Blood City

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘Stay down,’ warned Davie.

  ‘That’s my dog,’ hissed the boy through clenched teeth.

  Davie shook his head. ‘Not anymore.’ As they walked from the waste ground, Rab glanced behind him to make sure no one was following and saw that not one of the group had yet gone to the aid of their fallen pal. It would seem he had lost some face.

  ‘So, it looks like you’ve got yourself a dog, Davie.’

  Davie looked down at the brown wirehaired mongrel trotting at his feet, the dog’s body language already showing a change, as if it knew it was heading to a better life. ‘Yeah.’

  Rab took a few more paces then said, ‘Your auntie will be pleased.’

  * * *

  Rab was right. Davie’s auntie Mamie reacted to the appearance of her nephew with a dog in tow with ill grace. She screamed at him to get the filthy animal out of her house, which was rich because she’d been on a four day bender with her boyfriend and the house hadn’t been as much as threatened with a vacuum for two days before that. She started on Davie as soon as he stepped into the hall. It was five at night and she was still in the shapeless blue dressing gown she’d had on that morning. And the day before. And the day before that. In fact, Davie had to stop and consider before he could remember when he’d last seen her wear anything else but that threadbare rag. Davie ignored her strident screech and headed for his room but the boyfriend, Ted the carpet fitter, stepped in his way. It looked like he’d drunk just enough to let him think he could take him on. Ted was a big lad but, as Michael Caine once said in some picture Davie couldn’t quite place, he was out of shape and this was a full-time job for him. Ted stood at the bottom of the stairs, blocking the way. He wore a greasy Rangers top, was unshaven and his hair hadn’t been combed for days.

  ‘Your auntie doesn’t want that mutt in here, did you no hear?’ His words were slightly slurred but there was no missing their belligerent tone. Davie sighed. The world was full of arseholes and it seemed he had the only pair of rubber gloves.

  ‘Ted,’ he said quietly, ‘you’ve been itching for this for a while. But don’t do it...’

  Ted smiled and Davie caught a whiff of cheap whisky mixed with bad breath, not an appetising mixture. The dog sensed a threat and began to growl. Ted ignored it.

  ‘You think you’re so fuckin tough, Davie boy. You think you’re just the fuckin hard man. Oh, I’ve heard the stories. The fuckin bogey man, you are. Joe the Tailor’s pet rottweiler. Well, let me tell you, Davie fuckin McCall, you don’t frighten me. I don’t care who you work for. And you know what else? I don’t care who your fuckin da was…’

  Davie’s patience had already begun to wear thin at the mention of Joe the Tailor, but bringing Danny McCall into the equation was a step too far. He punched Ted in the guts and stepped back as he doubled over. Perhaps he had been something in his day, but now Ted was a tub of lard and he went down hard. Davie grabbed him by the back of his t-shirt and jerked him out of the way. The carpet-fitter careered across the hallway and slammed into the front door. The dog was barking now – a deep sound that came up from his guts and belied his size. Auntie Mamie screeched a string of curses that would have made a dock worker blush and rushed to her boyfriend’s side.

  ‘You get the fuck out of this house, Davie McCall,’ she yelled. ‘You get out and you don’t come back.’

  Davie shrugged and gave the dog a gentle tug on the lead as he moved up the stairs. It was time to move on anyway.

  * * *

  Rab stayed in a third floor red-sandstone tenement flat on Sword Street, jutting off Duke Street straight as a blade. Joe owned it and the two other flats in the close, so Rab had a good deal on the rent. When the big man opened the door to find Davie standing there with a suitcase and the dog at his feet, amusement flickered across his face and he said, ‘Auntie Mamie was pleased then?’

  Davie allowed him a slight smile. ‘I need a place to crash for a while.’

  ‘You and the dog?’

  ‘That a problem?’

  ‘No to me. I hope someone’s housetrained, though.’

  Davie looked down at the dog at his feet. ‘I dunno, I hadn’t thought about that.’

  Rab stepped aside, ‘Wasn’t talking about the dog…’

  Davie smiled again as he and the dog stepped into the hallway. ‘Thanks, Rab – I appreciate this.’

  Rab closed the door. ‘No problem, son,’ he said. ‘That’s what friends are for.’

  5

  NORRIE KENNEDY WAS a happy man.

  It wasn’t just because he’d had a skinful at the pub. It wasn’t just because he’d had a great time that night, belting out old Frank Sinatra standards. It wasn’t just that he’d knocked them dead with renditions of ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ and ‘Luck be a Lady’ like he was in a Vegas lounge – and fuck ‘em if they weren’t happy and would’ve rather heard the band covering old Eagles numbers. He loved Sinatra, had done ever since he was a boy. Even when his pals were going on about Elvis and later, The Beatles, he still bought Sinatra records. He had a vast collection, not as big as that bastard Joe the Tailor it was true, but extensive all the same. He’d never been to the Jew boy’s house down there in Riddrie but he’d heard that he had shelves and shelves of recordings by Sinatra and Dean Martin and Sammy Davis. Bastard had even met Ol’ Blue Eyes – he’d been told there was a picture of them together, taken at a show in London back in the 1960s. Norrie didn’t know how the meeting had come about nor did he care. He didn’t want to think too much about Mister Joe bloody Klein anyway because it would spoil his mood.

  The reason for his happiness that night was that he’d finally divorced his nagging harpy of a wife and he was free to set up house with the lovely Louise, a petite blonde barmaid at a pub he owned in Castlemilk, who he’d been shagging for the past two years. She was 30 years younger but that didn’t worry him. He didn’t care if she was only interested in him because having it away with a big time crook gave her a thrill or because he had the cash to buy her nice things. She got his juices flowing like no woman had in a long time. And he was deliriously happy.

  It was 11.30pm on a Wednesday night and Norrie knew his wee Louise would have finished her shift and would be back at the house. From the street his home didn’t look like much, but inside it was palatial. His son and daughter used to live with him and his wife, but they’d both moved on, thank God. His son was a limp-wristed wee fuck who wanted to be an artist and his daughter was a clone of her mother. He was glad to see the back of them. But Louise… ah, Louise. All she wanted was to have money spent on her and to be fucked royally, a duty Norrie was more than delighted to fulfil. Even at the age of 60 and with a drink in him, Norrie could still get it up. He hoped she was in bed waiting for him. Even now, as he walked along the dark street, he could feel a tickle at his groin. He glanced back down the road to ensure his men were far enough back because he was developing a hard-on that wasn’t going away anytime soon. They knew to let him have his space, but were close enough to wade in should any fucker try anything on. Norrie could handle himself, but Hell, what’s the point of being what the papers called a Glasgow Godfather if you didn’t have minders?

  To take his mind off his libido, he gazed up at the sky and wished he could see the stars properly. That was the problem with living in the city – light pollution. He loved to see the stars. That was why he had a house at Luss on Loch Lomond. He could go out at night and look up and see the whole fucking universe. He planned on taking Louise up to the Loch in a couple of weeks and together they’d stand at the water’s edge and look at the lights twinkling in the sky. That would be magic, he thought. Just me and her, together, looking at Heaven’s majesty. He’d read that in a book; Heaven’s majesty. He could visualise the two of them standing outside the wee cottage, hand in hand, staring in awe at the light show above. Then he’d take her inside and shag her bandy.

  He could see the house up ahead and Louise’s wee Metro City parked out front. She was home. She wa
s home and waiting for him. A big smile broke out on his face. Norrie Kennedy was a really happy man.

  He was still smiling when the bullet flew out of the darkness and slammed into his right shoulder. He didn’t hear the gunshot and he barely registered the pain before lead burrowed into flesh and lodged against his shoulder blade. He heard another cough as he staggered back and then something punched him on the chest. The bullet scythed through his lungs and erupted from his back in a spray of flesh and blood. Still he didn’t fall, but his legs caught the top of a low garden wall behind him and he sat down heavily. He remained there, arms lying limp on his knees, as if he was taking a rest. He managed to raise his head and saw the silenced pistol poking out of a red Ford Cortina. The barrel bucked slightly as another bullet was sent winging towards him and caught him in the throat. His head snapped back, blood spurting from his artery, and his body tumbled backwards into a small garden. He lay on his back, the pain miraculously gone now, but he could hear a strange gurgling noise. It took him a few seconds before he realised the noise was emanating from his neck.

  He looked up at the night sky and wished he could see the stars, just one last time. But all he saw were black clouds. He thought for a moment that something dark winged across them. Birds, big black birds, flying at night and he wondered why.

  Then he died, his eyes still open, still hoping for a glimpse of Heaven’s majesty.

  Norrie’s men had started running when they saw him staggering back, thinking at first that he had just taken a drunken tumble. But then he fell backwards into the garden and the dark red motor gunned away from the kerb. The notion of a shooting didn’t enter their head at this stage. After all, this was Glasgow, not Chicago. It wasn’t until one of them slipped on a pool of blood on the pavement that they realised that Chicago had come to Glasgow.

  * * *

  The dog lay on the floor in front of the gas fire, head between his front paws, and he slept. He was oblivious to the discussion going on, though it was about him. Davie, Rab and Bobby Newman were debating possible names. Bobby had come over earlier, bringing Chinese food with him to celebrate Rab’s new flatmate.

  ‘I saw this John Wayne film once,’ said Bobby, sipping from his can of Carlsberg. ‘He had this dog and he just called it “Dog”.’

  Davie shook his head as he jerked open a can of Coke. Bobby and Rab were both drinking beer, but he never touched alcohol. Of all the things he’d learned from his Dad, that was the most important. ‘Every dog deserves a name,’ he said.

  Rab was stretched out on the couch, his eyes on the telly in the corner, where a God-awful movie was about halfway through. They weren’t really watching, but Rab liked the actress who starred in it and hoped she’d get her top off quite soon. ‘I had a dog when I was wee,’ he said, balancing his Tennents Lager on his chest. ‘Big fucker, he was – an Alsatian.’

  ‘German Shepherd...’ said Bobby

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what they call them now, German Shepherds. They only called them Alsatians because of the war and that, didn’t want anything German, you know? But now they’re called German Shepherds.’

  Rab turned his head to stare at Bobby, who was sitting in an armchair to his right. ‘As I was sayin before Barbara fuckin Woodhouse here gave me my lesson for the day…’

  Bobby smiled and raised two fingers.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Rab, ‘we called him Shane, is what I was going to say.’

  ‘That wee dog’s no a Shane,’ said Bobby. ‘He’s more a Chico or a Pepper.’

  Rab grimaced. ‘Pepper?’

  ‘Aye, Pepper, because he’s brown.’

  ‘Why no call him shithead and be done with it? Pepper? Jesus! I can just see Davie walkin down the road shouting “Pepper, come to daddy!” He’d have the shit kicked out of him in no time.’

  Davie saw a smile tickle Bobby’s lips. They all knew no one around here would dare try to kick the shit out of Davie, but nothing need be said. Davie’s reputation wasn’t exactly something the three pals discussed between them. It was just something that existed.

  ‘I’m going to call him Abe,’ said Davie, getting up from the room’s second armchair and moving over to scratch the dog’s ear.

  Rab watched him. ‘Abe? Why Abe?’

  Davie shrugged. He didn’t want to tell them it was after Abraham Lincoln, who had freed the slaves. This wee dog, although he didn’t know it, had freed Davie from his drunken auntie and his life in her house. So he’d call him Abe. And as if in agreement, Abe rolled over at Davie’s touch and let him scratch his belly.

  * * *

  When Norrie Kennedy met his maker, the street had been quiet, no traffic to speak of, no pedestrians. Now a long stretch between the dead man’s house and beyond was blocked off and traffic diverted. At the barriers, uniforms kept the media and onlookers at bay. News of the murder had spread through the streets like spilled water. Print photographers snapped at everything that moved and TV crews filmed whatever they could. Meanwhile, the public watched the murder circus with ever-increasing levels of boredom, for, not being directly involved, there was little of interest. As the old police saying goes, there’s nothing to see here. But they remained at the cordons anyway, hope springing eternal that they might catch a glimpse of a bit of blood. This was big, so it was – Norrie Kennedy blown away just yards from his front door and in front of his boys, too.

  Blue flashing lights sparkled below the street lamps and bounced off the windows of the nearby houses. Frank Donovan stood over the smear of blood and noted how the flashing light reflected off it. His boss, Detective Inspector Jack Bannatyne, was leaning across the body in the garden, his hands in the pockets of his long overcoat, pulling it closer to his body so that it didn’t waft against the wounds. The body hadn’t been moved and still lay half in the small garden, two legs draped over the small wall. It looked to Donovan as if he’d simply been pushed over, which of course is exactly what the bullets had done.

  Gentleman Jack was something of a legend in the Glasgow force, a no-nonsense thief taker with an admirable contempt for authority and, on occasion, a not-so-admirable contempt for the rule book. As long as it stood up in court, Jack Bannatyne didn’t much care how evidence was gathered. Donovan, now Detective Constable, thank-you-very-much, had learned a lot over the past year on Bannatyne’s team. The only downside was that he seemed to constantly be paired with Jimmy Knight.

  He could see Knight further down the street, talking to Kennedy’s two minders. Even from this distance and in this light, Donovan could see they looked pretty stunned. Knight was chewing something – he was always chewing something, or smoking those wee cigarillos he liked so much – and Donovan saw him nod, then motion a nearby uniform over to take charge of the only known eye witnesses to the killing. Knight walked back towards him, pulling his sheepskin jacket tightly to his body to ward off the chill.

  ‘What did they see, Jimmy?’ It was Jack Bannatyne’s voice, from behind the wall.

  ‘The usual, boss,’ said Knight. ‘No much. Dark red car, sped off in the direction of Blackhill. No sight of the shooter, no sight of anything.’

  Bannatyne moved away from the body and walked through the small gate, nodding a greeting to the police surgeon as he passed by on his way to inspect the body. ‘Believe them?’

  Knight scratched his cheek, which was, as usual, shadowed by a heavy growth. No matter how often he shaved, the Black Knight always had stubble. ‘I think they’re telling the truth, boss. I think they’re pretty shocked by all this. No used to guns, these boys. Knives, chibs, chains, bottles, aye – but no guns. ’

  Bannatyne nodded. ‘Okay, let’s get the canvass started. I’ll get some uniformed help and I want every door on the street knocked and every person spoken to. Work in pairs…’

  Don’t say it, thought Donovan.

  ‘One talk, one listen and watch…’

  Please don’t say it, thought Donovan.

  ‘Anyone dodgy, huckle them down to Bai
rd Street…’

  Maybe he won’t say it, thought Donovan, his hopes rising.

  Then he said it.

  ‘Jimmy, you and Frank work together. You make a good team. You start with the blonde girl in Kennedy’s house. She only just got in before it happened so maybe she saw the shooter’s car arriving.’

  ‘Sure, boss,’ said Knight, smiling at Donovan.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Donovan, hoping his tone didn’t sound as sullen to Bannatyne as it did in his head.

  ‘And find DS Docherty, tell him to pick up Joe the Tailor and some of his boys, invite them in for questioning.’

  ‘You think they’ve got something to do with it, boss?’

  Bannatyne shrugged. ‘It’s no the Tailor’s style, but you never know. There was no love lost between him and Kennedy. They’ve been feuding for years. It won’t do any harm to give them a pull, light a wee fire under them.’

  Knight’s face brightened in the street lights. ‘You want us to lift them?’

  ‘No, we’ll invite them in for a wee chat. Got nothing to link them to this yet. Tell them… ask them to come in tomorrow. They’ll come. Joe the Tailor knows better than not to.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ said Knight, grinning.

  ‘Aye, boss,’ agreed Donovan.

  Bannatyne nodded and moved back into the garden to talk to the police surgeon, who was there to pronounce Kennedy dead, as if the bullet wounds and the blood all over the scrubby wee bit of grass weren’t evidence enough. Knight moved closer, his smile broadening. ‘You hear that, Frankie boy? We make a good team. What’ve I been telling you for years, eh?’