I had her pegged.
‘That’ll never happen,’ I snarled. The words sounded just as harsh as I’d hoped they would. I even managed a rasping, throaty little alkie’s cough at the end, just to ram home how immune I was to her charms. ‘You’re out, plod’s in — that’s the deal, and believe me, I’m a lot easier to get on with.’
She quickly stubbed out the cigarette. It snapped off at the filter. She started firing out words at me: ‘He worked for a man called Benny Zalinskas. He has some properties that Billy looked after. You know, keeping tenants happy, that kind of thing. He took care of Benny’s business. Now, is there anything else you need to know? Or can I let you get on with… whatever.’ She threw herself back in the chair, arms raised to the ceiling in exasperation. It seemed an overly theatrical gesture for these genteel surroundings; Edinburgh ladies who lunch don’t generally raise more than a pinkie in company.
I pressed harder. ‘And what else does Benny do?’
Col had told me that Billy started out driving a van, humping furniture from one gaff to another. It seemed a big jump to hear he’d been running the show. I’d known people to make big jumps in this city before, but generally not from so far down.
‘I do not understand. What is it that you mean?’ said Nadja.
‘Any work that might not be so… above board?’
She shook her head wildly. A loud huff pulled in a few more glances, and then she stood up to leave.
‘I don’t think I can be of any more help to you,’ she said, bringing her heels down hard on the Shandwick’s expensive quarry tiles.
I frowned. Looked down at her seat and motioned, sit. I was ice. God knows where I found this line in cool.
‘I’m gonna need names, numbers and addresses,’ I said. ‘Unless you’d sooner deal with plod.’
5
It turned out Billy collected his wages from an East End kip house run by Benny Zalinskas. I liked the sound of the place, Brigadoon House. But when I checked it out, I found a better name would have been Fallingdoon.
The man on the desk turned out to be a Russian with a thick accent. I smiled and joked with him, then handed over a wodge of cash, said, ‘Tell me when that runs out.’
I’d seen this done on Miami Blues and always wanted to try it. Alec Baldwin could make any line sound cool back then before he piled on the pounds, and totally lost it, dumped Kim Basinger.
The cash before me got counted faster than any bank teller’s effort. The Russian’s smile disappeared faster yet. ‘Monday,’ he said.
Now I was in Miami Blues, had to fight saying, ‘Get me a girl, Pablo.’
Went with: ‘You jest.’
His eyes widened. I figured he wasn’t kidding. I stayed at the counter for a moment, then carried my bag to the room.
He shouted at my back, ‘No drinking and no drugs on the premises.’
I turned around and gave my best dagger-throwing stare. I knew the words, ‘Know you bloody Scots,’ would be muttered under breath soon. It was one of the side effects of the city’s drive to embrace multiculturalism; we were the minority in some places.
I dumped my bag in the room. I’d been kipping above Col’s bar for the last three months or so. The tiny flat was crammed in above the gents and reeked like the Waverley Steps at chucking out time. My new room looked small, shabby in the extreme, but it seemed like a step up for me.
I checked myself in the mirror: faded denim jacket, slightly more faded 501s, torn at knee, and my crowning glory, cherry Docs, scuffed all to hell. I looked like Jim from Taxi, the spaced-out one.
Something needed to give. I’d been getting looks on the street. The kind of loser stares that shout, ‘Get a job, you bum!’ They set me right off. That kinda thing, it hits at the core of me. I knew I needed to smarten up my act.
I splashed water on my face. Ran fingers through my hair. It was so long it sat back without trouble. I needed some serious grooming attention, but fought the urge to begin right away.
I filled up the kettle, one of those jug types. Ripped open a sachet of Nescafe. I felt ready for a caffeine hit. I felt ready for something stronger to tell the truth, but that would have to wait.
The cup barely touched my mouth when the door went. A delicate little knock like a child, or maybe, if my luck was in, a woman. I opened up. In the jamb stood a small old man, hunched over and as frail as lace.
He rubbed at his fingers, said, ‘I hate that, the knocking plays terror on me hands.’
I looked down. His fingers seemed to be folded at right angles. Great bulges of bone stuck out where arthritis twisted its way through them.
‘Howya, I’m Milo,’ he said holding out a hand, bravely, I thought.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ I hardly touched his two most prominent fingers. They felt soft and cold. Skin as smooth as a baby’s, nothing like they looked. ‘I’m Gus,’ I said.
‘I heard you come in, heard the no drink speech. Thought you might be from the Old Country. I’m a Limerick man m’self — you?’
‘Eh no, I’m a Leith boy, through and through.’ I caught a deck at the disappointment in the old man’s eyes. He looked lonely. I felt the misery waft out of him, it kicked my heart like Bruce Lee in slow mo. ‘Look, the kettle’s just boiled. Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Have you tea?’
I looked on the tray by the kettle. ‘Eh, no. Sorry.’
‘I’m a tea man really. I’d have taken a sup o’ tea with ye — coffee does my insides great distress.’ He sat himself down by the wall in the room’s only chair. ‘Are ye with the Trust?’
‘The Trust?’
‘Christian Fellowship. They put me up here. It’s a bastard of a place really.’
‘Brigadoon?’
‘Brigadoon my arse! It’s run by Russkies. They’re all over the place hereabouts, it’s like Red Square, I tell ye.’
I ventured a laugh.
‘Do they look after you, Milo?’
‘They could care less.’ He raised a gnarled thumb over his shoulder. ‘Yon Stalin’s a cute hoor.’
‘ Stalin?’
‘It’s what I call him — yer man what runs the place, he’s as sour as all get out. Him and the rest. Has roughnecks in and out at all hours. Still, I guess they won’t have me here for much longer.’
‘On the move?’
He laughed like a roar. Went into a hacking cough and had to wipe his eyes. ‘I’m eighty-seven, my next move will be my last, son.’
I smiled. My stomach fluttered when he called me son. ‘You’re wearing well for your years, Milo.’
He started up again, laughing into tears. ‘Jaysus, isn’t that the best yet. You’re a terrible liar, my friend.’
I felt embarrassed. Heat rose on my face. I hoped I hadn’t offended him. I really liked the old boy, said, ‘Don’t they say there’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle, though.’
His eyes sparkled. They matched the coldest of blue, but beyond them I saw he was still a young man. ‘Aren’t ye a ticket, Gus… Gus what is it, now?’
‘Dury.’
‘I’ve enjoyed your company, Gus Dury, but I won’t keep you. Only wanted to stick my head in and say hello.’ He stood up, it seemed to take him an age. And then he made for the door. I grabbed the handle and prised it open for him. He nodded graciously. ‘I knew a Dury once — a Kerry man — have ye roots in Kerry?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘That’s good. Wasn’t he a prick entirely!’
I laughed out and placed a hand delicately on Milo’s back. ‘See you again.’
