How a Gunman Says Goodbye

by Malcolm Mackay

  Taking a sip of tea. Considering his options. No longer on the inside. Doesn’t matter what Jamieson says–Frank’s not an insider now. Some guy who’s supposed to offer advice when he’s asked, which will be rarely. That’s not inside. That’s way out.

  The thought of being an outsider. He’s been here before. He’s lived with the danger of it, and come through. Been a long time, though. Different circumstances. He worked for Donnie Maskell. How long ago was that? Jesus! Thirty years. Worked for him for seven years. Things started to fall apart for Maskell. Frank knew what was going on. Maskell had lost control; his business picked apart by supposed friends and definite enemies. Maskell put on a good face, but Frank knew he had to get out. He moved to the outside. Went off the radar. Did a couple of jobs freelance, but stayed low-key. Maskell wanted him dead. Dangerous times, you’re right, but by the time Frank resurfaced, Maskell didn’t have the ability to get rid of anyone. That was the last time Frank was on the outside.

  Peter Jamieson is no Donnie Maskell. He’s in a much stronger position. He’s smarter. He has people around him who could easily make it happen. A late-night visit from Calum MacLean is a visit to avoid. Could Frank go up against Calum? He’s smiling. Never happened to him before. No gunman has ever gone after him. Partly because he’s been good at not making enemies. Partly because none would want to. He had too much respect. Admired as the best in the business. Nobody wanted to take him on. It’s not arrogance that makes him think that. It’s a fact. Most gunmen are smart enough to take on only a target they know they’ll beat. That’ll change now. An old man on the outside. Easy prey for a good gunman. There was a day when he wouldn’t have feared Calum. Wouldn’t have relished it, either, mind you. You never relish being the hunted. Now he would fear it. Calum’s good. Cold and smart. A good planner, who knows how to improvise. He’s what Frank used to be. What he thought he still was.

  Nearly finished that cup now. So hard to be decisive. That might be the big failure in Frank’s career. He’s never made the difficult decisions. Okay, he’s had to decide who to work for. A couple of tough decisions about walking away from employers. But that’s it. He’s always been an organization man. Always letting other people make the tough decisions. You put yourself in an organization; you put yourself at their mercy. Their choices. You just follow orders. It’s reassuring, while it lasts. You don’t have to think about anything. You get a call. You go and find out who your target is. You do the job. If you’re good at the job, then the whole thing is simple. You rarely have to engage your brain. Go through the routine and everything’s fine. Comfortable and comforting. Now, suddenly, he has to think for himself. He has to make a difficult decision. The quicker, the better.

  Standing over the sink now, rinsing out the cup. There are people he could go work for. Good people. Strong people. People he worked against in the past. There isn’t a major organization in the city that he hasn’t struck against at some point. Some of it’s ancient history. It would still be an issue. People have long memories. They might hire him, but they wouldn’t forget. They would never let a man like Frank hold responsibility. They would keep him at arm’s length. Maybe use him now and again. Give him basic protection in exchange for the information he has on Jamieson. Always at arm’s length. The only organization he could go into without baggage would be a new one. There are none local. There are people poking their noses in from outside. Organizations from other cities, looking for a cut. They work with freelancers, or bring in their own. Outsiders are especially hated by those in the business. The last meaningful organization to grow in this city was Jamieson’s. Freelance isn’t an option. No protection. Nothing to gain for a man in his position. It would have to be an established organization. He can’t think of any that would trust him. Can’t think of any he doesn’t actively dislike.

  There is one more option. One more thing he might do. It repulses him to think of it. The indoctrination begins on day one. Taught that nothing could be worse. That nobody does it. Anyone who does must be punished with death. Enemy number one to everyone in the business. That’s all bullshit, of course. The concept of honour among thieves is moronic. These people make their living from lies and deceit. Far more people inside the business speak to the police than are ever caught. Okay, hands up, Frank doesn’t know that for sure. He’s guessing here. There are people out there who should be in jail. That’s obvious. People against whom the police have enough evidence to convict. People who are still on the outside. They have a form of protection that even an organization can’t guarantee. There’s plenty of them if you take a good look around. None on Frank’s level, though. The police can’t turn a blind eye to everything he’s done. Can they?

  32

  A busy day. The good kind of busy. Lots of things he wants to do, people he wants to meet. All of them meetings of his creation. This is how the job should be, Young’s thinking. The first meeting is with that dick Kirk. He’s been getting them phone info for a couple of years. He’s usually dealt with by someone further down the chain. This time was more important than usual. Kirk went to his handler and told him he had a request for info from Shug Francis. The handler, knowing his place, passed it up the line. Maybe Shug is learning from his mistakes after all.

  Young’s taking this meeting himself. Don’t even let the handler get a whiff of what happened with Frank and Scott. Nobody needs to know about that. Kirk won’t get it. He couldn’t put the pieces together with a picture guide and a tube of glue. Bless him. Just the kind of useful idiot everyone wants a piece of. Unfortunately, the kind of useful idiot who’s liable to panic under pressure. Young’s put him under a little. Now he needs to go and pat him on his empty head and tell him everything’s going to be okay.

  It was supposed to happen tomorrow. If the boy had any sense he would wait, but he doesn’t. Panics. He called his handler a couple of times, wanted to meet today. Demanding that he see Young again. He doesn’t know who Young is, doesn’t know how important he is. He knows he’s more important than his usual contact, though. All he wants is reassurance. He’ll want his money too, of course. Mostly he just wants to know that he’s not going to get in any trouble. He can play the big man. The tough gangster, stealing and tampering with vital info. Truth is, he’ll be terrified right now. Caught in the middle of something he doesn’t understand. Suddenly aware that he can’t live with real gangsters. He has no means of protecting himself. First rule of playing with the big boys: get a defence. Second rule: never look weak. Little Kirk has broken both.

  Meeting in a greasy-spoon place on the south side. Not ideal, too public, but it’s where Kirk meets his handler. No point spooking him by meeting somewhere else. No point showing him one of the better private meeting places Young typically uses. Kirk isn’t important enough for that. He also has a big mouth, might spill some beans. Eventually he’s going to calm down, and then his mouth might open up again. He might find out how important Young is and brag about them meeting. Boast that he helped Young out. It happens. Hard to believe people can be that stupid and useful at the same time, but it’s true. Young’s walking into the place now. Grotty little dump. He’ll order a cup of tea and a bacon roll for appearances, but he won’t touch them. It seems the sort of place where hygiene is less of a concern than it should be.

  Kirk’s in the corner. He’s playing with a packet of sugar. For a man living the dangerous life he craves, he looks miserable. Young’s sitting opposite him now, not saying a word. Kirk’s looking at him, waiting. He doesn’t want to speak first. It seems respectful to wait for Young to say something. That’s what they do in the movies. They show respect to their superiors.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Kirk?’ Young’s asking.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I did. I wanted to see you.’ There’s a slight slur in his speech. Not much, but enough for Young to notice. Seems like Kirk’s been trying to drown his nerves in booze. Works for some, not for others. Not for someone like Kirk. Young’s guessing that it’s made him more nervous. Mor
e emotional. That’ll make him harder to handle.

  ‘You tell me what you need, Kirk,’ Young’s saying. Use his name, it shows you remember. Friendly tone. False, but friendly. ‘I’m at your command.’ Oh, he’ll like that. He’s just stupid and drunk enough to think it might be true.

  ‘I did the job,’ Kirk’s saying, getting the feel of it now. ‘It was darker than usual, you see. They switch off some of the lights at night. Just a skeleton crew working the phones. They call it a twenty-four-hour service, but if you don’t call during working hours–tough titties, you got to wait. So I’m working on the computer, getting into the database. Then this bird I work with comes over. Big fat thing. Think she has her eye on me. So she starts talking, I keep working like nothing’s up. I’m thinking: If she spots this, I’m fucked. But I keep going.’

  And he keeps on going now. Talking and talking, loving the sound of his voice. Let him talk. His nerves are still running from his efforts last night and this morning. He wants to tell someone, and that means Young has to listen. Kirk has a big mouth and only one person he can safely open it to.

  It’s a small price to pay. Kirk works for a phone company. Works on technical support at a call centre. He can get access to phone records. He can fiddle around with the records he finds. If the police go sniffing, they won’t find anything of interest. No calls made by Jamieson, Young or Calum, according to the official records. It’s not the sort of precaution you want to rely on. Better to make no calls at all. Wasn’t possible with the Frank situation. Calls had to be made, and then they had to be removed. That was Kirk’s job. He did that, and then got another call. One from Shug’s right-hand man, David ‘Fizzy’ Waters. Kirk had just enough sense to keep his work for Young a secret from them. They wanted to see phone records. Calls made by Scott, McClure and Shaun Hutton on the night of the killings. Kirk told his handler, who told Young, who saw an opportunity. Protect Hutton. One good turn deserves another, they say. Hutton should be very useful in the near future. Protect him, remove the call. According to the official records, Hutton made only one outgoing call that night, to Shug himself. That should leave Shug as baffled as ever. He’ll believe Frank got a message out, no doubt. Another nice little victory.

  ‘And you did a good job,’ Young’s telling Kirk. ‘What can I do for you?’

  He’s nodding, the boy. Trying to look thoughtful. Like he’s working it all out in his head. Like he’s capable.

  ‘I need… assurance,’ he’s saying. Had to stop and think of the right word. Did well. ‘I need to know that this isn’t gonna come back on me. There’s big risks, you know.’

  He needs a little pat on the head. ‘Listen to me, Kirk. We all know the risks you’ve taken. We know they’re big. We appreciate it, we respect it, and you have our full protection. We see you as integral,’ Young’s saying. ‘You’re vital to us. We protect those who are vital to us. You have my word, Kirk. I can’t possibly offer you more than that.’ The honour of a man’s word. As though it has any value. Kirk doesn’t know that, lost in a world of wannabe gangster life. He’ll accept it, Young knows.

  ‘Okay,’ Kirk’s saying, nodding his head. ‘Okay.’ He’s getting up to leave. Young’s waiting. Now Kirk’s turning back, as expected. ‘Seeing as we’re both here,’ he’s saying. Young’s taking an envelope out of his pocket. Looking around. Nobody watching. Sliding it across the table. Kirk picking it up in full view, stuffing it quickly into his pocket. The kind of quickly that draws attention. Young’s grimacing, but Kirk’s already heading for the door.

  Second meeting. George Daly. Good lad, no doubt. Useful employee. Very useful. Reluctant, though. Lack of ambition. Not lack of bottle, Young’s ruled that out. He’s always willing to do difficult jobs, so long as they don’t cross a line. He simply won’t do anything that might progress his own career. He’s reached a place he’s happy with and will go no further. That’s annoying. It’s a waste of talent. Particularly frustrating for Young. It’s his job to find the talent and promote it. George has talent. He should be promoted. It’s tempting to force him. Put him in a position where he can’t say no. Then you have an unhappy camper. You have someone who’ll want a route out. You lose him altogether. Keep what you’ve got, and look for alternatives. You still ask, though. Just to let him know you’re always keen. Just to let him know the opportunity is there, if he ever changes his mind. He won’t. But it should at least make him feel wanted.

  They’re meeting in the back room of a bookie’s. Jamieson owns half, has done for years. Safe little place. Young collects money from here now and again, mostly for the sake of making an appearance. George has tagged along a few times. They had to change the manager about a year ago. Terribly messy. He was the nephew of the other co-owner. Feckless halfwit too. Got the job because of the family connection. The other owner claimed the lad had business experience. He had a degree in something or other. Jamieson shrugged and let him have the gig. Little work to it. All he had to do was not steal anything. He stole something. About four grand, in the end. George helped with the punishment. By the time light-fingered nephew was out of hospital, there was a new manager. Grumpy, reliable old fellow with lots of experience. Jamieson’s appointment, this time. For the sake of four grand the co-owner was pushed to the periphery. Jamieson can now handle the business as he likes. Good conclusion to a bad situation.

  George is there ahead of him. Doesn’t have anything else to do with his time. Not exactly a hard worker. The majority of people who do his job have other things going on. Little deals and connections that make them other money. Keeps them busy. Distracts them sometimes. Not George. He’s never done any other work. Lazy bastard, Young thinks. It’s convenient–means George doesn’t have the distractions that a lot of others have. A lot of muscle get themselves involved in all sorts of nonsense. Dealing, mostly. Thinking they can use their muscle to make a bit of money at street level. Some go into loan-sharking. That’s a brutal business, though, as bad as drugs. Most muscle steer clear. Few of them make any money worth talking about. Don’t have the brains. Most get into trouble they shouldn’t. Most need rescuing. George has never needed that. Too smart to get into trouble. Another mark in the pro column.

  He’s sitting at a table, watching a little TV up on a bracket in the corner.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he’s saying to Young, as Young’s closing the door.

  ‘Don’t get what?’

  ‘Horse racing. I don’t get it.’

  As a sport, Young doesn’t get it, either. As a business, he does. ‘Money,’ Young’s saying. ‘Punters think they can get rich from it. You need that catch in a sport as pointless as that. You hook them with the promise of winnings.’

  ‘It’s got to be rigged, though, hasn’t it?’ George is asking. Making conversation. He’s not terribly interested. He’s already decided that it has to exist just for people like Jamieson to make money from it.

  Young’s smiling. Maybe it’s a knowing smile. Maybe it isn’t. He’s sitting down without offering an answer.

  He needs to handle this carefully. George is smarter than the average. Don’t think you can push him around. You can’t. Might be lazy, but he has guts. Offer him something he’ll turn down. Put it to him. Let him let you down. Then offer another one that he ought to turn down. Something he won’t like. He can’t say no twice. Well, he can. George is one of the few who might. But he probably won’t. He knows the consequences of letting the boss down. He’s smart enough to understand how vulnerable that could make him. You can only say no so often. He’ll say yes to the second offer.

  ‘How’ve you been, George?’ Young’s asking him. Being polite. Getting it out of the way. Easy with George. You can relax. He won’t make life difficult. The pleasantries are out of the way. Business. ‘You hear about Frank?’

  ‘Frank? No. He okay?’

  George really doesn’t know. That’s good. The story is staying locked up for now. ‘He’s taking a step back,’ Young’s saying. ‘Not retiring exactly
, slowing down. His hip. Hasn’t recovered well enough. Not so quick on his feet. He can still do some work, just not everything he used to.’ It’s a little disingenuous, but it has to be. You can’t blurt out the truth. George should be able to read between the lines.

  ‘Shame for him,’ George is saying. There’s caution in his voice already. ‘Hard to imagine Frank’s life without his work. You’ll be bringing someone else in.’

  ‘I know who I would like to step up and replace him,’ Young’s saying. ‘Someone from within. Someone young. Someone who knows the business in the city. Someone who knows our organization. I’d like you to do it, George.’

  George is already frowning. He doesn’t need time to consider. ‘I’m not a gunman,’ he’s saying. ‘I never will be, either. It’s not what I want.’

  Young’s nodding. Looking disappointed. Not looking surprised. Can’t fault George, he’s honest at least. Most people would never admit it. They would blunder through. Pretend that they were willing, and bottle it later. Strange thing about George. He’ll ride shotgun on a hit. Done it a couple of times. He’s willing to be there. Just won’t pull the trigger. Nothing that jeopardizes his lowly status. He’s a strange boy. Anyway, time to play the game.

  ‘You sure?’ Young’s asking. ‘We could make allowances. Give you a light schedule.’ It’s half-hearted, a little bit of pressure for the sake of it.

  ‘No. It’s not something I could do. I’m not a gunman.’