‘Okay,’ Jamieson’s saying, ‘I’m going to think about this.’ It’s said with finality.
Calum’s getting up, making his way out of the office. He’s opened the door, not expecting to hear any more.
‘I’ll probably be in touch,’ Jamieson’s saying. Quietly, with no enthusiasm. ‘Soon.’ His way of saying: Be ready.
Calum’s out the door and down the stairs. Going out the side door, so that he doesn’t have to face people. Happy people, going dancing. People looking for a good time. He doesn’t want to have to look at them. Emma’s gone from his life. With Frank out, he’s the only gunman Jamieson has. His next job will almost certainly be deeply unpleasant. A job’s a job. It detaches him from reality. It takes him away from all the boredom of his life. It gives him something to think about, every waking moment. Being in pro-mode is a relief. He’s checking all around him as he drops out of the rain and into the car. There’s nobody there. He’s starting up the car. He has work to do.
44
Today’s problem is Frank, and what a big problem he is. It means another conversation with Jamieson. More banging your head against a brick wall. Nobody’s ever said it to Jamieson’s face, but a lot of people consider Young the brains of the operation. Jamieson’s fine with that, always played along. He and Young both know it’s just playing.
Young’s driving to the club. He might just catch Jamieson there before he goes home for the night, might not. He’s trying to think of a time when he’s ever been able to compel Jamieson to do something he didn’t want to do. Something important. Sure, there have been times when Jamieson let a few minor things happen that he wasn’t happy with. He’ll always give Young a few little victories. Never anything that matters. The big things are always Jamieson’s decision. Young doesn’t kid himself. He’s a strategist and recruiter; he’s the right-hand man. But he doesn’t call the shots.
Pulling up outside the club. Almost silent in the street. No bouncers at the door, but it shouldn’t be locked. The cleaners will be in. Up the stairs, past the tables. One man sitting on his own in a corner, playing with his mobile. Kenny. Which means Jamieson’s still here. Down the corridor. Into the office with a brief knock. Jamieson’s behind his desk–where else? A glass of whiskey in his hand. He doesn’t look like a man who wants to hear confirmation of his worst fear. This is going to hit him hard. He wants to believe that Frank wouldn’t betray him. One of the few men he’s allowed himself to trust. Frank gets pushed out and straight away goes running to the police. It’s a blow. They have to act. Get over the disappointment and get on with the dirty work. Jamieson’s looking up at him. He looks aggressive, but he always does when he’s drunk. He’s always either a mischievous drunk or a nasty one. It can be a fine line.
‘What do you want, John?’ he’s asking. His voice is crystal-clear. He doesn’t slur or fall around when he’s drunk. You have to know him to see it. It’s in the look.
‘I just had a meeting with a contact in the police, the boy Higgins. The cop Frank met was almost certainly Michael Fisher. He’s been in charge of the Scott McClure investigation. Been ignoring it to pursue something else on his own. Something like a golden contact.’ That’s enough detail. Jamieson should know what to do with that.
‘Huh,’ is all Jamieson’s saying, and taking another swig from the glass. He’s looking sideways, away from Young. ‘You want me to hit him, don’t you?’ It’s an accusation.
‘No,’ Young’s saying, ‘I don’t want you to. But we both know you have to. I don’t think he gave them a lot of info in the first meeting. He’ll have to give them something the second time they meet. We can’t let that meeting happen. We’re fucked if it does. Every one of us. I’d like to do it tonight.’
‘No,’ Jamieson’s saying. Making sure his tone doesn’t invite any argument.
Young’s gone. He spent a few minutes standing there, waiting for Jamieson to agree with him, then said he’d be back in the morning. He tried to sound disgusted. Jamieson doesn’t care. He can easily win Young back around. Always been able to do that. But Frank. Frank’s gone. Gone and never coming back. If Frank’s talking to the police, then he’s gone forever. You trust a person. Jesus, the things he’s told Frank! The things he’s had Frank do for him. Frank knows it all. Every fucking detail. The bastard! The complete bastard. Jamieson was going to bend over backwards to keep him involved. He was going to give him a proper position. Not a gunman. The old fuck can’t handle that any more. But something else. Something that mattered. But no. Frank was just like all the other little bastards who swarm around, looking to get what they want for nothing. If he’s not getting his own way, he stabs you in the back, front and side. Going to the police. Shit, if only it had just been another organization.
There has to be a mistake. A misunderstanding. Frank’s old-school. He’s not a guy who would turn on you. Not that easily. Some of the kids, yeah, but not Frank. Maybe Frank’s been set up. Maybe he’s playing the copper. That could be it. Maybe he’s gone to the copper to set him up. Fisher’s been the pain in the industry’s arse for a while now. Might be that Frank has something he’s playing, to impress. To win Jamieson back round. Try to persuade him that he can still cut it as a gunman. No. Don’t kid yourself. The only way Frank could use Fisher to persuade the world he’s still a gunman would be to kill him. Frank’s not that stupid. No gunman could be that stupid. Killing a cop is off the table. Always. It’s pointless in anything but the most extreme circumstances. The dead cop gets replaced by a living one who’s out for revenge. No, Frank ain’t playing the copper. The only angle Frank’s ever been able to play is killing a man.
So much of what he thought about Frank is starting to fall down around him. He’s thinking about all the things Frank can’t do. The things he could probably never do. Yeah, he was one of the great gunmen, but that’s all. He was a specialist. No broad skills. And what is he now? Certainly not special. Look at the three jobs Calum MacLean’s done for the organization. Winter was textbook. Frank couldn’t have done it any better. Davidson was a minefield, and Calum got through it. Frank couldn’t have done that as well as Calum did. Not nearly so well. Then the Scott thing. Reverse the roles. Frank probably wouldn’t even have tried. He’d have struggled if he did. That was a big job. Would Frank have handled it so coolly? Hard to believe that he would. Maybe they’re better off without him. Better off without a friend.
He’s picking up the phone in the office. He knows Frank’s number by heart. He’s waiting. Is the old man in bed or out at another meeting? The phone’s answered, Frank saying hello. He doesn’t sound sleepy. He does sound old. He never used to. He always just sounded like Frank. Familiar old Frank. Now that you listen, you can hear the age.
‘Frank, it’s Peter.’
‘Peter.’ A slight pause. Might be nothing, but he’s not the pausing type. ‘Something up?’
‘I just think we need to meet and chat. Discuss where we are now. You know?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Why don’t you come round the club tomorrow morning, say ten o’clock? We can see where we are now. I think it’ll do the both of us a lot of good.’
‘Sure,’ Frank’s saying, ‘ten o’clock. I’ll see you then.’
He didn’t sound nervous about it. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he has nothing to be nervous about. Or maybe he’s just a good liar. He’s been in this business long enough. You get good at things like that, with enough practice. Frank couldn’t have come this far in this world without learning how to hide his feelings. Jamieson’s downing the last of the glass. Time to go home. There’s no more work to do here. A bad day at the office. Had a few of those, but this one might take the biscuit. He’s getting to his feet. No wobbles, which tells him he kept the drinking to the right side of stupid. It’s a painkiller. He’s smiling. Something Frank once said. You can tell a good gunman from a bad one by how much he wants to forget. A lot of gunmen fall to the drink. Not Frank. Not Calum either, apparently. They can live with wh
at they’ve seen. What they’ve done. There’s a warning. A man who can live with doing that for a living can probably live with anything.
He’s switched the light off. Out into the corridor, along to the snooker room. Kenny’s sitting looking bored. Always there, always eager to help.
‘I shouldn’t have kept you this late, Kenny,’ Jamieson’s saying.
‘That’s okay,’ he’s saying. Not going to say anything else, is he? They’re down the stairs, out the front door. Along to the car, Kenny getting there a few paces ahead to open the door for Jamieson. Jamieson’s never liked that. Riding in the back of the car. Having the door opened for him. Makes him feel like some old man.
‘Let me ask you something, Kenny,’ he’s saying as they pull away from the club. ‘Do you trust all the people around you?’
Kenny’s making uncertain noises, shrugging his shoulders. He’s nervous. Jamieson’s smiling. Poor guy, doesn’t want to give the wrong answer. ‘I guess I do,’ he’s saying eventually.
‘Shouldn’t. You need to look out for yourself. Don’t rely on other people too much. Becomes a bad habit. You’re a good man, Kenny, you know that. You do a good job. I’m thankful for it,’ he’s saying, leaning back in the seat. He didn’t realize he was this tired.
45
Frank didn’t sleep much last night. A night spent thinking about that phone call. Peter sounded okay. Not too aggressive, not like he was scheming something. He sounded genuine. That doesn’t stop you thinking about all the things this could be. It could be a proper meeting. Jamieson wanting to lay out what work Frank will be doing from now on. Giving him the detail of the future that he hopes will convince Frank to accept his new role. It could be a set-up. No, not a set-up. They wouldn’t kill him in the club–that would be idiotic. Way too much of a risk. Could be the first step to a total removal. Frank knows too much. He’s on the outside now. The old man who bungled a simple hit. Maybe Jamieson thinks it’ll be easy to get rid of him altogether. Frank’s getting out of bed, feeling his hip. Maybe Jamieson’s right. What fight could he possibly put up? He’s walking into the shower, getting ready for the meeting. He has to go.
Out of the house, heading to the car. Looking up and down the street. Nothing stands out. Driving to the club. Thinking of all the conversations he’s had with Peter Jamieson. There were times when he was able to win Peter round. Persuade him that some things were a good idea, when Jamieson was unsure. Persuade him that some things were a terrible idea. There’s at least one person alive today because Frank talked Peter out of the hit. That was then. Frank was a man worth listening to then. Now he’s an old man on the outside, clinging on. He’s out of the car, in through the front door of the club. It’s quiet inside. Up the stairs, those annoying, treacherous stairs. Through the doors to the snooker room. The tables are busy. This is their time of day. The club’s quiet, no music playing; they can pretend to concentrate on their game. Most of them are useless, no matter the distractions. A few faces he recognizes–the regulars. The driver is amongst them.
He’s nodding to Kenny, a polite hello.
‘You here to see the boss?’ the driver’s asking stupidly. Why else would he be there?
‘Yes,’ Frank’s saying. Kenny’s away down the corridor to let Peter know. Frank’s noticed how nervous the driver is. Not a good sign. A driver’s bound to hear things. There could be a good reason why he’s nervous around Frank. He’s coming back into the snooker room.
‘Go through,’ he’s saying and immediately turning away from the gunman. Determined not to get into a conversation. Determined to avoid being seen with a condemned man. Frank’s leaving him alone. No point in agitating the boy by talking to him. This is part of the process of being pushed out. You can’t blame an expendable, low-level employee for avoiding him. If he could get his position back, people like Kenny would want to be his best friend again.
Along the corridor, knocking on the office door. A shout for him to come in. Jamieson and Young, in their usual places. Young’s getting up, though; he’s not going to stay. Not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one. Why does Jamieson not want his right-hand man there? Hard to escape the feeling that it’s a bad thing. If this were business, he would keep Young there. Young has the more detailed business knowledge. He’s always useful in a business conversation. Young’s walking past Frank, not looking him in the eye. Could be a bad sign, but it’s hard to remember when Young ever did look him in the eye. They’ve never been close. That’s another good thing about Jamieson. He’s never forced his men to pal around with one another. Some bosses do. They have a terrible tendency to mistake camaraderie for loyalty. Jamieson’s always been smarter than that. Let people get on with doing their job. If they’re good at it, that’s enough. Young’s closed the door behind him. Just the two of them, in the office. Been here many times before. Never with this atmosphere, though. Frank takes his seat.
‘Good to see you, Frank,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘How are you keeping?’
‘Fine.’ A man of few words when he’s on the defence.
‘Will you take a drink?’
‘No, I have the car.’
‘Of course,’ Jamieson’s saying with a smile. The pros don’t take risks. They’re not going to allow themselves to get done for drink-driving. No minor offence that could lead to bigger convictions. He’ll leave the bottle where it is then. Doesn’t want Frank thinking he’s being weak by drinking. ‘We need to have a good talk about where we both stand,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘I’m not sure we parted on the best of terms last time round.’
Frank’s nodding slightly. ‘Perhaps not.’
‘I want to know what you’re thinking,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘I want to know what you’d like to do with yourself. What are your plans?’ He can’t say it any more bluntly than that. He was never going to come straight out and ask him. Frank has to tell him. He has to share the information willingly.
Frank’s looking down at his feet. He’s thinking of what he wants to say. This is the chance. Jamieson’s laid it on a plate for him. All he has to do now is be honest. Tell him that the police were in touch. Tell him that he went to meet the copper, to see who he was and what he had to say. Pretend you went because you were hoping to find out where he got his info. Jamieson might not buy that bit, but he’ll accept it. It’s Peter; he’ll accept the gloss as long as what’s underneath is close to honest. There won’t be another chance.
‘I’m a gunman, Peter,’ he’s saying. Focusing on the wrong thing, and he knows it. ‘I don’t know how to be anything else.’ That was a stupid opening. He’s cursing himself. No wonder.
‘Just because you haven’t done other things doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be good at them,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘You have to give it a chance.’
Frank’s nodding. Peter used the words ‘have to’. That wasn’t an accident.
‘Look,’ Jamieson’s saying, leaning forward for emphasis. ‘You and me go back a way. I think we know each other well enough not to bullshit each other. I can’t give you work as a gunman. Not right now. You understand that, right? Shit, after what happened, I have to give you distance. It’s not that I want to–I have to. That’s how it is. That was a really bad night. Not just for you, but for all of us. I have to handle this carefully. I need to keep you away from the gun work. Maybe not forever, but for now.’ A pause. ‘So what are you going to do? You can stay with us, do other work. Maybe, eventually, I can get you some of your old work, if you still want it. You could go work for another organization, but do you really want to do that? I mean, there are a lot of complete shits out there. You know that. You know what it’s like, going into a new organization. What else is there?’ he asks. He can’t make it any easier that this.
The only other thing is the police. All Frank has to do is chuckle and say it’s funny Peter should ask. Say he got a phone call from a copper. The offer of protection. It’s so easy. But it’s impossible. It’s about trust. If there was anyone in this business he sho
uld trust enough, it’s Peter Jamieson. But he can’t. He just can’t. Forty years. All that time thinking one way, now you have to think another. You spend your whole working life being told not to trust anyone. Learning to be sceptical. You trust people up to a point, but never all the way. Doesn’t matter how good a boss is, you hold a little back. Telling Jamieson about the meeting with Fisher would require complete trust. He doesn’t have that. It would be nice to believe that Peter Jamieson would accept the info. Nice to believe their relationship could go back to the way it was. But that’s not realistic. Jamieson would assume the worst.
‘I guess what happens next is up to you,’ Frank’s saying. He’s hearing the words come out and he’s wishing he had the courage to change them. The courage to trust his friend.
‘Aye,’ Jamieson’s saying, and he’s slumping back in his seat. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. ‘If that’s how it’s going to be.’ There’s silence. Awkward. Frank looking at Jamieson, seeing the sadness in him. ‘I’ll look around,’ Jamieson’s saying with no enthusiasm, ‘try and find a few jobs for you. Something interesting, no bullshit. We’ll talk about it, maybe next week.’
‘Sure,’ Frank’s saying, and he’s getting up. It’s a relief to be leaving. It didn’t go well, he knows that, and he wants out. Get away from Jamieson and stop pretending to be relaxed. Stop pretending this isn’t the end of the world. He’s at the door, glancing back at Jamieson. His boss. Sitting there, one hand on the table, his forefinger tapping it. Looking down at nothing at all. Looking depressed. Frank wants to say goodbye, but that would be admitting that this is the end.
How a Gunman Says Goodbye Page 23