Quieter up here. Fewer people about. Three tables in use, half a dozen old sots propping up the bar. A few looking at him as he walks past them, none taking a long look. People up here know better. Jamieson’s never open about what he does; he never brags about it, but people aren’t stupid. They know people going back along the corridor to the owner’s office might be people it’s safer not to stare at.
He’s knocking on the office door. You stand out in the corridor and you wait for Jamieson to call you in. Not a question of good manners, more a question of not walking in on anything you shouldn’t see. Unlikely with Jamieson, he’s much more careful than that. Still, you never know. There’s a muffled call from within. Calum’s opening the door, stepping inside, closing the door quickly behind him. Jamieson’s alone, sitting behind his desk as usual. The couch to the right is empty. No Young. It’s a little unsettling. Calum’s trying to remember if he’s been alone with Jamieson before.
‘Come in, sit down,’ Jamieson’s saying, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk.
Calum’s sitting in front of him, trying to read his expression. He looks tired, for one thing. Looks annoyed, too. Calum’s not saying anything, not going to. It’s up to Jamieson to lead this conversation. Whatever the issue is, it belongs to him.
‘We need to have a talk,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘Maybe not an easy one.’
It’s never the first thing you want to hear. Calum’s sitting, expressionless. Determinedly expressionless. Don’t let Jamieson see that you’re concerned. Don’t let him think that you’re easily spooked. Looking calm, listening to what the boss has to say.
‘We need to talk about Frank,’ Jamieson’s saying. His tone says he doesn’t want to. It says he’d rather talk about anything else. ‘You saw what happened,’ he’s saying, throwing up a despairing hand. ‘He botched it. Badly. I’m going to be honest with you here, Calum–I shouldn’t have sent you. You didn’t deserve to be risked that way. A guy like Frank, he knows the risks. He knows if he gets stuck, then he gets left behind. I sent you in there, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for that. You handled it brilliantly, but still, I’m sorry.’ Showing weakness, letting Calum see that he can admit his mistakes. In this business, most people think that’s weakness. Very few apologies offered. Almost none from the boss. It’s a moment to raise an eyebrow.
Calum’s nodding. Accepting the apology, trying to make it seem like no big concern. He’s worried, though. He doesn’t want to hear this contrition. He knows what it’s leading to.
‘The whole thing with Frank,’ Jamieson’s saying now. ‘That whole job was a mistake. I should have seen that he wasn’t fit for it. His hip, and all that. I wanted to believe that he could just come back and be himself again. Like nothing had changed. It made my life easier if he could. I need two gunmen. You and him. Even if the roles changed, I wanted it to be you two. Maybe you became the lead and him the reserve, but still you two. People with talent that I can trust. Those are hard to come by. You have no idea,’ he’s saying with a grim smile.
All this honesty is creating a heavy atmosphere. Jamieson can sense it. Time to get to the point.
‘Frank’s been retired. I’m trying to keep him on the books. Trying to get him to take an advisory role, but I doubt he’ll go for it. Not in the long run. He’s not the advisory sort. He might still be around now and again, but you have to think of him as retired.’
There’s a warning in there. From now on, you tell Frank nothing. You don’t go to him for help or advice. You don’t tell him about any job that’s being done within the organization. Frank’s become an outsider.
‘That’s…’ Calum’s pausing as he looks for the right word. ‘Sad.’ Seems like the right word to go with. True, but noncommittal.
‘It is,’ Jamieson’s saying, and nodding his head like he means it. Calum’s never seen him sad before. Jamieson has a style that he uses all the time. Doesn’t matter what his underlying feeling is, he can hide behind the bluff. This is a rare moment when he’s not even trying. He’s deliberately letting Calum see how much this means to him. It’s an offer of trust. It’s not an offer Calum is eager to receive. ‘Sad, but it has to be,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘He made a mistake that we can’t allow a repeat of. Shit, he should be dead already. If I had done the right thing that night, he would be.’ There’s an unspoken message there. Frank should have been left to die. Keeping him alive has only created problems. It’s obviously not an easy thing for Jamieson to say about a friend, but he’s right. Death, in retrospect, would have been better for the organization.
This is a promotion. This miserable, excruciating exchange is what constitutes career progress round here. There’s only one thing Jamieson can say next.
‘You understand what this means for you. Frank’s basically gone. As a gunman, he’s finished. You will become our senior gunman.’ There’s a pause. ‘I don’t want you to think that you’re getting that position by default. You would probably be getting it anyway, even if Frank was still going. You’re shit-hot; the last couple of jobs have proven that. It’s your time.’
Calum’s nodding along. Polite acceptance. This isn’t the time for enthusiasm. Calum isn’t the person for it. Not now, and not even at the best of times.
‘This isn’t some sort of bullshit ceremony,’ Jamieson’s saying with a smile. He’s sounding like his usual self now. Full of bluster and swear words. ‘Some kind of handing-over of the torch. All that fucking rubbish is… well, fucking rubbish. Usually I wouldn’t even mention it, you know. I figure you’d work it out for yourself anyway. It’s just that these ain’t the usual circumstances. Not after what happened.’ He’s back to sounding quieter again. Morose.
There doesn’t seem to be anything left to say. Calum clears his throat. Trying to come up with something polite. A throwaway line. Something that doesn’t sound like an outright lie. Thank you would be conventional, but a lie. He’s not thankful.
‘Well, it’s good of you to let me know,’ he’s saying. ‘About Frank, I mean. I wouldn’t have known how to handle him if I’d bumped into him.’ That’s not true, he’d have known. He’d have played it cautious, as always.
Jamieson’s smiling. ‘You’d have worked it out on your own. Listen, Calum, I know you haven’t been with us long. And I know we’re the first organization you’ve worked for. Properly worked for anyway, not freelance. This might not feel like a big deal to you. Maybe you don’t even like it. I get that you’re probably not comfortable with us yet. I do, I get it. You’re used to having more freedom than you get in an organization. I want you to know that I get that. You’re not going to be the only gunman we use. I’m not going to overuse you. I’ll keep your schedule as close to what’s comfortable for you as possible. Obviously, sometimes, it can be out of my hands. But I’ll try. I’ll also make sure you enjoy the best protection and backup that anyone in this city could ever get.’
These are the professional promises. Reasonable, generous and predictable. Some of them are promises that will be kept, some are less certain. Jamieson can’t guarantee the best protection and backup, he can only strive for it. It feels like it’s time to go. They’ve said everything that needs to be said. Well, Jamieson has. Calum’s remained mostly silent.
‘I appreciate that,’ Calum’s saying now. Form the right sentences to round off the conversation. ‘I think I’m starting to get used to it. Just that the injuries slowed things down,’ he’s saying, raising his hands. Still scarred. Still ugly. Jamieson’s nodding in response. Hopefully the kind of nod that ends this. Calum’s no conversationalist, but Jamieson knows that already.
‘There is one more thing,’ Jamieson’s saying. Looking down at the table, back to miserable face. The atmosphere suddenly heavy again. It seems this is the real reason Calum’s here. ‘With Frank being retired now,’ Jamieson’s saying, and pausing. ‘With him not being part of the inner circle, I don’t know how he’ll react. It’s a big change for him. First time in forty-odd years he hasn�
��t been doing this job. Well, I guess he had breaks, but, anyway…’ He’s trailing off. He’s going to ask Calum to do something unpleasant. It almost doesn’t need to be said. ‘Thing is, I trust Frank. Normally, I trust him with my life. I don’t think he would do anything he shouldn’t. I don’t think. I can’t be one hundred per cent sure. I don’t want you to do any harm to him; I just want you to watch him. Carefully, of course. You don’t want to piss off Frank MacLeod, retired or not. Just watch and see what happens. I’m sure nothing will, but still. I’d like to know.’
Calum’s nodding along again. Silently, again. This is not a job he wants to do. Not on any level. But he has to nod along. And he knows he’s going to end up doing the job. Of course Jamieson would have Frank followed. It’s just a surprise that he would have him followed by a gunman.
‘Okay.’
‘I know you don’t like it,’ Jamieson’s saying, holding up a hand and smiling knowingly. ‘You’re a gunman. This is probably a bit beneath you. I agree. Thing is, this has to be done by someone I trust. Someone I know is good at the job. Right now, you’re damn good at your job. I also think,’ he’s sounding a little more thoughtful, ‘it would benefit from having your eye. You know what Frank should be doing at this point. You can spot things other people wouldn’t. Things will stand out to you. You think like him,’ he’s saying with a smile. ‘You might not realize it, but you do.’
35
He’s left it as long as he reasonably can. Hoping that Young would call him and tell him not to bother. No such luck. No such call. So now George has to make one of his own. Do it with subtlety, Young said. Yeah, because muscle is famous for its subtlety. It’s a stupid thing to have to do. Stupid and treacherous. Muscle trying to be subtle, pissing off a gunman. What could possibly go wrong? Calum’s stable, that’s one thing. Not the sort of guy to go over the top with his reaction. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s a guy who knows how to punish people.
He should probably have made this call last night. Get it out of the way. That’s how George has always done his work. People think it’s because he’s decisive. Enthusiastic, even. It’s just common sense. You get a job and you go do it. Don’t sit on it. Don’t let it fester. Most muscle jobs are simple enough, so there’s no need to agonize over them. Go and do your work.
This would be easier if he knew Emma. Call her up, sit her down and chat about it. Go through it. Make her understand. Don’t tell her anything incriminating, but enough so that she works it out for herself. Give her the chance to do the sensible thing and walk away. No heartbreak, just common sense. But no, it’s never that simple. He doesn’t know her. Met her once, hardly remembers what she looks like. He remembers her friend Anna Milton. She was George’s date for the night. Pretty little blonde thing. He liked her, for the first ten minutes or so. Then she started to grate. Really grate. Annoying laugh. Clingy. Loud. By then he was getting drunk enough not to notice. In the morning, when he woke up, he noticed. He said he would call her. And here he is, more than a month later, calling her.
There’s a slightly puzzled tone to her voice as she says hello. She doesn’t recognize the number.
‘Hi, Anna, it’s George. You remember me? George?’
There’s a pause on the other end. ‘Oh, I remember you,’ she’s saying. The polite phone voice that said hello is gone. It’s been trampled underfoot by the loud and angry voice that she so prefers. ‘I remember giving you my number. You said you would call me.’
‘And I am,’ he’s saying, going for the cheeky-chappie tone. ‘You wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve had getting your number. It took me weeks to get my phone back. I only got it back yesterday,’ he’s saying, winging it. ‘I bet you’re real pissed off with me, aren’t you?’
‘Got your phone back from where?’ she’s asking. Not angry, puzzled. He knows he’s got her.
‘I don’t blame you,’ he’s saying. Determined to avoid that previous question. ‘Listen, how about lunch? My treat. To say sorry.’
‘Today?’
‘Sure, if you’re available.’
‘Yeah… I guess so.’
Do the job. Get it out of the way. One lunch date, and then never call her again. Work the conversation round to Calum. Give her enough ammo to go to Emma with. Then go through life pretending that you didn’t stab your friend in the back.
He’s getting dressed. He’ll pick her up. They’ll go somewhere nice. Easier to control a conversation in generous surroundings. No need to book ahead for lunch, just make an effort not to stand out when you get there. He can’t cause a scene. There are so many ways this could get back to Calum. It may well get from Anna to Emma to Calum. George’s name could be passed along the line. More so if Anna’s unhappy with him, again. Nice shirt, plain trousers. Tidy hair. That’ll do. Out the door and into the car. He remembers where she lives. Nice enough area for a student. Probably paid for by the bank of mum and dad. He doesn’t begrudge her wealthy parents. He’d have scrounged from his parents too, if there was anything to take.
It’s not her he’s thinking about as he drives. It’s Calum. His friend. Does Calum think of him as a friend? Surely. Not like he has that many of them. He must consider George a friend. After that night, surely. George was the one he called. The one he trusted. Calum needed someone to help him. To rescue him, if we’re being honest. He’d killed Davidson, but Davidson had stabbed him in the hands. He was useless. Still mentally strong, but he could do nothing for himself. He needed someone he could trust. George went round there. Middle of the night. A strained phone call asking him to come round. He didn’t know what he was walking into. Calum toughed it out. Ordered him around. They got the job done, and done well. Removed the body. It helped enhance both their reputations with Jamieson. George was the first guy Calum called. The guy he trusted most when the odds were against him. This is how George repays him.
She’s waiting outside her flat. Looking into the car as he pulls up. She is pretty, he’ll give her that. She would never get away with that personality if she wasn’t.
‘Good to see you,’ he’s saying with his happiest smile. ‘It should never have taken this long, but we can make up for that.’
She’s smiling back. ‘I’m sure we can,’ she’s saying suggestively. What was it Young said about subtlety? Probably shouldn’t be using Anna then. ‘Are we going somewhere nice?’ she’s asking.
‘The best I can afford. You’ll like it. It has class.’
‘I didn’t think I was going to hear from you again, you naughty boy,’ she’s saying. Grating already. She doesn’t waste time. Suffer her. It’ll make you feel better about the betrayal if you’re suffering too.
They’re in the restaurant. It’s quiet, which is a blessing. They’ve ordered now. She’s waiting for George. She’s going to ask about the phone. He’s going to change the subject. Keep the lies as simple as possible. Give yourself little to remember. Work the conversation round to Calum. Food’s arrived. They’re both eating, which shuts her up. She hasn’t mentioned the phone yet. Maybe she won’t. Maybe she doesn’t want to push her luck. Maybe she’d rather accept the vague lie.
‘So how’re your studies coming along?’ he’s asking her. A polite way of working the conversation round to Emma.
‘Okay, I suppose. Sometimes it’s not, you know, involved enough. I can’t wait to be finished and get working. There’s so much I want to do.’
He’s nodding along between mouthfuls. Keeping it polite. Doing his damnedest to seem interested.
‘Let me ask you something,’ she’s saying. Putting her fork down. Reaching a hand across the table. Going for something intense, it seems. ‘What do you do for a living? I think I know, but I want you to tell me.’
It’s a question he doesn’t want to have to answer; it’s the subject they’re here to talk about. It’s not just her. He won’t answer that question to anyone. A loudmouth least of all, obviously. It’s not impossible that this is a set-up. She’s annoying, but she’s not
stupid. He doesn’t underestimate her ability to screw him royally. She could even be wired. Pity the poor bastard that has to listen to her recordings.
‘What do you think I do?’ he’s asking. Going for the cheeky smile.
‘No, I asked you first. What do you do?’ Her voice is low. Conspiratorial.
It’s going to be another vague one. ‘I do all sorts of things. Odd jobs, I suppose you could say. This and that.’
She’s frowning now. ‘If you’re not going to be honest with me, then this isn’t going to work.’
He’s not going to be honest with her, and this isn’t going to work. Still, he needs to make this relationship last to the end of this conversation. Beyond that, it can be happily consigned to oblivion.
‘Okay, I’ll be honest with you. I’m involved in all sorts of things. Not all of them are–how can I put this?–on the books. I play around in some slightly iffy things, I’ll be honest. Nothing too hot,’ he’s saying. He’s raised a hand as though in defence of his honour. Trying to sound earnest. ‘I know that some of the things I do I shouldn’t be proud of. Still, I’ve never crossed the line.’ Time to pull the conversation round to a direction that suits his purpose. ‘I know a few people who have, I admit. There are times when I’ve run with a rough crowd. Been friends with people who are way over the line. Involved in some things I don’t like at all. I’ve just been trying to make a living. Keep myself out of trouble. So far, I’ve managed. I don’t want you thinking that I’m some sort of crook; I’m not. When I was younger, maybe. Not now.’
He’s letting her think. She’ll be thinking about herself first. How much can she trust him? Should she walk away from him now? Spare herself trouble. He’s a competent liar; she’ll fall for the talk of a reformed character. A bit of a chancer in the past, now living clean. It’s what she wants to believe, so she’ll believe it. Now that she’s considered her own position, she’ll get round to the rest of what was said. Process it. Dwell on what he said about the kinds of friends he has. Think about how that relates to her. She’ll get to Emma eventually. In her own sweet time. George is still sitting there, waiting. She’ll get there. Any second now.
How a Gunman Says Goodbye Page 18