The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (38 page)

Chapter Forty Eight

  Tony turned the corner intae Shuttle Lane, jist aff the High Street, hivving jist posted a late Christmas card, first class, tae Paul, up in the Highlands, at the post office in George Square.  He wis glad tae be oot walking and breathing in the sharp cauld air.  Pat hid wanted tae come wae him, bit Tony hid decided tae go it alane.

  “Naw, Pat, this’ll probably take a wee while.  Mind and pick me up aboot quarter past nine the morra morning fur the funeral across at the crematorium.  It starts at ten, bit we’ll maybe go and hiv a wee quick swatch ae the streets roond aboot Hillend Road oan route, jist in case we hiv tae make an alternative getaway fae Tam Simpson’s when we’re setting things up oan Friday,” Tony hid telt him, when Pat hid been drapping him aff in George Square. 

  Erchie Thompson, universally known in the toon as Erchie The Basturt, could be a sensitive fucker when it came tae strangers being invited intae the other business side ae the cobbler shoap that him and his brother, Mad Philip, ran.  Fae ootside in the lane, it looked shabby, almost derelict and falling tae bits, like the rest ae the buildings alang the lane...jist the way the brothers liked it.  Looking through the filthy glass ae the front windae, he could see aw the shoes that hid awready been repaired and wur awaiting collection, sitting stacked oan tap ae each other, wrapped up in broon paper bags, wae the names ae the owners written oan the tickets attached tae them.  The sound ae the heel ae somewan’s shoe, screaming oot in agony, as Mad Philip ground and shaped it against the electric grinding wheel, could be heard up and doon the lane.  Tony always loved the smell ae Erchie and Philip’s cobbler’s shoap.  The acrid smell ae burning leather, glue and the pungent sooty smell ae years ae auld leather dust settling oan everything that never moved, took him back tae when he wis a wee snottery-nosed snapper in the Toonheid.  When he’d first started dogging school as a seven year auld, he’d run messages fur the brothers, aw o’er the place.  He’d always hid tae be careful, so wid enter the shoap fae The Fruitmarket end ae the lane, trying tae avoid being clocked by his da or any ae his da’s customers, who’d be coming and gaun fae the barber shoap that he ran, jist roond the corner oan the High Street.  It hid been later, when he wis aboot nine or ten that he’d realised that a lot ae the parcels that he’d been delivering since that first time didnae only contain shoes, bit aw different types ae haunguns and ammo.  It hid been through these deliveries that he’d goat tae know some ae the biggest bogeymen in Glesga.  Maist ae the deliveries up intae the Toonheid hid been tae the hooses ae people associated wae The Big Man.  He’d first discovered whit he wis carrying when he’d hid tae deliver a parcel tae some dodgy-looking fucker in the Five Ways pub, at the corner ae Buchanan Street and the bottom ae Cathedral Street.  Before that, he’d always wondered why some ae the shoe parcels rattled when he shook them.  He’d known fine well that shoes wrapped up in broon paper shouldnae rattle.  The day he’d found oot whit the score wis, he’d accidently drapped a parcel intae a puddle as he’d hurried through the toon centre, trying tae catch the gorilla he’d been delivering tae, before he fucked aff back tae Drumchapel.  Erchie hid been running late and hid telt him tae get that arse ae his up tae The Five Ways as fast as his legs could carry him.  He’d run tae catch up wae a bus that hid jist gone through the lights fae Duke Street intae George Street.  He hidnae hid any money fur the fare, bit he’d known that if he stood oan the platform, it wid gie the impression tae the conductor, if he wis clocked, that he wis a passenger, waiting tae get aff at the next bus stoap.  He’d jist aboot caught up wae the bus when the parcel hid tumbled oot fae under his erm and hid landed in a big puddle in the gutter at the side ae the pavement, jist opposite the car park at the bottom ae Montrose Street.  By the time he’d reached Dundas Place, the broon wrapping paper hid become aw soggy wae the water fae the puddle and hid started tae disintegrate.  When he’d looked through the torn wet paper, he’d seen that wan ae the size 13 shoes hid a black shiny gun stuffed intae it, while in the other wan wis a box ae .38 cartridges, sitting snugly under the tongue ae the shoe.  He’d never telt Erchie or Mad Philip whit he’d clocked and they’d never mentioned any complaint fae the big ugly, scar-faced bogeyman who’d jist grunted at him when he’d haunded o’er the soaking wet parcel.  The best learning experience fur Tony, hinging aboot the cobbler’s shoap, hid been when he’d hid tae nip alang tae Queen Street and put oan Erchie and Philip’s betting slips every other day.  It wisnae as easy as it sounded, as Tony hid tae hing aboot ootside the bookies tae get a passing punter tae put the brothers’ lines oan.  Efter a while, he’d goat tae know maist ae the regulars and if they clocked him loitering aboot the door, they’d come oot and take the slips and pass them across the coonter fur him.  Tony always goat five percent ae the brothers’ winnings if a horse came up.  Erchie wis always gaun oan at him tae make sure the tax wis prepaid when the line wis put oan.  Wan time, he’d
furgoatten tae tell that tae the guy who he’d accosted at the door.  When Erchie’s accumulator hid come up, he’d hid tae pay mair in taxes fae the winnings.  Erchie hidnae been too happy and hid deducted the tax fae Tony’s future percentages.  It hid taken him o’er a month tae pay it back.  Efter badgering Erchie and Philip tae explain how it aw worked, he’d finally goat tae put a bet oan a real horse fur himsel. 

  “Ye’re far too young tae be gambling at yer age, so ye ur, so he is,” Mad Philip hid warned him.

  “And whit age wur youse when ye first started then?” he remembered hitting them wae.

  “Twelve.”

  “Well, Ah’m nearly twelve, so Ah am.”

  “Ye’re only eight, so ye ur, aye, only eight, so he is,” Mad Philip hid scowled disapprovingly tae him and Erchie.

  “Look, here’s whit we’ll dae, Tony.  Pick three horses fae three races and see how ye get oan.  Noo, ye’re nae putting any real dosh oan them…it’s aw imaginary, so it is…bit we’ll monitor it and see how ye get oan.  If ye dae well, we’ll let ye put a line oan.  If no, that’ll tell ye that gambling fur somewan like yersel is a mug’s game.  Ye’ve either goat it or ye hivnae.  How dis that sound, eh?”

  “Pure dead brilliant, so it dis…as long as Ah get tae pick ma ain horses withoot any interference fae youse pair,” he’d warned them, fae the tall stool he’d claimed as his ain, beside the electric moving shoe advert at the end ae the coonter near the door.

  Tony hid awready known, by lugging intae the brother’s chin-wags, how the form worked, how the wee numbers in the brackets beside the horses’ names in The Racing News telt ye how each horse hid done in its last four or five outings, as well as whit trainer hid been daeing the business at any given time and who hidnae.  At last, efter changing his mind at least a dozen times, he’d come up wae his selection.

  “Right, Martha The Heifer in the wan-thirty at Chepstow is ma first wan the day, followed by…”

  “Haw, haw, that auld flea-bitten thing?  Why dae ye think they’ve called her efter an auld coo, Tony?  She’s only being put oot tae make up the numbers, so she is,” Erchie hid guffawed.

  “Take That and Jezebel’s Pie in the next two races straight efter that,” Tony hid declared, confident as fuck and ignoring the jibe, while circling the names ae his nags in The Racing News that hid been stretched oot across the coonter.

  “That pair ae donkeys?  Mair like Take the Fucking Biscuit and Jezebel’s Pie, Beans and Chips, if ye ask me…aye, Pie, Beans and Chips,” Mad Philip hid hooted, as Erchie scudded his thumb wae a hammer efter no being able tae contain that laughter ae his.

  “Aye, well, we’ll soon see.  Ur ye sure this is aw jist fur a kid-oan?  Ye widnae want tae put up any real dosh then?” Tony hid asked them hopefully.

  The three horses hid romped across the line first.  In fact, Jezebel’s Pie hid crossed the line five lengths aheid ae ‘Howling Harry’, the favourite.  The next time he’d been sent alang tae the bookies, he’d awready hid his line filled oot, tucked in between Erchie’s and Mad Philip’s.  He’d put his life savings ae six and a tanner oan an ootsider called Tally Ho.  When he’d arrived at the bookies in Queen Street that day, in plenty ae time tae get a punter tae put the lines oan, he’d sneaked in and sat in the corner, listening tae the race coming across the tannoy.  Right fae the start, Tally Ho hid tossed his jockey oan tae his arse jist two strides oot ae the box.  By the time the jockey hid managed tae get back up oan tap ae him, the rest ae the horses hid been hauf way roond the field.  Tae make matters worse, he’d goat lapped by hauf the field before he made it tae the finishing line.  Tony hid dreaded gaun back tae the cobbler’s wae their winnings and nothing bit empty pockets fur himsel.

  “Tally Ho, Ho, mair like, Ho, Ho,” Mad Philip hid let rip wae, when Tony haunded o’er their winnings.

  “Is it no aboot time ye went up the road hame, Tony?”

  “Aye, Ah suppose so.”

  “Well, Tally Ho then,” Erchie the Basturt hid cackled tae him as he’d heided fur the door.

  It hid been the last time he’d ever placed a bet or gambled his money oan anything.  The lesson he’d learned that day wis tae make sure the odds wur stacked in yer favour at aw times, he remembered, as he pushed open the door ae the cobblers shoap and stepped through.

  “Well, well, look whit the scabby cat’s jist dragged in, so it did, so it his,” Mad Philip scoffed, looking up fae his bench.

  “And here’s me thinking it wis gonnae be a nice wee quiet day aw roond,” Erchie chimed, smiling, as he slipped a repaired shoe aff his last.

“Aye, well, ye know whit happens if ye wish too hard fur something,” Tony said tae the baith ae them.

  “Whit kin we dae ye fur?” Erchie asked, fae the other side ae his gub that didnae hiv wee blue tacks sticking oot ae it.

  “Ah need a wee bit ae technical advice.”

  “Whit, here?”

  “Naw, doon the stairs.”

  “Follow me then.  Philip, ye’re in charge…don’t let me doon, noo…Ah’m depending oan ye tae draw the customers in wae that charm ae yers,” Erchie said wae a smile, lifting up the coonter hatch tae let Tony through.

  Tony tossed a twenty packet ae Philip’s favourite Senior Service fags across tae him in the passing as he followed the aulder brother.  Tony reckoned that their maw must’ve been getting pumped by two different guys in her younger days.  Mad Philip stood aboot six feet tall wae a thick bush ae curly hair.  He’d always spoke in a strange way in that he tended tae repeat everything that he’d jist said.  Although it sounded funny when he spoke, nowan who knew him ever dared tae laugh, if they wanted tae keep their face intact or wanted tae see their reflection in the mirror the next day.  Mad Philip didnae suffer fools gladly.  Erchie the Basturt, oan the other haun, looked like he came oot ae a different pea-pod aw thegither.  He looked like yer average, jolly wee fat man, whose hair hid fucked aff at an early age, alang wae his growth hormones.  He stood aboot four feet four, wis fat as fuck and wore horn-rimmed glasses.  It hid been said oan many an occasion that he could clear a street full aw brawlers, jist by his presence.  It wis also well-known that he wis as deadly as sin and lethal if anywan wis stupid enough tae cross him.  As the biggest wholesaler, supplying maist ae the city’s gun merchants in the illicit gun trade in Glesga and his tendency tae get up aff ae that arse ae his tae deal wae anywan who crossed him, maist ae the big men in Glesga, including Pat Molloy, The Simpsons and The McGregors fae the south ae the city, tended tae keep oan his good side.

  Tony nodded, hitching up the strap ae the shoulder bag that wis slung o’er his left shoulder as Erchie waved him forward tae step doon through the trap-door oan the flair that he wis haudin up at the back ae the shoap.  By the time Tony reached the bottom ae the basement stairs, Erchie hid awready lifted up the second trapdoor tae take them doon even further intae the bowels ae Shuttle Lane. 

  “Mind yer heid.”

  Tony never failed tae be overawed by the basement.  When ye reached the bottom, a glass fronted shoap coonter stood facing ye, stretching roond the three walls ae the thirty feet by thirty feet room.  The tap ae the coonter wis made ae solid mahogany, bit the glass frontage oan it looked like wan ae they fancy coonters that they hid in The Hoose Ae Fraser’s shoap alang oan Buchanan Street.  The only difference wis
that the shelves behind the glass wur stacked wae boxes ae cartridges tae fit every haungun and rifle imaginable.  Two ae the walls hid a superb collection ae haunguns oan display, while the third wall hid been set aside fur rifles, shotguns and a few sub-machine guns.  Tony and Johnboy hid been hassling Erchie fur years tae get a shot ae wan ae the sub-machine guns, bit he widnae bite.  Straight across fae the coonter, a fully operational shooting gallery sat in semi-darkness.  Maist people coming doon the final flight ae stairs never noticed it until they turned away fae the coonter or Erchie turned oan the lights.  Tae the right ae the shooting gallery, there wis a cut-price section, fur buyers who wurnae looking tae spend too much dosh.  It consisted mainly ae auld haunguns fae the turn ae the century that wur still lethal, bit a bit worn.  High above the coonter, facing the cheapo section, a big harpoon gun wis hung up, oot ae reach ae anywan.  Johnboy hid driven Erchie crazy until he’d eventually gied in and let him shoot at three straw beer barrel cellar bales that Erchie hid stacked behind each other in the shooting gallery.

  “Right then, fire away, Tony.  Whit kin Ah dae ye fur?” Erchie asked him, staunin wae they powerful erms ae his folded across his barrel-chest.

  “Ah’ve goat a wee bit ae a technical problem that Ah need ye tae help me wae, so Ah hiv.”