by Ian Todd
“Ye kin start wae wan ae the medium-sized blocks and see how it goes, before moving oan tae the next wan. Ah reckon youse will go doon a storm, so youse will.”
“Bit…”
“Seventy-five pence fur a scabby cheese piece? Christ, it wid be like hivving a bloody licence tae print money.”
“Bit, whit if people cannae afford that? Seventy-five pence is a lot ae money fur somewan tae pay fur a bit ae cheddar and tomato oan a couple ae slices ae breid, so it is,” she said doubtfully, her brain gaun like the clappers.
“Then, dae a cheap special then.”
“Like whit?”
“How aboot a piece and jam?”
“Ye cannae offer people a piece and jam and expect them tae pay,” she scoffed, feeling hersel getting excited.
“Ye kin if ye market it the right way,” Simon challenged her.
“How aboot…whit wis that song again? ‘Oh, ye canny throw a jeely piece oot a twenty-storey flat. Three hunner weans, will testify tae that,’” Tony sang, as they aw laughed.
“Ur youse baith serious?” Sharon asked them, haudin her breath.
“Of course we ur. And there’s yer new company name, as well,” Simon laughed.
“Whit?”
“The Original Jeely Piece Sandwich Company.”
“Oh ma God. Ah don’t believe this! Really? Youse think it wid work?” she asked, as they baith nodded, smiling at her. “Oh ma God! Wait until Ah tell the lassies…Oh Jesus,” she screeched, shaking her heid.
“Of course, we’ll need oor cut…” Tony said, straight-faced, sobering her up.
“Cut?”
“Aye, fur paving the way and getting ye access.” Simon came in wae, his face equally sombre.
“Oh, right, that’s fair enough. How much ur we talking aboot then?” she croaked.
“The standard rate in the toon…sixty-forty in oor favour.”
“Sixty-forty…as in a profit split?”
“Aye, bit we’d be willing tae negotiate efter the first year,” Tony came back wae.
Silence.
“That seems like a helluva lot fur…”
“Fur daeing nothing?” Tony interjected.
“Ah’m no saying that. It’s jist…”
“We’re getting ye access tae a captive customer base, who ur sitting there wae the same shite sandwiches they’ve turned up wae the day before and the day before that…” Simon soothed.
“If they’ve no furgotten tae buy a loaf oan the way hame, that is,” his partner in crime added.
“We’re talking aboot a couple ae thousand hungry basturts within a quarter ae a mile ae each other, who sit at a desk aw day, feeling peckish, wishing somewan wid turn up wae a wee slice ae Madeira or sultana cake fur them tae hiv wae their efternoon cuppa.”
“Ur you gonnae be that knight in shining armour, Mrs C?” Tony asked her, a wee quizzical look in they dark eyes ae his.
She looked baith boys in the eyes. They never flinched and jist stared straight back at her. It wis her that looked away first. She’d known Tony Gucci since he wis a wee ragged-troosered toe-rag, back in the Toonheid, efter Johnboy turned up wae him in tow tae Helen’s wan tea time. She knew the family. They wur hard-working, decent people, who regularly turned up at mass withoot fail, every Sunday morning. She remembered being surprised tae see the wee scruffy, good-looking, smiling Atalian, doon at the Grafton Square end ae the Toonheid, melting aw the hearts ae the local grannies. There hid only been a few Catholic families living there at the time, so somewan like Tony wid’ve stood oot a mile. Even as a snapper, he wis a fly wee thing. No sleekit wae it, bit obviously smart. Issie always claimed that when he looked at ye, even as an eleven-year-auld, he wis guan through yer heid, reading yer mind. There wis never, ever, anything casual aboot Tony Gucci. Simon Epstein came intae her life through that daughter ae hers, Pearl, who wis noo working as a journalist wae a newspaper called The Morayshire Scot up in a place called Elgin. Ann Jackson’s daughter, Senga, hid been in the same class as him and the other boys that made up their social crowd at The Albert School, across in Petershill. Although they wur aw good boys, especially tae their mammies…apart fae maybe Johnboy, who’d hid a strange love-hate relationship wae Helen, nowan hid any illusions aboot whit The Mankys, as people called them, wur up tae behind the scenes. Her and Ann Jackson hid always prayed that their daughters widnae end up in tow wae any ae them, apart fae funnily enough, Johnboy Taylor. Oot ae them aw, he seemed tae be the maist open and approachable. Aside fae the fact that he came across as a bit flighty in the heid and hid gied Senga a run-aroond fur years, before cheating oan her wae wan ae the other lassies, he wis actually a nice boy. They aw wur, bit something aboot Johnboy made him staun oot fae the others. She wanted tae say that it wis decency, bit then again? She’d found oot later that he’d been behind the reason that her Pearl hid run aff tae the Highlands, because ae his lack ae interest in her. Whit wis it aboot boys that made them so different fae wummin, she wondered, no fur the first time. She looked across at the two boys. She knew they hid a ruthless reputation and tae succeed in business, she supposed ye needed that. It wis jist a pity that fur every pound her and the lassies wid make, they’d only walk away wae forty pence. Oan the plus side, Simon hid said that they’d hiv access tae a moneyed customer-base…a captive audience, she thought he’d said.
“Er, aye, okay,” she mumbled, no believing she hid any choice, bit still a wee bit disappointed o’er the percentage ae their cut.
“Ur you serious, Mrs C?”
“Er, aye.”
“Is she serious?” Tony asked Simon.
“Sounds like it tae me,” he replied, as the baith ae them burst oot laughing.
“Whit?” Sharon demanded, looking fae wan tae the other, confused.
“Sharon, we wur only jesting ye, ya silly bugger, ye. We widnae want anything fae you and the rest ae the wummin. Christ, whit dae ye take us fur, eh?” Tony chided her.
“Bit, is it still oan…The Jeely Piece Sandwich Company, Ah mean?”
“We’ve jist said that it wis,” Simon telt her, grinning.
“See youse, ya pair ae basturts, ye,” Sharon screamed at them, jumping up aff ae the couch tae run across and start hugging the pair ae them, as she burst intae tears.
“Hoi, ye’re gonnae get Pearl’s good Noddy pyjamas aw soaking wet, so ye ur.”
“Oh, boys, Ah don’t know whit tae say. Wait till the lassies hear aboot this wan,” she laughed and cried, clasping her hauns thegither tae her chest. “Whit aboot that horrible inspector wan? Ah’m bound fur a long jail sentence soon.”
“Look, Sharon, ye’re oot oan bail jist noo. It could take six months before ye come up tae trial. As ye said yersel, it’s your word against his.”
“Bit he’s an inspector.”
“Who’s yer brief?”
“Brief?”
“Lawyer?”
“A Mr Silas. Why?”
“Well, ye kin furget him. Sack him. We’ll put ye in touch wae a much better wan.”
“Will Mr Silas no be upset?”
“Fuck him. It’s no his freedom that’s at stake here.”
“Oh, boys, Ah cannae believe whit’s happening. Ah’ll need tae get changed and round up the lassies. Oh God, they’re no gonnae believe this, so they’re no,” Sharon squealed, starting tae get hersel intae a right flap.
“Aye, well, as long as it’s no before ye make us another wee cup ae tea, Sharon,” Simon suggested.
“Aye, and get they hidden biscuits oot or the deals aff,” Tony threatened her, as Sharon picked up their mugs and Johnboy’s campaign envelope and went through tae the kitchen.
The pair ae them smiled at each other, hearing Sharon humming Jimmy Cliff’s ‘Ye Kin Get It If Ye Really Want,’ as they heard her filling up the teapot wae water fae the tap.
Chapter Fifty
Collette wis glad she’d decided tae grab a taxi insteid ae getting a couple ae buses tae take her doon tae Betty’s Bar oan the Broomie
law, especially efter the strange looks she’d been getting because ae the clothes she wis wearing, while walking alang tae Byres Road fae her flat. It hid been a while since she’d been oan a night oot and she’d be able tae hiv a drink. She sat back and looked oot the windae at her side ae the cab. If she thought the Blythswood and Anderston area ae the city wis creepy efter dark, then this wis in a scary movie league aw oan its ain. The streets and the dark, cobbled lanes that ran aff ae them opposite the Quays wur empty, apart fae the occasional car whizzing past them, some tooting their horns in recognition ae her driver, before their red taillights disappeared intae the dense fog behind them, as they heided towards Partick and beyond. Every twenty yards or so, a solitary figure ae a prostitute stood eerily at the corner ae wan ae the dark, cobbled lanes, looking eagerly at her taxi’s heidlamps as it approached. She thought that she caught the look ae disappointment oan the faces ae a few ae the lassies as they sped past, efter it became clear the taxi wisnae gonnae stoap and drap aff a punter. When she’d enquired why the sex squad wurnae operating doon oan The Broomielaw, that ex-boss ae hers, Sally Burke, hid explained the situation.
“Jist you never mind The Broomielaw, Collette, hen. When it gets tae the stage where some poor wummin ae the night his tae trade her wares doon there, then ye know they’ve hit rock bottom. That’s where maist ae these lassies up here will end up if they’re no lucky enough tae get oot ae the game alive and urnae strangled by some psycho or die ae an overdose.”
The Sarge hid gone oan tae explain that the sex squad left The Broomielaw wummin alane. They wur well oot ae the way, didnae disturb the peace maist ae the time and wur basically oan their last legs. She’d claimed that polis patrols still drove alang fur show, no tae scare aff the wummin, bit tae let the punters entering the area see that the wummin still hid some protection. It wis a well-known fact amongst the emergency services that The Broomielaw wummin wur the maist vulnerable oot ae aw the street walkers in the toon. It wis also a well-known fact amongst those in the know that the wummin wur also mair likely tae be aulder than their counterparts up in Blythswood or across in Anderston. Although maist ae them looked a lot aulder, the majority wid’ve been in their mid tae late thirties. The years ae working oan the streets in aw weathers and hours ae the day and night took an irreversible, horrific toll oan their body and souls, until they ended up pushed doon the ladder by younger, better looking lassies, tae walk the foggy, damp streets and lanes that ran parallel tae the Clyde.
“Ah know this might sound heartless, girls, bit whit ye’re witnessing oot there oan they pavements is called natural selection, so it is,” The Sarge hid pontificated, as she drove the new recruits ae the sex squad in an unmarked car, slowly alang The Broomielaw, at eleven o’clock oan a Friday or Saturday night, as part ae their induction intae wan ae the two sex squads that operated in the city centre. “It’s always been like that and neither you nor I ur gonnae change that, so don’t even think aboot trying.”
In aw the time that Collette hid worked in the toon centre as wan ae the sarge’s ‘street tartlets,’ that hid been the first and the last time, until then, that she’d ever been back doon oan tae The Broomielaw under the cover ae darkness. She doubted very much whether the singing Christian students, who spent their evenings harassing the streetwalker lassies and their punters oan a Friday and Saturday night up in Blythswood, hid ever risked singing oan a street corner alang oan The Broomielaw either. The place wis that bad.
Fae whit she knew fae her work in the sex squad, like the streetwalkers up in Blythswood, maist ae The Broomielaw wummin hid devastating addictions ae some kind, although The Broomielaw wans wur far mair advanced in their addictions and mair vulnerable tae violence being perpetrated against them. According tae an article she’d read in The Sunday Echo recently aboot the constant life and death merry-go-roond ae the streets in the heart ae wan ae the so-called maist modern cities in the world, maist ae the wummin they wur noo whizzing past hid somehow, miraculously, managed tae survive longer than anywan wid’ve gied them credit fur. She’d felt like throwing up when she read the article and hidnae been surprised that it hid been written by a man. Tae read the article, ye wid’ve thought he wis describing the survival odds ae a herd ae buffalo or zebra oot in the hot dusty planes ae Africa insteid ae jist aff Glesga city centre. Somewan hid wance telt her, or she’d picked it up fae some magazine, that nature took nae prisoners, no matter who ye wur or whit class ye claimed tae come fae. If ye happened tae hiv the misfortune ae being stuck doon oan The Broomielaw oan yer lonesome, then ye wur a goner. Whit aw the street wummin hid in common wae each other wis that they wur struggling wae some ae the worst dependencies that life could spew up at them. It could be drugs, drink, debt or the maist deadly ae them aw, men. At the time, listening tae The Gospel According Tae Sally Burke, Collette and aw her fellow street tartlets hid hung oan tae her every word. Everywan in the squad hid seemed so young then…they still wur, even though it seemed so long ago. When she’d stood in that bare room doon in Central, alang wae a bunch ae other new, eager, raw recruits, under an auld sun-faded black and white photo ae the Queen, gieing the oath tae be loyal and tae serve aw the community, aw the time, she hidnae realised until noo, that the oath she’d declared wisnae worth the price ae the black leather-bound bible that she’d been asked tae place her right haun oan. She couldnae remember ever seeing an exclusion list or being asked tae exclude the street walking wummin ae The Broomielaw. It hid been Sally Burke’s choice, and others like her, who took it upon themsels tae decide who should or shouldnae be deserving ae the protection ae the polis in the second city ae the empire. Collette knew fine well that the polis stations across the city wur full ae fine men and wummin who wanted tae and strived tae work hard tae make their city proud ae them. It hid only been since she wis decanted oot ae Central and up tae Possil that she’d wised-up and made some sense ae whit hid been gaun oan roond aboot her. She wis glad her da wisnae alive tae see the mess she’d made ae everything. Of course, since leaving Central, she’d seen the light, bit the damage hid awready been done. Meeting Susan McFarlane and that Willie Burke’s wee sleeping wean up at the canal bridge in Cadder hid been the last piece ae the jigsaw tae drap in tae place. How could she hiv been so bloody stupid tae allow hersel tae be used the way she hid? Somewan like her wisnae supposed tae become a victim ae the polis. Her mission in life hid always been tae support victims insteid ae becoming wan. Where hid it aw gone wrang? Why hid she no seen the signs?
She glanced oot the windae as another lady ae the night disappeared in a flash. She tried, bit failed, tae see if she could recognise a face, bit the driver wis gaun too fast. She knew that a few ae the wummin up in Blythswood and Anderston survived their situation and wur able tae move oan. The Sarge hid pointed oot tae them that by the time the street wummin spiralled doon oan tae the pavements running alangside the Clyde, their appearances wid’ve been a lot different fae the glam look they wid’ve paraded aboot in a few short years earlier. Collette knew that a lot ae The Broomielaw wummin wur walking aboot wae the healed, or some no so healed, knife wound scars oan their faces or bashed-in eye sockets that make-up widnae hiv been able tae hide, even if a trowel hid been used tae cake their make-up oan, efter some madman hid taken a knife tae them before kicking their heid and faces aw o’er the road or pavement efter daeing the business. Sergeant Burke hid telt them that the violence fae a lot ae the men resulted fae some warped guilt exercise and wis an attempt at easing their self-loathing and disgust at themsels, rather than them addressing why they wur picking up a prostitute doon in the dark, manky lanes ae The Broomielaw, by visiting a psychiatrist. She remembered The Sarge assuring them that it wisnae jist auld dirty winos that sought the services ae these aulder, broken wummin, bit high flyers in their big fancy BMWs and Mercs, as well as young trendy boys in their late teens and early twenties.
“They’re the sick wans, girls. They’re the wans that ur likely tae go oan and start murdering and slashing wummin later in life, so th
ey ur,” The Sarge hid assured them wae authority.
James Mackintosh, the thirty-nine year auld city architect fae wan ae the mair prestigious family firms in the toon centre, the father ae three teenage daughters who aw attended private schools, who’d scarred and left Jean Harris fur deid in Bishops Lane, hid been known tae frequent the wummin doon oan The Broomielaw in that big fancy motor ae his. The wummin who’d been convinced or cajoled intae gieing a statement, oan the promise ae anonymity, hid stated that maist ae the wummin avoided him at aw costs, unless they wur desperately in need ae a fix or money tae pay aff some moneylender. He’d been labelled by aw the streetwalkers as ‘The Hurter,’ some ae the wummin hid stated. She looked at the back ae the bald heid ae the driver, sitting in front ae her. Usually she’d be subjected tae a wee running chinwag wae the taxi drivers. No because she enjoyed being chatty wae them bit because, in Glesga, she hidnae come across wan, so far, that could keep his trap shut, unless the fitba wis oan the radio. The wan sitting oan the other side ae the glass up front hidnae said a word…hidnae uttered a sound since she’d sat doon in the back and telt him where she wanted drapped aff. She kept catching him gieing her sly, furtive glances in the wee dashboard mirror that the taxi drivers used tae keep their eyes oan whit the passengers in the back wur up tae. At first, she’d put it doon tae the 1950s bobby-sock outfit she’d managed tae pick up fur pennies fae a couple ae the second-haun shoaps oan Byres Road the day before, bit soon realised that it wis mair tae dae wae the destination than anything she wis wearing.
“Here ye go, hen. Betty’s Bar. That’ll be wan pound ten pence. Ur ye sure ye know whit ye’re daeing…you looking like a nice, clean-looking young doll and aw that?” he’d hit her wae, staring at her round breasts pushing against her white jumper, while haudin oot his palm and missing oot oan a five pence tip fur that last derogatory remark concerning her level ae cleanliness.
She stood and watched him dae a wan hunner and eighty degree turn in wan swift go, before the sound ae the clattering diesel engine disappeared intae the smog. She looked aboot and shivered. The sound ae a foghorn letting loose in the distance and the street lamps barely managing tae force the light doon oan tae reflect aff ae the wet pavement, didnae fill her wae confidence. She hidnae seen or spoken wae Elvis since Streaky John McGinnis wis arrested and charged wae assaulting the pair ae them in the black meat shed up oan Saracen Street. She stepped back oan tae the pavement and looked across the road at the pub as a carload ae young guys thundered past her.