Tony Black - Paying For It

He leaned closer, I got a waft of him and moved in the opposite direction. ‘That,’ he said touching the magazine with a hand in fingerless gloves.

‘The magazine…?’

‘The advert for Markies, that’s my pitch. Paying a pretty penny now I tell you.’

I offered him the magazine. ‘Here take it.’ I hoped he’d get the hint and nick off, but he merely folded it down the spine, and expounded.

‘Now, you see yon Twiggy there?’

I nodded, Christ why did they always flock to me?

‘That’s the look they’re all after in there. They want the lot, big baggy jumpers, trendy trousers — och, even the hats!’

I lost patience. ‘Great — but can I ask, is there a reason for this?’

He looked stunned. ‘Is there a reason for anything?’

A jakey gets philosophical on you, you listen.

‘What I’m saying is my pitch has started paying out. I’m on a winner since Twiggy started on these ads. The women buying the clobber and the hats and that, they’re not short of a bob or two. They see me sitting outside after they’ve just got their hands on some big fancy outfit and they’re splashing the cash.’ He lifted up the magazine. ‘I’ve a lot to thank Twiggy for.’

‘I’m sure she’d be delighted to hear it. Why don’t you write her a fan letter?’ I stood up, drained my coffee cup. ‘On second thoughts, you better not, she might ask for a percentage.’

Outside the caff two uniformed garbage inspectors photographed a pile of wet cardboard boxes dumped beside a row of wheelie bins. They gave me a look I’d seen a million times before, it said: ‘We’ve got authority, you got a problem with that?’

I gave them a flash of my new teeth, said, ‘Good morning, officers.’

Totally threw them, they didn’t know if I’d just ripped the pish out of them or been sincere. I wanted them to ask me if I knew anything about the boxes — so I could have a go at them, show them how much authority they really had, but they took one look at the teeth and ignored me.

I walked to Mac’s shop. Through the window I saw the place was empty of customers. Mac sat on one of the vacant barber’s chairs, reading a book.

As I walked in an electronic beep sounded. I’d never heard it before and it made me look over my head. When I lowered my gaze again, Mac had risen to his feet before me.

‘That’s new,’ I said.

‘Holy shit,’ said Mac, ‘I thought you’d shot the crow… or worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘Went the way of Billy Boy, come on, out the back!’

Mac ushered me from the window, stuck a head out into the street and looked left and right, then hung up the closed sign.

I picked up his book as he pushed and prodded me through a narrow corridor to his office.

‘Lawrence Block,’ I said. ‘I didn’t have you down as a reader.’

‘He’s the top.’

‘Matt Scudder series?’

‘What else?’

‘Have you read-’

He cut me off. ‘Gus, I’ve read them all.’ He took the book from me, placed it with a pile of others. The bookshelf heaved with crime novels. I name checked: Derek Raymond, Andrew Vachss, Ken Bruen, Horace McCoy, David Peace and on top, Barry Gifford’s Perdita Durango.

‘Quite a collection.’

Mac bridled. ‘Have you come here to talk about books, Gus?’

A bashed leather couch was opposite me. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

Mac waved up a hand, said mockingly, ‘By all means.’

‘Suppose a cuppa’s out the question.’

‘Don’t push it.’

As he went to put on the kettle, I delved into some Thomas H. Cook.

People were lost and helpless, even the smart ones… especially the smart ones. Everything was vain and everything was fleeting. The strongest emotions quickly waned. A few things mattered, but only because we made them matter by insisting that they should. If we needed evidence of this, we made it up. As far as I could tell, there were basically three kinds of people, the ones who deceived others, the ones who deceived themselves and the ones who understood that the people in the first two categories were the only ones they were ever likely to meet.

Heady stuff.

Mac appeared with two cups, a packet of caramel wafers held in his teeth.

I took my cup from him, tasted it. ‘That’s good coffee.’

We supped in silence for a minute or two, then Mac stood up, said, ‘Och for fucksake.’ He was on edge as he went to his desk, took out a bottle of Grant’s. ‘Here… get fired into that.’

I topped up our coffees with the whisky.

‘Where have you been?’ said Mac.

‘Hod’s place.’

‘Portobello — I thought you might have went a bit further than that. Porty, Jesus, Gus.’

‘Mac, I’m still working the case.’

‘Och… I dinnae want to hear any more.’

‘I’m close.’

‘Close to a hiding, one you won’t forget.’

I showed him my new teeth, said, ‘I’ve already had one of those.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m on about a proper one — the kind of hiding they put the full stop on. Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you. Look, what’s new? You told me all this the last time. You must have picked up some more details.’

Mac reached for the Grant’s, filled his cup to overflowing. ‘It’s been pandemonium since the trial kicked off.’

‘I saw him on the telly.’

‘Pissing show trial.’

‘Come again?’

He raised the cup to his mouth, gulped deep, and winced. ‘Did you not think he looked a little bit too cool?’

‘Does he ever look otherwise?’

He filled his cup again, offered me more. ‘From what I hear they’ve enough to put Zalinskas away for good, only he’s covered his back.’

‘He’s protected?’

Mac nodded. ‘Friends at the very top, so high nobody saying who.’

This wasn’t a town to keep secrets in. ‘Nobody? Come on…’

‘Gus, if I knew, I’d spill it. I’m already up shit creek. Have you seen the nick of my shop? The business is on its arse. I’ve nothing to lose.’

I wondered if Mac connected our friendship with his loss of trade. ‘You don’t think…?’

‘God no, Gus… it’s this city. Trends change so fast I can’t keep the pace any more.’

I drained my cup. Poured in a power of whisky. Drank deep.

‘About the murder — any ideas?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘I’d heard Billy had something on Zalinskas.’

‘Like what?’

‘That’s it, I’m as much in the dark as you, although…’ I had my doubts about putting this out but knew Mac to be a good enough friend; if I couldn’t trust him, who could I trust? Said, ‘The night before his death, there was a fight between them.’

‘No shit.’

‘Pretty full-on apparently. Spooked the girls in the club — goons running around ripping out security cameras. Then a few days ago, I heard Billy was supplying brassers to a Cabinet Minister.’

‘Are you saying what I think, Gus?’

‘If that’s Zalinskas’ armour suppose Billy got a bit too greedy?’

‘The old story.’

‘Dipping his nib in the company ink.’

‘Benny wouldn’t like it. I can tell you that for nothing; the Bullfrog would not like that.’

I took a final swig from my coffee cup, said, ‘I’m gonna need one last favour from you, Mac.’

‘I don’t know. I’m already hurting here.’

‘I plan to do something about that real soon.’

I had only one way to get some answers. And it wasn’t going to be pretty.

I took a long walk, tried to figure things out. At Holyrood Park the sky turned grey, shot through with red. The queen’s wee bit hoosie provided just the dark overtones my mood needed. The royals used to hold court up the road at the castle. Legend has it they moved down to Holyroodhouse because it was less draughty. In the gardens is Mary Queen of Scot’s bathhouse, where she used to bathe in goat’s milk and white wine. Every time I pass I see it as a nice reminder that the upper classes of this city have always been first with their snouts in the trough.