Blood City

by Douglas Skelton

  * * *

  Johnny Jones was whistling as he climbed the stairs to his second floor flat in Castlemilk. The meeting had gone well with Harry King, Norrie Kennedy’s erstwhile second-in-command, who was well up for taking part in the heroin venture. He had four top men on board, three from Glasgow and one from Ayrshire, because the rural market was not to be ignored. Another six, mostly from Glasgow but maybe one from Greenock way, another from Dumbarton, and he would be ready. It wasn’t an easy thing to bring them together, but the promise of millions proved very persuasive in putting aside old rivalries.

  He heard the phone ringing as he reached his front door. His boys were in there but they knew better than to answer that line. They sat in the living room, Sinclair reading the Daily Record’s front page about Norrie’s murder while Boyle watched an Open University programme about farming. The phone was in Johnny’s bedroom, its insistent, shrill ringing filling the flat. He picked up the handset, knowing full well who it would be. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Is he on board?’

  ‘Of course. Norrie was an old fossil, but Harry’s no fool. He knows this is the future.’

  ‘I’m still not happy about Norrie’s death.’

  ‘I told you, it was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Fucks knows – Norrie had enemies, you know? Maybe Harry took him out ‘cos he wasn’t interested in our deal. I told you, Harry knows the score.’

  There was a silence on the other end of the line as the boss thought about it. ‘Harry King’s a ruthless little shit, certainly,’ he said finally. ‘Okay, we move on to Big Jim Connolly next. He’s a certainty to buy in, I think.’

  ‘And what about Joe Klein?’

  ‘We leave him for now.’

  ‘He’s dangerous.’

  ‘Not to us, if we leave him alone. We need him on board.’

  ‘He’ll never do it…’

  ‘He’ll see sense.’

  ‘I don’t think so…’

  ‘Listen, I don’t need you to do the thinking, just the talking. You’ll get a hefty chunk of change out of this, don’t worry.’

  Jones sighed. ‘Look, I know Joe the Tailor, he’s a one man band. He doesn’t like being part of anything.’

  ‘I told you, we need him and he’ll see the sense of what we’re doing. He likes cash. And we’re going to make a fortune out of this.’

  Jones was unconvinced, but he knew better than to continue arguing the point. Joe Klein would show his hand eventually, and then the Jew boy would go the same way as Norrie. ‘Listen, we need to send a message to the others, you know? Big Jim’ll be fine, sure, but I think we should give some of the other boys a wee poke in the right direction.’

  ‘What was last night?’

  ‘Told you, fuck all to do with me. But whoever did it maybe did us a favour, you know? Maybe what we need is a wee example, just to focus their minds.’

  Jones could hear him breathing into the phone as he considered this. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Barney Cable, he’ll no even return my calls. We’ve got a history.’

  Jones’ history with Barney Cable was long and complex. Barney had once grassed on one of Jones’ backroom boys over a freelance post office job in his area. The lad had failed to cut Barney in, a sign of respect expected whenever someone did some work in his fiefdom, and Barney had ratted him out. Cable had never liked Jones anyway, not since Jones had once made an obscene comment or two about Cable’s wife. The two clashed and Jones had come off worse – he still bore the scar on his temple where Cable had smashed a beer bottle on this skull. To Barney’s mind it was a fitting punishment for such disrespect, and he had told all and sundry that Jones was a low-life scumbag not fit to breathe the same air as decent criminals. To Johnny it was all a debt waiting for payback. Apart from that, Barney Cable was a Roman Catholic and Jones was a staunch Orangeman who walked in the parade every year with his sash draped proudly across his chest. Like other Glasgow crims, he also raised funds for the UDA and in return had been rewarded with an honorary rank in the paramilitary organisation. He had never actually hefted a weapon for the cause, but he would do it proudly. He didn’t like Tims, especially one who had publicly bad-mouthed him.

  ‘Okay, we set an example. But no witnesses, no civilians, understand?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ said Jones. ‘We’ve got to show these guys just who’s boss, you understand that?’

  ‘I understand it, Johnny, but I hope you do. Remember who the brain behind this business is. You’d still be blowing safes in post office back rooms if it wasn’t for me.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Johnny, not at all happy with his tone. Okay, so he’d come up with this plan and he’d researched the trade routes and made all the contacts, but Johnny was doing all the fucking work this end. On the other hand, if there was one man in the city who scared the shit out of him, it was this guy.

  Johnny stood listening to the dial tone for a second before he realised that he’d hung up. Fucker, he thought. One day you and me’ll have a conversation, pal, and then we’ll see who’s boss right enough.

  8

  HENRY GRANT WAS a small youth with thick, brown hair that tumbled down to his shoulders. When he talked, his head darted from side to side as if he was trying to head a football.

  ‘So my da says to this guy, he says, “Look, pal, see if you don’t fix that fuckin washin machine right now, and I mean fuckin pronto, I’m gonnae take that toolbag of yours and stick it so far up your jacksey it’ll take a team of fuckin mountaineers to find it.” My da’s dead funny when he starts, so he is, so this guy says to my da, he says, “But, Mister Grant, the machine’s just too old to be fixed,” so my da says back, he says, “I paid good money for that machine and I expected it to last a lifetime and I’m no quite finished breathin yet.” That’s what he said, my da, “I’m no quite finished breathin yet,” seriously, he’s a laugh riot at times, my old man, just comes right out wi’ them, so the guy says, he says, “Aye, okay Mister Grant, I’ll dae what I can but I’m no promisin” so then he starts working on the machine and sure as fuck he got it to work again and my da says it’s amazin what a man can do when he’s properly motivated…’

  There was a reason they called Henry Grant ‘Mouthy’.

  ‘Jesus, Mouthy,’ said Rab, ‘stop to take a breath, for God’s sake! What have you got, lungs the size of Billy Smart’s circus tent?’

  Mouthy’s forehead wrinkled as he considered this. ‘I dunno, Rab, I think they’re just normal size lungs but you know what? I always did have a lot more puff than other kids when I was wee, you know? See at gym, you know climbin the ropes and the wooden horse stuff and that, well, they’d all be out of puff a long time before I was out of breath, maybe it’s something psychological, what do you think? That’s what I think anyhow, something peculiar to me, it’s my gift, you know?’

  Rab shook his head at Davie, who smiled. ‘You ever noticed that Mouthy here talks through his nose, Davie?’ Rab asked. ‘It’s because he’s worn his fuckin mouth out.’

  ‘Ach, Rab,’ said Mouthy, his voice sounding hurt, ‘you know I just rabbit when I’m nervous. I’m no like you, or Davie. I cannae just sit here calm like before I go to work, you know? I get nervous and my mouth starts…’

  ‘You must get nervous a lot then, son,’ said Rab.

  They were sitting in a stolen transit van opposite the gates to a wholesale warehouse that traded specifically with the fleets of ice cream vans that cruised the city streets. But they weren’t interested in ice cream. The building behind the gates was packed to the rafters with boxes of sweets, crisps and cigarettes just waiting to be liberated and sold on for profit. There were lots of independent van owners in the city who were happy to buy some dodgy gear at knock-down prices. It was the kind of free market economy that did their profit margins the world of good. Now they were waiting for the nod from the inside man, a security guy with cash problems.

  ‘We still
goin out drinkin tomorrow night?’ Rab asked and Davie shrugged. ‘Come on, Davie son, it’ll do you good. Okay, you don’t drink but when was the last time you had a shag?”

  Davie thought about this. The last time he’d had sex had been three months before when he’d been seeing Morag. They’d been out a few times and they’d done it in his room one rainy Sunday afternoon. They went out a couple of times after that but she’d quickly lost interest. Morag had assumed that by having sex she was getting closer to him. The sad truth was, no one got that close to Davie McCall. Girls fancied him – he was good-looking, the bluest eyes this side of Paul Newman – but there was a coldness, a distance in him that inevitably drove them away.

  ‘Can’t remember,’ said Davie in reply to Rab’s question.

  ‘See? That’s no healthy. You come out wi your Uncle Rab the morra night and we’ll get you sucked and fucked no problem. So where d’you want to go?’

  ‘How about down the town to the jigging?’ Suggested Mouthy.

  ‘No in the mood for dancin,’ said Rab, but both Davie and Mouthy knew that he couldn’t dance a step and the sight of his big body jerking around with no sense of rhythm was unlikely to stimulate a young lady’s libido.

  ‘The Triple Decker, then? Talent’s no quite as high class, a wee bit more studenty, but you’ll still get a drink and a shag. Maybe even a wee drop of dope, you know?’

  The Triple Decker was a multi-storey pub across from the city’s Drama College. It was popular with students, hippy types and anyone looking for a bit of hash.

  ‘Fuck no,’ said Rab, ‘they lassies all want to talk too much before they give it up, want to probe your inner man. They don’t understand it’s their inner woman I want to probe. No, fuck the city centre pubs, we’ll go up the West End. Guaranteed to find a generous lassie or two up Byres Road, you know?’

  A security guard emerged from the side door of the warehouse and walked to the gate. Davie sat up, instantly alert, and Rab said, ‘Aye, aye – here we go.’

  The security guard looked up and down the street, then once behind him before he unlocked the gate. He waved them across as he swung the metal and wire mesh gates open, and Rab started the motor and coasted across the road into the delivery yard. The security man pushed the gates closed behind them and then appeared at the passenger’s window beside Davie. He was a squat man in his mid-50s, his uniform draped over a lumpy form like an old blanket. His thin grey hair was combed over his balding pate, doing its best to hide the freckled skin beneath. He looked nervous.

  ‘You’ll need to be quick, lads,’ he said. ‘My supervisor could turn up at any minute. He’s doing his rounds tonight.’

  Rab said, ‘Fuck sake, man, why didn’t you tell us that before?’

  ‘I only just found out, one of the other guys at another site phoned me to tell me. The bastard likes to try and catch us sleeping on the job or to see if we’re off site. So he springs these visits on us.’

  ‘Fuck sake.’ Rab climbed out of the van and the security guard stepped back to let Davie and Mouthy pile out the passenger door.

  ‘You’ll have to load the gear through this door here. I haven’t got a key to the loading dock.’

  Rab’s expression darkened. ‘Anything else you haven’t told me before? Like maybe there’s fuck all in this place?’

  ‘No, no!’ said the man, backing away slightly, suddenly more afraid of this hulking young man than the impending visit of his boss. ‘It’s packed tonight, you can have your pick. Just be quick about it, okay?’

  Rab sighed. ‘Right, Mouthy, you hang around by the gate and keep an eye out for this bloke coming. While you’re waiting, cut that security chain, make it look like we broke our way in. You see any lights down the end of the road there, you tell us. And pull your mask on. You, too, Davie.’ As he spoke, Rab produced a ski mask from the pocket of his denim jacket and hauled it on. Davie followed suit.

  ‘Right,’ said Rab, ‘Davie, you take the sledgehammer out the back and batter fuck out of that lock. And you,’ he jabbed a finger at the guard, ‘show me inside. Move quick, lads, we’re on the clock here.’

  They moved swiftly to follow his instructions. Rab and Davie’s friendship had always been a level partnership, but on a job Davie was happy to follow Rab’s lead. Davie hefted the heavy sledgehammer out of the rear of the van, leaving the doors wide open, then swung it with force at the lock on the side door through which Rab and the guard had disappeared. Behind him he could hear Mouthy cursing under his breath as he struggled to cut the security chain. Davie tossed the hammer back into the van, threw Mouthy a glance to make sure he was managing, then trotted into the building.

  It was dark inside but Davie could make out rows of metal shelves busy with boxes and plastic-wrapped goods. The glint of a torch along one of the rows told him where Rab and the guard stood and he made his way towards them.

  ‘We’ll need to humph the stuff out by hand, Davie,’ said Rab, clearly irritated by the whole thing. ‘Fuckwit here’s no got the keys to the forklift.’

  The guard looked uncomfortable. ‘I never thought you’d need them.’

  ‘You don’t have the keys to the loading dock, you don’t have the keys to the forklift, your boss could drop in on us at any moment. Tell me why the fuck I don’t give you a kicking right now?’

  This made the man even more distraught. He stepped away, glancing at Davie as if for support. ‘I’m new at this, you know that! I’m only doing it ‘cos I need the cash. I’m taking a big risk helping yous out, so I am!’

  ‘Aye, but I’m beginning to think you’re no value for money, know what I’m sayin’?’ said Rab, shaking his head. He turned to Davie. ‘Start getting this loaded…’ he jerked his head to the boxes of cigarettes on the shelf behind him ‘… and I’ll see what else is worth liftin.’

  Rab strode off down the row, the guard beetling along behind him, while Davie started hauling boxes off the nearest shelf. He piled a few on the floor then began to carry them out to the van. After a few trips he had a good few cartons of fags stowed away when Rab pushed his way through the door with his big hands wrapped round the handle of a manual forklift trolley stacked high with boxes of sweets and crisps.

  ‘Found this in a corner,’ he said. ‘Saves humphing the bloody things.’

  ‘Where’s the guard?’

  ‘Tied him up in his office, just in case.’

  Davie helped him stack the boxes into the back of the van and they were heading back towards the warehouse when Mouthy whistled and began pointing frantically down the road.

  ‘Get the fuck outta sight,’ Rab hissed to Mouthy, ‘and pull your mask on.’ Mouthy looked around and spotted a pair of tall bins. As he scuttled behind them he pulled a woollen ski mask from the pocket of his bomber jacket and hauled it over his face. Rab and Davie climbed into the van and started it up, intending to move it somewhere, anywhere that wouldn’t be seen, but their timing was off because the car was already turning into the gate, the headlamps illuminating the still-open back of the van.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Rab, looking in the wing mirror. Davie glanced at his own wing mirror and saw the car was simply sitting there in the gateway.

  ‘What’s he waiting there for?’ Rab wondered.

  Davie saw a shadow move from behind the bins and edge towards the car. Mouthy stepped up to the driver’s window, something in his hand pointing at the interior, and the door slowly opened. A tall, incredibly skinny man unfolded himself from the small car, his hands above his head.

  ‘Rab,’ said Davie, ‘I think Mouthy’s tooled up.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ Rab said as he climbed out of the van and Davie slipped from the passenger seat. The tall supervisor was walking towards them, flanked by Mouthy, who held an automatic pistol in his right hand. Davie felt an itch in his stomach at the sight of the weapon. He didn’t like guns.

  ‘He was trying to radio someone for help, or something,’ said Mouthy. ‘I stopped him.’

  The man was i
n his mid-40s and looked scared to death. His

  face was white, his hands shaking. ‘I didn’t speak to anyone, honest.’

  Rab sighed and grabbed the supervisor by the arm. ‘Get inside,’ he snapped and propelled the man forward. He glared at Mouthy and whispered, ‘What the fuck you thinking about?’

  Mouthy shrugged and followed the supervisor through the door. Rab stepped ahead of them and led them all up a short flight of stairs to a tiny windowless office. Inside, the guard sat in his chair, trussed and gagged. His eyes widened when he saw his boss then bulged when he saw the gun in Mouthy’s hand. Davie could guess what was going through his head – this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, they didn’t mention guns, he agreed to let them in and they would make it look like they’d forced their way through but they never said anything about shooters. Davie had a great deal of sympathy for his point of view.

  ‘Sit down behind the chair, on the floor.’ The supervisor did as he was told as Rab plucked a ball of thick string off the top of a filing cabinet and began to unravel it. ‘I’m gonnae tie you up now. Don’t struggle, don’t make a noise, or it’ll go badly, understand?’

  The man nodded. ‘You guys do know who owns this place, don’t you?’

  ‘Don’t give a fuck, pal,’ said Rab.

  The man swallowed. ‘Well, it’s Barney Cable, you heard of him?’

  Rab kept wrapping the string around the guy and the chair legs but he glanced up at Davie. All Davie could see was Rab’s eyes behind the dark mask, but he knew the big guy well enough to know that there was a stab of fear there.

  ‘His name’s no on the books, you understand,’ the man went on, ‘but he owns the place all the same. Just thought you’d like to know because he’ll no be best pleased at you guys ripping him off.’

  ‘Shut it,’ said Rab, snatching a cloth from the top of the desk. He stuffed it into the man’s mouth and stood up.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said and the three of them filed out, leaving the two security men back to back in the office, one in the chair, one on the floor. Once safely out of earshot, Rab punched Mouthy on the shoulder, sending him flying.