The Sin Bin

by Tony Black

  An original box set collection by Tony Black containing London Calling, Killing Time in Vegas, and The Lost Generation.

  Copyright © Tony Black 2013

  Tony Black has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be hired, resold, lent out, or in any way circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding, cover or electronic format other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on any subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Scotland in 2013 by Pusher Press.

  All similarities to actual characters — living or dead — are purely coincidental.

  Cover image & design: Jim Divine

  www.tonyblack.net

  Praise for Tony Black:

  'My favourite British crime writer'

  -IRVINE WELSH

  'excellent'

  -THE TIMES

  'the punk rocker of the Scottish crime scene'

  -DAILY RECORD

  'bleakly beautiful'

  -THE GUARDIAN

  'exceptionally compelling'

  -THE MIRROR

  'simply superb'

  -NICK STONE

  'a master writer'

  -KEN BRUEN

  'dead serious and deadly accurate'

  -ANDREW VACHSS

  Contents

  LONDON CALLING

  KILLING TIME IN VEGAS

  THE LOST GENERATION

  LONDON CALLING

  A low-life drug-dealer has a sudden change of heart as he takes revenge on his cheating partner in London Calling, the title story of this collection of original short stories by Irvine Welsh's 'favourite British crime writer', Tony Black. See a loose-moralled lothario get his painful comeuppance in Pretty Boy and laugh at the antics of a pathetic patter-merchant in the anti-romance Jailbait Stalemate. You can also enjoy a short tour of the seedier side of Edinburgh with reluctant investigator Gus Dury in the original short-story version of Last Orders.

  These Scots-themed stories are collected here for the first time in a 10,000-word anthology. London Calling originally appeared in Esquire Magazine whilst the rest of the collection featured in the Best of British Crime, Requiems for the Departed, Protectors, and Crime Factory.

  Contents

  LONDON CALLING

  HOUND OF CULANN

  LAST ORDERS

  PRETTY BOY

  THIS CHARMING TAM

  JAILBAIT STALEMATE

  London Calling

  There's a time and a place for this shit. Now isn't it.

  'You're not cool with this?'

  'Answer me this, Don, do I look fucking cool with it?'

  Don curls his lower lip, bites down. It's not a pained look, but I'm thinking, not far off it.

  'A beer?'

  'Fuck your beer.'

  Frowns.

  'It's the good stuff ... Stella.'

  I raise myself from the Ikea cowhide chair, comfortable as a bastard anyway, and cross the laminate floor. The first thing that comes to hand is the purple and red lava lamp. It smashes like the One O'clock Gun as I take it over Don's head.

  'It'd take a truckload of Stella for me to be cool with you fucking my girlfriend, Don.'

  London Calling comes on the iPod plugged into the Bosch speaker unit on the wall. I think, bollocks, Jonny Ladd isn't going to like this turn of events.

  ****

  First I see of the bloke is Don knocking seven bells out of him in The Wheatsheaf shitter. He's a suit. Banker-type or something, I'd say ad-man maybe, but like I'd know how an ad-man looks ... I sell a bit of Bob Hope for Don. Need to get a new line.

  'Don, what's this shit?'

  He looks up, still kicking the crap out the poor guy. His new Kickers have blood on them, he spots it, removes one, starts slapping the fella about the head with it.

  'Look what you've done to my shoes, y'prick!'

  'I'm sorry ... I'm sorry.' He raises his hands, waves them about his head in a, it must be said, girlie manner. I laugh out loud.

  Don clocks me in hysterics, falling into one of the cubicles, and starts up himself. It's quite a sight. I'm hoping no one else comes in when, bang on cue, the door swings open.

  'Jonny,' says Don.

  I drop the laughter. Calm it. Feel my feet slipping as I ease onto the toilet seat and make myself invisible. Dealing for Don's one thing, mixing it with the likes of Jonny Ladd is another. Not got my sights on the Premier League, unlike some.

  Jonny speaks, 'This the cunt?'

  'Aye, aye,' says Don, 'That's him all right ... clocked him with the blonde bird out the estate agent's office ... one with the big tits, yeah.'

  Jonny Ladd says nothing. I can see him in the mirror, out the gap in the door. His face is a roadmap of hard lines, look like they've been cut in with razors; maybe some of them have. He gives the guy on the floor the once-over, I think he might speak, but he walks past and touches Don on the arm, motions a thumb, 'Get him the fuck out of here.'

  'Where?'

  'Your gaff, there's a brasser on the way to meet you ... Make sure you've got your camera. I'll tell you where to send the shots. Now get a fucking jig on.'

  ****

  'You got a hold of it?'

  'Aye, I've got it.'

  The box is cardboard, not fit for the job.

  'He's gonna come out the bottom, Don.'

  'It'll be fine, it's just two flights.'

  Two flights up an Edinburgh stairwell like this is not easy going. In the Old Town's twisty, windy stairs, it's a near impossibility.

  'I'm telling you, he's gonna fall out!'

  Don drops his end, as if to prove a point, and the banker slumps out. The blood smeared over his face, from a nasty nosebleed, leaves a streak on the newly painted white wall.

  'Och, for Christsake, Don. I told you this would happen.'

  Over the edge of the banister there's a female voice, sounds Oriental, 'Hello, is suck-suck, yes?' It's the pro, she's Thai or something, anxious to get to work. We're real multicultural in Edinburgh these days.

  Don shouts back, 'Aye, aye ... just a minute.' He reaches down, gives the banker a slap, he starts to come around. Mumbles. Don jumps a few steps, turns, fishes in his pockets for the keys to the flat, and says, 'He'll walk from here, drag him. I'll get opened up ... set the scene!'

  I pick the guy out the box, balance his arm around my neck. I hear Don slam the door of the flat.

  The banker speaks, 'You have to help me ...'

  'Y'what?'

  'I know what this is all about.'

  'Yeah, you pissed off Jonny Ladd.' That's a no-brainer in my book.

  'No. It's nothing to do with me ... it's my girlfriend!'

  I'm scoobied, feel my mouth droop, then Don opens the door, and hollers, 'Get a shift on down there.'

  When I turn back, the guy's passed out again.

  ****

  'So, what's the deal here, he owe Jonny Ladd some?'

  Don looks at me, scrunches his brows, 'Fuck no, it's for a bit of fun.'

  'Come again?'

  'The blonde, y'know, one with the big tits, Jonny's got a bone on for her.'

  I don't follow, say, 'I'm not with you.'

  'Look, the idea is, we get a few photos on this fuckhead with his pants around his ankles, maybe some munter going down on him and the blonde suddenly has a change of heart.'

  'That's low.'

  'It's a living.'

  I didn't agree. For a while now I'd been thinking there were better ways to make a living than dancing to Jonny Ladd's tune, or dealing for Don for that matter. Ange had said it ... there's more
to life, change is good, or some such shit.

  'What's with the shake of the head?' says Don.

  'Nothing.'

  'Nah, you don't approve, do you?'

  'It's not that.'

  The brasser moves on the couch, points to the banker who's coming around again. She goes over to him, starts to loosen his tie.

  'No, fuck no ... it's his pants you take off, here ...' Don directs her to the belt buckle, walks back to me, starts to play with his camera-phone. He says loosen up, get over Ange leaving, and ... am I cool with him putting the moves on her?

  Fuck no.

  He tries to ply me with a beer, Stella Artois ... Funny, I think, Ange never liked beer, but lately she'd been big on Stella.

  I feel a rush of blood to my head.

  ****

  Miss Suck-Suck lets out a scream when the lava lamp explodes. She jumps up as Don hits the floor. I raise a hand, say, 'It's cool ... we're all cool with this.'

  She goes back to work. I say, 'No. No. There's been a change of plan.'

  'Explain, please?'

  'This fella here,' I turn Don over, start to undo his belt, 'you want to get your gums round him instead.'

  'Okay-dokey.'

  As she goes to work, I take up Don's camera-phone.

  The banker's coming around as I snap away, 'Don't worry about us mate, we'll be out of your hair in no time.'

  He keels over again.

  'Wise. Get your head down.'

  'Okay-dokey,' says Miss Suck-Suck.

  I laugh, 'No you're doing fine, love.'

  The Clash on the Bosch speaker unit get me moving, London Calling sets the mood as I fire off some more shots, get in some arty ones.

  I'm thinking, now here's maybe my new job. Christ knows I need one now.

  I wonder if Ange will approve? I think this as I locate her number on Don's phone, and press 'send'.

  Hound of Culann

  He was your typical 'Troubles are over, my arse' Ulsterman. Tats. Sovereign rings. A swagger you could dry clothes on and a number-one to the nut. They were ten a penny in the city now. Usually, I'd have sent him packing with a brick up his hole but the well-used Webley in his waistband said he meant business.

  I knew right off what he was here for.

  I knew right off I didn't have it.

  There was a crowd of say, eight, nine people between us. Good ol' boys sucking back stout, stocking up for a shot at the local hoors. None that would move to pull a greasy stick out of a dog's arse, or a lit firework for that matter.

  'Any service going, mate? Murder a beer.' I stood up to meet the barman as he rose, slapping the local rag down on the bar-top.

  'Beer?' he said.

  'Yeah, two ... one for me and ...'

  He lifted a hand, I thought he was flagging me shut-the-fuck-up, 'What kind?'

  'Come again?'

  'Look, lad, I've got beers and beers.'

  The hard-nut was two yards off, homing in on me, 'Right, right, eh ... the Deuchars'll do.'

  The barman softened. Ironed out his creased brow, said, 'Good choice.'

  I watched him slide off, caught sight of two scab-cracked elbows poking through his flannel. The fuck was I doing here? I had Marie now, waiting. I'd promised her.

  A sovereign-ringed hand pounded the bar.

  ****

  Culann had said take it easy, but take it. I remembered the words because I'd followed them to the letter.

  'Time and place is all I need,' I said.

  'You'll get a call. Don't miss it. Don't question it. Don't even respond. You got it?'

  'Sure mate, no need to boil up yer piss.'

  Culann had the appearance of what he was, a parasite. A fat fuck. A lazy, loose-moralled — scrub that — amoral, piece of shit. He let his heavy lids hang on his bloodshot eyes for a moment or two then he flashed his tongue like a lizard, 'You straight?'

  'Mate, you know I am ... I fuck up you go medieval on my arse, Culann, that's not happening.'

  I had him. The eyes sunk back in his fat head. His face played that moronic expression he wore most days. Only this wasn't most days for him, or for me.

  ****

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. Not gentle, but a lot less than I was expecting. These big guys, all talk and no trousers. It's the size, the sheer scale that usually excuses them from any kind of conflict. Pound to a pail of shite, the jaw's never been tested. I mean really tested. As I turned, suddenly, I wasn't for trying the theory.

  'Gilmour.'

  'Who's asking?'

  The knuckle-dragger removed his hand from the bar. Put his dark eyes on me, 'That wasn't a question.'

  From the pocket of his cheapo leather he produced a picture of me, dropped it on the bar. I could hardly look, I was with Culann; I'd never wanted out the life more.

  'Looks like you got me.'

  A nod. No change on his face though, that ancient Scots' wisdom thing going on. I tried a smile. Nothing.

  The barman arrived with the Deuchars. 'Get them down ye!'

  'Cheers, mate.' I picked up the pints, offered one to the big fella.

  'I don't touch alcohol.'

  I knew at first sight of him that he was probably pumping his arse with steroids, so should have sussed he wasn't gonna touch the cold stuff.

  The barman was appalled. 'That's a fucking good beer you're turning up, boy!'

  'No worries, won't go to waste,' I told him.

  The pug disagreed, said, 'Oh, I think it might.'

  He picked up the pint glass, snatched mine with his other hand, then smashed them both together, right in front of my face. Shards and beer splashed over the floor.

  The place fell silent.

  Then, 'Get your fucking arse out to the car, Gilmour.'

  ****

  The call had come at 2.20 a.m.

  I took the details and climbed out of bed. I had an old Golf GTi, never failed me, purred into action first turn of the key.

  The streets were quiet heading out through Liberton. I'd rented a bungalow in Corstorphine to keep everything as low key as possible. Was ready to cut and run after a of couple days but stuck it out to get the job done. Right down to the 9-5 appearance, suit from Markies, the lot.

  The call dropped me the details of a Midlothian gaff, out near Straiton. I needed to push the Golf to make the time, but I'd been cruising the suburbs so long, figured the burn would do it good.

  When I pulled in there was a set of pimped-up 4X4s in the road outside, Toyotas with the full chrome roll-bar kits. My instructions were simple, take the crate from the local boyos, the one marked Edinburgh Airport, and bring it back to Culann.

  In and out.

  Pass GO and collect two grand.

  If only it was so simple.

  'So, that's the crate?' I asked the homeboy, Nike cap on backwards, barely a tooth in his gob.

  'Yeah, mate ... that's Culann's beast.'

  'Y'what?'

  'In there. The dog!' He seemed confused, a look that said he'd just been anally-probed. Something told me he preferred doing the probing himself.

  'You're shitting me, yeah? No one said a thing about a dog.' 'Mate, why do you think there's so much interest ... it's a fucking champion in the pit.'

  I put a torch on the crate. Sure enough there was a livestock stamp and clearance papers attached.

  'Well, bugger me ...'

  The two shit-heads laughed, started to slap each other on the back, then, 'Mate ... this hound's a fucking killer.'

  I pulled the top layer of the paper covering the crate and steadied the torch. There was a little movement inside. Then two yellow eyes flashed for a second and the dog threw itself at me, snarling and barking. The fucker went ape.

  'You sure about this?'

  'Bloody right!' said the mouthy one. He took off his cap and scratched his head, then, 'Look, I got the word on this coming through from America ... I work the airport, greased its arse you might say.'

  'But it's a fighting dog.' Culann had
pulled some shit, but bringing in beasts like this was a new low, even for him.

  'Mate, Culann's putting on the fucking fight of the century!'

  'So why haven't I heard about it?'

  ''Cos if you had, maybe some mad bastard would get the idea of stealing the fucker.'

  The pair of them laughed themselves stupid. It didn't take long. I couldn't watch. The two grand seemed like small potatoes when weighed against the fact I'd be reading about this beast tearing some toddler's arm off sooner or later. Then there was the bigger picture and the opportunity it presented me.

  'Boys ... you have a point.'

  The laughter stopped flat. 'What?'

  The pair looked like I'd just torched the 4X4s sitting behind us. I guessed there'd be plenty more opportunities for them to make a killing cherry-picking the cargo bays, but this deal, I decided, wasn't paying them.

  'On the road.'

  'Y'what?'

  I took the shooter from my belt. 'There's been a change of plan ...'

  ****

  'So, how do I know you're who you say you are?'

  The pug didn't even blink, in a flash he had me pressed against the driver's door of the Golf, an armlock so tight you could jack-up the car with it.

  'I didn't come here to be fucked over ... there's a time factor and not to mention the limits of my patience.'

  I'd been hardballed before. 'There's also the fact that I'm the one with all the cards here ... now get your fucking mitts off me or there's gonna be one thirsty, hungry dog gnawing at the confines of a crate till it keels.'

  He twisted harder, said, 'Anything happens to Culann's dog ...'

  'You'll what, break my arm?' I let him get the taste of that for a while, then, 'What do you think it is today, about four-below? ... Fucking cold out for sure. Beast'll be lucky to survive the night.'

  'Okay, what do you want?' said Culann's lump.

  'Just what we agreed.'

  He loosened off his hold. Stepped back. I could tell he thought I was making a mistake. That I'd be lucky to see the week out. But my conscience was clear. I was doing the right thing; Marie would agree. I'd already queered the deal for Culann, put my arse in a sling, there was no going back now ... I needed reassurances.

  The pug pulled down on his collar, looked out to the horizon. 'Culann's losing patience.'