Paying For It gd-1

by Tony Black

  ‘Never. I get any more you’ll be the first to hear.’

  ‘I better be.’

  ‘But, Fitz, go back to that file. I’m not buying any of this.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘There’s more to it.’

  ‘Go way outta that.’

  ‘No, I mean it… someone’s feeding us a cover story. You need to find out who’s at the back of it.’

  33

  If you follow the London Road out from Meadowbank, you come to Portobello. Not as glamorous as it sounds, but, like every other district of Edinburgh — on the up.

  When I come to Porty now, I always think of George Galloway. He said that when he was a kid his father had wound him up about a trip to Portobello, thought he was off to the Italian coast the way the name sounded. Bet he felt disappointed when he hit the beach and got a waft of the sewage outflows. Still, you have to love Gorgeous George. Have to love anyone who sticks it to Bush and Blair in such a high old fashion.

  In parts, beyond the Bedsitland-by-the-Sea fringe, Porty maintains a moneyed air of old Victorian mansions. Hod’s place, however, is new money. A top-floor apartment in one of the front’s eyesores. Plenty of chrome, plenty of glass. Not one ounce of class.

  I pushed the buzzer on the front door. The factor was nowhere in sight so I scanned the residents’ names. Went for Clarke.

  A woman’s voice, said, ‘Hello.’

  She sounded posh, it threw me. I didn’t want to come over like I’d an eye to burgle the joint.

  ‘Hello, there. My name’s, Dury, I’m er…’

  ‘Oh, you must be here to look at my box!’

  I spluttered, ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The television thingie.’

  Suddenly things began making sense.

  ‘Eh no, I’m staying with Hod — Mr Dunn.’

  She said no more. Think I’d embarrassed her into opening the door.

  My friend had offered to put me up for a while. The combination to his flat’s door had always been a simple one: 1745. For a rabid nationalist like Hod, it could be nothing other than the date of the Jacobite Rebellion.

  I took my boots off in the doorway. Hod’s anal fixation for tidiness struck me straight away. If he wasn’t a builder I’d have said some dumb doctor’s wife had been hard at work, filling her home time by polishing the ceilings.

  The thermostat in the hall read 25 °Celsius. I scrunched up my toes in the deep, cream-coloured carpet and thought, ‘Now, this is the life.’

  Seemed a shame to pollute the atmosphere, but I’d made a visit to the tobacconist on the Mile, stored up on some quality smokes. Gitanes, the ones with the dancing gypsy woman on the pack. They’re a dark baccy, too tough to get through a whole pack. How Bowie managed to chain them in his Thin White Duke days can only be admired.

  For balance I’d picked up some Luckies. Said on the pack: ‘Lucky Strike means fine tobacco.’ I fired up, said, ‘Fine indeed!’

  Hod had splashed out on a flatscreen telly, recessed into the wall. Must have been six feet wide; I’d seen smaller pool tables. I nosed around a bit but the ON button evaded me. Would be staying OFF for now.

  I threw myself down on the couch. It swallowed me in an instant. ‘Oh yes, Gusie boy, could definitely get used to this.’

  I praised Hod for letting me crash. Would definitely be making the most of my stay.

  A few more belts on the Lucky and I found myself holding on to a handful of fag ash. I got up carefully, trying not to drop any on the carpet, and poured the lot down the cludgie.

  The seat gleamed. ‘Christ the place is spotless!’

  I looked around the bathroom, another telly had been fitted in the wall. He’d racks of lotions: Armani, Mugler, Gucci, even an old favourite, Fahrenheit by Christian Dior. I took off the cap, it smelled as I remembered it — just like Parma Violets. Took me back to the days of Pacers and Texan bars.

  Splashed some on, said, ‘God, I love this stuff.’

  There’s a scene from the Westerns. Must have seen it a million times. Some wizened old cowpoke, face as leathery as his saddle bags, dust-caked from the trail, gets into town. Before you know it, he’s hit the swing doors of the knocking shop, picked out a Bobby Moore and — bizarrely — demanded she fills a tin tub with bubble bath.

  I turned the taps on full. Bliss, steam filled the room. I ferreted in Hod’s cabinets for some Matey. Found a remote doofer for the telly. Behind a pile of scented candles, some Radox, muscle-relaxing bath salts, thought, ‘Will do just dabber.’

  Taps gushed like a power hose. Had me a bath in no time.

  Got the 501s off. ‘Bucking the old eighties ads there, Gus!’

  Was about to dive in when a thought grabbed me to light a few candles. Why not? I needed some serious relaxing, take that as given. Took the lighter from my jeans, had a bit of trouble getting the wick to take, then — ‘ Arrghh! Sweet mother of Christ!’

  Candle wax splashed on my best mate.

  ‘Holy fucking hellfire! Christ! Jesus! Mother of God!’

  I dabbed at the wax. It peeled off like Sellotape. Seemed to take the pain with it. Checked my old fellah — no damage done. Another lesson learned the hard way.

  As I sank into the bubbles, I thought, ‘God this is good. Those Radox fellahs know their business.’

  I hit heaven for all of ten minutes before boredom began to set in. I grabbed the doofer, switched on the telly. Scotland Today was on, with all the usual stories. Fishermen in Peterhead moaning about having to cut quotas. Thought, ‘Arseholes — get over it, you’ve cleaned out the seas.’

  The parliament reeled out the usual numpty, the environment minister, who blamed the situation on Europe. ‘That’s the way, fellah, don’t isolate those voters.’ Another arsehole. God, wasn’t the world full of them? Though the parliament seemed to have more than their fair share.

  I was ready to flick when a late item, just before the ‘and finally’, caught my attention.

  Any sight of the home town on the telly tends to grab me, but this had an extra edge. A ruckus outside the High Court. The camera spun wildly out of control for a moment and I caught sight of a few press packers.

  ‘Hendo, get that camera up, you tool!’ I shouted at the screen.

  Then came the voice-over. ‘Scenes of mayhem greeted the spectators gallery at the High Court in Edinburgh today…’

  ‘No shit,’ I said, ‘was mayhem on the street too.’

  ‘… as city crime lord Benny Zalinskas made his first appearance in what is expected to be a lengthy trial.’

  I shot up to the screen, dislodging a flood of bath water onto the floor. He wasn’t what I’d expected: squat, stocky, sovereign-ringed. Zalinskas looked slight. Silver hair swept back in a carefully blow-dried manner. His face was unmoving, except for the eyes. Can honestly say I’d never seen a pair like them, they bulged out of his head so much he could have carried an Evil Dead remake.

  Singular appearance apart, Zalinskas did, however, carry the requisite gangster’s camel coat over his shoulders. A biffer, whose arse was no stranger to the steroid needle, removed the coat just outside the court room. He stood holding it over his arm, until Zalinskas gave a little nod and the biffer moved to stand by the wall.

  ‘Holy fuck. Is this Chicago? It’s Al Capone on trial, surely?’

  I dripped with water and shivered, but the scene held me. I couldn’t believe the way this city had changed. Just a few years ago, this would have been the headliner on the news, now it was barely getting billing ahead of the weather.

  Back in the studio the newsreader quizzed the reporter by a link-up. ‘So what can you tell us about the trial, Polly?’

  The blonde with the china-blue eyeshadow flashed up, the one who only a few years ago could have been seen trotting down the street in a pair of her mother’s five-sizes-too-big heels.

  ‘Mr Zalinskas faces charges of living on immoral earnings in the city, the charges relate to a period between January and March of this year
, where it is alleged he headed up a vice ring of some hundred-plus sex workers.’

  ‘Sex workers? Jesus, even the brassers have gone PC,’ I said to the screen. ‘Can we have the meat of the issue please, Polly?’ I shook my head, there was work for me as a trainer out there.

  Back in the studio the newsreader managed to shoehorn in the more significant charge of tax evasion. How the case came about remained a mystery. Already they had shifted to a story about a rehomed sheepdog that only answered to its master in Gaelic.

  Said: ‘ Pog mo thon.’

  Flicked off. Sat back down.

  I reached out the bath to my jeans, pulled them over the floor. I’d a paperback in my back pocket, A Nietzsche Reader. Basically, pocket Nietzsche for simpletons, but it did fit in my pocket.

  Read: ‘He who breathes in the air of my writing must know it is the air of the heights he is bracing. A man must be built for it. Otherwise, it will kill him.’

  I read on, said, ‘So, join the queue.’

  34

  Launched a raid on Hod’s kitchen. Found fun-sized Crunchies in the fridge. Fancied a coffee to chase. A tin of illy espresso called from the shelves. Picked it up, but it didn’t look or smell like instant. I read the tin. ‘Caffe macinato.’

  ‘So, what’s that? Do I need a machine?’

  Read on: ‘Only the finest Arabica beans… selected with care and passion… an experience that will involve all your senses.’

  ‘I only want coffee, for Chrissake! Has he no Mellow Birds?’

  Saw Jules in Pulp Fiction saying, ‘This is serious gourmet shit.’ Didn’t rate my chances of getting the espresso machine working. Opted for a bottle of Stella. Tasted fine. Reassuringly expensive, like the ads say.

  On my third, I crashed on the sofa listening to the Dirtbombs doing ‘Got to Give it Up’. Had just discovered them, they were outta Detroit as they say Stateside. Their album covered some amazing tracks; the attitude had me hooked. A real edge that wailed, ‘Don’t fuck with us.’

  Was punching the air and moshing to ‘Underdog’ when my phone went.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Well, hello yourself.’

  ‘Amy?’

  ‘Who else? How’s it hanging, Gus?’

  I made my apologies for not calling. Seemed to work. Said, ‘So what have you been up to?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. What you told me about Billy, I thought I could be of some help and-’

  ‘Whoa there! Help?’ I’d told her about Billy to warn her off. To dig myself out of any commitment and to excuse myself from future dates. ‘What do you mean, help?’

  ‘Gus, I know what I’m doing.’

  I felt myself coming over all paternal, don’t know why, it’s definitely not a role I’m suited to. ‘What exactly have you been doing, Amy?’

  ‘When you told me about the-’

  ‘ Killing?’

  ‘And the girls and all that stuff.’

  ‘Back up. You heard the killing bit didn’t you?’

  ‘Eh, yes. Hello? Am I like retarded or something?’

  ‘I’m trying to stress these are not people to mess with, they’ve killed someone already. Look, just tell me where this is leading. What have you been doing?’

  Her tone changed. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Amy?’

  ‘I think I should come and see you. I know you’re not at the Wall, I’ve checked, so-’

  ‘I’m in Porty.’ I gave her the address.

  ‘Right, I’ll be round soon. Gus, I know you’re worried about me, and that’s cute, but I really am a big girl. I’ve got some information for you — it will help the case, I’m sure of it.’

  She hung up.

  Cute? Christ, what had I done to her?

  I tanned another Stella. Hit the Luckies good style. Had the place reeking like a lum. I opened up the french doors and walked out on to the balcony. As I looked over the sea, the sky turned blacker than a dog’s guts all the way to the horizon.

  I wondered what Amy had been doing. I couldn’t quite get my head around her actions. I mean, was I a catch? No chance. I had Debs to confirm that, she wouldn’t even talk to me now. I’d read somewhere that Bill Gates communicated with his wife mainly via email, even when they were in the same house. After my last talk with Debs, I’d settle for that.

  The front door opened and in walked Hod. ‘Hello, honey, I’m home!’ he roared. Not quite what I was hoping for, but, hey, glad to have company.

  ‘Hodster — how goes it?’

  We did the usual gut-barging welcome, slaps on back to follow.

  ‘Any more where that came from?’ said Hod, nodding at my beer. ‘My mouth’s as dry as a nun’s muff.’

  ‘Sit down, I’ll get you one.’

  ‘Gee, honey, you sure know how to please a man,’ said Hod, trying to plant a slap on my arse.

  ‘Piss off,’ I said, mincing off for comic effect.

  Got a beer for myself too. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Hungry? I could eat a horse between two pishy mattresses.’

  ‘Whatcha fancy?’

  ‘Ruby Murray?’

  ‘Agreed. My shout. In or out?’

  ‘How about a wee sit doon? I can be ready in five.’

  ‘Cool.’ I remembered Amy was on her way. ‘Och shit, no.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Got to wait for a friend. You don’t mind do you?’

  ‘Bit of stuff?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Gus Dury, you old dog. She got a pal?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s a tricky situation, Hod.’

  ‘You’ve not got her up the pipe have you?’

  Shook again. ‘No. Christ, no. It’s just…’ I didn’t want to get into the whole story with Hod, at least not right away. If I stopped under his roof I knew it would come out eventually, but now wasn’t the moment.

  Hod gave me a get out. ‘Tricky, like you said.’

  I nodded. ‘We’ll call in a Ruby then.’

  ‘Suits me. Number’s over by the phone. Set meal for two for me.’

  ‘You greedy bastard!’

  Hod stood up, tapped his gut. ‘Cheeky prick, I’m a fine figure of a man.’

  ‘Aye, a nice round figure.’

  ‘Plenty to go around. And you’ll be seeing me in action tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Got a night out planned for us. Take that dour look off your face, mate.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Come on then, spill.’

  ‘Later — you’ll see.’

  Hod went to have a shower. I called the curry house. As I waited I read the paper Hod brought in. Had to laugh at Hugh Hefner’s response to Kelly Osbourne’s desire to become a Playboy centrefold — ‘We can’t airbrush that much, honey!’

  The Dirtbombs CD reached ‘Your Love Belongs Under a Rock’. I heard Hod joining in from the bathroom. Thought, ‘I’m gonna enjoy living here.’ Had been years since I’d been deep in bachelordom. The constant patter was just what I needed to distract me right now.

  As the track finished I heard the buzzer go.

  ‘That was quick.’

  I jumped up to open the door. ‘They better not have microwaved the naan bread!’

  Pushed the button, said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, Gus, it’s me.’

  ‘Amy — you better come up.’

  35

  As I stood in the hall, waiting for Amy, a door opened. A barnet of curls that would put Leo Sayer to shame popped out. Tried to do the neighbourly thing, said, ‘Hello, there.’

  Head yanked in and door shut tightly. The woman with the box? Started to feel the beers hit, had a wee snigger to myself.

  I quaffed away as the elevator doors opened at the other end of the hall. They don’t play music in there but as Amy appeared I thought Ravel’s Bolero came on. You know the one? Think, Bo Derek, golden bikini, getting out the water and running to Dudley Moore — yeah, that one.

  Amy looked phenomenal, she’d have given
Bo a run for her money any day. Until now, she’d been a kinda conservative dresser. Classic looks, nothing to attract too much attention. But here she stood in a black mini-dress, thigh-high kinky boots and a choker. Her hair splayed out, back-combed, bit of a Cousin It thing going on.

  ‘Jesus,’ I thought, ‘what’s with the man-eater look?’ Wondered if I was in for trouble.

  She came close and I saw her make-up had been trowelled on. Spanish eyes, pillar-box-red lipstick and false eyelashes.

  She clocked my expression, cocked her elbow on her hip. ‘Looking for business, love?’

  ‘How much will you pay me?’

  She laughed and handed me a rain-splattered black PVC coat.

  Inside, she said, ‘It’s pissing down out there.’

  ‘I see that — drink?’

  Brought through two more Stellas, as Amy eyeballed Hod’s apartment.

  ‘This is some joint, Gus.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s… er… a friend’s.’ I nodded in the direction of the shower.

  Amy winced, looking like Beyonce on a warble. ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Jealous?’

  Another wince, facing the other way this time. ‘Gus, check the kip of me.’ She held out her palms, flicked her boot tops. ‘I’m in no nick for a cat fight!’

  ‘It’s a bloke. My mate, Hod. He’s sound.’

  ‘Phew.’ She threw herself on the couch, foot tapped to the music. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Dirtbombs.’

  ‘I like them.’

  ‘I’m delighted — Look, what’s with the get-up?’

  ‘Let me get these off first.’ She unzipped her boots and kicked her feet up beside her on the couch. ‘Christ, that’s better — bloody medieval torture they are.’

  I sat down too. ‘So?’

  ‘Any chance of a foot massage?’

  ‘None.’

  She pouted. ‘Aw… Gussie, and I’ve been such a good girl.’

  ‘Enough games, Amy.’ I felt uneasy watching her making eyes at me with all that slap painted on her face, even if she was joking.

  ‘It’s Pepsi.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘When I’m dressed like this, I’m Pepsi.’