Jonny. I had good reason to: he had saved my neck. And when I first arrived in Glasgow, it had been Jonny who first suggested he and his colleagues could perhaps make use of my skills.
Don’t get me wrong. I had known exactly the kind of people I was getting involved with. And I had known that some of the enquiries I carried out for them took me very close to, and often over, a very fudged border between the legal and illegal. I’d gotten involved in some seedy and unpleasant shenanigans and, as time had gone on, I had felt like I was sinking deeper and deeper into a personality that I really didn’t care for. That’s why, over the last twelve or thirteen months, I’d been making a real effort to straighten myself out; and that meant having less to do with the Three Kings. Instead, I had been doing fine upstanding work for the community, mainly staging infidelities in seedy hotels for divorce cases. But the two cases I was now working on threatened to drag me back into the cosy embrace of Glasgow’s most dangerous men.
One thing that unites the criminal fraternity is that they don’t tend to keep banker’s hours. Extortion with menaces, vice, armed robbery and running brothels takes it out of you, and your average gangster tends not to be a morning person. So I decided to wait until the following afternoon before paying Jonny Cohen a house call, even though I knew that he, of all the Kings, had the closest to a normal daily schedule. I gave him a ring after lunch and we arranged to meet, conveniently, at the Pacific Club that evening about five.
I stood before the Pacific Club and contemplated glamour. It’s a funny thing, glamour. The word itself was as Scottish as they come, meaning a spell or an enchantment cast over someone to enrapture them. It was odd that, having invented the word, the Scots were totally at sea with the concept. Whenever they strived to achieve it, it just came out all wrong. No, that wasn’t entirely true. There were exceptions: Sheila Gainsborough had glamour in spades. Naturally and effortlessly. A rare achievement, given the lack of it in her origins.
The Pacific Club was intended to be glamorous. It failed. More than that, its failure was the kind that would have helped Neville Chamberlain feel better about Munich. The Pacific Club was the ground floor and basement of a soot-blackened building on Broomielaw, down on the north bank of the Clyde as it dissects the city centre. It was a gloomy place even in daytime, being almost tucked under the latticed ironwork of the rail bridge over the river. The sun was still blazing when I got there and it was a relief to step into the club’s clammy coolness, like walking into a subterranean cave.
Officially, the Pacific was a private, members-only club, a legal wriggle that allowed Handsome Jonny Cohen to circumvent most of the licensing laws. Like all such night-time venues, it had that depressing tacky look during the day. Like a seaside resort off-season. The air in the club was clear but the greasy odour of stale cigarettes clung to every surface. There were two dozen chair-stacked tables, a small stage and a bar in the corner. The nautical theme was represented mainly by ship life rings, emblazoned with ‘SS PACIFIC CLUB’, on the walls, and by some netting half-heartedly arranged over the stage. The small curved bar had a driftwood sign above it stating that it was the ‘HAWAIIAN HULA BAR’ and some more netting draped around it. There were crab shells dotted about the netting. Maybe it was just me, but I couldn’t image anywhere within the known universe and probably several parallel ones that could possibly be further away from some sun-drenched, azure-sea tropical island than the Broomielaw in Glasgow.
Although, I had to admit, the Pacific Club was probably as good a place as any to catch crabs.
I got there about ten before five just as the staff were arriving to unstack the chairs from the tables and start preparing for a long night of overpriced drinks, under-clad girls and mediocre jazz. Handsome Jonny was already there. He beamed a searchlight grin of perfect teeth above the Cary Grant cleft in his chin. He looked clean, cool and fresh. I am definitely no slouch at turning myself out, but I had the distinct feeling that Jonny’s tailor and barber had gotten together to conspire to give me an inferiority complex. I was suddenly aware that my shirt was clinging to my back with sweat. Jonny’s thick, dark hair had been immaculately cut and for a second I wondered how feasible it would be to travel to Hollywood from Glasgow once a fortnight for a trim. I decided to keep my hat on for the moment.
‘Stands Scotland where it did, Lennox?’ He reached out his hand and I shook it.
‘Wrong character.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got the wrong Macbeth character. MacDuff asks Ross: “Stands Scotland where it did?” The character of Lennox doesn’t say anything much to anybody. Just sticks by his king and ends up getting killed for it.’
‘Is that the kind of Lennox you are? The question is which king would you stick by?’ Jonny didn’t wait for an answer and grinned. ‘You know what I like about you, Lennox? Talking to you is always an education.’
‘It’s the company I keep. I’ve been hanging around with Twinkletoes McBride. Sometimes it’s just like the Brains Trust when we get together. Anyway, I think it’s fair to say you and I have learned a few things from each other… about each other… don’t you, Jonny?’
Jonny’s smile stayed in place but changed a little, like a wisp of cloud passing across the sun. ‘What can I do for you, Lennox?’
‘Well, I’ve got two cases on at the moment and you’re involved in both, in a way.’
‘Oh? I take it one is the Bobby Kirkcaldy carry-on.’
‘Willie Sneddon has asked me to speak to Kirkcaldy. Looks like someone’s trying to spook your fighter.’
One of the staff started to vacuum and Jonny winced at the noise. He beckoned for me to follow him and we sat at a table right at the back of the club, on an elevated section that over-looked the small stage. It was odd seeing Handsome Jonny Cohen here: he could not have looked more out of place; which was even more odd because it was, after all, his place. If you had seen him here as a customer, with his looks and expensive haircuts and tailoring you paid for in guineas, not pounds, you would say to yourself: ‘That guy’s slumming it.’ But he wasn’t a Pacific Club customer: he was the owner. And Jonny the businessman knew that he didn’t need to lavish his good taste or better cash on the place.
I took my hat off and ran a smoothing hand through my ’Pherson’s cut. The finest one-and-sixpence could buy you in Glasgow. But it still wasn’t Hollywood.
‘Just a minute…’ He got up again and went across to one of the girls preparing the bar. He sat down again and once more hit me with his searchlight smile. ‘I’ve got a treat for you.’
The girl came back with a bottle and two glasses.
‘Thanks, Fran…’ he said and took the bottle from her and held it towards me, cradling it in both hands as if presenting me with an award.
‘All the way from Bardstown, Kentucky. Heaven Hill Bourbon. I know you prefer ryes to Scotches. Go on, try it.’ He poured me a glass and I took a sip.
‘Perfect…’ I said. And it was.
‘You know Sneddon and I both have a share in Kirkcaldy?’
‘Yeah. But Murphy hasn’t?’
Jonny shook his head as if I’d suggested he sell me his sister for sex. ‘Not likely. And it’s best he doesn’t know anything about this. He’s always moaning that we leave him out of stuff. Well, this time we did. He’d start throwing his weight about and there are other people involved with Kirkcaldy who’d run a mile if they took one look at Murphy.’
‘I know the feeling,’ I said.
‘Sneddon’s got this bee in his bonnet about Kirkcaldy being got at,’ Jonny said with an almost sigh.
‘I can see his point.’
Jonny shook his head. ‘Something’s not right about it, Lennox. It’s not just a spook job. All of this shite… nooses left on his doorstep.’
‘Nooses?’ I put my drink down. ‘Sneddon didn’t say anything about nooses. He said Kirkcaldy had had paint poured over his car and a dead bird put through his letterbox.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jonny. ‘Those too. But someone laid out a hangman’s noose on his doorstep. And did Sneddon tell you about the paint on the car? The colour, I mean?’
I shook my head.
‘Red. Blood red. And the dead bird wasn’t just a sparrow or shite like that. It was a dove. A white dove. Now what the fuck’s all that about?’
‘Put it all together and it looks like someone’s making some kind of death threat,’ I said. ‘I’d say that would fit with warning him off winning this fight.’
‘Naw… something doesn’t feel kosher about it all,’ said Jonny. ‘It was me who suggested to Sneddon that we put you on to it. There’s more to this than some kind of half-arsed attempt at fight fixing. You know what I
