Blood Whispers (12 page)

As he folded the thin square of foil it crossed his mind that he might be making a big mistake, but he was the test pilot and the lure of hitting the big ‘float’ was too hard to resist. Jay-Go had been clean for a couple of weeks now, but with all the shit that had happened in the last few days, he needed to relax and forget, even if it was only for a short while.

The quality of heroin he was used to slamming was at the lower end of the purity scale, forty, fifty per cent if he was lucky. This bag was straight off the plane, uncut; if he shot the sort of bang he was used to, he’d end up on a slab with some socially retarded ghoul doing a dodgy make-up job on him. He had to be careful.

This was considered an experiment: see how far he could fly on a lower dose. If it was as clean as he hoped, he’d have a good hit and still live to tell the tale. Then, the plan was to market the powder as Daz.

On the upside, he’d finally made the big score: he only had to sell half of it and he’d still make nearly twenty-five grand; maybe more if he cut it with some caffeine and dropped the price.

It was all profit, too. No overheads, no down-the-line dealers taking their cut, no worries as far as he could see. If he got rid of the whole lot he could buy his own boat and sail to New York, New York, so good they named it twice. From there it was a quick flight to LA and straight into rehab. Screw Glasgow, screw Abazi and his crew of shithead-sister-shaggers; Jay-Go was going straight.

Easterhouse, Glasgow, so shit they named it once.

Jay-Go’s mind was in a tailspin; Miss Lynch was dead and that was wrong. He was supposed to be looking out for her. He’d given her the Jay-Go promise, then screwed the deal. Another person to add to the list of people he’d let down over the years.

The lawyer had always done her best for him. Once, when it looked like he was heading to the Bar-L for anything between four and a half to sixteen for dealing and illegal possession of a firearm – she’d pulled something out of the hat at the last minute and saved his skinny hole. He’d gone down for a year, done six months and been released on probation – which involved having to check into a clinic every day for testing – but that was still a result.

‘Ah told ye the bogey-man was comin’, Miss. Ye should have fuckin’ listened,’ said Jay-Go out loud to the empty room. ‘Who’s looking out for you now, Miss? Jesus and his posse of guardian angels? And, who’s looking out for me now, eh?’

First thing he had to do was test the gear: make sure it wasn’t a bag of baking powder. Then hit the streets and offload as much as he could as quickly as possible.

After that, he’d get his bony arse out of town.

There had been nothing on the news about her funeral: where or when. Jay-Go wasn’t ever down for a pall-bearers’ job, but if he could find out where it was going to be held, or where she was going to be buried, he’d maybe slip by and pay his last respects before he left.

Something else was bothering him. Should he offload the gear locally, or take it out of town? It would be a lot safer to head over to Ireland with it and open up for business there, but Jay-Go didn’t even have enough money to get to the ferry, let alone buy a ticket for the crossing.

He’d have to sell some of it first. But as soon as it hit the street the chase would start. Whoever owned it would know exactly where it had come from and track him down. Jay-Go’s hunch was that caballo this pure could only have come from one source – if it was true, he’d have Abazi on his arse, and that mad fuck didn’t operate a buy-back scheme, he went straight for the kill.

He glanced around at the bare peeling walls. The floor of the living room was covered in filth. A one-bedroomed pigsty paid for by the state. Most of the time he didn’t notice the amount of crap everywhere, but today was different. Today there was the possibility to do something about it and that was giving him ideas. The benefit money he received every week was supposed to go towards its upkeep: heating, cleaning and maintenance, but by the time he’d bought enough cigarettes, beer and blow to get him through, there was barely enough left for food.

All that was about to change.

It was Jay-Go time.

He squeezed some lemon juice over the small pile of pale brown powder sitting on the foil, to make it dissolve properly, then boiled it up over his lighter. As the paste liquefied he quickly sucked it into the syringe standing ready on the coffee table before dipping it into a cup of iced water to cool it down.

Jay-Go strapped his arm to raise a vein, then eased the needle under the skin and gently squeezed the syringe until it was empty.

Even now, after years of doing this, it still surprised him how instantaneous the urge to throw up was. As soon as the tar hit his bloodstream he wanted to vomit. The sensation didn’t last long, but it was always unpleasant.

He swallowed hard a few times and tried not to retch.

Just a few more seconds!

He started counting down in his head: preparing himself.

‘Ten, nine, eight . . .’

He only got as far as seven.

It was in this initial stage of euphoria that the idea struck him.

Small-time thinking getting in the way of the big ideas! No point scrabbling around with the poor folk selling the odd bag here and there: go for the big score man. Sell it all in one hit!

A thin smile of contentment spread across his face and his eyelids started to droop. ‘Man, this powder will wash your brain whiter than white,’ he said as his head dipped forward and his mind floated upwards on a warm thermal until it reached the jet stream.

‘Puff?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Jay-Go.’

‘Awright Jay-Go, when did ye get out?’

‘Few weeks ago . . . on probation.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Fancy a beer?’

‘They’d have you straight back in the Bar-L without yer arse ever touching the ground, pal; you can’t associate with me, I’m a known criminal.’

‘I don’t want to associate with you; I want to buy you a beer. You still working for the Holy Man?’

‘The odd job here and there, but I don’t discuss business over the telephone, dude; too risky these days.’

‘Any chance you could set up a meet with him?’

‘With you?’ Puff replied, a bit too quickly for Jay-Go’s liking. ‘I don’t think so, Jay-Go. You’re just out of the jail, bag man. You’ll have the Funnies checking your every move. Nobody’s gonnae give you any gear to sell in a million years. I can tell you now the Holy Man won’t touch you.’

‘I’m not buying. I’m selling.’

‘Aye right! You’re charged up, dude . . . I can tell by your voice. Call me when you’re around the turn.’

‘Wait, Puff! I’ve had a wee bang, that’s all. Just testing the gear to make sure it’s a runner. But I’m fine. Ah know what I’m saying, Ah know what I’m doin’. I’ve got something to sell, but it isnae just that. The hit on Miss Lynch: I might know something about it. She was the Holy Man’s brief, he’ll want to know too.’

‘So tell me and I’ll pass it on.’

For a brief moment it crossed Jay-Go’s mind that maybe the Holy Man wasn’t the best choice of players to sell to. All of his crew – especially Puff – had a hair trigger when it came to throwing a punch. It could make negotiations difficult, but the guy had some money behind him and was less likely to screw him over.

‘C’mon Puff, put in a call. It’s not just the lawyer thing. I’ve got a big score for him. If I end up taking it elsewhere and the Holy Man finds out he could have had first bid on some smack that’s Janice Joplin-pure . . .’ Jay-Go didn’t finish the sentence. Puff didn’t need reminding of the Holy Man’s tendency towards violence. ‘C’mon,
I
know I’m a fuck-up, but
you
know I’m straight up. Put in a call.’

There was a brief silence then, ‘I’ll think about it.’

The line went dead.

Jay-Go went to the fridge to get himself a can of beer. He popped a couple of Dihydrocodeine from a blister pack he had in his pocket and swallowed them down with a few swigs of lager. The withdrawal had started already. His head was hurting and he was getting the shivers.

There was no doubt in his mind that Puff would call back and he wanted to be ready. He retrieved a spoon from the kitchen drawer and tipped a few grams of heroin into a clear plastic bag to take with him, then put a small amount on the end of the spoon and had a quick snort: one up each nostril.

The jangles were just beginning to settle when his phone rang.

‘You know St Benedict’s on Westerhouse Road? If you wait in the bus stop outside, someone’ll pick you up about half-eight.’

‘That’s right across the road from the polis station. I could meet in the car park at McDonald’s just along a bit on the other side.’

‘Aye, that’s a good idea, and when you’re still standing there waiting at one o’clock in the morning you’ll know it’s because you’re a fuckin’ dickhead. Just meet me where I told you, awright!’

Two hours later Jay-Go was standing in the bus shelter trying his best to shield himself from the rain sweeping along Westerhouse Road in great torrents. The wind was gusting through the shelter as though it wasn’t even there. With no money for the bus fare, Jay-Go had walked the mile or so from his flat and his clothes were soaked through. As he stood shivering in the darkness a small white car pulled up.

Without winding down the window Puff signalled from the passenger seat for Jay-Go to jump in the back.

‘Unseasonably cold weather we’re having. You not got a jacket, bag man?’ asked Puff when Jay-Go was on board and they were safely under way. ‘It’s wild out there.’

‘It was summertime when I left the flat,’ answered Jay-Go, referring to the fact that Puff was late.

‘Aye, sorry about that. Had to stop and pick something up along the way. D’you think the amount of fags you’ve smoked over your lifetime has affected the climate? It was roasting last week.’

‘Where we goin’?’

‘Off to the lab, via the dump. I take it you brought along something for us to have a look at?’

Jay-Go reached into the front and handed Puff the small plastic bag full of dull brown powder.

‘Man, that’s a fat bag. Where’d you get the money to buy this?’

‘If the Holy Man likes it he can buy it off me.’

‘If it checks out we’ll take you up to see the man himself. How much have you got altogether?’

‘I’ll discuss that with the Holy Man, don’t you worry yourself.’

‘You carrying any armoury‚ dude?’

‘A 007.’

‘You can hang on to it for the moment, but if we go see him you’ll have to hand it over.’

‘Aye, no worries.’ Jay-Go slipped the PPK out from his belt and placed it by his side on the back seat.

Jay-Go thought he heard Puff mumble something under his breath. ‘What?’

Puff looked over his shoulder at him. ‘What d’you mean, “what”?’

‘I thought you said something.’

‘You’re hearing things, dude, I never said a thing.’

Puff turned to the young black guy who was driving the car. ‘You mumbling in your sleep‚ Frica?’

‘I never opened my mouth.’

‘When we at the dump?’ asked Puff.

‘Another ten minutes.’

‘Fuck sake!’ said Puff, shaking his head. ‘Better pull over. It’s gonnae drive me mad.’

Frica turned off the main road into a quieter street and drove along until he could find somewhere to park.

Jay-Go lifted the PPK off the seat again and held it down between his legs, hidden from view. ‘What’s going on, boys?’

As Frica pulled into the kerb Puff opened the passenger door and jumped out.

‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said, leaning back inside and picking something up from the footwell.

Jay-Go’s grip on the PPK tightened as he watched Puff move round the back of the car and open the boot. The mumbling noise was suddenly louder, more urgent. Through the gap between the boot lid and the bottom of the rear window Jay-Go saw a hammer slamming repeatedly into whatever was on the floor of the boot. Each blow matched with the dull, sickening thud of metal hitting flesh. Puff continued to rain down blows until the pathetic sound of muffled screams had finally stopped, then he slammed the lid closed and climbed back into the car, wet through from the rain and dripping with blood that had spattered up his arms and over his jacket.

He was breathing hard. ‘Put your foot down, Frica, and let’s get to the dump.’

No one said anything else for the rest of the journey.

‘Anything goes down, toot the horn and meet us round the back, Frica, awright?’

‘Aye, no bother.’ Frica slipped the car into neutral and switched off the engine. Puff and Jay-Go left him sitting in the car and headed across Dumbarton Road to the Lios Mor.

Puff led the way as the two men pushed through the panelled door into the pub and threaded past the bar to an area at the back, nestling in the gloom. Four men were sitting round a table filled with empty beer glasses in one of the high-backed leather-lined booths that edged the red and gold damask papered walls.

A meeting was in progress.

More men loitered close to the table with drinks in their hands, their only purpose to shield the table from view. Keeping one eye on the meeting and the other on anyone entering the busy bar, they stood and watched in silence.

Puff nodded to one of the guys. ‘Awright, Happyslap?’

‘In good shape, wee man, in good shape! On ye go. The Holy Man said you were comin’. Is the junkie with you?’

Puff turned to Jay-Go. ‘Aye‚ he’s with me. The Holy Man knows.’

Happyslap flattened his hand against Jay-Go’s chest. ‘Ye carrying anything, horse-head?’

Any other time Jay-Go would have pulled the guy up for calling him a junkie to his face, but as he was a guest at the party, it would be considered out of order to cause any aggravation.

‘Got a 007,’ he replied, trying to think of a comeback.

‘Need to take that from you, Mister Bond.’

Jay-Go stared back him. He realized he was still a bit too wasted to think of anything better to say than, ‘No problem.’ He should have added ‘Miss Moneypenny’, but the moment had passed.

A guy in his late forties – who was already starting to lose his hair and looked more like an accountant than one of Glasgow’s most notorious criminals – was doing most of the talking as they approached the table. This was Jim McMaster known to everyone as the Holy Man. Jay-Go had heard a lot about him over the years, but never met him in person. He was a devout churchgoer. Whenever he or one of his team committed a murder he’d say prayers for the deceased, take confession, then leave a generous donation in the collection plate as he left the church – usually in tears.

Jay-Go recognized two of the others at the table. He was surprised to see Nick-Nick Carter from the South Side and Big Paul, leader of the Govan team, sitting there. Both of them were heavyweights and not the sort to keep company with their main business rival.
Something must be up
, thought Jay-Go. The other guy sitting to the Holy Man’s left looked out of place. His skinny, hangdog face had a fresh scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to just under his left ear and his eyes flicked around the room nervously.

Puff and Jay-Go waited near the table until the Holy Man stopped talking, then Puff leant over. ‘Excuse me, this is the guy Ah wis telling you about, Holy Man. This is Jay-Go.’

‘How did ye get on with yer wee errand?’

‘All sorted, Holy Man. Dropped him off at the dump.’

Holy Man took a few moments to look Jay-Go up and down, then said, ‘This better be a good one, son, ’cause you look like a waster to me. I’m having a small funeral gathering at present. Go and get yourself a pinkie sling at the bar and raise a glass to the deceased. Happyslap will give you a shout when I’m ready.’

‘Who’s “the deceased”?’ asked Jay-Go as he and Puff made their way back to the bar.

‘The guy in the boot of the car. Holy Man didn’t like the colour of his jumper.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Wise up‚ Jay-Go‚ for fucksake . . . The Holy Man’s colour blind.’

‘You takin the piss, Puff?’

‘He owed the Holy Man some money, but was reluctant to hand it over.’

‘What the fuck is a pinkie sling?’

‘It’s a test.’

‘A test?’

‘Like an initiation . . . it’s a drink. All the white spirits: gin, rum, vodka, white wine, then you get to choose either Coke or orange juice as the mixer. If I was you I’d go for the orange juice.’

‘Ah prefer Coke. But is there something in the Coke? Is it spiked or something?’

‘Naw, it’s just Coke.’

‘Does it taste better with the orange juice?’

‘Naw, it’s just that with the orange juice – when you’re drinking it – you don’t have to look at the finger floating around.’

Jay-Go was at the bar on his own, waiting for the barman to finish mixing his cocktail. The barman made a big show of pouring the spirits into a shaker, then tipped the contents into a highball glass full of ice.

‘Ye want Coke or jaffa?’

Jay-Go peered over at the glass to make sure that nothing else had been slipped in.

‘Coke.’

‘Ye sure?’

‘Positive.’

Instead of placing the glass down in front of him as Jay-Go had expected, the barman disappeared through a door into the back room taking the cocktail with him. He reappeared a few minutes later and set the drink on a coaster before sliding it toward him.

‘Pinkie sling . . . and Coke.’

Happyslap appeared over his shoulder.

‘Where’s Puff?’

‘Went for a piss,’ replied Jay-Go without taking his eyes off the finger, suspended in clear brown liquid, near the bottom of the glass.

‘Holy Man will see you now, horse-head. Bring your drink.’

Nick-Nick Carter, Big Paul and the guy with the scar were making their way towards the exit as Jay-Go shuffled past them. Jay-Go’s paranoia was kicking in. He was sure the fidgety guy with the scar was eyeballing him. Jay-Go nodded to him as they crossed paths. ‘If you’re after a ten-by-eight, I’m fresh out, wee man,’ he said, returning the stare.

The guy looked away.

The Holy Man stared down at his clasped hands.

Jay-Go was only just beginning to level out. The tremors had stopped and his skin had lost the clammy feel. He was still twitching, but not as badly as before. He sat opposite the Holy Man and placed his drink gently on the table so as not to disturb him.

‘Just the two of us, then?’ said Jay-Go when the silence had got too much to bear.

The Holy Man didn’t reply. Either he hadn’t heard or he was ignoring the comment.

Jay-Go picked up his glass and was about to take a large mouthful when he remembered the finger. He rattled the ice around and placed the cocktail back on the table. The Holy Man raised his eyes and stared straight at him.

Without saying a word the Holy Man suddenly leant forward and slapped Jay-Go hard across the face.

‘Jesus!’

Jay-Go didn’t react in time to pull away and caught the full force of the blow.

The skin on his cheek was red and stinging and there were tears rolling down his face.

‘Don’t ever come to see me pissed or jacked-up. Don’t ever show up to meet me after you’ve taken whatever shit it is you’ve been taking. I don’t deal with junkies, drunks or dropouts and you look like all fuckin’ three rolled into one.’

‘You told me to go to the bar and get a drink,’ Jay-Go whined, before his brain had a chance to hit the off button.

The Holy Man was giving him the stare.

‘Is that lip?’

Jay-Go shook his head.

‘Are you sitting there giving me fucking lip?’

‘No, Holy Man.’

‘I told you to go get a drink, and raise a glass to the dead. You were jacked-up when you arrived and now you’re sitting in my pub giving off to me.’

‘Really, Holy Man, I’m not. I apologize. I’m really no’. I just want to put a bit of business your way. That’s all.’

‘You’re a liability. You’re a threat. Arseholes like you’ll do and say anything to get your next bag of scrag and I don’t like that. I don’t like people like you in the vicinity. And now you’re giving me lip. Fuck me! Let’s hear what you have to say. If I like it you’re safe, if I don’t then I’ll cut off every one of your fingers and use them in my special cocktails . . . in the meantime, here’s what you have to do. Pick up that glass and take a drink. You don’t have to finish it, but the finger has to touch your lips. If it does, we’ll talk. If it doesn’t, or you don’t want to drink . . . you can fuck off. Now that you know the terms and conditions, do you still want to play? Or d’you want to give off to me again and we’ll take it from there?’

Jay-Go stared at the drink. The finger looked pale through the glass and had dark twists of blood seeping from the severed end. Suddenly he reached out, grabbed the highball glass and lifted it to his lips. As he tipped the cocktail and started to drink the finger flipped round and bobbed to the surface. The mixture of alcohol and Coke wasn’t unpleasant, but it couldn’t disguise the metallic, coppery taste of fresh blood. Jay-Go resisted the urge to retch. He knew this was a test, but a ‘pass’ was no good to him, he needed a distinction.

As the raw end of the finger brushed against his lips, Jay-Go opened his mouth, sucked the finger between his teeth on to his tongue and started to chew. It took him several minutes of grinding and crunching before it was even possible to swallow it, but eventually he opened his mouth and pushed his tongue out to show that the finger had been consumed.

‘What’s your pitch, horse-head?’ smiled the Holy Man. He eased back into the leather padding and took his hands off the table. ‘I’m told you know something about my deceased lawyer. Let’s start with business first, then you can tell me what you know. I was about to order something to eat. Fancy some scampi and fries?’

Jay-Go shook his head. ‘I’m full up.’

‘Puff tells me you’ve got something to sell?’

Jay-Go nodded.

‘How much?’

‘Half a kilo.’

‘First thing I want to know is this: why don’t you want to sell it all?’

‘All?’ replied Jay-Go like a bad actor.

‘The Holy Man knows everything that’s going on. The wee skinny Serb that was sitting to my left a minute ago.’

‘The guy with the scar and the face like a pair of dog’s balls?’

‘Aye, that’s the one.’ For the second time since he’d arrived at the table Jay-Go caught a smile on the Holy Man’s face.

‘He’s my new best friend. Works for a guy called Fisnik Abazi who has just become public enemy number one. The hooker probably deserved everything she got, but don’t hit the lawyer . . . my goddamn lawyer. Dog-baw’s name is Edi Leka: one of Abazi’s drivers and general janitors: our man in the know. Claims he’s disgruntled with his present employer and looking for a way out, which in the fullness of time we will provide for him. He’s been telling me that Abazi is missing a kilo of uncut
heroina
and, understandably, wants it back. Then suddenly you, Mister Cellophane himself, shows up and offers me half a kilo of something sounding very similar to what Mister Abazi has misplaced, and I’m sitting wondering why are you not offering me the whole bag: where’s the other half-kilo? Either you’re in negotiations with someone else, or there’s someone else involved, in which case, I’m out.
Or
you’re keeping some back for your own private consumption. Who knows? Could be some
other
fucked-up idea you’ve got going, I don’t really care. If it did once belong to Mister Abazi, then I am definitely interested, but either you sell it all to me or there’s nothing to talk about. Before we start negotiations, why don’t you tell me where you got it and how much you want for it? Bearing in mind that I could just take you out the back, tie you to a chair and beat the shite out of you until you tell me where the stuff is. Who’s going to give a shit if you go for a swim in the River Clyde wearing a pair of concrete Speedos. You know what I’m saying?’

Jay-Go looked to the door at the front of the bar and wondered how far he would get if he made a run for it. Even if he reached the exit, from that moment on he would have to keep running.

Jay-Go had no choice now but to face it out with the Holy Man.

‘I do have the whole kilo, but I’m only prepared to sell you half right at this moment in time. There’s no one else I’m talking to, no one else involved, and if the sale goes through I promise to sell you the other half. I want thirty first time round and twenty, second. I know its value on the street, so I think that’s fair.’

The Holy Man sat silently mulling things over for a few moments, then said, ‘I’m going to tell you a wee story. The information I’m getting is that when the ambulances showed up at my lawyer’s flat, one of them sped off straight away with a stretcher in the back. The other two ambulances stuck around until the body bags came out. But my sources tell me that only two body bags appeared. Three victims, two body bags: you don’t need to be a genius to work that one out. Edi Leka told us the name of the guy that carried out the hit. An Albanian called Engjell E Zeze, but they call him the Watcher. Leka was supposed to take him back to the airport afterwards, but the rumour is that somebody survived. The Watcher is sticking around. If it’s the hooker, he’s got to finish the job, but it could be Keira Lynch. In which case I think he’ll still go back in. Not because Abazi wants her dead, but as a matter of professional pride. Either way, if there is a survivor, they’re not gonnae last long. Where is this all leading? War has been declared. Abazi and the Watcher are top of my most wanted list. I’m forming a coalition and we’re about to go into battle.’ The Holy Man leant over and lifted Jay-Go’s glass off the table. ‘Here, you may want to finish off the dregs, before I deliver the bad news.’

Jay-Go lifted the glass and drained it to the bottom.

‘You may be sitting there wondering why is the Holy Man telling me this wee story?’

Jay-Go nodded.

‘Our first line of attack is the silence of money. That’s our main weapon.’

Jay-Go didn’t know why, but he nodded again. He had no idea what the Holy Man was talking about, but he wanted to give the impression that, not only was he following the train of thought, but he might have some ideas of his own to throw into the mix.

The Holy Man was still talking, ‘. . . drop our street prices below anything that Abazi is offering. Even if we have to give the shit away for free we are going to put an end to his business. It’ll only work if all the big players are on board, but so far we seem to have a cross-party agreement. And because of that, the value of your property has just halved. So I’m offering you fifteen for the first instalment and ten for the second. If you accept, we’ll shake hands now and you can give me your bank details. If you decline, you run the risk of Abazi finding out that you have his smack and all the grief that goes with that scenario. You won’t last a minute out there.’