admired.
For balance I’d picked up some Luckies. Said on the pack: ‘Lucky Strike means fine tobacco.’ I fired up, said, ‘Fine indeed!’
Hod had splashed out on a flatscreen telly, recessed into the wall. Must have been six feet wide; I’d seen smaller pool tables. I nosed around a bit but the ON button evaded me. Would be staying OFF for now.
I threw myself down on the couch. It swallowed me in an instant. ‘Oh yes, Gusie boy, could definitely get used to this.’
I praised Hod for letting me crash. Would definitely be making the most of my stay.
A few more belts on the Lucky and I found myself holding on to a handful of fag ash. I got up carefully, trying not to drop any on the carpet, and poured the lot down the cludgie.
The seat gleamed. ‘Christ the place is spotless!’
I looked around the bathroom, another telly had been fitted in the wall. He’d racks of lotions: Armani, Mugler, Gucci, even an old favourite, Fahrenheit by Christian Dior. I took off the cap, it smelled as I remembered it — just like Parma Violets. Took me back to the days of Pacers and Texan bars.
Splashed some on, said, ‘God, I love this stuff.’
There’s a scene from the Westerns. Must have seen it a million times. Some wizened old cowpoke, face as leathery as his saddle bags, dust-caked from the trail, gets into town. Before you know it, he’s hit the swing doors of the knocking shop, picked out a Bobby Moore and — bizarrely — demanded she fills a tin tub with bubble bath.
I turned the taps on full. Bliss, steam filled the room. I ferreted in Hod’s cabinets for some Matey. Found a remote doofer for the telly. Behind a pile of scented candles, some Radox, muscle-relaxing bath salts, thought, ‘Will do just dabber.’
Taps gushed like a power hose. Had me a bath in no time.
Got the 501s off. ‘Bucking the old eighties ads there, Gus!’
Was about to dive in when a thought grabbed me to light a few candles. Why not? I needed some serious relaxing, take that as given. Took the lighter from my jeans, had a bit of trouble getting the wick to take, then — ‘ Arrghh! Sweet mother of Christ!’
Candle wax splashed on my best mate.
‘Holy fucking hellfire! Christ! Jesus! Mother of God!’
I dabbed at the wax. It peeled off like Sellotape. Seemed to take the pain with it. Checked my old fellah — no damage done. Another lesson learned the hard way.
As I sank into the bubbles, I thought, ‘God this is good. Those Radox fellahs know their business.’
I hit heaven for all of ten minutes before boredom began to set in. I grabbed the doofer, switched on the telly. Scotland Today was on, with all the usual stories. Fishermen in Peterhead moaning about having to cut quotas. Thought, ‘Arseholes — get over it, you’ve cleaned out the seas.’
The parliament reeled out the usual numpty, the environment minister, who blamed the situation on Europe. ‘That’s the way, fellah, don’t isolate those voters.’ Another arsehole. God, wasn’t the world full of them? Though the parliament seemed to have more than their fair share.
I was ready to flick when a late item, just before the ‘and finally’, caught my attention.
Any sight of the home town on the telly tends to grab me, but this had an extra edge. A ruckus outside the High Court. The camera spun wildly out of control for a moment and I caught sight of a few press packers.
‘Hendo, get that camera up, you tool!’ I shouted at the screen.
Then came the voice-over. ‘Scenes of mayhem greeted the spectators gallery at the High Court in Edinburgh today…’
‘No shit,’ I said, ‘was mayhem on the street too.’
‘… as city crime lord Benny Zalinskas made his first appearance in what is expected to be a lengthy trial.’
I shot up to the screen, dislodging a flood of bath water onto the floor. He wasn’t what I’d expected: squat, stocky, sovereign-ringed. Zalinskas looked slight. Silver hair swept back in a carefully blow-dried manner. His face was unmoving, except for the eyes. Can honestly say I’d never seen a pair like them, they bulged out of his head so much he could have carried an Evil Dead remake.
Singular appearance apart, Zalinskas did, however, carry the requisite gangster’s camel coat over his shoulders. A biffer, whose arse was no stranger to the steroid needle, removed the coat just outside the court room. He stood holding it over his arm, until Zalinskas gave a little nod and the biffer moved to stand by the wall.
‘Holy fuck. Is this Chicago? It’s Al Capone on trial, surely?’
I dripped with water and shivered, but the scene held me. I couldn’t believe the way this city had changed. Just a few years ago, this would have been the headliner on the news, now it was barely getting billing ahead of the weather.
Back in the studio the newsreader quizzed the reporter by a link-up. ‘So what can you tell us about the trial, Polly?’
The blonde with the china-blue eyeshadow flashed up, the one who only a few years ago could have been seen trotting down the street in a pair of her mother’s five-sizes-too-big heels.
‘Mr Zalinskas faces charges of living on immoral earnings in the city, the charges relate to a period between January and March of this year, where it is alleged he headed up a vice ring of some hundred-plus sex workers.’
‘Sex workers? Jesus, even the brassers have gone PC,’ I said to the screen. ‘Can we have the meat of the issue please, Polly?’ I shook my head, there was work for me as a trainer out there.
Back in the studio the newsreader managed to shoehorn in the more significant charge of tax evasion. How the case came about remained a mystery. Already they had shifted to a story about a rehomed sheepdog that only answered to its master in Gaelic.
Said: ‘ Pog mo thon.’
Flicked off. Sat back down.
I reached out the bath to my jeans, pulled them over the floor. I’d a paperback in my back pocket, A Nietzsche Reader. Basically, pocket Nietzsche for simpletons, but it did fit in my pocket.
Read: ‘He who breathes in the air of my writing must know it is the air of the heights he is bracing. A man must be built for it. Otherwise, it will kill him.’
I read on, said, ‘So, join the queue.’
34
Launched a raid on Hod’s kitchen. Found fun-sized Crunchies in the fridge. Fancied a coffee to chase. A tin of illy espresso called from the shelves. Picked it up, but it didn’t look or smell like instant. I read the tin. ‘Caffe macinato.’
‘So, what’s that? Do I need a machine?’
Read on: ‘Only the finest Arabica beans… selected with care and passion… an experience that will involve all your senses.’
‘I only want coffee, for Chrissake! Has he no Mellow Birds?’
Saw Jules in Pulp Fiction saying, ‘This is serious gourmet shit.’ Didn’t rate my chances of getting the espresso machine working. Opted for a bottle of Stella. Tasted fine. Reassuringly expensive, like the ads say.
On my third, I crashed on the sofa listening to the Dirtbombs doing ‘Got to Give it Up’. Had just discovered them, they were outta Detroit as they say Stateside. Their album covered some amazing tracks; the attitude had me hooked. A real edge that wailed, ‘Don’t fuck with us.’
Was punching the air and moshing to ‘Underdog’ when my phone went.
‘Hello.’
‘Well, hello yourself.’
‘Amy?’
