The Long Glasgow Kiss (19 page)

‘I like it here,’ I said. ‘I told you that. I also like being able to do anything I can for the girls.’ I referred to Fiona White’s daughters.

‘We don’t need charity, Mr Lennox. We don’t need anything from you.’ The thaw had been brief and false. She put the sherry glass down on the table and stood up abruptly. ‘If that’s everything, Mr Lennox, then I’d better get back to the girls.’

‘What is it you resent about me, Mrs White?’ I said. ‘Is it that I’m a Canadian? Is it my line of work? Or is it simply the fact that I’m here?’

That did it. We moved from a chill in the air to a positive Ice Age.

‘And just what is that meant to mean?’

‘I mean that I’m here. That I came back. I survived and your husband didn’t. Sometimes I think you resent me because I represent everyone who did come back from the war.’

She turned and headed for the door. I went over and placed my hand on the door handle. I was going to open the door for her, but she clearly misread my intent and pulled at my hand on the knob. It was a tight grip: warm, slim fingers strong on my wrist. She was close to me now, her body inches from mine. I could smell the sherry on her breath. The scent of lavender on her neck. We both froze for a moment, our eyes locked. She was breathing hard. I wasn’t breathing at all. It was a second that seemed to last forever, then she snatched open the door and stormed down the stairs.

‘Goodnight, Mr Lennox,’ she said, her back to me, her voice unsteady.

‘Mrs White … Fiona …’

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, and without looking round, she slammed the door of her flat behind her.

I went back into my flat and poured myself another whisky. Probably to celebrate my diplomatic skills and to commemorate the last time I had been in a situation so charged with sexual tension. I idly wondered what had happened to Maisie MacKendrie, with whom I’d danced at the Saint John Presbyterian Church Social when we were both fifteen.

But that wasn’t all I reflected on. I sipped at my whisky contemplatively. I had a lot to contemplate.

Dex Devereaux, for example. And how it was mighty big of the City of Glasgow Police to be so cooperative. To the point of subservience.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

Some people relish the unpredictability of life; the never really knowing what’s ahead around the next corner. You wake up in the morning and engage the day, totally and blissfully blind to all of the things that may turn to crap within twenty-four hours. When I woke up, washed and shaved the next morning, I didn’t really get much of a chance to reflect on what was going on that was so big it commanded transatlantic interest. Other developments kind of took over my attention.

I got the news in the same way as any other Glasgow citizen. A headline in the
Glasgow Herald
.

SUSPECT ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF GLASGOW BOOKMAKER

I had bought a copy on the way into the office and I stopped for a coffee at my usual place on Argyle Street to read it. The article beneath the headline explained that Tommy ‘Gun’ Furie, a small-time boxer, had been arrested for the murder of James MacFarlane, a leading Glasgow turf accountant with suspected links to the Glasgow underworld. Reading on, I discovered that Furie was one of the tinkers camped up at Vinegarhill. I read small-time boxer as bare-knuckle fighter and I thought of the edifying spectacle at Sneddon’s barn hideaway.

Furie, the article said, was an Irish tinker. A pikey, as Sneddon would have described him. Being an Irish gypsy meant that Furie stood a very good chance of getting a fair trial. Much in the same way that I stood a very good chance of Marilyn Monroe throwing over Joe DiMaggio to come to Glasgow and live in squalid sin with me. Glasgow CID had told the reporter that, although Furie was helping them with their enquiries, they would continue to explore all other avenues of investigation. As I read that, the image of Marilyn washing my smalls in a Glasgow tenement
steamie
leapt to mind.

That seemed to be that.

I wondered how Lorna had reacted to the news – and if the police had had the sense to let her know before she read it in the newspaper. I finished my coffee and walked to my office. Glasgow’s weather had reverted fully to type and a greasy drizzle seeped from the steel-grey sky. When I got into my office, I ’phoned Lorna’s number but it rang out. Putting the receiver down, I decided to call in on her that evening. It had been a few days since I’d seen her, although I’d ’phoned every day. Each call seemed to elicit a cooler and cooler reception. I felt bad that I hadn’t been there more often but everything that had been going on had distracted me. And I still couldn’t give her what she wanted from me.

With the distraction of Small Change’s murder out of the way, I decided to drop the whole thing about what kind of deal he had had going with Bobby Kirkcaldy. The main thing was to find out who was trying to put Kirkcaldy off the fight. I knew it wasn’t anyone in the Schmidtke camp; they weren’t due in the country until the end of the week. Of course that didn’t mean they hadn’t recruited local talent, but somehow it didn’t seem feasible, and my money was on finding out who had a bundle riding on Kirkcaldy losing. I spent the rest of the day going from one bookie shop to the next. A tour of the public toilets of Calcutta would have been more edifying.

Lunchtime found me in the East End and I tried a café I hadn’t been to before. It turned out to specialize in viscosity: the bacon, sausage and fried bread I was served with were islands on a lipoid ocean. I decided to spare my bowels the violence and stuck to the coffee. Afterwards, I walked to a telephone kiosk and fed it copper and brass.

I tried Lorna’s number again but it still rang out. There was a telephone directory on the shelf, and I went through it until I found the numbers of the three hotels within walking distance of St. Andrew’s Square and in the kind of price range that the City of Glasgow Police would usually stretch to. Each time I asked to speak to Mr Dexter Devereaux out of Vermont, USA. Three strikes. I tried the Central Hotel and St. Enoch Station Hotel. No American called Devereaux. It turned out that I should have worked alphabetically: I tracked him down to the Alpha Hotel in Buchanan Street. The reception told me that Mr Devereaux was out on business and was not expected back until the evening. I said there was no message and I pushed the silvered buttons on the ’phone to break the connection. I released them and dialled the number I had for Sheila Gainsborough’s Glasgow apartment. Again nothing.

My next call was more successful, if you can call having to talk to Willie Sneddon a success.

‘Have you seen the news?’ I asked.

‘I seen it.’ Sneddon’s voice was flat. Neutral. ‘Fuckin’ pikeys. Can’t turn your back on the bastards for a second.’

‘Tommy Gun Furie … from what the papers said it sounds like he was a bare-knuckle boy. You ever come across him?’

‘Naw. Not that I know of. Maybes. No names no pack drill and shite. I don’t stamp their fucking insurance cards. Anyways, all that shite has got fuck all to do with fuck all. You got anything on Bobby Kirkcaldy?’

I took a moment to absorb the richness of English as it could only be spoken in the Mother Country.

‘No. I’ve spent the day going round bookies trying to find out who’s betting against him.’

‘They fucking tell you that stuff?’ asked Sneddon.

‘I’ve been using your name in vain … in vain … no one seems to know of any big bets.’

‘Means fuck all,’ said Sneddon. ‘The really big stuff won’t go through fucking street shops. Talk to Tony the Pole.’

‘Grabowski?’ I asked, but was prompted by the exchange to put more money in the pay ’phone. It was a reminder to be careful what you said from a public callbox. I fired a couple of brass threepenny bits in and hit the A button.

‘Grabowski?’ I asked again. ‘I thought Tony had given up the gambling business as well as opening doors.’

‘Naw. Fuck knows he’s made enough money to retire, but he’s still running the odd book. If anybody’s been touting a big bet around town then Tony the Pole will know about it.’

‘I’ll check it out. Can I keep using Twinkletoes for staking out the Kirkcaldy place? I’ve got my guy on it early evenings.’

‘Suppose. That it?’

‘There is something else …’ I hadn’t been sure if I was going to voice my suspicions, but I reckoned that Sneddon, as my client, had a right to know what was going through my head.

‘What?’

‘This may or may not be something to worry about. You know I asked you if you knew someone called John Largo?’

‘Aye, what about it?’

‘Well, I asked one too many people about John Largo and I got a visit from a police chum of mine last night. He brought company. A Yank claiming to be a private detective from Vermont.’

‘And?’

‘If he was a private detective then I’m Grace Kelly. He’s calling all the shots as far as the City of Glasgow Police are concerned.’

‘What’s it to me?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know that it’s anything to anybody, but it means two things: some heavyweight American law enforcement is in town and whoever John Largo is he’s a big, big fish. And Glasgow’s a small pond. Your pond.’

‘I take your point. I’ll ask around. Have you let Cohen and Murphy know yet?’

‘No, but I will. And I wouldn’t ask around too loudly. That’s what brought me to the attention of Eliot Ness.’

After I hung up from Sneddon I drove out of the East End, across the river and south in the general direction of Cathcart and Newton Mearns.

There was a lot about Glasgow, about Scotland, that itched at me like a nettle rash; but there was also much about the Scots I liked. One of their most redeeming qualities was the way they accepted different shades of Scottishness. Just as it was possible to call yourself an Irish-American, there were identities within Scotland that were unique, but taken as part of the Scottish identity: Italian-Scottish; Jewish-Scottish, the variation that had given birth to a totally unique cultural phenomenon of the bar-mitzvah cèilidh, where yarmulkes and kilts were required dress; and, since the end of the war, there had been a new Caledonian breed: the Polish-Scot.

Tony the Pole Grabowski was one of the thousands of Polish servicemen who had fought alongside the British Army or in the skies above Britain. Many had died defending an island they had only known for months. The vast majority of the British-based Free Polish Army had been stationed in Scotland. I had a soft spot for the Poles: the Polish First Armoured Division had been attached to the First Canadian Army and I had seen them in action. And having seen them, I had counted myself very lucky to have been on the same side as them.

After the war, like so many of his countrymen, Tony the Pole had decided he preferred the pattern on this side of the Iron Curtain and had become a resident alien, then a naturalized British citizen. He had married a Scottish girl and had settled down in Polmadie, in the south of the city. Polmadie was about as picturesque as its name suggested: a maze of tenements and 1930s’ Corporation semi-detached houses – mind you, in a city with districts called Auchenshuggle and Roughmussel, Polmadie was positively lyrical. And a semi-detached was a palace compared to a Gorbals slum.

Tony the Pole’s day job was as a greengrocer. Being Polish, he hadn’t understood that fruit and veg – unless they had been fried or were capable of being fried – were always at the bottom of any Glaswegian shopping list. Maybe that was why greengrocery had remained Tony’s day job. It was his night job that had brought in the real cash – Tony the Pole Grabowski opened doors, all right. He had been, without doubt, the best peterman in Scotland. There had not been a safe he couldn’t crack, one way or another. But the peterman’s life was a perilous one. There was always the threat of the missed foothold, the slip from a drainpipe, the fall. Or the danger of silent alarms, night watchmen, or patrolling bobbies with a soft tread. So Tony, when he had saved enough to keep his family comfortable and before he had been locked into a box himself, had quit the peterman business and had resigned himself to a world of wilting cabbages and wrinkling tomatoes. Except, every now and then, Tony would organize a card game or set up a book on a sporting event. Just to supplement the income from peas and sprouts.

I found Tony the Pole behind the counter of his shop on Cathcart Road. He was a short, squat man with a broad Polish face and an even broader Polish accent. He was balding and had shaved off what had been left of his hair. From the darkening rim that swept from temple to temple, I guessed the time must have been nearer five o’clock than I had thought.

‘Hi, Tony … whaddya say, whaddya hear?’

Tony laughed at the movie line. He actually giggled, an action at odds with his squat, powerful frame. He was a James Cagney fan and at our first meeting had been entranced by my ‘American’ accent. Since then, every time I met him, I greeted him with the Rocky Sullivan line from
Angels with Dirty Faces
. I had once tried Bogart from
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
on him but had withered under his disapproving gaze.,,

‘Hey, Lennogs. Vad daya zay? Vad daya hear? It’s been a vee vile,
neebour
…’ Tony’s party trick was made all the better because he didn’t know that speaking in the Glasgow vernacular and a thick Polish accent simultaneously
was
a party trick. Anyone learning a new language tends to speak in the idiom they are exposed to. As far as learning English had been concerned, Tony had been exposed to the linguistic equivalent of gamma radiation: Glaswegian English. Now, Tony bantered and pattered like a native Glaswegian, yet almost every initial consonant was substituted with v or z. It was as hilarious as it was impenetrable and it cracked me up every time I heard him. But I never let it show.

‘Hi, Tony. How’s business?’

‘Ze ushual. Cannae complain … widnae dae much use iv I did …’ Tony said, the usual mix of Will Fyffe and Akim Tamiroff. Maybe a little Bela Lugosi thrown in. ‘Vot’s occurin’?’

‘I’m looking for a bit of information.’

‘Vell you’ff come to ze right place … I know my onions.’ He laughed his girlish laugh and indicated his counter stock with an open-armed gesture.

We were interrupted by a small woman in a headscarf, pinnie and faded tartan baffies – as carpet slippers, for some reason light years beyond my ken, were known in Glasgow. She was somewhere between thirty and eighty. Glaswegians generally bypassed middle age, taking the direct road from youth to decrepitude. The indeterminately aged woman placed her order and Tony snapped open a bag with the kind of theatricality that only greengrocers and stage conjurors seem to attach to paper bags. He dropped the onions into it and, with the same conjurer’s flourish, spun the bag around to seal it.

‘Zere you go, hen …’ Tony beamed as he handed the bag to the woman in slippers. She shuffled from the shop.

‘Vad kind of invormation?’ he asked after she was gone.

‘This is all very discreet, Tony. Just between you and me … No one will know that you are my source. I just need to know if anyone’s been trying to tout a big bet on the Bobby Kirkcaldy–Jan Schmidtke fight. I mean a serious wager.’ I was relying on Tony’s good will. No bribe or threat here: it was always easier if your source was poor or yellow.

‘Oh aye, here vee vucking go … “Between you and me”, my Silesian arze … You’re vorking for one of ze Zree vucking Kings, I’ll bet. Who zent you here, Villie Zneddun?’ said Tony. It was like having a conversation with Count MacCula.

I ignored the question. ‘That’s not important, Tony. Has anybody been trying to lay over the odds on Bobby Kirkcaldy losing?’

‘Naw. I vould have heard about it. I’d have had to broker it wiz zome o’ ze bigger buoys …’ The skin on his brow corrugated, the limit of his frown indicating the ghost of a long-dead hairline. ‘Hold on … zere vas something. A couple of wee gobshites …’ Tony pronounced the insult
ghubzhides
. ‘Zey vere in ze Zaracen’s Zord … about zree veeks ago. Zey vere comin’ ze big bollogs …’

I knew the Saracen’s Sword, the pub Tony referred to. He used it as an informal office much in the same way I used the Horsehead Bar.

‘And they wanted to place a bet?’