A Decent Ride (23 page)

When he arrives, Kelvin is on the desk. Terry finds it impossible to look into those pinched, shrew-like eyes without the words TAXING CHEAT flashing into his brain. Although Kelvin had never called him, they’d swapped phone numbers as tired business protocol, and he’d punched his digits in under that designation. — Still nae sign ay Jinty? Terry mechanistically enquires.

— Naw, n Vic isnae chuffed, Kevin slyly trills. — He liked tae go a wee bit voodoo oan that scrubber, he volunteers, as Terry keeps his stare trained on him. — Bit ye could check oot that boozer in George Street, the one she goes tae every Setirday night. That Business Bar.

— Right, Terry nods, — ah ken the boy that owns it.

He immediately realises that he shouldn’t have disclosed that information, as it sets off a series of scamming gymnastics in Kelvin’s eyes that would be visible from space.

Then Sara-Ann phones, and Terry picks up to a storm of accusation. — Where are you? Where have you been?

He moves across the reception area, out of Kelvin’s earshot. — Busy, eh.

— I’ll bet! Sara-Ann roars. — You never think about one single soul other than yourself!

Terry is about to disclose his medical condition, but checks himself. A couple of girls are hanging around on the settees, talking and drinking coffee. Besides, rule number one: tell them fuck all. — Ah wis takin muh ma tae visit ma faither in the hoaspital, then helpin a pal look for this lassie in ehs work. He raises his voice to open out his motives. — She’s gone missin.

There follows a short silence on the line, which Terry takes as indicative of some kind of penitence. Then it is followed by a reaching, — When can I see you?

— Ah’ll gie ye a bell the morn. No bein wide, but I’m up tae ma eyes in it right now.

— Make sure you phone me! I need to see you!

A couple of days ago, Terry thought of Sara-Ann as a beautiful woman, feeling exalted in her company. Now that he can’t shag her, all he can see is hassle and need.

THE UNUSUAL SILENCE
on the ride out to Musselburgh – other than Terry’s thin breathing and the ticking over of the engine – is starting to bug the shit outta me. I’m back on my phone, scrolling emails as I look out the window at the sunlight flickering through the threadbare trees. Maybe just a little sign that God ain’t quite given up on this place yet.

Terry must be about the only asshole I’ve never wanted to fire. Why? is the question that bugs me all the way out to the course. I run a business, and the first thing I wanna check is any employee’s résumé. I’m the star (the cocksucking, motherfucking STAR) of a TV show, where I repeatedly stress the same goddamn thing. So why did I hire Terry, some bum from a project, when I know nothing about him? I guess because he wants nothing from me. I guess because he said no. But he’s my fucking
driver
, and he orders me around! I take shit from this asshole that I ain’t taken from
anybody
!

God, give me the power to resist this strangely charismatic corkscrew-headed asshole and his crappy ghetto drugs . . .

But hell, I gotta admit that I hate to see him crushed like this. There must be something I can do to cheer him up. I get a sudden inspiration. — You know, Terry, when I conclude this piece of business and obtain the second and third Bowcullen Trinity bottles, you and I are gonna open one of them, and we are gonna have a big drink from it!

— Aye, Terry says drearily, like I’ve suggested he lives off food stamps for ever, — but you said that the three bottles together were the investment. The big value was in the Trinity, and that two on their ain wirnae worth a sook.

I’m wondering what in hell’s name a ‘sook’ is – probably some Scarish name for a pound or ‘half a quid’ as those assholes put it.

— Hell yeah, but life is to be lived! If I obtain two, they can be the investment. I just let it be known that the third has been consumed. Then the demand for the two existing ones should become even bigger, once we concoct some bullshit story for the media of why we had to drink the third! C’mon! Let’s nail that motherfucker as a goddamn celebration!

Terry doesn’t seem too elated. — You’re countin your chickens, Ronnie, you’ve only got one bottle as things stand. Ye shouldnae take things for granted.

— Sack that loser talk, Terry. Think positive and take life’s prizes! It’s a foregone conclusion. I play off a five handicap, he’s a seven, and I’ve golfed head-to-head six times with that Dutch asshole, and won five of them! C’mon, buddy, think about it, a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of Skatch, the most expensive whisky in the whole wide world
ever
, and
we
are gonna be drinking that sonofabitch . . . I’ll bet you’re excited, huh?

— Cannae wait.

I’m trying to work out what this goddamn mood swing is all about. — That lil thing you’re sweet on been bustin your balls, huh? Ole Occupy? Hell, don’t worry about that shit! What was it you said about buses and broads, right?

Terry’s chewing on his bottom lip, like he’s fixing to say something, but opts to let it pass. We pull up in the parking lot and go to get a drink in the clubhouse. We opted for Musselburgh, as Muirfield is a little too well known. The hallway leading to the bar is dark and narrow. At the end there’s a radiance that hints at light without necessarily promising it. The Skatch seem to have embraced the outside darkness in their architecture and design, which throws up dark corners evoking concealed recesses, but also in the character of its people: full of hidden, bleak chambers. The broker, Milroy, comes in and joins us. He’s a worried-looking undertaker-like dude, close-cut receding hairline and the nervous grey eyes of a trauma victim expecting more shit-kicking pain to come down on his ass. The motherfucker deserving of real agony, though, is that asshole Mortimer, who still hasn’t shown up with the Skatch.

I call him, and he says he’s just left Edinboro airport as his flight from London was delayed. Third World bullshit!

I call Lars to tell him this and he ain’t happy, but he feels better when I suggest a game of golf. He and his henchman, whom Terry shakes hands with, arrive a little while later. Lars says he’s been working on his game and he wants to surprise me when we play off for the Skatch, so he’d rather go round with his own guy, this blond Nazi goon with the laser-blue eyes that seem to be perpetually looking for something to destroy. We let them go ahead, while Milroy and I decide to play each other. Terry’s caddying, or talking sneakily on his cellphone, probably to pussy, maybe even sweet lil Miss Occupy, as the game progresses.

Mortimer eventually arrives, wearing an overcoat and leather gloves, carrying the whisky in an ordinary duffel bag, as I instructed. He makes to open his mouth, but I decide that asshole’s penance will be to come round the course with me. Fuck his stiff Yankee ass! Well, he obliges, but he has that expression on his face, like he’s been rode long and put away wet.

The broker Milroy sure ain’t too bad, playing off a 10 handicap, but there’s a couple of assholes behind us, and at every tee they’re making comments about us being too slow. One guy has dark, greasy hair and a pinched face and he’s constantly blinking, like some subterranean creature unaccustomed to even this meagre light. The other asshole, chunkier, brown hair, is almost immobile, but his eyes move slyly in his head. They both stink of lowlife and trouble. Then at the ninth hole, a narrow fairway, surrounded by thick trees, just as I’m about to tee off, the gaunt-faced prick shouts to me that they wanna go first!

— What? I can’t believe my ears.

— You have to wait your turn in line, Mortimer says.

The cretin ignores Mortimer and stares at me. — Youse boys are too fuckin slow. Ridic.

— You’ll wait your goddamn turn! Who the hell do you assholes think you are?

— Fuck you, ya Yank cunt, greasy locks says, and he jumps forward and pushes his face into mine! He made minimal contact, but it
was
contact, so, thinking litigation, I stagger back, bending and holding my nose, like I see those faggot soccer players do on TV.

— Asshole! You see what he did? You all see that?

— You are in serious legal trouble, Mortimer barks, coming to my aid, helping me straighten up. So does Milroy, who asks if my nose is broken.

— I hardly touched him, the perpetrator shouts. — No contact!

Then Terry springs forward. — Ah’ll show ye fuckin contact, ya cunt, and he grabs the putting iron and drives it right into the greasy-headed perpetrator’s shin!

The jerk-off screams out and falls to the ground. — Ya bastirt . . . yuv broke ma fuckin leg, he screams, looking up at us.

— Brek yir skull next time, ya fuckin wide cunt, Terry glares down at him. The perp’s better-built buddy is standing there, balling and unballing his hands. — You wantin this wrapped roond yir fuckin puss? Terry says.

— Nup, the brown-haired asshole says and starts backing the fuck off!

I’m shaking off Mortimer’s attentions, and pointing at the perp, whose friend is helping him away. — You attacked us, and I am gonna sue your asses!

— He hit ma mate! The perp’s buddy points at Terry.

— This was self-defence, you goddamn motherfucking white-trash assholes!

— Aye, git tae fuck, ya muppets, goan! Terry shouts, wielding the putter. So the guys take their stuff and head off, the limping asshole supported by his buddy.

— Thanks, Terry. I nod to Mortimer. — We gotta call the police –

— Naw, leave it, Terry says. — Remember, ye keep the polis oot ay everything. Fuck sakes, Ronnie, yir meant tae be a rebel, a fuckin outlaw, no some privileged Ivy League cunt, and he looks at Mortimer, who has to eat that one up!

Terry’s got me kinda thinking there. — I guess, but he –

— You’re okay, the boy wis jist showin oaf and tryin tae intimidate ye. If eh’d wanted tae really nut ye eh could’ve. He’s in a far worse state thin you.

— I’m loath to admit it, but he’s right, Mortimer says. — You’ve had some bad publicity with the police here, Ron. We don’t want anything else that might compromise the East Lothian deal.

I’m looking at the asshole limping away with his buddy. Then I fix Terry in a big grin. — You sure fucked up those assholes! Dammit, Terry, you’re a pretty wild fellah!

— Mair ay a lover than a fighter, Ronnie, or at least ah wis. But ah’ve eywis believed in the one decisive blow. Ask thum a wee question: lit thum fuck off or git serious.

— Wow . . . I track those no-good project-bums heading behind the trees, making for the clubhouse and parking lot. — What if they got serious?

— Then it’s ambulance time, Terry laughs, — usually for me, likes. Hud a bit ay a rep as a hard cunt, back in the day, likes. Ken how ah got it?

— I guess through taking no shit?

— Nup. A myth.

— By having bad-ass associates?

— Now we’re getting somewhere. That was a big part ay it: knowing whae tae befriend. But most of all, it was by pickin ma opponents carefully. Terry glances up towards the clubhouse. The assholes are now outta sight. — These boys were gaunny dae nowt: could tell by lookin at them.

— Picking your battles is always good advice, and I look witheringly at Mortimer as Lars and his buddy, who witnessed the commotion from way over on the eleventh, are heading towards us.

Lars is pretty excited. — What was happening? Was there a fight? Jens could –

— Terry fixed everything, and fixed it
good
, I tell them.

— Where is the whisky? Lars asks.

— It’s here. Milroy looks at Mortimer, who picks up the duffel bag and opens it.

I can instantly tell by Mortimer’s face that something is horrendously, fatally wrong. It’s like a wrenching hand, inside my fucking guts. I’m looking to the skies, sucking in air, trying to get some divine inspiration.

Please God . . .

— It’s gone! Mortimer squeals. — It can’t have, it’s been by my side all the time . . .

PLEASE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY, INFINITE MASTER OF ALL, DO NOT LET THIS BE HAPPENING TO ME!!

— Did you . . .? I look to the clubhouse . . .

Please God . . .

There’s no sign of those assholes . . .

— When ah whacked that guy, or before, did youse see one ay them lift that bottle oot that bag? Terry asks, looking urgently at me, then Mortimer.

— I don’t – I don’t think so. Mortimer’s squealing like some leather-clad faggot cruising New York City’s Meatpacking District!

— I . . . I dunno . . . I can’t goddamn think straight, I’m telling him, — I had my face covered when he hit me, I didn’t –

— What is this?! Lars booms out.

— I’m sure they had a bag . . . it was similar . . . they might have picked up the wrong one. Mortimer’s throat bobs.

— Listen, Terry shouts, looking at me, — I dinnae agree wi gettin the polis involved in anything, ever. But I’m kind ay thinkin now might be the time tae eat humble pie . . .

— I’ll call them! Milroy the broker screeches.

— You have . . . you lost our whisky! Lars gasps right in my face.

But I’m looking at Mortimer. — You bastard . . . you inadequate, incompetent asshole! You and me, we are fucking finished! You are so yesterday’s news! Consider your ass fired!

Mortimer looks at Milroy, then me. — But I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . . what about the East Lothian deal?

— FUCK THAT BULLSHIT!!! THOSE ASSHOLES HAVE MY WHISKY! DON’T YOU GET IT!? I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ANY LAND OR DEVELOPMENT DEALS! I DO NOT CARE ABOUT ANYTHING OTHER THAN MY SKATCH!!! FIRED! FIRED! FIRED! GET OUT OFF MY SIGHT!

Mortimer takes a few paces back, blinking and swallowing, but he doesn’t go. Lars steps right in front of me. — It is
our
whisky, and if it is gone you have to put up your own bottle, he moans, — because half of that is now mine!

— If you’ve . . . I spit out, looking him in the eye.

He gives me a gunfighter stare back. — I have done nothing! This is your folly, or your games!

— There are no games, I shout back at him, as I see Mortimer tremble, and Milroy is on the line to the cops, frantically giving them the details of the robbery.