Paying For It (12 page)

As the top of his head came into view I stepped out in front of him. He hunched over, looked up, and I blew smoke in his face. ‘Ta dah!’ I said. ‘And as if by magic, the shopkeeper suddenly appeared.’

THE CUBE MADE to run.

He hobbled back down the steps, on his bandy legs, arms flailing. I let him open a dozen paces between us before I stubbed my tab and reached out to collar him.

‘I think it’s time you and I had a little chat,’ I said, as I latched onto his throat.

He tried to speak, ‘I-I-I …’

‘Catch your breath, fuckhead, you’ve a lot of explaining to do.’ I grabbed his paper, ‘And you won’t be needing the
Daily Ranger
!’

In the winding streets of the Old Town, it’s never hard to find an empty vennel. Very few people stray from the well-trodden paths. I pushed the Cube through a set of rusty gates into a dark courtyard. A stack of mouldy crates fell with him as he tried to scramble to safety.

‘No escape this time,’ I said.

His eyes darted from left to right. I saw him toy with the idea of balling a fist. I didn’t give him a chance. My right connected like a car crash. If pain was a target on his face, I’d hit the bullseye. Blood oozed from nose and mouth. He dropped like a telegraph pole in high wind. Soundless. Sprawled out on the ground, motionless.

‘Is that it?’ I thought.

A one-punch job.

I grabbed the collar of his mangy leather and sat him on his fat arse. He lolled woozily, but responded to a slap.

‘Now, there’s plenty more where that came from.’ I felt fierce, I knew the territory. It didn’t matter whether I was acting up, or it was real, either way, the Cube shat bricks.

‘Spill,’ I told him.

‘What? What? I was just …’

Wrong answer. I drew up my elbow, the dumbfuck followed it. He caught a mouthful of bone.

‘I can honestly say, I’ve never heard a grown man scream before.’

He spat blood, his face turned into a mask of agony.

‘Are they tears?’ I said. ‘Are you crying?’

He said something, but I couldn’t make a word of it.

I stepped back, lit a tab. I wondered if I’d gone too far. This guy looked to be in the wrong line.

As I knelt down beside him, he flinched.

‘Okay. Maybe you’ve had enough – you ready to talk?’

He nodded feverishly. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

‘Good.’

I drew on my tab, blew into the tip. Little orange sparks flew. Then I held it like a dart, close to his eye.

‘Now, I am warning you, one word of a lie and you’ll need a white stick and a Labrador to get out of here – understand?’

‘Yes! God, yes! I’ll tell you all you want to know, just leave me alone. God, you’re insane!’

Too easy. Was I really this menacing? I’d need to hit some serious psychological tomes for the answer to that.

‘Why are you following me?’

‘It’s a job – I’m on a job.’

‘You’re an investigator?’

‘Aye!’ He ferreted in his jacket, for his wallet. ‘Look – look,’ he said. He produced a stack of cards. Cheap printouts, poor quality. They all read Private Investigator. The address said Gorgie. He ran the show from a cold-water flat. Whoever hired him either worked to a budget or didn’t know shit.

‘Not exactly bloody Magnum PI are you?’

‘I do all right.’

‘Mate, believe me, you’re far from fucking all right.’ I pressed my knee in his back and grabbed a handful of hair. ‘Now, who hired you?’

‘Arghh … I can’t.’

I tightened my grip, dug my knee into his shoulder blades. Felt the pressure mounting on my kneecap as he let out a scream.

‘Okay – just let me go.’

‘Name?’

‘I don’t have a name, she didn’t give me a name.’

‘
She
?’

‘Aye. A woman, Russian – sounds it anyway. She just told me to follow you and report back to her at the Shandwick.’

Nadja. I didn’t need to know any more.

‘On your feet.’

‘What?’

‘Get on your fucking feet, now!’

He stood up; brushed at his backside. The way he looked, blood smeared on his face, hair sticking up like a duck’s arse, he needn’t have bothered.

‘What are you going to do with me now?’ he said.

I sooked the final draw out my tab and flicked the dowp into the alley. ‘I’ll ask the questions. Now, walk.’

‘Where – where are we going?’

I prodded him in the back and pushed him into the close. ‘To see your employer. I’ve words to have with Nadja.’

‘But … why do you need me? Surely, I’m no use to you now.’

I held up one of his cheap cards, said, ‘See that? I know where you live.’ The Cube’s eyes widened, like he’d been anally probed. ‘One more word from you about leaving the party, I’ll be on your doorstep with a machete. Am I making myself clear?’

Nods. Thick and fast.

‘Glad we understand each other. Now move your lardy fucking arse.’

I HIT THE bar with brass-knuckles. Wild Turkey. Pale ale. Burst of tequila slammers. Mixing like this, not a worry to me. Once, the volume of drink seemed all that mattered. As my alcoholism progressed, a different strategy became necessary.

That’s the way it is with me. Swear, other alkies will tell you the same thing. It’s not the drink. It’s not the feeling, the taste, the debauchery. It’s what Graham Greene called the battle against boredom. The need to escape yourself. After a while, any pressure from the outside world begs for the journey.

‘Do you really need me here?’ said the Cube. He watched me carefully. His shifty eyes took in the glass in my hand, then darted off to the exit.

‘What we have here is a failure to communicate.’

‘What?’ said the Cube.

‘Some men you just can’t reach, so you get what we had here.’

‘I don’t …
What
?’

‘It’s the way he wants it. Well, he gets it and I don’t like it any more than you.’

The Cube sat back in his seat, slowly his tongue appeared on his lips.

‘You’ve never seen
Cool Hand Luke
, have you?’ I said.

A shake of the head, finger in the collar.

‘Shame. It’s a classic. If you had seen it you’d know two things: one, if you move off that seat, I’ll burst you. Two, sometimes nothing’s a pretty cool hand.’

The Cube looked away. He lowered his head as if he was praying for an end to this insanity. Like I wasn’t?

I flagged the waiter.

‘Stick another in there, mate.’

‘Excuse me?’

Looked up, had sat there so long there’d been a shift change. The waiter was now a waitress. Though, you’d need a magnifying glass to spot the difference. A hefty she-male with a short back and sides, tie and trousers, builder’s arms, the lot.

‘Er, it’s Wild Turkey for me, please.’

Took a frown. My order got pushed down her ‘to do’ list, took second billing to changing the CD to k.d. lang.

‘Here, I think that’s her,’ the Cube’s voice lit up for a moment, then I heard his fear creep in, ‘Who you’re looking for.’

Nadja knew how to make an entrance. Carrying herself like royalty, she approached the front desk. Two arm-length gloves slapped on the marble. It looked like a nonverbal cue, but one I’d never had cause to decipher. To the concierge, however, it shouted: ‘Action!’ He scurried round to remove Nadja’s coat, bowing and scraping like a coolie in the presence of the Raj.

‘Take it to my room,’ she said.

A near bow. Forelock tugging. ‘Right away!’

The Cube looked at me, saw we thought the same thing: ‘So this is how the other half lives?’

I got to my feet. From nowhere the Leither in me rose up. The ghost of Burns reminded me: ‘The rank is but the guinea’s stamp … a man’s a man for a’ that.’

She took a few steps into the elevator. I followed behind her, then pressed the hold button. The indignant look on her face seemed like incitement to me.

‘Take her coat,’ I told the Cube.

The concierge flustered, ‘Really, I mean …’

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Nadja. ‘These men are … associates of mine.’

The doors closed.

The air inside the elevator felt thick with menace. A tinder-box waiting to explode. I’d happily be the spark.

‘Associates?’ I said.

‘What is this?’ said Nadja.

‘I tried to—’ said the Cube.

‘Shut your fucking yap!’ I said.

I moved towards Nadja. The closer I got, the more I became overpowered by the scent of her perfume. I looked her up and down. She recoiled from me. Guess I didn’t smell quite as good. ‘This, my dear lady, is the moment of truth.’

I stopped the elevator. Opened the door. ‘Do one!’ I grabbed Nadja’s coat from the Cube, kicked his arse on the way into the hall, he’d served his purpose now. ‘And remember – I wasn’t kidding about the machete.’

As the elevator began its ascent, I eyeballed Nadja.

She held herself motionless. Wouldn’t grant me so much as a stare. I felt a queue of my cloth-capped forebears forming behind me. Each one, prodding, demanding I do my bit for the class struggle. I fought them off as long as I could. Even after the caps came off and were trampled under tackity boots, I kept my cool.

When the elevator stopped Nadja looked through me. Something snapped.

I hit the door lock. Grabbed her face in my hand, said, ‘Lose the high and mighty pose, lady.’

She tried to turn away, raised a neatly manicured set of claws to my eyes. In a second my forearm clicked into place, pressing her by the throat to the wall.

‘This is the one and only warning you’re going to get. Go down that route and you’ll find out what a perfectly unreconstructed example of maledom I really am.’

Her face turned white. Even through the layers of expensive panstick I saw I had her beat.

‘Now, we are going to walk out of here all nicey, nicey – understand?’

She couldn’t move, but signalled her compliance with a flutter of long eyelashes.

I let her go. ‘Don’t test me. That would be a mistake you might not live to regret.’

I’D ONLY ONE word for the way I felt about the opulence of Nadja’s room: appalled. I’m a working-class bloke, it’s in the contract.

The carpet felt so soft that it added an extra layer to the air-cushioned soles of my Docs. But I couldn’t feel comfortable here. I’d no place in my life for gilt mirrors and walnut marquetry. Tried to tot-up the cost of furnishing a room like this. Couldn’t do it – had seen nothing like it in the Argos catalogue. All I did know, I’d need several lifetimes to afford one cabriole leg of the table Nadja treated like a piece of MFI flat-pack.

‘I need a cigarette,’ she said, slamming the drawer shut.

She seemed on edge – just how I wanted her.

I let her hang. Wandered about the place. Caught sight of a Peploe on one of the walls.

‘You don’t like the picture, Mr Dury?’ said Nadja. She’d found some tabs, lit up and blew smoke in my direction.

‘Not my style.’

‘What is?’

‘I’m more a “tennis player scratching her arse” kinda guy.’

She winced, found me coarse. I wasn’t the type she usually dealt with. Thought, ‘Tough shit.’ She’d just have to get used to roughing it with the proles for a while.

‘Do you plan to take me prisoner in my own suite, Mr Dury?’

I’d a mind to do much worse. A man had been killed, a man I’d got close to. The image of Milo’s burned remains stabbed me, called for revenge, and the anger inside me wasn’t choosy who paid.

‘You really are quite a piece of work, aren’t you, Nadja?’ I said.

She hesitated, stalled with her cigarette halfway to her mouth. ‘I’m quite sure I do not know what it is you mean.’

I walked over to the drinks cabinet, poured out a large Courvoisier, swirled it around in the bottom of the glass. When I turned round, Nadja had lowered herself onto the chaise. She crossed her long legs delicately in my direction. ‘Please, give me one.’

I sighed. ‘Sorry, but I’ve come out without my white gloves.’

She looked confused, but undeterred. Shot me a smile.

‘Let’s get something straight from the off,’ I said. ‘That kind of shit isn’t going to cut any ice with me.’

‘Excuse me?’

I fired down the brandy, said, ‘I don’t do fuckstruck.’

Her act slipped away. She sat forward, elbows on knees. ‘What do you want?’

‘I seem to remember telling you what I wanted some time ago.’

‘And …’

‘Here we are again.’ I reloaded with brandy.

‘Look, Mr Dury, when a man, a how do you say … private investigator, comes to ask the questions about my personal life I have little to say.’

I drained the glass, held it in my hand, some weight in these crystal jobs. As it hit the wall the noise came like gunshot.

‘Okay – Okay,’ said Nadja. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know. I just had to be sure who you were before I could speak.’

‘And your little helper, he filled you in?’

‘I wanted to know who you were working for. I couldn’t trust that you might be from them.’

‘
Them
?’

‘From Zalinskas.’

She fell to bits. Head in hands. Tears. The works.

I moved a chair in front of her, turned it around, sat down.

‘I know about the Latvian girls. My friend found out too – and they murdered him.’

‘Yes. Yes …’

‘You and the Bullfrog, you’re in it together.’

‘No – Yes. With Billy. It was his job.’

‘Billy brought in the girls?’

‘Yes. But, there were many things he did that I did not know of.’

I reached out, lifted up her head. ‘Such as?’

‘I do not know. Really, there were some things Billy wouldn’t even speak to me about.’

I remembered Col’s words, about Billy being close to making his pile. I wasn’t buying that Nadja didn’t have more to give.

‘And Zalinskas, he knew all about Billy’s … activities?’

Nadja looked towards the window, placed a curl of hair behind her ear. She shook her head.

‘I see.’ Now we were getting somewhere. ‘So Billy was branching out on his own?’

She stood up, pressed down the sides of her skirt.

‘Mr Dury, I shouldn’t be telling you of this – any of it.’

‘Why?’

‘It will put me in danger.’

I stood up quickly, knocking over the chair. ‘You’re already in danger, don’t forget that.’