The Sin Bin

An original box set collection by Tony Black containing
London Calling
,
Killing Time in Vegas
, and
The Lost Generation
.

Copyright © Tony Black 2013

Tony Black has asserted his right to be identified as
the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it
shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be hired, resold, lent out, or in any
way circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding,
cover or electronic format other than that in which it is published and without
a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on any subsequent
purchaser.

First published in Scotland in 2013 by Pusher Press.

All similarities to actual characters — living or dead
— are purely coincidental.

Cover image & design: Jim Divine

www.tonyblack.net

Praise for Tony Black:

'My favourite British crime writer'

-IRVINE WELSH

'excellent'

-THE TIMES

'the punk rocker of the Scottish crime scene'

-DAILY RECORD

'bleakly beautiful'

-THE GUARDIAN

'exceptionally compelling'

-THE MIRROR

'simply superb'

-NICK STONE

'a master writer'

-KEN BRUEN

'dead serious and deadly accurate'

-ANDREW VACHSS

Contents

LONDON
CALLING

KILLING TIME
IN VEGAS

THE LOST
GENERATION

LONDON CALLING

A low-life drug-dealer has a sudden
change of heart as he takes revenge on his cheating partner in
London
Calling,
the title story of this collection of original short stories by
Irvine Welsh's 'favourite British crime writer', Tony Black. See a
loose-moralled lothario get his painful comeuppance in
Pretty Boy
and
laugh at the antics of a pathetic patter-merchant in the anti-romance
Jailbait
Stalemate
. You can also enjoy a short tour of the seedier side of Edinburgh
with reluctant investigator Gus Dury in the original short-story version of
Last
Orders
.

These Scots-themed stories are
collected here for the first time in a 10,000-word anthology.
London Calling
originally appeared in
Esquire Magazine
whilst the rest of the
collection featured in the
Best of British Crime, Requiems for the Departed,
Protectors,
and
Crime Factory
.

Contents

LONDON CALLING

HOUND OF CULANN

LAST ORDERS

PRETTY BOY

THIS CHARMING TAM

JAILBAIT STALEMATE

London Calling

There
'
s a time and a place for this shit. Now isn't it.

'You
'
re not cool with this?'

'Answer me this, Don, do I look fucking
cool with it?'

Don curls his lower lip, bites down. It
'
s not a pained look, but I
'
m thinking, not far off it.

'A beer?'

'Fuck your beer.'

Frowns.

'It
'
s the good stuff ... Stella.'

I raise myself from the Ikea cowhide
chair, comfortable as a bastard anyway, and cross the laminate floor. The first
thing that comes to hand is the purple and red lava lamp. It smashes like the
One O
'
clock Gun as I take it
over Don
'
s head.

'It
'
d take a truckload of Stella for me to be cool with you fucking my
girlfriend, Don.'

London Calling comes on the iPod
plugged into the Bosch speaker unit on the wall. I think, bollocks, Jonny Ladd
isn
'
t going to like this turn
of events.

****

First I see of the bloke is Don
knocking seven bells out of him in The Wheatsheaf shitter. He
'
s a suit. Banker-type or something, I
'
d say ad-man maybe, but like I'd know how
an ad-man looks ... I sell a bit of Bob Hope for Don. Need to get a new line.

'Don, what
'
s this shit?'

He looks up, still kicking the crap out
the poor guy. His new Kickers have blood on them, he spots it, removes one,
starts slapping the fella about the head with it.

'Look what you
'
ve done to my shoes, y
'
prick!'

'I
'
m sorry ... I
'
m
sorry.' He raises his hands, waves them about his head in a, it must be said,
girlie manner. I laugh out loud.

Don clocks me in hysterics, falling
into one of the cubicles, and starts up himself. It's quite a sight. I
'
m hoping no one else comes in when, bang on
cue, the door swings open.

'Jonny,' says Don.

I drop the laughter. Calm it. Feel my
feet slipping as I ease onto the toilet seat and make myself invisible. Dealing
for Don
'
s one thing, mixing it
with the likes of Jonny Ladd is another. Not got my sights on the Premier
League, unlike some.

Jonny speaks, 'This the cunt?'

'Aye, aye,' says Don, 'That
'
s him all right ... clocked him with the
blonde bird out the estate agent
'
s office ... one with the big tits, yeah.'

Jonny Ladd says nothing. I can see him
in the mirror, out the gap in the door. His face is a roadmap of hard lines,
look like they
'
ve been cut in
with razors; maybe some of them have. He gives the guy on the floor the once-over,
I think he might speak, but he walks past and touches Don on the arm, motions a
thumb, 'Get him the fuck out of here.'

'Where?'

'Your gaff, there
'
s a brasser on the way to meet you ... Make
sure you
'
ve got your camera. I
'
ll tell you where to send the shots. Now
get a fucking jig on.'

****

'You got a hold of it?'

'Aye, I
'
ve got it.'

The box is cardboard, not fit for the
job.

'He
'
s gonna come out the bottom, Don.'

'It
'
ll be fine, it
'
s
just two flights.'

Two flights up an Edinburgh stairwell
like this is not easy going. In the Old Town's twisty, windy stairs, it
'
s a near impossibility.

'I
'
m telling you, he
'
s
gonna fall out!'

Don drops his end, as if to prove a
point, and the banker slumps out. The blood smeared over his face, from a nasty
nosebleed, leaves a streak on the newly painted white wall.

'Och, for Christsake, Don. I told you
this would happen.'

Over the edge of the banister there
'
s a female voice, sounds Oriental, 'Hello,
is suck-suck, yes?' It
'
s the
pro, she
'
s Thai or something,
anxious to get to work. We
'
re
real multicultural in Edinburgh these days.

Don shouts back, 'Aye, aye ... just a
minute.' He reaches down, gives the banker a slap, he starts to come around.
Mumbles. Don jumps a few steps, turns, fishes in his pockets for the keys to
the flat, and says, 'He
'
ll walk
from here, drag him. I
'
ll get
opened up ... set the scene!'

I pick the guy out the box, balance his
arm around my neck. I hear Don slam the door of the flat.

The banker speaks, 'You have to help me
...'

'Y'what?'

'I know what this is all about.'

'Yeah, you pissed off Jonny Ladd.' That
'
s a no-brainer in my book.

'No. It
'
s nothing to do with me ... it
'
s my girlfriend!'

I
'
m scoobied, feel my mouth droop, then Don opens the door, and
hollers, 'Get a shift on down there.'

When I turn back, the guy
'
s passed out again.

****

'So, what'
s
the deal here, he owe Jonny Ladd some?'

Don looks at me, scrunches his brows, 'Fuck
no, it
'
s for a bit of fun.'

'Come again?'

'The blonde, y
'
know, one with the big tits, Jonny
'
s got a bone on for her.'

I don
'
t follow, say, 'I
'
m
not with you.'

'Look, the idea is, we get a few photos
on this fuckhead with his pants around his ankles, maybe some munter going down
on him and the blonde suddenly has a change of heart.'

'That
'
s low.'

'It
'
s a living.'

I didn
'
t agree. For a while now I
'
d been thinking there were better ways to make a living than dancing
to Jonny Ladd
'
s tune, or
dealing for Don for that matter. Ange had said it ... there
'
s more to life, change is good, or some
such shit.

'What
'
s with the shake of the head?' says Don.

'Nothing.'

'Nah, you don
'
t approve, do you?'

'It
'
s not that.'

The brasser moves on the couch, points
to the banker who
'
s coming
around again. She goes over to him, starts to loosen his tie.

'No, fuck no ... it
'
s his pants you take off, here ...' Don
directs her to the belt buckle, walks back to me, starts to play with his
camera-phone. He says loosen up, get over Ange leaving, and ... am I cool with
him putting the moves on her?

Fuck no.

He tries to ply me with a beer, Stella
Artois ... Funny, I think, Ange never liked beer, but lately she
'
d been big on Stella.

I feel a rush of blood to my head.

****

Miss Suck-Suck lets out a scream when
the lava lamp explodes. She jumps up as Don hits the floor. I raise a hand,
say, 'It
'
s cool ... we
'
re all cool with this.'

She goes back to work. I say, 'No. No.
There
'
s been a change of plan.'

'Explain, please?'

'This fella here,' I turn Don over,
start to undo his belt, 'you want to get your gums round him instead.'

'Okay-dokey.'

As she goes to work, I take up Don
'
s camera-phone.

The banker
'
s coming around as I snap away, 'Don
'
t worry about us mate, we
'
ll be out of your hair in no time.'

He keels over again.

'Wise. Get your head down.'

'Okay-dokey,' says Miss Suck-Suck.

I laugh, 'No you
'
re doing fine, love.'

The Clash on the Bosch speaker unit get
me moving,
London Calling
sets the mood as I fire off some more shots,
get in some arty ones.

I
'
m thinking, now here
'
s maybe my new job. Christ knows I need one now.

I wonder if Ange will approve? I think
this as I locate her number on Don
'
s phone, and press
'
send
'
.