James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

He got to his feet, intending to go through and see what was what in the poker but he went for a piss instead. On the return he stopped by the small group of spectators but when Victor chanced to look across he kept on walking, back into the snacks room and onto the same chair as before.

It was enough to have shown his face, just so they would know he was still compos mentis. And anyway, what was the point in spectating? It was only a game of stud and he knew that inside out and back to front. It was a good skilful game mind you — but so was chess, and Oanny would not have watched that either. He knew Alec was doing okay, just seeing Victor’s face was enough. Although it was one of those wee surprising things about life that occasionally Oanny could get feelings. It was the same when he was married. He always seemed to know in advance when something was going to happen. It annoyed Doreen. She used to fucking blow her top! Oanny grinned. But it was true, he could get these feelings. In punting it had to do with luck and hunches and that kind of thing. You could sense something was going right. You walked up to back your dog and suddenly you knew it made no difference which one you selected because whatever it was it would fucking guy in, it was a stonewall certainty. Your luck was in and that was that.

And vice versa as well of course. There were times nothing went right. You punt a dozen odds-on chances in a row and each one of them would fucking run backwards. Your luck was out, end of story. The shrewd thing was to get that feeling and use it properly, know when it was best to call a halt, or best to stay with it to the very last. The way Alec was going for instance he had to stay with it and then know that exact moment to get up and call it quits. That was the hard part.

Oanny crushed out the cigarette he had been smoking and folded his arms, leaning them on the edge of the table. It was typical how Victor was the one to see him look in on the game. George Raft with the dirty shirt. What was interesting was how come he had managed to wangle himself in on the company. He just seemed to turn up one time and tag along. Then suddenly he was there every Friday night, up in the usual place at Ashfield. Nobody even knew where the fuck he lived. Maybe he was dossing. He knew an awful lot of the riff-raff. So did Oanny right enough! But you could not help getting to know them when you saw them once or twice every week. Even if you never acknowledged them they still liked to say hello, just to kid on they knew you, in case they wanted to nip you for a couple of bob in the future. Bastards. That was a good point about Victor, you had to admit it, he was not a beggar. That was one thing you had to admit. But where did he stay? Imagine not even knowing where the cunt stayed! And there was no way of finding out, not unless you just came right out and asked him. And how could you do that? Some sort of conversation would have to be on the go first of all and Victor never got involved in conversations, especially not with Oanny. What a carry on it was.

*

Fat Stanley grinned as he sat down facing him across the table. He nodded at the halfbottle of vodka: Any of it left?

What. .

The vodka, any of it left? Fat Stanley grinned.

Aye. .

It’s for Alec. Fat Stanley watched Oanny pour some into another cup and add a fair proportion of lemonade. When Oanny was putting the halfbottle away into his inside coat pocket the other man added, Eh — what about Victor, should we give him one as well?

I suppose so. . Oanny shook his head, reached for another cup and poured in a tiny amount and then added a good proportion of lemonade, and muttered, The cunt’ll no notice anyway! He glanced at Fat Stanley: You should’ve told him to come and get it himself!

Ach Oanny, you know what like he is!

Aye, no fucking brains!

Fat Stanley chuckled. Naw, he said, but he likes watching the game.

I know he likes watching the game Stanley. Well I’ll tell you, he can watch it till fucking doomsday for all the good it’ll do him cause he’ll never make a fucking poker player. I mean you ever seen him fucking twitching! Poker by fuck! Couldnt play ludo that cunt!

Ah he’s no that bad.

Your trouble is you’re too soft.

Fat Stanley raised his eyebrows and smiled while lifting the two teacups. No coming ben? he asked.

In a minute.

It’s good. Some rare hands coming out.

Oanny shrugged. Either we win or we dont, it’s as simple as that Stanley. Who’s all playing?

McArthur and big Dessy, Billy Hendrie, the Ragman. .

Oanny nodded. How’s Alec doing anyway?

Och up and down, up and down.

Early days. Only takes a couple of good pots and we’ll be well away.

Fat Stanley smiled. Coming then?

In a minute.

Right you are. . He headed back through towards the gaming area. After a moment Oanny took the halfbottle out again and he checked the amount remaining. He continued to read the label then sniffed and returned it into the inside pocket. He lighted another cigarette and exhaled onto the table-top, scattering crumbs from the surface.

*

The sound of people talking quite loudly; somebody laughing. The poker had finished. And the main lighting was now on in the gaming area. Alec was a winner. Oanny would have bet money on it. He was standing central to the company and although he was not speaking the ones who were made a point of including him in the general conversation. When Oanny appeared a few of them had exchanged greetings with him. He took out the cigarettes and offered them about. The manager of the club was a guy in late middle age by the name of James Millar. He had nodded to Oanny without any comment, friendly enough but keeping his distance. Now he signalled to the doorman and together they left to stick on some coffee and knock up a few sandwiches. When the kitchen door shut the Ragman said, Well Oanny, dont see much of you these days.

The way that doorman was acting I thought I was barred!

Aye, he’s keen.

Keen! Oanny rubbed his hands together, exhaled a puff of smoke. How’s business? he asked.

Aw no bad no bad, surviving.

Good.

Heh Oanny, called Billy Hendrie, ever hear anything of the Ghoul these days?

Some of the company laughed. In the background Victor could be seen, he stood several yards to the side of Fat Stanley and to the rear of the main poker table. Oanny chuckled: The Ghoul eh! What a man yon was!

You’re no kidding! laughed Hendrie.

Last I heard he was up in the ’rigs.

That’s what I heard as well, said the Ragman. The Shetlands?

Oanny nodded.

I wonder if he’s still into the Crown & Anchor? asked Hendrie. What! Oanny pulled a face and the company laughed. He glanced at the Ragman and said, Mind that fucking pitch-and-toss game he set up down in Bellshill? The heavy squad ran him out of town!

The laughter again. But after a moment the Ragman answered, I dont think it was Bellshill but.

Tommy Rollo called, Naw I think you’re right, I think it was somewhere else.

It was Blantyre, said Alec.

Blantyre, aye.

Oanny nodded. Blantyre, he said, that’s right. A team of heavyweight boxers they sent after him. Fucking lynched him if they’d caught him!

Heh. . Billy Hendrie glanced swiftly at the kitchen door and whispered: Mind that time he tried to get a faro bank going in here?

Millar and his brother were supposed to be away off on holiday, grinned the Ragman.

Oanny chuckled, I’d forgot all about that!

The Ragman turned to those in the company who looked as if they had never heard about the business and he continued, No kidding ye, there was about a dozen of us, all in here one Tuesday dinnertime — dinnertime, aye! Anyway, the Ghoul’s got everything set up and he’s running this fucking I think man it might’ve been a grand bank, eh Billy?