James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

She shook her head.

Look son, called Tommy Rollo, we’re no in the mood. Ellen stops when the cards stop. You should know that by now.

A few of the men at the two bench-type tables muttered their agreement. Ellen had walked to sit down on the chair next to Rollo and he poured her a glass of gin from a half bottle of Gordon’s. The drunk waited a moment then walked in a purposeful stride to the exit. As soon as he had gone an elderly man in a khaki-coloured trenchcoat cried: That was telling him Ellen!

She ignored him. She sipped at the gin, snapped open her handbag and got a tipped cigarette out, gave herself a light.

*

The rain was no longer falling when they came downstairs and out through the close onto the pavement but the ground was still wet and there were many puddles around. Considering the time of night the city was busy. But it was a Friday and young folk were heading home from the dancing or whatever. Few taxis were available and almost everybody seemed to be heading in the direction of George Square. From here the all-night buses departed hourly.

The Square itself was brightly lit. The Christmas decorations had yet to be dismantled. There was a lot of hustle and bustle. Queues of folk lined the different bus stops; some were in uniform, mainly transport workers going home off backshift. A couple of guys were touting razor blades and other things, plus the newpaper vendors. Girls stood alone, in couples, in groups, as also the youths watching them — some speaking in really loud voices. Now and again policemen strolled by in pairs, gloved hands behind their backs, occasionally pausing to chat to bus inspectors. A newspaper vendor exchanged words with Tommy Rollo and Ellen and he gave them a Daily Record without taking money for it. When Alec bought one he winked and said, I thought you’d have landed in Majorca by this time!

Alec smiled slightly, glanced at the headlines before folding the paper away into his side coat pocket. As they continued along the newspaper man called: Yous going up the Duke?

Aye! replied Fat Stanley.

Maybe see yous later on!

No if we see you first, grunted Oanny.

Fat Stanley grinned. He’s no that bad, he added.

Fucking idiot, muttered Oanny.

Alec had stepped on a bit and was walking with Rollo and Ellen. They cut down a side street and about twenty yards along a cobbled lane. It was quite dark, light glinting on the cobbles occasionally. Rollo pressed the doorbell and the chime rang out inside. When the door opened the guy behind it greeted Rollo and Ellen and smiled at Alec: Long time no see!

He ignored Fat Stanley and Victor. But when he noticed Oanny bringing up the rear he beckoned to him and whispered, The least bit of argy bargy and you’re out the fucking door.

What. .

You heard.

Oanny squinted at him. He saw Alec inside the lobby gesticulating at him and he shrugged and strolled past the doorman, accompanying Alec down the corridor and into the main gaming area of the club, but he continued on alone, into the wee room where the coffee and food were to be had. There was nobody inside it. He moved to one of the tables towards the centre, and he sighed as he sat down.

*

With the carpets and general decoration, plus the green baize on the tables, there was little resemblance between the Duke and the last place. But at one time you could have bought a full meal up there as well. Ellen kept complaining that the profit she made on the soup and bread barely repaid her outlay but maybe if she tried a wee bit harder, put on a variety — a plate of egg and chips for instance would not take much sweat — then she would get a better turn out it. And anyway, how much did it actually cost to set up a few big pots of soup! Pennies. The place had definitely deteriorated and it was Rollo himself who had to accept most of the blame. Rumour had it his licence was not going to be renewed and this was given as the reason how come he was no longer bothering. If it had been Oanny’s club he would have turfed out the riff-raff right away, and that was just for starters. Rollo never seemed to worry about the number of dossers who used the place. They only turned up for a heat and a bowl of soup and to see what the fuck they could beg on the side. What amused Oanny was the way they all materialized just in time for the last couple of hands at chemmy, especially if there had been the one big winner like this evening. This was because usually a big winner chipped a couple of quid — a fiver sometimes — into the centre of the horseshoe table once the play had finished. Rollo took the dough and he dealt a card to everybody standing round the table, first jack lifted the money. It was supposed to go to a genuine loser but half the time some fucking wino ended up getting it. Now apart from giving somebody the taxi-fare home the thing had another purpose, it was to stop the big winners getting pestered by guys looking for the busfare. It worked to some extent but subtleties like this never bothered the real down-and-outs — especially when it was a stranger had won most of the dough, it was like flies round shite watching them. People could get desperate. And walking home was like that when it was the middle of winter, fucking murder polis so it was. Oanny hated being in that situation and it did not happen too often. His habit was to fall asleep shortly after arrival in Rollo’s and when he woke up the losers were usually hanging about giving their post-mortems on the night’s play. It was rare for him not to have kept the busfare once the kitty had been collected. It was even more rare for him to be tempted into having a go himself on the table. To tell the truth, punting was beginning to bore him. If Alec was going through a bad spell he would pass the cards on to somebody else to play for a while. Oanny used to be the second string. But not any longer. And because Fat Stanley showed his excitement too much Alec had started passing the cards onto Victor. This was right up Victor’s alley. But what Alec never seemed to appreciate was that the cunt was every bit as excitable as Fat Stanley, he just did not show it too much. But if you knew him; if you knew him you could see he was a bundle of shakes and twitches.

Oanny rose from his chair a little, enough to see through the glass partition, but it was difficult to distinguish things. No sounds from the gaming section reached into here either. But he could see that only one game of poker was in progress. That was good. Settling onto the chair again he lifted the teacup and stared into it, drank down what was left in it. He brought the halfbottle of vodka out from his inside coat pocket and poured himself another, adding a wee drop of lemonade from the bottle he had lying on the table. What a carry on everything was! He shook his head.

You talking to yourself?

It was the doorman. He must have come in on his tiptoes. He was staring at Oanny and had not spoken as he had as a joke. You’re sitting there talking to yourself, he said.

Am I?

Aye.

That’s good.

Some people wouldnt think so.

Ach away and give us peace!

Peace? If you wanted peace you wouldnt be sitting about here at all hours!

Oanny frowned at him but then he gestured with the half-bottle: Want a voddy?

Naw, I dont want a voddy.

Good! The fucking price your man charges! What a carry on — a fiver? For a fucking halfbottle!

Well if you dont fucking like it!

Oanny shook his head. He glanced about, opened the new packet of cigarettes and he offered one to the doorman as an afterthought. Each lighted his own. Then Oanny swallowed too big a mouthful of the alcohol and he shuddered and dragged immediately on his cigarette, keeping the smoke down inside his lungs for a longer period than normal.

He put the bottle back in the inside pocket again. He would have to forget about it being there otherwise he could end up doing it in, without even noticing! He shook his head and glanced up. But the doorman had vanished.