Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— I’d dispute that. Downtown gets the arty crowd, but West Hollywood is certainly better for the Gary Busey. I check his face for signs ay understanding. He smiles, starting tae get the rhyming slang. — And most of our business is around there. You don’t want tae be stuck in motors on choked freeways. Ye ken how you get in cars wi the motion sickness.

As he sulks in compliance, I feel like my dad must have on family outings; North Berwick, Kinghorn and Coldingham. Those stone beach picnics, under dull, cloudy skies in a freezing cauld wind. Not too much ay that ice cream, it’ll make ye sick . No wonder we became fucking drug addicts. Never mind deindustrialisation: sugar and biting-cold wind played their part.

Conrad leaves again – the Ambien must have relaxed him – and there are nae mair interruptions. I drift off intae a fucking weird kip where all my life’s confusions are given the Salvador Dali remix, whirling around in my head. When I wake up I’m more exhausted than ever. I lie in bed most ay the day, sending emails on my laptop, and avoiding phone calls.

In the evening I’ve booked a bunch of us in for dinner at the Wing Lei, the wonderful fine-dining Chinese joint at the Wynn Hotel. It’s one ay my favourite spots. With its warm and lavish but somehow sedate gold furnishings and lush gardens, it does what the very best places in Vegas do: make ye forget you’re in Vegas. It’s also the first Chinese restaurant in America tae be awarded a Michelin star. In addition tae Conrad and Emily, who I aim tae have supporting him here eventually, though not tonight, we have Jensen, a hanger-on mate ay my superstar DJ. He’s an annoying buck-toothed wee cunt with a black fringe that hangs in his eyes, but strangely useful tae have around as he distracts Conrad fae hassling ays. Mitch, the promoter, is also present. Carl, as usual, who is opening, hasn’t shown up yet. It was a major endeavour on my part tae convince Conrad no tae remove him fae the bill after the dickhead incident.

And now my two other guests arrive. Francis James Begbie and his wife Melanie have driven to Vegas in a hire car, making a big desert road trip out of it, a diversionary night in Palm Springs thrown in. Like lovers do. They can fly back with us on the rented jet, which takes less than an hour. Some cunts say private jet. It’s a rented jet ride and tax-deductible. Again, propaganda designed to intimidate and inspire awe in the masses. I don’t know of any star musician who is silly enough to run a private jet. Just hire one when you need it.

Melanie has her hair pinned up and wears a stylish mauve-coloured party dress. Franco sports a white shirt and black jeans. His hair is number-two short. Once we’d only sit down tae grease in some grubby Leith cafe together, nursing brutal hangovers. Now good food is a vice we share and our meets are always in a nice restaurant. After introducing them to everyone, I run a proposition past him. — Listen, this Edinburgh exhibition you’ve got in May; how do you fancy us putting a party on? I can get my DJs tae play there. Carl Ewart will love it, I offer, wondering where the fuck he is, again checking my phone for messages, as a waiter delivers sizzling ribs on two platters. Desperate bullets of sweat shoot from Conrad as the dish is laid in the centre of the table, far fae his clammy grasp. — What about it, Frank?

As Franco hesitates, Melanie intervenes. — Oh, that sounds great!

— Nah. No wanting any fuss, ay? Frank Begbie shakes his head. — Back over there, right in, right out, he says, as I catch Conrad lunging for glory, literally pushing Jensen aside to get at the goods.

— It’s no bother, Franco. Least I can do, I say, glancing doon the table tae marvel at my superstar DJ. He’s filled his plate up and is working hard on a pile of ribs and barbecue sauce, while absent-mindedly chatting tae Emily. Fuck me, I’m sure I heard the words ‘track’ and ‘studio’.

— C’mon, Jim! Melanie urges.

— Okay, Franco smiles, — but it’s against ma better judgement.

— Oh, and another thing, I drop my voice, bending in close to him, — I have that money for you.

Franco falls silent for a few long seconds. — It’s cool, mate. We’re sound, he emphasises. — Just nice tae see ye again, out here in America, daein so well. He takes in the stylised opulence ay the restaurant. — Life is weird, ay?

I can only agree wi that contention, but as I prepare tae get back onto the cash theme, Carl arrives, gaunt-faced, and wearing a Stetson and shades. He’s with this woman, late twenties, blonde hair with crimson tendrils, sly eyes, whom he introduces as Chanel Hemmingworth, a journalist on a dance-music website. — She’s doing a piece on me.

He briefly chats to Franco about Juice Terry, Billy Birrell and some other old names, before heading to the other end of the table to join Chanel. Conrad looks at him in a forced disdain. As Carl displays classic coked-upness, eating very little and ranting, Conrad is eavesdropping desperately. I’m trying to blank out his bullshit but in a conversation lull I catch a sleazy, cruisy, — I’m addicted to women but also allergic to them, so that’s a bad mix.

Chanel Hemmingworth stays cool; she’s obviously been in this situ before.

Checking my watch, I shout for the tab, settle up, and herd those unruly cats doon tae the club. Forget procuring sexual services: this is the hardest part ay the job. Vegas clubs have shitloads of security, so we have tae go through a labyrinth of basement corridors, even being diverted through a sweaty, fully-staffed kitchen (that a superstar DJ is treated to such indignities annoys Conrad, while the sizzling food preparations torment him), before we get tae the premier VIP box, located behind the DJ booth wi its decks and mixing desk. Carl’s been dragging his flight case ay records wi him, perspiring like a Thatcher Cabinet minister wi the education portfolio up for grabs, and looking dangerously red. When we arrive, he makes straight for the giant bottle ay iced voddy clocked by a sexy hostess, who pre-emptively fixes him a drink. As Carl takes his refreshment and slips into the DJ booth and Conrad scans the crowd, I offer everybody earplugs. Melanie accepts; Emily and Franco don’t. — It gets loud, I warn, placing mine lightly in. — I’m not losing my hearing for a fucking DJ. You shouldn’t risk yours.

— Go on, Jim, Melanie urges.

Franco reluctantly takes the plugs. — I’ve never really been yin for dance music.

— You still a Rod Stewart fan?

— Aye, still dinnae mind a bit ay Rod, but have ye heard Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy ?

— Wisnae too keen. It’s no a real Guns N’ Roses album, it doesnae have Slash oan the guitar.

— Aye, but the boy who plays guitar is fuckin better than Slash, he says, suddenly sounding like Begbie again, before inserting the plugs to eradicate any objections I might make.

Carl is a bit fucked and his hour warm-up set, spinning old vinyl on record decks that naebody has used for a decade or more, doesnae go doon that well. I always phone ahead to tell them to dig out old-school Technics turntables as the cunt still insists on spinning vinyl. They think it’s a joke at first, then they generally curse me tae fuck. Some flat refuse: albino Luddite intransigence has cost us bookings. And it’s not as if anybody here gives a fuck about his deep-house music. The Vegas weekend shagger crowd craves only the big names in EDM. They sit at their tables getting loaded on peeve, and hit the floor en masse when Conrad waddles intae the booth tae replace Carl. The star’s gig is pretty damn good if ye like that sort ay seedy table-service pseudo-prostitution deal, which I dinnae. Tae me, the brand ay jumpy cut-up EDM shit Conrad has adopted – lucratively, so I cannae criticise him – is a fucking misnomer. It’s totally undanceable, but the brostep frat-boy crowd and the husband-hunting suburban bimbettes lap him up.