Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Inside the hoose it’s aw grand and wid-panelled, wi a reception desk. A posh, sexy-looking aulder burd, that ah’d love tae ram senseless ower that desk, gies us baith a wee smile. Then she rings for this boy and he comes acroass n greets Ronnie. Ah backs away, pretendin tae read this glossy brochure in a rack. It’s aboot aw thair whisky products, but there’s nae mention ay the Trinity collection.

This slick-looking cunt has a whispery voice, so ah cannae hear what’s bein said, but then Ronnie comes ower tae me, ehs eyes aw glistenin. — Terry, please follow us. I want to show you something beautiful, he goes, then intros me tae this boy, — Eric, Terry. Terry is a friend of mine, and Eric runs this distillery. A family business, right, Eric?

— For almost four hundred years, this smug cunt goes, escortin us past this security desk, n doon intae a big brick-wawed cellar the size ay a fuckin aircraft hangar. It looks auld n it is, but ye kin hear some kind ay modern ventilation system operatin. There’s mair boatils ay whisky than ah could ever imagine ma auld mate Post Alec gittin thru! We come oantae this corridor, at the end ay which is a locked door. This Eric gadge produces a big key and opens it. It’s another wid-panelled room, but fill ay gless display cases, n lit up, showin oaf this range ay vintage whiskies. It’s like they’ve aw got a date and a wee note on them. The one that’s in the most prominent place, on the back waw, is a boatil fae the Bowcullen Trinity.

It’s like a dark red colour, mair like a wine than a whisky, but it’s in a weird dimpled bottle shaped a bit like that Gherkin building doon in London.

— The Bowcullen Trinity, Ronnie says, nearly breathless. — One of only three bottles in existence.

— Yes, Eric goes, — our original plan was to keep one for perpetuity, and sell the other two. But. . he smiles at Ronnie, — both yourself and the other party have made competitive offers, and running costs of this place are high and the recession sadly means that we have to look at all income options. The whisky does cost a lot of money, but that simply reflects the scarcity and rarity of the stocks it’s blended from. Some have been maturing at the distillery for more than a century and a half.

Ronnie licks his lips. He’s chatting away wi this Eric boy as we head upstairs. Then eh gets oan ehs phone. — Mortimer. Prepare the formal bid. Drop everything and expedite this deal.

So we leave the place and get back intae the cab. We wir apparently supposed tae be thaire for lunch, but Ronnie’s arrest hus snookered that. Ah ken how much that whisky shite is worth, but ah’m playin the daft laddie. — Ah’m sure it’s good whisky, but seems a lot ay dosh for a boatil ay pish, mate.

— You don’t drink it, Terry! It’s a collector’s item. An investment. It’s only going to gain value!

— Pity that other cunt’s involved.

— There is always a deal to be made, Terry, remember that.

We get tae this Highland Hotel n it’s fuckin barry. We get a few whiskies at the bar, Ronnie gaun oan aboot them. — I can’t believe you’re a Scotsman and know nothing about whisky!

Ah’m starvin n ah orders a steak n chips wi mushrooms, though ah cools it oan the chips, worryin aboot the love handles and that scud hotline. Ronnie struggles wi a bowl ay Scotch broth, that Taserin fucked his appetite, n eh decides tae huv an early night, tae hit the room n make some calls. Ah watches a bit ay a Champions League game wi the barman boy. It’s off-season n the hotel’s practically deserted, nae fanny hingin aboot. So ah decides tae head tae ma scratcher, n ah switch off the phone n ah’m lyin thaire oan the bed stripped fae the waist doon. Ah does the auld trick ay callin room service n orderin a sandwich, then pretendin tae be asleep.

Unfortunately, it’s a fuckin gadge whae comes in, wi a rid-couponed apology. — Sorry, sir. . n eh sets the sanny doon n fucks off. Ah calls Big Liz fae Control n hus some phone sex wi her. It’s less risky than the real thing; when she sits on yir coupon, they flaps are like Gestapo officer’s gloves! So ah batters yin oaf, then it’s mair ay the same wi Suicide Sal. By the time ah’ve shot off a second load, ma knob’s sair as fuck; nearly pilled the fuckin end oaf it! Good night’s kip but.

So in the morning wir headed tae this restaurant, nestling by the side ay this loch. We gits in and thaire’s these two boys thaire; one’s a big tall radge, rail-thin, sandy-haired, Scandinavian accent. The other cunt, a chunky gadge, looks mair like a minder, n ah gits a chilly eye fae the fucker. Gies um yin back. Manners cost nowt.

Then Ronnie n the tall gadge are off tae this table, orderin breakfast and having a confab, so me and the minder boy are seated at another table, a wee bit away. A lassie comes ower n takes our breakfast order. — Pump that yin, ah sais tae the boy, as she heads oaf, — in a fuckin minute!

Cunt just sits thaire wi that funny puss oan um.

— Listen, mate, ah goes, — you can sit there with that face on aw ye like, but ah’m no fuckin lookin at it. Cheer up, or ah’m movin ma table.

He stares at me for a bit like eh’s gaunny swing for ays, then extends his hand. — Jens, he goes, wi a wee smile playin roond the lips.

— Terry, ah sais, n the boy’s goat some fuckin shake, — but ah git called Juice Terry.

— Juice Terry. .

So the lassie comes wi the brekkie, n ah ken it’s decadent but a wee Bloody Mary tae go wi the oysters n the kippers fir me, n smoked salmon for the Jens felly. — Ah kin smell the loch oaf that cunt fae here, ah sais tae the boy, — nae whiff ay the fjord oan that bastard’s scales!

So we’re huvin a bit ay a laugh, and Ronnie n the other boy are still aw torn-pussed and aw deep in discussion. Then, they’re flippin a coin. Ronnie’s aw excited, the cunt must have called it right. After that it’s aw big handshakes.

As we’re headin back doon tae the city, Ronnie seems chuffed, but a wee bit thoughtful. He’s oan the blower tae Mortimer, no tipplin that ah’ve got the nosy switch oan and kin hear the fuckin lot.

— The agreement is that we put in fifty thousand dollars each, and purchase the second bottle of the Trinity collection for one hundred grand. Lars’s people will place fifty thousand dollars in the No. 2 account. We will make the purchase of the bottle and we’ll be custodians of it until Lars and I play a round of golf, the winner taking the bottle as the prize. .

Ah glance at Ronnie’s coupon in the mirror; it’s startin tae flush up tae fuck.

—. . I don’t expect discussion on this, Mortimer! You’ve made your views clear. . For me this is the goddamn big picture! Make it happen!

Perr Mortimer’s getting it tight, the cunt!

— What do you mean, what happens if I lose? If I lose we have one bottle each, and we play another game, the winner taking both bottles. Now make it happen! Dammit!

Ronnie switches off the phone, as ah makes oot ah’m puttin the cab speaker oan. — Awright, Ronnie?

— Just an asshole that won’t do his fucking job, Terry. Mortimer doesn’t get whisky; he doesn’t get golf. All he’s focused on is this two-bit land deal, and his commission, Ronnie scoffs. — Sure, the numbers are good, but he’s an Ivy League Yankee stiff-ass with no goddamn soul.

— So ye made the deal then, Ronnie?

— Yes, but please, keep this confidential.

— Ah telt ye before, mate, ah wrote the fuckin book when it comes tae discretion. Listen, oan that very issue. . we should celebrate. How d’ye fancy gittin yir hole?

— Prostitutes? I don’t pay for sex!

— Dinnae gies that, ah tell um, thinkin ay The Poof’s wise words. — Ah bet ah could take one sketch at yir exes, mate, n that wid tell ays that you’ve fuckin well peyed fir it awright! The clathes, cars, hooses, jewellery. .