Arnie’s reaching across. Not saying anything. Just putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. If it was months ago, the police aren’t likely to be battering down his door tonight. He can take his time with this. Let the boy cry. Let him suffer a little. Do him good to get it out, because he obviously hasn’t before. And he is suffering. You can see it. Shoulders bouncing up and down, struggling to catch his breath as he cries. Holding onto his stomach, which is hurting.
Five minutes of silence before Arnie breaks it. ‘Do you want to tell me about it? You don’t have to, but it might help.’
Thirty seconds before Glass responds. ‘I borrowed money. I had to pay it back but I couldn’t. They said if I did this thing for them, I’d be off the hook. They said if I didn’t, they’d be angry with me. I knew what that meant. They talked about Ella. They were threatening her too. One of their guys was . . . I don’t know. So I did it. Stabbed a man. A gangster or something. He died.’ Doesn’t want to go into any more detail about it. No detail about the night itself.
‘Okay,’ Arnie’s nodding. ‘Okay. Have the police been sniffing around you?’
‘No. Nobody has. Nobody seems to know it was me.’
Arnie nodding. ‘Was Oliver involved in this?’ A hard edge to his voice. The question he’s wanted to ask since the words came out of Glass’s mouth.
‘No,’ Glass is saying with honest certainty. ‘It was nothing to do with him. Nothing at all. It was my fault. It was all my fault. It was so stupid and pathetic. So pathetic.’
Wasn’t immediately obvious in the end whether he was talking about the killing or about himself. Pathetic seemed to apply to both in his mind. Arnie sent him to bed. Told him to get some sleep in Oliver’s old room. Told him it would be a better world with some sleep behind him. Kid didn’t seem to realize the time. After four in the morning. Kid doesn’t seem to have a keen sense of anything any more.
Arnie won’t sleep again tonight. Might as well get dressed and sit in the kitchen wondering what the world’s coming to. Been doing that a lot lately. Now he’s got Glass asleep in Oliver’s room. Saying that he killed a man. He can’t help his grandson, no matter how hard he tries. But he can help someone. Someone who wants to be helped.
7
Marty’s been there since half six. Say what you want about him, but the man puts the hours in. He’s willing to get up at an ungodly hour to make the money flow. People see the women and the parties and they think of Marty. But Marty’s a man of fourteen-hour days, seven days a week. A man of effort. Been in the office now for nearly two hours. Sent out a couple of collectors who won’t be back for a while. Took a phone call from a counterfeiter who likes to use this office as a drop-off point for his products. Always helps to keep people like counterfeiters happy. Never know when you might need them. Especially when you run a business like Marty’s with a number of foreign employees. Girls who might not be as legally welcome in the country as Marty needs them to be. So you let the counterfeiter use the office, free of charge.
Marty will clear out of the way when the counterfeiter gets here. Before then he has another meeting. One he’s actually a little nervous about. He won’t show it. He’s Marty Jones, he doesn’t show nerves. He’s always the most relaxed man in the room. He thinks it makes him look cool. Makes him look like a man who can handle any situation. Most other people think it makes him look like the most nervous man in the room, trying to look cool. They don’t tell him that though. You don’t tell a profitable and dangerous man things he doesn’t want to hear.
This meeting brings nerves because it brings Potty Cruickshank. First time they’ve ever had a meeting. Not the first time they’ve met, but casual encounters don’t count. This is a proper meeting. Potty calling ahead to set terms. Making sure a meeting is a safe thing. Then agreeing to come to the office. That’s a feather in Marty’s cap. Potty’s coming to him, not the other way round.
Just a question of what he wants. Potty wants whatever’s good for Potty. Marty wants whatever’s good for Marty. Not impossible that those two things could overlap. Not impossible, but not pleasant either. There’s something about Potty that just doesn’t sit well with Marty. There’s nothing in common there. Nothing that fits between them. Different kinds of people. Different backgrounds. Potty had everything handed to him by his uncle. Marty started with nothing. Fought for everything he’s got. Fought hard. But that gives you the image of a scrapper, someone of low rank. New money. People like Potty tend to look down their nose at people like Marty.
Marty’s at the window, looking down into the busy street. Quarter past eight in the morning and there are streams of people on either side of the street. Shops on both sides of the street, offices above a lot of them. Always busy this time of day. Marty’s on his tiptoes, looking down at the parking spaces in front of the building. There’s one beside the door, thank goodness. A large car’s pulling up as he looks, stopping in that space. A big fat guy getting out of the back seat. Jesus, what a state. Big expensive car with his own driver. Potty sitting in the back seat like the fucking prime minister. Clambering out and waddling towards the door. He is actually getting fatter. Who would have thought that was possible?
The buzzer goes. Marty across and pressing the button to unlock the door, and waiting. And waiting. And still bloody waiting. It’s one flight of stairs. Fourteen of them, Marty knows. Fat bastard must have conked out halfway. Too much effort to reach the top in one go. Making base camp. Jesus, imagine if he fell down the stairs. Imagine if that fat dickhead fell down the stairs in Marty’s office and broke his neck. If he died there, nobody would ever believe it was an accident. They would think Marty had planned it. You don’t get accidents at meetings like this.
A pang of relief when Potty eventually pushes open the door. A little disappointment as well. The world and the industry would be rather better without this wheezing ball of shit. Marty is too well-mannered to say such a thing. Too well-mannered even to acknowledge that Potty is wheezing.
‘Good to see you. Come, sit down,’ Marty’s saying. Almost said take the weight off, but stopped himself. Manners, you see.
Potty’s waddling across to the chair in front of Marty’s desk. It’s not a big chair, not as big as would be ideal for the arse that’s about to occupy it. Marty didn’t have anything bigger, just office chairs. So Potty will have to make do. Seems relieved just to be sitting.
‘So what can I do for you?’ Marty’s asking, spreading his arms. Making himself seem as available as possible.
‘I think, Mr Jones, that it’s time you and I recognized a truth.’ Potty’s voice still has a wheeze in it. Doesn’t sound as impressive as he wants it to, which annoys him. ‘You and I are experienced men. We understand this industry. We both know that to gain strength in this business, you occasionally must consolidate. You understand?’
Ooh, that’s not a good start. Marty knows how people see him. They think he’s a bit of a clown. Running around with whores and dealers, making money on the side as a collector. They don’t take him seriously. Or seriously enough. They don’t seem to understand how brutal you sometimes have to be in Marty’s other chosen professions. So they think he’s a bit dumb. Bit of a soft touch perhaps. Sort of boy who might not understand what consolidate means. They talk down, and that pisses Marty off.
‘I understand,’ Marty’s saying. Keeping the always-playful tone in his voice. Don’t let a man like Potty see that you’re not happy with him. Play him along. Use his ignorance to mask your anger.
‘Good, good. You, I’m sure, can see that there are issues we need to resolve. We are competing in the same marketplace, with the same product. We are stepping on each other’s toes when we should be helping each other along. There’s an opportunity here. I’m sure you can see it. We work together. We work together to remove competition. When we have removed it, we have the place to ourselves. You have your areas, I have mine. Very simple, very effective. Our combined strength could quickly and easily remove the problems we bot
h have.’
He speaks so well, does Potty. So comfortable and confident in what he’s saying. But he can’t be that comfortable, can he? Wouldn’t be here if he was. Marty can work that out. Potty doesn’t come looking for consolidation unless he has problems. And everyone now knows he has problems. He was in a police station yesterday. That’s a pretty big problem. There’s a whiff of desperation in the air, and Potty’s trying to cover it with his self-confidence.
Marty’s leaning back in his chair. ‘Of course I’d love to help you,’ he’s saying, looking to pick his words carefully. ‘There could be a problem, though. I mean, word on the street is that you’re a good friend of Alex MacArthur.’ Letting that hang. That should be enough.
That’s Marty’s get-out clause. You’re with MacArthur, I’m with Jamieson. Even if those two are playing at being on good terms, doesn’t change how we behave. They’re just playing. We keep our distance from each other, because common sense says that they will fall out. That’s the business. They have to fall out so that they can try to take market share from each other. And they have to take market share from each other. Have to be seen to be growing, otherwise they stagnate. Stagnate, and you become a target. The industry turns on rivalry. Everyone knows this.
Neither of them will mention the arrest because Potty doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s a sign of weakness, and neither man will acknowledge it. It’s another very good reason why Marty doesn’t want to be anywhere near Potty. But he can’t publicly use it. Needs the MacArthur excuse instead.
Potty’s nodding. ‘I can see why you might view that as an issue. I do understand. I think you and I need to rise above that sort of thing. I think you and I should be able to seek our own advantages without having to worry so much about the reactions of others. Essentially, this is nothing to do with them. I shouldn’t imagine anyone outside of the collecting business would be at all concerned with it.’ A little smile on his face, trying to make it seem so obvious. Trying to make Marty feel small.
Easy for Potty to say that other people can be ignored. He doesn’t need MacArthur for protection. MacArthur was just a useful friend to attack an enemy with. Marty depends on Jamieson. He needs the strength of the Jamieson organization to keep him safe. Potty wouldn’t be risking anything with an association. The risk would all be Marty’s.
‘I’m not going to sit here and say no,’ Marty’s saying with a smile. ‘But I am going to ask for a little time. There are things I would need to check out first. You know how it is. I mean, I need to take a few more precautions before I do anything, my business being smaller.’ Saying it with a self-deprecating shrug, and knowing that his businesses combined make nearly the same money as Potty’s. The collection business is smaller, sure, but collecting is all Potty does.
‘Of course, of course. I’m not going to bounce you into anything, Marty,’ Potty’s saying. Trying to sound generous, something he’s never been. ‘But I will need a quick decision. You know this business. You know how fast the swings and roundabouts move.’
Marty’s nodding. This is Potty pushing him into a corner. A corner he doesn’t want to be in. Looking at his watch. Making a show of it, but he does need the office cleared. Grateful for the excuse to get rid of Potty, before he’s forced into making a decision. Making a commitment.
‘Damn it. Listen, I have a fellow coming to use the office. Good guy, doesn’t like to have other people here when he’s having his wee meetings. It’ll scare him.’
‘Of course,’ Potty’s saying, struggling to his feet. No arms on the chair for him to use as leverage. Might be an excuse, might be genuine. Sort of thing he can understand, people looking for a good office to use. Hard in this business to find a reasonable place. ‘But you let me know when you’ve made a decision.’
Marty nodding. Trying to seem all enthusiastic. Walking Potty to the door and opening it for him. Not going to walk him down the stairs. Doesn’t have the time for that. Besides, Potty won’t want someone like Marty treating him like he’s disabled. He’s not, he’s just fat. Marty’s back across to the desk and sitting in the chair. Both hands on the top of his head, leaning back in the chair. Potty coming to him for a union. Talking about what they could do together, like it’s that easy. They wouldn’t be a great fit. And why go looking for any help at all? MacArthur’s his buddy. Why not use MacArthur for protection? Must be because MacArthur isn’t willing. Must be. Potty’s under attack and he doesn’t have cover. So he’s desperate.
A desperate Potty Cruickshank. He could use that. He could. It would be fantastic, if the best-case scenario played out. He could have Potty under his thumb. He could use Jamieson’s influence to force Potty under control. He could make a killing. But he won’t. Won’t because he doesn’t trust Potty. Won’t because Jamieson would never trust Potty. Wouldn’t want him anywhere near his business. Won’t because he has a better offer. A tough bastard like Billy Patterson is an excellent weapon to use against Potty. A man with no other baggage, a man with reason to try and make this work. Marty and Potty would be a bad fit. Marty and Patterson? That could work.
8
He’s early. And now he’s complaining about where they’re meeting. This isn’t like Paul Greig. Making a big play of the house they’re meeting in, like it’s the worst option he’s ever seen. Like he’s used to so much better. He seems tense. Peterkinney isn’t saying anything. This is a routine meeting, nothing more. Routine for Peterkinney, anyway. Whatever’s crawled up Greig’s arse is Greig’s business. He should be professional enough to leave it at the door.
‘You need to start thinking bigger,’ Greig is saying, slumping onto the couch.
Little bit over a year ago Peterkinney had no job. Now he has a business of his own. An established, credible collector. And he’s still only twenty-one. Now Greig’s shouting at him to think bigger. Doesn’t make any sense at all, but you have to let people rant.
‘I’m thinking big,’ is all Peterkinney’s saying. Saying it calm, a little disinterested, wanting Greig to get down to business.
‘Thinking big. Aye right. You don’t know what big is.’ Saying it with a mutter and looking down at the floor. Making no effort to hide the fact that there’s something very wrong in his life.
‘Problems?’ Peterkinney’s asking. Not concerned at all. Sounding a little smug. A man with no problems of his own. Sounding like a man who disapproves of Greig bringing his problems to work with him.
Peterkinney hasn’t earned the right to talk in that tone to Paul Greig. Not yet, anyway. Boy has potential, but you don’t act superior to a guy like Paul Greig this early in your career.
‘Problems?’ Greig’s saying. ‘Yeah, I got problems. I got problems all over the fucking place. I’m under pressure and I need a little support. Am I getting it? Am I fuck. You help people your whole life, soon as the going gets tough they disappear. You’re no different. Don’t you go pretending that you are. Don’t you go pretending with me. Would you go into battle for me?’
‘Do you need me to?’ Peterkinney’s interrupting. Fed up of hearing this, wanting an end to it.
Greig’s laughing at that. ‘You couldn’t if you wanted to, kid, couldn’t if you wanted to. Forget about it. Let’s just focus on what we’re here to talk about. Just so you know, there are things going on. I’m under pressure. I might need to lower my profile for a while if I get through this at all. Don’t get all shocked if I go off the radar for a while. A long while, maybe.’
Peterkinney’s nodding. Making an effort to look concerned, but he couldn’t care less. He’s long past the point of thinking someone like Paul Greig is important. Greig is helpful, but he’s nothing more than that. Most of what Greig will ever do for him, he’s already done. Peterkinney remembers that first meeting. The pick-up with Howie Lawson. Lord knows what’s happened to him since. Meeting Greig and being so impressed with him. Not any more. It was good to have his guidance in the early days. Still good to have a police contact. But let’s not pretend Peterkinney
still sees Greig as important. Certainly not as important as Greig sees himself. And would he go into battle for him? No. No, he wouldn’t.
‘Okay, well, anything I can do, let me know,’ Peterkinney’s saying.
Greig’s waving a hand. ‘Forget it. I’ll let you know if there’s anything you need to know.’ A dismissive hand for a man who can easily be dismissed. Wouldn’t have dismissed Potty Cruickshank that way. Might have tried to use Cruickshank’s help. Cruickshank is connected enough to make a difference. Not this kid. Not yet. Greig’s own fault. Wanted someone younger that he could better control. The price of that is that he hasn’t built enough strength to use yet.
‘So what’s the news?’ Peterkinney’s asking.
‘They arrested Potty yesterday morning. You probably heard. Let him go yesterday afternoon. Plan is to try and gather more evidence and arrest him again. Seems like the accountant isn’t as feeble and talkative as I thought he’d be. He’s keeping his trap shut, for now. That could change. The way things are stacked, the info we already have, there should be a second arrest on Potty. Should be charges against him.’
Peterkinney nodding. That’s the news he wanted to hear. He wants Potty weak. He wants to make some serious moves. Getting an itchy trigger finger. You start fast, and things inevitably slow. This is the challenge now. The need for patience. The earlier in the process, the faster you grow. The more you grow, the harder it is to grow much further. Peterkinney can feel it slowing down. Not that it’s going badly. Just that that breakneck sense is waning. He wants it back. The sense of momentum. You get it back by taking on opponents. Taking their business. You lurch forwards by swallowing them. That’s what Peterkinney wants. That’s why he wants to bring down Potty. More business, more money, more success.
‘You have to be careful,’ Greig’s warning him. There’s a depressed tone. Like he’s about to say something he learned from painful experience. ‘Doesn’t much matter who brings Potty down. I mean, good that someone does, but that’s not the pay-off. Him out of the business isn’t the prize. The prize is taking his share of the market. You won’t be the only one aiming for it. There’ll be a queue.’
The Night the Rich Men Burned Page 24