Tony Black - Paying For It

‘Milo, move would you!’

The girls’ screaming increases in pitch. Everywhere there’s flames and fear. It’s the worst fear I’ve ever known.

‘Milo, you must move. We have to get outside.’

At once, he tips his head down to face me. He begins to speak, and as he does so, the flames engulf his body. He cries and taps at his chest, then speaks but his words are in a language I don’t understand, except for one: ‘Latvia.’

Nadja’s revelation about Billy’s get rich quick plan had been unexpected. It gave me a few bargaining chips to tempt Fitz with. But he was filth, and unpredictable. I’d have to lay it out finely. Make it worth his while.

The bus was packed.

A young jakey barfed in the aisle as we drove down Leith Walk. On a bus full of Leithers, only one woman held her nose.

‘Out,’ roared the driver.

‘Och c’mon…’ said the jakey, ‘It’s pishing doon!’

‘Out now or it’s the polis!’

The driver stood up, tucked himself behind his perspex screen as the jakey pulled down his baseball cap and rolled off the bus. He kicked out at the doors as they closed behind him. Then fell on his arse in the wet street.

The bus pulled out from the kerb, but stopped suddenly in the middle of the road. ‘Just stay in your seats, please!’ said the driver as he opened the doors to let two cans of Omega white cider roll onto the street. After the cans, the jakey’s vomit followed down the aisle and slid over the steps.

I shook my head. Don’t know why, had seen this all a million times before. Somehow, today, things seemed that little bit more annoying. This place was riding on my nerves.

An old boy leaned into my space. He took off his cap, slapped it off my seat. ‘I’d bring back National Service for the likes of him,’ he said.

I turned, faced him, said, ‘I’d bring back hanging for the likes of him.’

I ordered up a coffee.

‘Is that a latte or a mocha or-’ The waiter sounded Polish, one of the latest wave of legal migrants. They’d just about wiped out the Aussies in the bars, and now they staked a claim on the cafes.

‘Hold up,’ I cut in, ‘just make it black and strong.’

‘An Americano?’

Was I hearing things? This was Leith. Last bastion of old Edinburgh. There wasn’t a Continental-style piazza for at least 500 yards. The yuppies had redrawn the battle lines.

I waved the waiter off with the back of my hand, said, ‘Whatever.’

He eyeballed me as he went, probably to add some of his home-made gravy to my coffee.

In five minutes he came back, handed me a receipt on a little saucer, two white mints on top, ‘That will be two fifty, please.’

For that kind of poppy, I expected the best coffee of my life. Truth told, it sucked balls into a hernia. I loaded in the milk and sugar, tried to focus on why I was still sat here.

For a while now, I’d been rolling around a quote from Bowie: ‘It’s not really work, it’s just the power to charm.’

Sound advice. If I was going to get anything from Fitz — anything other than an introduction to Mr Nightstick — I’d have to suck shit. I’d probably been too forceful at our last meeting. I’d got him riled. In the past, way back, Fitz had been known as a hothead. He was quick with his fists, coulda been a contender, or so I’d heard.

I’d been on the end of one of Fitz’s kidney punches before, and I wasn’t keen to repeat it. If only for the reason that he could be very useful to me now. Getting him to believe I was doing him a favour would be the key.

Fitz appeared on time. Tearing down Leith Walk in a white heat.

‘Shit, he’s mad as hell,’ I said under my breath.

I stood up, waved a tenner in the air. ‘Waiter, a pot of tea please.’

As I saw Fitz approach the cafe door, he spotted me through the window and glowered. His face looked scarlet, anger shone out of every pore. If I had to pick his match, it was Yosemite Sam, guns blazing.

I got the door for him. ‘Fitz, glad to’ — he stormed past me — ‘see you.’

I watched him remove his coat and take a seat.

I bit down on my back teeth. It went against the grain to go crawling to plod. But, at this stage, what choice did I have? Without the file on Billy, I’d be bust.

‘Okay there, Fitz?’

‘Cut the shite, Dury.’

The waiter brought the tea. I handed over the cash without looking at the bill. Waited for him to leave, said, ‘Consider it cut.’

Fitz’s lower lip pointed at me, his grey teeth on show as he spoke, ‘Have you completely lost the fucking plot, boyo?’

‘Fitz.’

‘No, don’t you Fitz me — when I think about the ways, the thousands of ways, Dury, that I could hang you out to dry.’

I stopped him in his tracks, pointed a finger. ‘Cool the beans, Fitz.’

He poured his tea, looked around. ‘This place has gone to the dogs.’

‘Haven’t we all.’

I passed the milk and sugar. Watched him stir them in.

‘What’s your game, Dury?’

I tried to clear the air. Played up to his ego. ‘Look, about that earlier stuff — just forget it. I was a bit…’

‘Pissed?’ He laughed at his own joke.

A wry smile. ‘Well… let’s leave it that I was wrong to abuse the friendship.’

He burst into uproarious guffaws. ‘Friends? You and me?’ The thought brought a tear to his eye.

I had him blindsided, hit him with: ‘Yeah. Who the fuck am I kidding? Let’s keep things on a business footing. I’ve something for you.’

He pushed aside his teacup, leant forward. ‘What’s this bollocks you’re talking, Dury?’

‘Now, now. Nothing for nothing.’

‘Fuck off.’

I went for the kill. ‘Fitz, I’m onto something here, something big.’

‘Billy Boy?’ I knew by the tone of his voice he’d already done his homework.

‘You know what I’m on about? For Chrissake, Fitz, he was tortured to death in a public place.’

‘So?’

‘So — these days, a wee lassie falls over and scrapes her knee and there’s cops running around kitted out like Dustin Hoffman from that Outbreak movie. But Billy’s taken out good style, and your lot sweep it under the carpet!’

He leant back, took a sip of his tea. Topped up the cup from the pot. I saw he was thinking things through.

‘What have you got?’

‘Uh-uh. First the file.’

‘Arrah, there’s no way. No way, Dury.’

‘Why not? You know I’m not messing about.’ I looked him in the eye. ‘Fitz, if you help me out, I could put you back on the K-ladder. This isn’t just about Billy, there’s been another murder, one of your countrymen as it happens.’

He took a slow sip of tea.

‘Think about it, Fitz. Do you want that DI’s badge back?’

He stood up, went for his coat. ‘Not in here.’

I followed him out. Lit up a Mayfair. It seemed to hit the spot.

‘Look, I can’t just remove a file. What world are you living in? It’s all computerised these days, a printout sends warning lights flashing. What exactly do you need to know?’

‘Who’s behind this?’

‘By the holy, Gus — is that something anyone would put on a file? All I can tell you is there’s a, shall we say, tacit agreement to lay off this one.’

‘From who?’

‘The top.’

‘Why? Do you know why?’

‘Let’s just say our Billy was dealing with some very unsavoury characters.’

‘Zalinskas.’

‘Vice are all over him.’

‘So, they hung Billy out to dry?’

‘Bigger fish to fry.’

I took my turn to deliver the goods. I told Fitz about the Latvians at Fallingdoon House. About Milo’s calls, and the fire. I left out Nadja’s involvement; she could still be useful to me.