by Irvine Welsh
— Sortay like that fulum, The Transporter?
— Exactly.
— But, eh, what is in it, likesay?
Mikey gies ays a grim smile. Looks around, lowers ehs voice, leans intae ays. — A kidney, Spud. A human kidney: for a life-saving operation.
Uh-oh. Ah’m no sure aboot this, man. — What? Is that no illegal, smuggling body parts, like the invasion ay the bodysnatchers n aw that?
Mikey shakes ehs heid again. — This is aw kosher, buddy boy. We’ve goat a certificate for it, the lot. Ye cannae open the boax cause it’s aw sealed n sterile, wi the kidney packed in ice or some frozen cauld chemical that isnae ice but works like ice.
— It isnae ice?
— Naw, but it works like ice. Like what they’ve invented tae replace ice.
— Replace ice … Whoa, man, no sae sure aboot that. Ice is pure natural like, well, it’s usually made artificially in fridges like, but in its natural state in the polar regions –
Mikey waves ehs hand n shakes ehs heid. — Naw, Spud. No in likes ay drinks n that, eh laughs, hudin up his pint. — But it works better freezin organs.
— Keeps thum tip-top till auld transplant, likesay?
— Bang on the money! Ye open the boax n the cunt starts tae deteriorate n it’s fuckin useless, ay?
— But the transportation ay this, man, is it no a bit dodgy?
— Well, ye cannae take it through airport security, but ye kin git it oan trains easy enough. A boy meets ye wi it at the Istanbul airport and you just jump oan the train tae Berlin. Another gadge picks it up, you bounce tae the airport in a Joe Baxi n head hame, five hundred bar richer. N that’s eftir ah front ye another five hundred bar right now. Cannae say fairer than that.
Five hundred bar … right now … — Whaes kidney is it?
— A doner’s.
— Like some deid gadgie’s?
— Aye … well, no necessarily, cause ye can live fine wi just one, Mikey says, then goes aw thoughtful. — It might be somebody daein this for one ay thair family. Ah dinnae ken. Ah’m no gaunny say tae Vic Syme … n eh looks at ays n droaps ehs voice, — ah’m no gaunny say tae the boy that runs the saunas, where’s this came fae and where’s it gaun? Ma motto is ask nae questions n yi’ll git telt nae lies. Here’s aw the paperwork, eh sais n passes ays a certificate.
It looks like something ye could git oaf that Internet, likesay download, so ah suppose that makes it sortay official enough. — It’s goat tae be snide though … Vic Syme, likesay … ah goes. Dinnae ken the boy but that jungle cat has the rep ay bein a sabre-toothed killer.
— Well, mate, there’s ey gaunny be risks, n it’s obviously black-market goods, it’ll be some private clinic daein the op, aye. But the job’s yours if ye want it, Mikey sais. — Aw ah kin say is that they’ve been daein a lot ay this sortay stuff and thuv no hud any bother yet, n eh pits an envelope stuffed wi readies oan the table.
Ah think aboot this, a wee adventure, and lit’s face el factos, thaire’s nowt else doon fir ays. — No sayin nowt against naebody, Mikey, but ur they people, likesay Vic Syme, ur they trustworthy, ken? Ah’m no wantin in if naebody is trustworthy.
— Spud, you ken me, Mikey shrugs.
N it’s true, cause ah’ve sort ay kent um for years. N eh’s no ey been trustworthy ehsel, but ah’ve no either. Mibbe he’s changed n aw. Ye huv tae gie folks the benefit ay the doubt. He’s giein me a second chance, so ah’ve goat tae gie him yin. Ah’ve nowt tae lose. — Aye, sound, n ah reaches ower n takes the envelope, like that boy in Mission: Impossible, the wee gadgie in Hollywood that wis in Top Gun wi the barry bird wi the great hair that ye nivir hear nowt aboot now. The tape or whatever’s inside disnae self-destruct but, so it’s aw good! — Ah wisnae tryin tae be wide, or cast any aspersions, Mikey, that wis jist me daein ma due diligence, ken?
— Nae offence taken, bud. Goat tae keep the heid screwed oan. Ah’d be much mair nervous giein the joab tae some daftie that wisnae askin they sort ay questions. Gies ays confidence that ah’ve picked the right boy for the mission!
N eh pure yazed the word mission, which makes ays feel barry. We clink glesses. — Aye, man, ah’ll dae it awright.
— Great, kent ah could count oan ye, ma auld mucker, Mikey goes. — N Spud, try n tidy yirsel up a wee bit, ay, mate?
Ah ken that Mikey’s no bein wide, eh jist doesnae want ays likesay standin oot gaun through Checkpoint Charlie or wherever it is. — Wi this dosh, the answer tae that is basically, aye, catboy.
5
RENTON – CLIENT CONFIDENTIALITY
I love dance music, but draw the line at DJs: pish situation tae be in when you’re a manager ay them. It never used tae be like that – some DJs were fuck-ups, aye, but most weren’t, they were just people who loved clubs and dance music. That changed when those entitled straight-peg millennial cunts took ower – a very general rule of thumb, and aye, exceptions abound but: the more money they get paid, the mair ay a prick the DJ is. So as I made poppy, I worked with mair grandiose, vainglorious arseholes, then, after I built his career, one ay the fuckers sacked me – Ivan – long-haired, silent Belgian cunt – it happens – it’s no a hard-luck story, ah’ve done okay, jist an illustration that you need a thick fucking skin in this game. I have to get those DJ cunts out their fucking beds in the afternoon, procure them drugs fae scumbag promoters, sometimes pull them oot ay the fuckin jail, and even mair galling, argue the toss with corporate lackeys about publishing royalties. But the worst ay it: I have tae try tae get the bastards laid – this is no always as easy as it soundzzzz –
Lying on my bed in a truly sybaritic penthouse suite in this Vegas hotel. It’s divided into two bedrooms, each with a marble bathroom, and a large living room with a luxury kitchen and an ornate fireplace. Of course, it’s on account and a tax write-off, but I’m so jet-lagged after this Edinburgh–London–Amsterdam–Barcelona–LA–Vegas travelthon that I scarcely know where the fuck I am or what I’m meant to be doing, in fact I’m unable to grab hud ay a single thought. Despite having slid just one solitary Ambien (and a Vallie) down the hatch, this fucking laughing gas they pump intae the room, tae keep ye at the tables doonstairs twenty-four/seven, ensures sleep remains beyond ays. All I can dae now is lie back and catch up on Game of Thrones. Then a rap on my door, and I pull my carcass off the bed and let Conrad in. The Technonerd felly comes right tae the point. — I cannot sleep now, and I will not later in the morning in Los Angeles. I need to be with a woman!
— Fine. I freeze the image on the screen, and sit up, my head woozy. Dinnae ken if I buy Jon Snow coming back from the dead, but that’s a straightforward task compared tae mine. Conrad was a leanish young Dutch boy just two years ago. Then he started spunking a fair chunk ay his new-found wealth on food, and the cunt isnae that discerning. What’s sadder than a young millionaire ordering the limo tae pull up ootside a fuckin McDonald’s? When you’re the daft cunt that has tae go in and buy the shit that’s sending his cash cow tae type 2 diabetes. He literally cannae stoap eating. It’s aw tae dae wi the munchies, cause eh smokes tons ay weed. Now, at twenty-two, the cunt is a wheezing tub ay lard. I can feel my ain arteries furring just by standin next tae him.
— But the woman has to be dark-haired, Conrad’s round, entitled baby-face insists, the whistle of his Dutch voice exacerbated by the thin gasp ay burgeoning respiratory disease. — And she has to have medium-sized breasts; they cannot be small, but they must not be too heavy and pendulous. No implants. And lips that are full, but natural –
I cut him off. — Conny, you’ve obviously been wanking off tae porn. Just cut tae the chase and show me the adult entertainment performer who is blessed tae be the object of this superstar DJ’s desire.
He looks briefly at me as if irony is something he almost gets, and pulls out his phone. Fortunately, the porn star has a website and does escort services, and is based in LA. If I can deliver her it saves me spending fucking years in a futile search for a lassie that looks like her. When you’re doi
ng this on behalf of somebody else, it’s the most spirit-crushing employment imaginable. It will cost a pretty penny but that sad little twat is the one bringing in the cash, which makes me just about the most pathetic cunt in Christendom. — If you want this yin, it’ll have to wait till the wee small hours of the morning, when we get back to LA. If your needs are immediate, there’s an agency here in Vegas I can call –
— Fuck those tacky Vegas bitches, they just see money, he snaps.
— Well, that tends tae come with the territory. Like prostitution, ken? At least Conny, being Dutch, gets it when I say ken. In Dutch the verb kenen is also ‘to know’.
— But it is no good if they cannot act with sophistication.
Of course he’s right; the most successful hoors are those who dinnae act like they are. That’s why the high-end escorts get top dollar: it’s the emotional labour they excel at. Conrad believes Vegas is too replete wi one-off out-ay-towners, rather than repeat business. He looks crabbily at me, opening a packet ay crisps fae my well-stocked kitchen area. His suite is next door and he’s probably already cleaned oot its contents as well as hammered room service. — Set me up with this Brandi girl tonight, he says, grabbing a PowerBar as he leaves.
It takes ays twenty minutes to get in touch and conclude the deal, even wi the usual ‘client confidentiality’ speech thrown in. The woman is very cool and businesslike, dispensing wi the breathless baby-doll tones once ah tell her I’m working on behalf ay some other cunt. I then call Conrad. — She’ll be waiting at the Standard around 4 a.m., when we get back to LA.
I hit the hay and believe that I’m actually about to drift off, when the cunt is back hammering at my door again. — I still cannot sleep.
— Here … I go to my drawer and pull out some Ambien. — Take two ay these. I drop the wee browny-orange pills intae an upturned duvet-like hand. I don’t feel good about doing this. I’m trying to sack those bastards myself, so it’s a bit naughty passing them on.
— Okay … and why am I staying at the Standard? I like the Chateau Marmont, he moans.
Too fucking bad: I have a discount deal with the Standard. — Fully booked, bud, I lie, knowing he’s too lazy tae check, — and besides, the honeys, the Glen Hoddles and the Hollywood starlets all party at the Standard these days. It’s hot again.
— West Hollywood or Downtown?
— The West Hollywood one.
Conrad’s doughy fingers rip open a packet of gum. He offers me a stick. I decline. — They say the downtown Standard is more awesome. He opens two gums and crams them into his mouth.
— I’d dispute that. Downtown gets the arty crowd, but West Hollywood is certainly better for the Gary Busey. I check his face for signs ay understanding. He smiles, starting tae get the rhyming slang. — And most of our business is around there. You don’t want tae be stuck in motors on choked freeways. Ye ken how you get in cars wi the motion sickness.
As he sulks in compliance, I feel like my dad must have on family outings; North Berwick, Kinghorn and Coldingham. Those stone beach picnics, under dull, cloudy skies in a freezing cauld wind. Not too much ay that ice cream, it’ll make ye sick. No wonder we became fucking drug addicts. Never mind deindustrialisation: sugar and biting-cold wind played their part.
Conrad leaves again – the Ambien must have relaxed him – and there are nae mair interruptions. I drift off intae a fucking weird kip where all my life’s confusions are given the Salvador Dali remix, whirling around in my head. When I wake up I’m more exhausted than ever. I lie in bed most ay the day, sending emails on my laptop, and avoiding phone calls.
In the evening I’ve booked a bunch of us in for dinner at the Wing Lei, the wonderful fine-dining Chinese joint at the Wynn Hotel. It’s one ay my favourite spots. With its warm and lavish but somehow sedate gold furnishings and lush gardens, it does what the very best places in Vegas do: make ye forget you’re in Vegas. It’s also the first Chinese restaurant in America tae be awarded a Michelin star. In addition tae Conrad and Emily, who I aim tae have supporting him here eventually, though not tonight, we have Jensen, a hanger-on mate ay my superstar DJ. He’s an annoying buck-toothed wee cunt with a black fringe that hangs in his eyes, but strangely useful tae have around as he distracts Conrad fae hassling ays. Mitch, the promoter, is also present. Carl, as usual, who is opening, hasn’t shown up yet. It was a major endeavour on my part tae convince Conrad no tae remove him fae the bill after the dickhead incident.
And now my two other guests arrive. Francis James Begbie and his wife Melanie have driven to Vegas in a hire car, making a big desert road trip out of it, a diversionary night in Palm Springs thrown in. Like lovers do. They can fly back with us on the rented jet, which takes less than an hour. Some cunts say private jet. It’s a rented jet ride and tax-deductible. Again, propaganda designed to intimidate and inspire awe in the masses. I don’t know of any star musician who is silly enough to run a private jet. Just hire one when you need it.
Melanie has her hair pinned up and wears a stylish mauve-coloured party dress. Franco sports a white shirt and black jeans. His hair is number-two short. Once we’d only sit down tae grease in some grubby Leith cafe together, nursing brutal hangovers. Now good food is a vice we share and our meets are always in a nice restaurant. After introducing them to everyone, I run a proposition past him. — Listen, this Edinburgh exhibition you’ve got in May; how do you fancy us putting a party on? I can get my DJs tae play there. Carl Ewart will love it, I offer, wondering where the fuck he is, again checking my phone for messages, as a waiter delivers sizzling ribs on two platters. Desperate bullets of sweat shoot from Conrad as the dish is laid in the centre of the table, far fae his clammy grasp. — What about it, Frank?
As Franco hesitates, Melanie intervenes. — Oh, that sounds great!
— Nah. No wanting any fuss, ay? Frank Begbie shakes his head. — Back over there, right in, right out, he says, as I catch Conrad lunging for glory, literally pushing Jensen aside to get at the goods.
— It’s no bother, Franco. Least I can do, I say, glancing doon the table tae marvel at my superstar DJ. He’s filled his plate up and is working hard on a pile of ribs and barbecue sauce, while absent-mindedly chatting tae Emily. Fuck me, I’m sure I heard the words ‘track’ and ‘studio’.
— C’mon, Jim! Melanie urges.
— Okay, Franco smiles, — but it’s against ma better judgement.
— Oh, and another thing, I drop my voice, bending in close to him, — I have that money for you.
Franco falls silent for a few long seconds. — It’s cool, mate. We’re sound, he emphasises. — Just nice tae see ye again, out here in America, daein so well. He takes in the stylised opulence ay the restaurant. — Life is weird, ay?
I can only agree wi that contention, but as I prepare tae get back onto the cash theme, Carl arrives, gaunt-faced, and wearing a Stetson and shades. He’s with this woman, late twenties, blonde hair with crimson tendrils, sly eyes, whom he introduces as Chanel Hemmingworth, a journalist on a dance-music website. — She’s doing a piece on me.
He briefly chats to Franco about Juice Terry, Billy Birrell and some other old names, before heading to the other end of the table to join Chanel. Conrad looks at him in a forced disdain. As Carl displays classic coked-upness, eating very little and ranting, Conrad is eavesdropping desperately. I’m trying to blank out his bullshit but in a conversation lull I catch a sleazy, cruisy, — I’m addicted to women but also allergic to them, so that’s a bad mix.
Chanel Hemmingworth stays cool; she’s obviously been in this situ before.
Checking my watch, I shout for the tab, settle up, and herd those unruly cats doon tae the club. Forget procuring sexual services: this is the hardest part ay the job. Vegas clubs have shitloads of security, so we have tae go through a labyrinth of basement corridors, even being diverted through a sweaty, fully-staffed kitchen (that a superstar DJ is treated to such indignities annoys Conrad, while the sizzling food preparations torment him), b
efore we get tae the premier VIP box, located behind the DJ booth wi its decks and mixing desk. Carl’s been dragging his flight case ay records wi him, perspiring like a Thatcher Cabinet minister wi the education portfolio up for grabs, and looking dangerously red. When we arrive, he makes straight for the giant bottle ay iced voddy clocked by a sexy hostess, who pre-emptively fixes him a drink. As Carl takes his refreshment and slips into the DJ booth and Conrad scans the crowd, I offer everybody earplugs. Melanie accepts; Emily and Franco don’t. — It gets loud, I warn, placing mine lightly in. — I’m not losing my hearing for a fucking DJ. You shouldn’t risk yours.
— Go on, Jim, Melanie urges.
Franco reluctantly takes the plugs. — I’ve never really been yin for dance music.
— You still a Rod Stewart fan?
— Aye, still dinnae mind a bit ay Rod, but have ye heard Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy?
— Wisnae too keen. It’s no a real Guns N’ Roses album, it doesnae have Slash oan the guitar.
— Aye, but the boy who plays guitar is fuckin better than Slash, he says, suddenly sounding like Begbie again, before inserting the plugs to eradicate any objections I might make.
Carl is a bit fucked and his hour warm-up set, spinning old vinyl on record decks that naebody has used for a decade or more, doesnae go doon that well. I always phone ahead to tell them to dig out old-school Technics turntables as the cunt still insists on spinning vinyl. They think it’s a joke at first, then they generally curse me tae fuck. Some flat refuse: albino Luddite intransigence has cost us bookings. And it’s not as if anybody here gives a fuck about his deep-house music. The Vegas weekend shagger crowd craves only the big names in EDM. They sit at their tables getting loaded on peeve, and hit the floor en masse when Conrad waddles intae the booth tae replace Carl. The star’s gig is pretty damn good if ye like that sort ay seedy table-service pseudo-prostitution deal, which I dinnae. Tae me, the brand ay jumpy cut-up EDM shit Conrad has adopted – lucratively, so I cannae criticise him – is a fucking misnomer. It’s totally undanceable, but the brostep frat-boy crowd and the husband-hunting suburban bimbettes lap him up.