Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  McCoy took it. ‘Kelvin Court. Very swanky. Think Jack Buchanan even lived there.’ He looked up. Her expression was blank. ‘You don’t know who he is, do you?’

  ‘Nope.’ She smiled. ‘Thought maybe you could help me out a bit. I need to know who actually runs the prostitution business in Glasgow, who the real money goes to. Not the small-time pimps, the real deal. Can you help me get to them, get them to give me an interview?’

  ‘Swapsies? That it?’

  She shook her head, looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘I wanted to have a drink with you, see you were okay . . .’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But I got you Baby Strange’s address. That must be worth a favour.’ She sat forward, looked serious. ‘The more information I can gather, the more accurate my thesis will be. Male exploitation of female sexuality, capitalism at its most truthful and ugly form.’

  ‘Christ, it’s no that bad. Some of these lassies make a lot of money.’

  ‘More than the pimps?’

  ‘It’s not like that . . .’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I deal with it every day. The pimps and the girls. It’s not as split down the middle as you think.’

  ‘Exploitation is exploitation. Seems pretty clear to me.’

  ‘Then maybe you should do a wee bit more research,’ he said. ‘People’s lives are complicated, they—’

  ‘I’m well aware of the reality of these women’s lives.’

  ‘That right? Lot of exploitative capitalism up at the university, is there? Pimps and whores wandering round the lectures.’

  Regretted it as soon as he said it.

  She sat back in her chair. ‘No, but what there are, are men like you. Men who can’t see past their own inherent sexism. Do you know what it’s like to live as a woman, to try and work in a patriarchal world? Know how it feels that the whole time I was trying to explain what a feminist was you were staring at my tits?’

  He was going to say he wasn’t and then he just couldn’t be bothered. ‘Well, well, here was me thinking we were having a nice conversation. Turns out all you really want is some names and numbers, and to let me know what a cunt I am.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how offensive that word is?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Come on, it’s just a—’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s not just a word. That’s what people like you always say. Every time you use it you insult me and you insult every other woman.’

  ‘Come on . . .’

  ‘See what I mean? What’s next? “Where’s your sense of humour?” “Don’t take things so seriously?” I’ve heard it too many times.’

  ‘Christ, I didn’t realise I was starting World War Three!’

  ‘It started a long time ago.’

  He laughed. She didn’t.

  She reached for her combat jacket. ‘I better go.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, wrapping her long woollen scarf round her neck. ‘Believe me, I’ll get over it.’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t know what happened. I’m sore all over, stuffed full of painkillers and booze. I’m not usually as much of a cun— . . . of an arse. Honest.’

  He tried his best nice-guy smile. Didn’t work. She was looking at him like he was the shit under her shoe. Took some change out her pocket, put it down on the table.

  ‘That’s for my drinks.’

  He watched as she left the pub, amazed he’d managed to fuck it up so quickly and so totally. He downed the last of his pint, then drank the rest of her vodka and Coke. He looked round. Row of old men with bunnets and bad false teeth propping up the bar, talking arse. The place really was a shite-hole. His fingers hurt, his sides hurt, all of him hurt, and that was the end of any chance he had of seeing Susan Thomas again. Only one thing for it. He got the barman to call him a cab, ordered a double Bell’s and used it to swallow over the last two codeine pills. They started kicking in just as the cab turned up ten minutes later.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘For fuck sake.’

  Stevie Cooper was nudging him. He must have fallen asleep.

  ‘Get some of that down you, catch a fucking grip.’

  McCoy shook himself awake, took the rolled-up note, stuck it into the wee bag and took a deep sniff. Felt the speed hit him immediately, not so tired all of a sudden. Took a swig of beer, tried to get rid of the metallic taste of it in his throat. He’d gone looking for Stevie after he’d left the Grove, and after a few pubs they’d ended up here. One of Billy Chan’s nights, just about the only white faces in there.

  Once a month Billy took somewhere over, ran a casino strictly off the books, all bets accepted. Punters came up from Manchester, Liverpool, anywhere there was a Chinatown. Tonight it was being held in a restaurant above Gordon Street. Sign on the door said it was temporarily closed for refurbishment. Only other time McCoy had been at one of Billy’s nights it was in an old bakery in Townhead, flour dust coating everyone after a couple of hours. Tonight was busier, had to be fifty or sixty Chinese men seated round the tables, gambling as though their lives depended on it, which knowing Billy they probably did.

  They’d been shown to a booth at the back. Six of them sat round a table crowded with drinks, cigars and piles of complimentary poker chips. Stevie, and by extension him, were here as guests of Ronnie Naismith. He’d been running clubs in town for years, since the days of showbands and exhibition dancers. Wasn’t the only thing he ran, but he tended to keep his business south of the river so McCoy hadn’t had much occasion to run into him.

  Now him and Stevie were deep in conversation, empire building. Both of them gabbing at each other as the speed started to take hold. As far as McCoy knew, Naismith paid Stevie a monthly rate to keep his clubs open and free of trouble, and Stevie supplied the doormen and with them his pills and the speed. Worked out for both of them. A girl with a silvery low-cut top whose name he couldn’t remember was sitting next to him, holding his hand. He’d some memory of her taking him into the back office, Naismith shouting after them, telling her to make sure he was happy. She’d tried to give him a blowjob, hadn’t worked. The codeine, drink and pain were too much to overcome, couldn’t rise to the occasion. He stepped away, buttoned up his fly.

  She’d looked up at him, terrified, bra and top on the floor beside her. ‘You’ll tell Ronnie it was okay? Please.’

  He nodded. ‘We had a great time.’

  She was nothing if not persistent, though. She’d her hand in his trouser pocket now, playing with his cock through the cloth. Seemed to be working this time. He turned to kiss her and Cooper nudged him again.

  ‘By the way, fuck’s going on with that cunt Wattie from your shop?’

  McCoy turned, girl’s hand kept going in his pocket. ‘Wattie? My Wattie?’

  ‘Big cunt that looks about eighteen, Ayrshire accent. Been noising up Davey Waters. Came into the Vale telling him he can offer “protection”.’

  ‘He’s been doing what?’ said McCoy. Couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘You heard. Fancies himself, says he’ll keep an eye out if Waters passes him a few tips. Fucking clown. He know who he’s dealing with?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘He’s green as they come. Knows fuck all about fuck all.’

  ‘Well, tell the stupid cunt to get a hold of himself. Waters is no daft. Couple of weeks and he would have him in deep. Find himself bought and sold for—’ Cooper stopped, peered forward, waved the cigar smoke away from his face. ‘Fuck’s going on over there?’

  McCoy looked up, seemed to be some scuffle going on by the door. He tried to focus, was so out of it was having trouble seeing that far. He could make out a bunch of young guys in dinner suits, five or six of them pushing and shoving, voices raised. Looked like they were trying to get in and it wasn’t going to happen. Bouncers were having none of it, had one of them up against the big fish tank, holding him there by his neck.

  Isabel, one of Ronnie’s girls, was trying to calm
everyone down, seemed to know one of the lads in dinner suits. She got the bouncer to let the lad go, was shushing him, pulling him away from the door. Telling the bouncer they were going.

  The girl’s hand in McCoy’s pocket was still working away.

  ‘Want to go back to the office?’ she whispered in his ear.

  He nodded, stood up, tried to hold his jacket in front of his hard on. Couple of Billy’s proper heavies had turned up and were huckling the boys out the door. One was still shouting the odds, Isabel still trying to calm him down. Slicked-back hair, big jaw. He peered again, trying to make sure. Looked like Dunlop Junior. Teddy. The girl pulled at his arm and by the time McCoy looked back he’d gone, Isabel running down the stairs shouting after him. The girl with the silver top tugged at his arm again. The office beckoned.

  7th January 1973

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It wasn’t so much that her flimsy dressing gown was open and she didn’t seem to be worried about it, it was the fact her nipples were circled in blue glitter that was really distracting. McCoy was trying to be professional, but Wattie had given up, was just standing there staring, mouth open.

  ‘No, I’m her flatmate. She’s not here, darling.’

  The girl was leaning on the doorway of the flat, smiling engagingly. Seemed distracted, maybe still high on something. Her accent was posh English, all the more surprising given the fact she was black. She yawned widely. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, I just got in, rather a long night.’ She giggled. ‘She’s at the sound check, I expect.’

  ‘Sound check?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Yes, been a friend of David’s for years. Met through Lindsay Kemp.’

  ‘Sorry, eh, miss, you’ve lost me.’

  She giggled again. ‘David? Tonight? He’s playing in town, at Green’s Playhouse I think it is. Should really get some sleep before it starts.’

  ‘What? David Bowie, you mean?’ asked Wattie, managing to look up at her face.

  The girl looked puzzled. ‘Who else?’

  ‘Jeez. She knows him? She knows David Bowie?’

  ‘Baby knows everyone, darling, absolutely everyone. It’s quite amazing, really. Now if you’ll excuse me, the land of nod calls. Ciao!’

  She blew them a kiss and shut the apartment door.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Wattie, shaking his head. ‘Did you see those?’

  ‘Couldn’t miss them, could have hung a bloody duffle coat on them. Come on, I need to talk to you.’

  They walked out the entrance of Kelvin Court and stood under the concrete awning, the rose gardens and lawns in front of them iced with snow. McCoy lit up, coughed. First of the day.

  ‘Davey Waters,’ he said.

  Wattie was suddenly very interested in the progress of a bin lorry heading up the street towards Anniesland. ‘You mean the gun guy? What about him?’

  ‘Stay away from him, that’s what. Lucky for you someone’s had a word in my ear. Someone like Davey Waters’ll chew you up and spit you out before you even know what’s going on. Got it?’

  ‘Not sure what you’re on about, sir,’ said Wattie, eyes still on the lorry.

  McCoy sighed. Was going to be like that, was it? ‘Don’t try and be a fucking smart-arse. Stay the fuck away from him and stop trying to throw your weight about. You think Davey just sits there all day waiting to shite himself off you? Waters has been done for serious assault umpteen times. Would have been done for murder more than once if we had been able to pin it on him. Leave him alone. Stay away. This is Glasgow, not fucking Brigadoon. You hear me?’

  ‘Was only doing what you said,’ he sulked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Connections, how you get ahead.’

  ‘Christ, you’re even stupider than I thought.’

  ‘How come we’re chasing this Baby Strange up if we think it’s a domestic?’

  ‘Because there is a difference between thinking and knowing. Follow things up, complete the picture, do our job. You never listen to anything Murray tells you? Now go and get the fucking car and bring it round. We’ve got a sound check to go to. Whatever the fuck that is.’

  Would have been easier to get into Fort Knox than Green’s bloody Playhouse. It took them almost an hour to even get to the entrance. Had to push their way through the crowds of crying and screaming teenage girls. Traffic on Renfield Street was crawling along, periodically brought to a halt by another surge of girls trying to make it across the road to the venue doors. Eventually, after a lot of pushing and shoving, they made it to the door. McCoy held his card up to the glass, a grim-faced bouncer opened the door for them and they were in. Screaming outside abruptly cut off as the big main door closed behind them.

  Wattie was all excited, pointing at the posters of past concerts, smiling at every fat bastard carrying a bunch of wires that walked past. Was as cold inside as out, obviously weren’t wasting their money heating an empty venue. McCoy wasn’t too sure about David Bowie, had seen him on the TV a few times dressed up like some woman alien thing, looked like a freak. He was a big deal, though. Was like getting an audience with the pope. They’d been told by some bloke in a faded commissionaire’s uniform to stay put and wait for the manager to turn up. He was going to ‘escort them backstage’, whatever that meant.

  The foyer was echoing with the constant boom of a drum being hit over and over again. Wasn’t helping McCoy’s hangover one bit. Wattie had stopped one of the technician blokes, was asking him what time the show was. If this went on any longer, he’d be asking him for free tickets. He called him over.

  ‘You’re supposed to be a polis, not a bloody teenybopper. Start acting like it.’

  ‘Sorry, just a bit excited. Never been here before. Have you?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Last summer. The Faces.’

  ‘Rod Stewart’s band?’

  McCoy sighed inwardly. ‘The band Rod Stewart sings in.’

  Wattie looked puzzled. ‘Aye, that’s them. Was it any good?’

  Him and Janey’d smoked two joints before they went in, half a tab each. Flying. Turned out the security guy used to be a polis, let them right down the front. Drinking from a half bottle, dancing. Band were only feet from them, looked as out of it as they were. Big grin on Rod Stewart’s face as he twirled the microphone stand above him. Played ‘Stay With Me’ twice. Best song ever. Him and Janey shouting it to each other, grins splitting their faces, sweat running off them. Still so high from it all that they shagged each other behind the big bins in the alley across the road when they got out.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Gentlemen?’

  A wee bloke in a too-tight dinner suit had appeared, couldn’t have got more Brylcreem in his hair if he’d applied it with a trowel. He pointed to the big doors at the top of the stairs. ‘If you’d like to follow me.’

  They followed him through the doors into the empty auditorium. The ‘one two, one two’ and the drums were even louder in here, bouncing round the old red and gilt theatre. The place stank of beer, damp and fags, rows of red velvet seats facing towards the stage all as worn as the sticky carpet. They went up a stair to the side of the stage and then through various wee corridors and doors until McCoy wasn’t even sure what direction they were facing any more. They stopped halfway down another corridor outside a door with ‘Star Dressing Room’ written on it in glittery letters. Loud talking and laughing coming from behind it. The wee manager wasn’t quite sure what to do. McCoy was getting tired and bored of all this; he reached for the door handle and a voice came from behind him.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  He turned and there was a bloke, standing, arms folded, looked like a weightlifter. Cowboy hat, white shirt and a bootlace tie. Unsurpringly, he’d an American accent.

  ‘Can I help you guys with anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Naw,’ said McCoy, holding out his badge. ‘Fuck off.’

  He left the manager to explain and pushed the dressing-room door open. The room was crowded. Boys with make-up plastere
d all over them, a girl strumming a guitar, smell of joss sticks and hairspray, loud music playing. Some guy in the corner with a sequined jacket and long blond hair was telling a joke, high-pitched laughter as he got to the punchline. McCoy coughed loudly and everyone turned towards him. He supposed the man himself was in here, but he couldn’t make out which one he was.

  ‘Looking for someone called Baby Strange,’ he said, feeling like a right arse even saying the name.

  The room turned again, heads swivelling towards a girl in the corner. She was giving a man sitting in front of her a shoulder massage. His bony white shoulders were bare, was only wearing a kind of woollen swimsuit thing. He looked up. Bright orange spiky hair, funny eyes. That’d be him then. The woman stopped her kneading. She looked as odd as him: tall, stick thin, pure white hair frizzed out, mad make-up like a clown.

  ‘That’s me, darling,’ she said, inhaling on a pink cigarette. ‘Are you the delivery? Thank god, everyone was getting a teeny bit anxious.’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ said McCoy. ‘Polis. I need a word.’

  *

  They ended up in the empty discotheque upstairs. Manager showed them to a table beneath an unlit neon sign saying ‘Clouds’. A cleaner was tutting, trying to mop up what looked like a combination of dried-up beer and sick from the dance floor. The curved seat round the table was punctured with cigarette burns, yellow foam poking through. Baby Strange looked at it with disgust, then lowered herself down. She started chewing on the edge of a bright blue fingernail. Looked nervous. No surprise.

  ‘What was it you thought we were delivering?’ asked McCoy.

  She shrugged. ‘Some make-up; I forgot to bring it. I promised David I’d give it to him. From Japan.’ Her accent was half American and half English. Certain words slipping in and out.

  ‘Shite,’ said McCoy. ‘Do I look like a fucking make-up delivery boy?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘What do they normally look like?’

  McCoy had to hand it to her, she may have looked like a freak of nature but she was no idiot.

  ‘So what exactly is it you do? Workwise, I mean.’