implicit. Yet as Sarah trudged back to the warmth and safety of the restaurant, she knew that just like those who crossed the threshold to Narnia, she’d gone way too far to back out now.
Simon stood and pulled out her chair as she reached the table. ‘Everything OK, darling?’
‘Fine,’ she told him, before asking a passing waiter to rustle up another coffee. These bones were going to take a while to defrost again.
Over his sumptuous feast of Kobe beef, Rob eyed her eagerly.
‘I hear you’ve got a few days off next week.’
Sarah nodded. She had loads of holiday days banked because she rarely actually took time off. She’d planned to spend the week at the Mitchell Library, digging into the archives, until . . .
Simon was speaking now. ‘Rob and I were just discussing caseloads and we can both get a couple of days off. We were thinking Paris. Maybe Rome?’
; Sarah flushed – and not because the indoor heat was finally raising her body temperature.
‘I can’t. I’ve got something on.’
Simon tried and failed to conceal his irritation. ‘Honey, you can hang out at the Mitchell when we get back.’
‘No, it’s not that. There’s been a change of plan. I need to . . . I’m, erm, going to . . .’
Her mind struggled to keep up with her spontaneous impulse.
‘I’m . . . I’m going to LA.’
26.
‘Talk Dirty’ – Jason Derulo
This was the first time in weeks he’d come even close to silence. Yet he was surrounded by people. Surrounded. Lunch on the patio at the Ivy in LA was an eclectic hive of wealthy tourists, reality-TV stars and A-listers with a point to prove. It was the place to be seen and be papped. Where stars ate with directors to generate publicity for their latest movie. It was where famous couples dined together to show their marriage was doing great, or where they dined alone to show it was over.
To his left was an actress, one of the biggest box-office draws on the planet, dining with her new fiancé, sharing her happiness with the masses. Davie and the rest of Hollywood knew she had a seventy-five-year-old investor who bank- rolled her movies and gave her top billing just as long as she fucked him on demand.
Over in the far corner, a global star sat with his wife, while his driver slouched against his limo further down the street. The same twenty-one-year-old driver who had been the actor’s lover since he was an eighteen-year-old just off the bus from Arkansas and desperate to be the next Brad Pitt.
He didn’t have the looks or the talent, but thankfully he had a driving licence and a raw ambition that made him determined to make it by any means. Right now, that meant servicing an action star who had given him three walk-on parts in movies that made over $100 million each. When his benefactor came to his room in the pool house every night, he told himself it was worth it.
Yep, the terrace at the Ivy was where Hollywood dreams seemed real, yet it was where Davie Johnston now sat, being bypassed by every name in town, all of them too afraid to be snapped shaking his hand in case his downfall was contagious.
The fact that Sky Nixon was out of danger and recovering didn’t make an iota of difference. He’d had Al’s people keep daily tabs on the situation and she was now recovering well – no damage done. Thank God. Not that news of her recovery had been made public yet. The kids keeping a vigil outside the hospital may have got bored and gone back to school, but her mother was still issuing pleas for prayers. #prayforsky. Right now, he’d never hated anyone more. Rainbow was determined to keep milking it, absolutely loving the attention, and according to Al’s people, she was already in talks with MTV about moving their show there, kicking off with Sky’s triumphant release from hospital. What a load of shit. But then, if he was honest, he probably wouldn’t have done it much differently himself.
That didn’t mean he deserved the shit-storm that had come his way, though. Hell, every person in this town had made a living on smokescreens, mirrors and manipulation. The gay actors living with wives, having happy-family snaps before taking their male tennis pros to Cabo for practice with their swing. New balls, please. The A-list heroin addict who went to church every Sunday, then left five minutes before the end because he couldn’t last any longer without a score. The twenty-five-year-old model turned actress who sent an occasional cheque to the ten-year-old twins she’d left in a trailer as babies when she got scouted while shop-lifting at a mall. The ageing talk-show host who installed a hidden camera in the guests’ dressing rooms so he could jerk off while he watched them change before the show.
All twisted. All immoral. None of it any further up the messed-up scale than Davie’s behaviour. The only difference was that Davie had made the fatal mistake of getting caught.
For the first time in years he felt vulnerable. On the outside of the in-crowd. A trickle of sweat ran down his neck and into the collar of his pale blue Stefano Ricci shirt despite the fact that the mercury had barely passed 70 degrees.
A month ago, he’d interviewed Mercedes Dance for an ‘at home’ special. She’d offered to blow him in the Jacuzzi. Now, wearing a floaty smock and Havaianas, the slut had just walked right past him like he didn’t exist.
Davie stretched his neck to see who she was meeting inside. Jack Gore. He was doing a number on Mirren right enough. What a dick. No wonder Mirren still hadn’t called him back. Not that he wanted her to now. With the benefit of hindsight, he’d probably overreacted after that journo had contacted him. He’d heard nothing more since he’d snubbed the request. The bitch had probably gone on to some other story. Threat over. Done.
The tension that was making his $50,000 veneers grind was replaced by relief as a limo drew up and the driver opened the door to allow Lana Delasso to greet her public. Pushing seventy now, she looked a couple of decades younger, pausing as she alighted to let the paps get a few shots off. She wasn’t big news, but her reality show had put her in the same nostalgic bracket of affection as Betty White and Joan Rivers. Dressed all in white, calf-length bodycon and a huge boa, her hair borrowed from the Jayne Mansfield-meets-Barbie shelf in the wig store, she teetered towards him, bestowing waves and air kisses on everyone in her path.
Choking as her cloud of Miss Dior reached his respiratory system, Davie managed to kiss her on each cheek and then hold out her chair as she sat down with all the flair and circumstance of a reigning monarch. Queen of the Has-Beens. The waiter was at their side in a split second – early twenties, short, with a beaming smile and buckets of charm as he took the order for two waters and two Caesar salads, dressing on the side, neither of which would be eaten. No one who was anyone actually ingested real food in restaurants at lunchtime – only the calorie-reduced, nutritionally balanced, vitamin-enhanced creations of their personal chefs ever made it as far as their gullets.
Pouting her ruby-red lips, she leaned over and cupped his chin.
‘Oh, my darling, who’s been a naughty boy, then? I couldn’t believe it,’ Lana purred. ‘Not my Davie. He wouldn’t do something so underhand and manipulative. In all the time we’ve been doing our wonderful show together, he’s never suggested such a thing. Of course, our show has Lana, so why would we need to?’
It was a struggle to keep the look of incredulity off his face. It wasn’t the fake laugh or the fact she was talking in the third person – that was pretty standard stuff. It was the fact that she seemed to be airbrushing more than her wrinkled tits. Since he’d rescued Lana from a soon-to-be-repossessed home in Brentwood, where she’d been doped up to her thrice-lifted neck with diazepam, they’d staged at least a dozen stunts to raise her profile and get this generation of viewers interested in her. There had been a near-death emergency hospitalization – great cover for her latest cosmetic work. The life-threatening car crash that was actually staged by a stunt mate of Davie’s before Lana slipped into the driver’s seat just before the emergency services arrived. No one thought to ask how she could wreck a Porsche without smudging her lipstick. There was the leaked hysterical call to 911. There were the rumours of an affair with a middle-aged action star, who was so outraged he’d threatened to kick Davie’s ass up and down Sunset. The weeping on Sinatra’s star on the Walk of Fame. The revelations about an affair with JFK. The threesome with Marilyn. The feud with Doris Day. None of it true, all of it great for the hype. Davie’s personal favourite was the boy band, led by her grandson, that was currently living in her guest house. The story was that she was supporting them while they tried to get a record deal. The truth was that they couldn’t hold a note in a bucket, but were picked from the books of a modelling agency and put in the show because they looked incredible, partied like the rock stars they’d never be and were there to have the teenage girls tuning in and turning on.
Lana had taken to reality-show manipulation like the pro that she was and yet now she was coming out with some strange shit.
The all too rec
ently familiar sensation of acid eating at his guts kicked off again. Either she was off her meds or up to something. Meds. He made a mental note to speak to her doctor and see if the old broad needed to up her dosage. He decided to go with it. Humour the old dear.
‘You’re right, baby,’ he said, leaning towards her, his hand over hers, best smile at work. ‘We don’t need any of that stuff when we have you. So let’s talk about the next series. I’m thinking Cannes. The film festival. You can take the boys over and we’ll set up some gigs. Get them some European exposure. I’m thinking romance for you – an ageing but entitled prince from some shit-ass country we’ve never heard of. I’m thinking—’
‘I don’t think so.’
Davie stopped, tried to read her expression, but it was impossible given that she was so lifted and Botoxed that nothing moved below or above eyebrows that were tattooed in a perfect arch à la Joan Crawford, circa Mildred Pierce era.
‘What was that?’ he asked, another sweat bead slipping into his collar.
She sighed with unconvincing emotion. That pissed Davie off even more. Lana had been a fairly passable actress once. She and Goldie Hawn had been the chick-flick heroines of their generation, the quirky blondes that everyone loved. Goldie made the transition into older roles and kept her dignity and career. Lana lost it all on the back of too many bad decisions and too many surgeries, yet now he’d given it all back to her and she couldn’t even muster up a decent performance for him.
‘Darling, I’m sorry, but I think it’s time this beautiful journey came to an end. I don’t think you’re the right brand for me any longer. I’ve been made an offer to move to another network and it’s too good to pass. But I’ll always love you, my little Davie doll.’ Leaning over, she gave his cheek another squeeze of pure patronization.