Gutted (26 page)

‘No you’re not.’

I took a few steps, turned to see Jonny spraying Gold Spot on his tongue. He looked smug; I’d be wiping that look off his chops before long.

I trudged off, collar up, into the rain.

Got as far as the Tesco Metro on the corner when I noticed two raincoats following me, making it all too obvious what they were
about
. I stopped and pretended to read an ad in the window for Nigella Lawson’s latest cookbook. The raincoats stopped behind me, stamped their feet.

Thought: Fuck me.

SPARKED UP A
bensons, my last one. Scrunched the pack, dropped it in the bin. Made a show of looking up and down the street. I darted for a newsagent’s across the road. My fan club followed suit while I smoked the cig near to the filter.

Outside the shop, I stubbed my tab. Went in.

‘Twenty Marlboro, mate . . . red top.’

Paid the man, then made a call on my mobi.

‘Hod, you about?’

‘Fucksake, Gus . . . where you been?’

I stalled him, ‘Around.’

‘Don’t give me that – where?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Well, yes, actually . . . we’ve had a bit of a stroke of luck.’

Luck. What was that? ‘Do tell.’

‘Well, my dog-fighting contacts came up trumps.’

‘You what?’

A sigh on the other end of the line. ‘We have a pit fight on.’

I knew where he was going with this: catch Sid in the act, see who was pulling his levers. But I also needed to grab hold of the dog-torturing wee bastards. Things were getting desperate.

I played Hod along: ‘Good.’

‘“Good”. That it?’

‘Well, I’ve kinda got a fair whack on my mind right now, Hod.’

‘What’s up?’

It was time to spill. ‘I had my collar felt again. Now I’ve got two of Lothian’s finest clocking my every move.’

‘
Christ
.’

‘What’s he got to do with it? Although they do look a bit like Jehovah’s on the door-to-door.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Just out the nick.’

‘Got any ideas?’

‘You know me – Mr Creative.’

‘Well, c’mon, let’s hear it.’

I filled Hod in. Told him to jump in his motor and wait for me outside the Cameo cinema. I tucked away my mobi, hit the street again.

I took plod onto Lothian Road. At St Cuthbert’s Church I stalled, took a deck at the graveyard. They have a watchtower in there, a remnant of Burke and Hare’s grave-robbing antics. I always stop to stare at it – reminds me there’s more to this city than most people imagine.

Made for the Lavazza coffee stall and bought up a large black. Kept my shakes at bay till I could get hold of something stronger.

A Romanian beggar approached me. She carried a cardboard sign that read:
PLEASE HELP ME FEED CHILD
.
GOD BLESS YOU
. I looked at her. Her face was dark, heavily lined. She wore a red shawl; intricate stitching and beads fell all the way round the edge of her face. Below she seemed to be wrapped in a blanket. Popping out beneath were a set of Nikes, the swoosh on show.

She made to open her mouth, brought pinched fingers up. Thought: The international symbol for
I’m friggin’ hungry
, right?

I said, ‘You want a feed?’

She looked at me, put out her hand.

I’d read a story in the local paper recently, said people had reported seeing vanloads of these Romanian beggars being dropped off at strategic locations around the city. I thought it sounded like
a
typical slow news day beat-up. This woman looked dirt poor, starving.

I pressed: ‘Look, you want food? I’ll buy you something to eat.’

She put her hand out, ran a finger over the palm. ‘Money. Money.’

I shook my head. ‘No. I’ll buy you food.’ Slit the air between us with my palms. ‘No money.’

Her face turned, twisted. The teeth gritted as she ranted at me in Romanian, a hail of curses, then she spat at my feet. Could have sworn I heard laughter following me; turned to check my stalkers were still on plan.

Guess she wasn’t so hungry after all. Was that me cursed now?

I made my way up to the top of Lothian Road and followed the dog-leg round to the Cameo cinema. It is one of the few remaining places in the city you can go that hasn’t been taken over by one of the multinational chains. Still looks like a cinema – cornicing, old-fashioned balconies, ornate plasterwork. Not a hint of plastic cup-holders. It still has chairs that feel like they’re stuffed with horsehair.

The Cameo is said to be Quentin Tarantino’s favourite picture house in the world. I would have thought Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood might have the edge, but what do I know? That’s the thing about your home city: you lose sight of its charms. It takes the tourists, the visitors, to point them out to you sometimes. I know one thing for sure – we lose the Cameo, this place would be poorer for it. We’ve lost too much of the old stuff already.

I ordered up a ticket to the matinee:
3:10 to Yuma
. Was a remake starring Russell Crowe. Christ, have they made an original film in the last ten years? Still, wasn’t intending to watch the thing anyway. Would serve my purposes.

I got myself settled in the very last row. End seat, nearest the door.

Watched as plod came in. There was some confusion.

Heard, ‘Shit.’

Some tutting.

They opted for the same row as me. Other side of the cinema. What choice did they have? Sit in front of me? Unlikely.

The dodgy cinema ads were mercifully short. Must save the long-play ones for the later shows. Trailers for a few soon-to-be-released films, then we were into Crowe strutting his stuff. Carrying a few more pounds, I thought. His co-star was Christian Bale. Obviously going for the Antipodean crew; probably shot in the outback too. Was looking to be not too bad a flick, quite getting into it when I remembered why I was there.

My first move was to loosen my belt.

Had the entire length wrapped round my hand when I stood up, stretched. Saw plod get jumpy at my side. Shifted uneasily in their seats. I was about, say thirty or forty yards from them. Maybe another twenty to the doors. Figured that gave me a bit of time to get a start on them.

I sat back down.

Fired off a quick text to Hod. It read:
You set?

He replied:
In place
.
Outside Cameo
.

In a second, I vaulted the back of the chair, made for the doors. As I ran, I unfurled my belt, caught the buckle in my hand.

On the other side of the doors, I fed the belt through the handles, drew it together, fastened it on the last notch. It held tight.

I was off, chanking it for the street.

I could hear the thumping on the cinema doors as I got to the foyer.

Outside, I flashed my eyes left, right.

A blast of horn. Hod’s tyres screeched.

I jumped towards the road.

The car just about mounted the pavement, then, ‘Get in!’

I wasn’t about to argue.

HOD BURNED RUBBER
down Lothian Road, spun at the lights and snaked round the castle. Pedestrians flagged us to go slow. I thought they had a point.

‘Hod, there’s no benefit dumping plod to get done for sixty in a thirty zone.’

He settled. ‘Right, where we going?’

‘What do you mean
we
?’

He lifted hands off the wheel, slapped them back down. Gripped tight. ‘Gus, c’mon, we’re a team, right?’

‘Uh-uh, buddy. Teams I don’t do.’

‘But I thought—’

‘Hod, whoa-whoa! . . . Let me do the thinking, eh?’

He drove on, occasional scratch at his thickening beard, and soon we were on South Clerk Street, heading for North Bridge. At Hunter Square there used to be a heavy-duty drinking school. Had attracted protests from the retailers. The police had promised a clean-up. At the high point, upwards of fifty jakeys were seen in the square at any one time, pished up and ready to rumble. Not a pretty sight. Not good for the tourists. And
that
would
never
do.

I said, ‘Where’s the jakey brigade?’

‘On the square? Gone.’

Last I looked, they were still in full attendance, said, ‘How did they manage that?’

‘Simple, really.’

He was playing coy. I said, ‘Nothing in this city is simple. C’mon, spill it.’

‘Well, y’know they tried just about everything – locking them up, arrests, bans, warrants . . . even a twenty-four-hour police presence, just about.’

‘Yeah, and none of it worked.’

‘Until some bright spark had a brainwave.’

‘Which was?’

‘Why don’t we start pouring their drink away in front of them?’

I looked out at the square: not a jakey in sight. ‘Worked like a charm, Hod.’

‘Well, you think about it – what’s the one thing that’s gonna put the frighteners on a jakey?’

I got the point.

‘By the way, you didn’t—’

‘Glovebox.’

I opened the panel in front of me. A half-bottle of Grouse stared back. Said, ‘Thanks, Hod.’ Added, ‘Yer all right, yer all wrong.’ Real Scottish wisdom; defies explanation.

We crossed the bridge. Hod took the lights, headed round to George Street. Place was heaving – lot of French Connection bags, some Prada. Hard Rock Cafe doing a bustling trade; doorman putting up the stanchions with the red ropes already. Man, it was boom time in Edinburgh.

‘So where to?’ asked Hod. A set of shades and he could have been Teen Wolf.

‘From the sublime to the ridiculous.’

‘Come again?’

‘Sighthill.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

I turned, pointed to my chops. ‘Does this face lie?’

He drove on.

I changed the station on the radio, got some shock jock ranting about Polish plumbers. Apparently there were two busloads of Poles turning up in St Andrew Square every week. The homeless hostels all had to have a full-time Polish speaker on every shift now. Not all Edinburgh’s streets were paved with gold.

‘Bring ’em on, bring ’em on . . .’ went the shock jock. ‘My brother’s a plumber, and he’s never had it so good, cleaning up after the mess these unlicensed, unregulated, untrained,
unreal
Polish plumbers are making in our homes . . .’

Hod laughed. ‘It’s true . . . they’re all shite!’

Couldn’t all be bad, said, ‘Well, why do they hire them?’

‘Same old, same old . . . they’re cheap!’

Made sense, of a sort.

I flicked. Found Thin Lizzy doing ‘Jailbreak’. Would do for me.

I changed tack, ‘So, dog fights . . . what’s the rundown?’

‘I have a pick-up.’

‘You what?’

‘A point of contact – we go there on the night, we get given the location and follow on.’

‘Right, like a convoy.’

Hod raised a thumb, made to pull an imaginary truck horn. ‘Bang on.’

‘Bit organised for yobbos.’

‘Gus, none of these boys are lightweights. Your little schemie skanks are likely up to their nuts in some dirty business. Whoever’s stamping their meal ticket ain’t gonna be a pushover. The whole pit-fight scene is serious, serious hardcore shit.’

I got the picture. I saw it had changed a little, but only a little. The fact remained: I wasn’t getting answers from the young crew without some persuasion.

Took out my mobile. ‘Turn down the radio, Hod.’

‘Who you calling?’

‘A contact.’

I dialled Fitz’s number. Got right to the point: ‘Fitz, it’s Gus.’

‘Dury, by the holy, that was some stint ye—’

‘Fitz, later, later . . . I need to know about that stuff I asked you about the Corrado.’

‘Dury, ’tis not news ye’ll like.’

‘Try me.’

‘Well, hold on . . .’ I heard rustling; he moved some papers on his desk, opened a drawer, closed it again. ‘Right, here we are.’

‘I’m waiting.’

‘Well, there’s twenty, no, twenty-plus, in the immediate vicinity.’

‘You shit me?’

‘Popular car.’

‘Fucking hell. They’ve stopped making them – how popular can it be?’

‘Ah, now, ’tis what ye might call popular with a certain
section
of the community.’

‘Fucking boy racers.’

‘Ye wouldn’t be far wide of the mark there, Dury.’

I rested my head on my hand. I didn’t have the time to check twenty addresses for these little pricks. ‘Fitz, any listed in Sighthill, or Wester Hailes?’