The Last Days of Disco (12 page)

Gary stood up again and breathed in deeply, as if the story was finished. The other three looked bemused. Before Benny could lodge a protest …

‘Ma dad got the letter an’ immediately said he
kent
it was me. No interested in listenin’. Nae opportunity tae tell him whit
actually
happened. He just said, “Yer a bloody waster, an’ ye’ll never be anythin’ different.” Never spoke a word tae me after that fur about six months. Ah was twelve or thirteen.’

It was an unusual story, Kevin eventually conceded. Benny wasn’t really sure what to make of it. Henry couldn’t see how it fitted in with stories explaining
how your family reacted when you said you were joining the Army.

‘
That’s
the reason why I’m here now,’ said Gary, sensing the need to elaborate on the moral of the story. ‘When ah was doon in London, ah realised ma dad would be thinkin’:
He’s just run away, and he’ll just end up nickin’ stuff and doin’ drugs an’ aw that shite
. So one day, ah thought
Fuck it,
dae somethin’ that’ll make the auld bastard eat his words. If we end up goin’ tae the Falklands, he’ll have nae fuckin’ choice.’

Private Gary Cassidy of the Second Battalion Scots Guards stood up tall, saluted his comrades and then turned and walked away to look for more firewood.

‘Whit the fuck was that?’ Mickey Martin was not a happy man. ‘Brenda wanted a decent disco for her twenty-first. Ah fuckin’ hired
you
, ya cunt … no yer fuckin’ circus sideshow freaks. Where the Christ were you?’

Fat Franny was on the back foot here, of that there was absolutely no doubt. He’d taken a gamble and it had backfired spectacularly. Mickey Martin had booked him for this gig months ago and, in truth, he had forgotten about it. But his mum had a hospital appointment re-scheduled at short notice for the same day, and following it she’d been kept in for observation overnight. Her blood pressure had been incredibly high and the chest pains she’d been complaining about since Christmas had suddenly got worse. Franny was between a rock and hard place, and had finally decided that he wouldn’t be back in time. So he made the decision to send wedding specialists, the Cheezees, and – as a bit of a back-up – Bert Bole, alias Tony Palomino, Lounge Singer. As he stood in front of a raging Mickey, last orders having just been called, it was a decision he now bitterly regretted.

‘Fuckin’ Peters an’ Lee earlier … they were absolute shite,’ Mickey ranted on. Having summoned Fat Franny to the Howard Park Hotel, he was determined to make sure he got the full picture. ‘An’ everybody fuckin’
kens
Bert Bole. He was the janny at the fuckin’ school most ae them went tae! Comin’ on in a wig and wi’ an open-necked shirt an’ tellin’ every cunt “
I’m Tony Palomino … Welcome to Las Vegas”
? Whit the fuck are you on?’ Mickey was secretly enjoying tearing strips off Fat Franny. His daughter had actually told him that her uni friends from Glasgow thought it was brilliant. A comedy cabaret for a twenty-first birthday was really different.

It had certainly been different. Jay and Jill Boothby had turned up thinking it was a wedding reception; a misconception reinforced by them having to pick up Bert Bole on the way there. They were dressed in tuxedo and white evening dress, like giant versions of the tiny couple that adorn the top of most wedding cakes. They had taken dancing lessons and – determined to show them off – normally started the first dance routine. Most guests found this a bit odd, but Jay’s argument was that it would encourage reluctant grooms if the
entertainment
showed them how it was done. At Brenda Martin’s twenty-first birthday party, though, it just seemed
too bizarre for it not to be part of an elaborate joke; especially when Jill caught a heel in her dress and tripped Jay, sending them both crashing to the ground. Jay fell backwards, Jill fell forwards. When they finally came to rest, Jill’s head was between Jay’s spread-open legs in full
blow-job
position. As embarrassment turned to rage, Jill Boothy of Cheezee Choonz slapped her husband. The Glasgow University contingent cheered. Jay – ever the semi-professional – bowed. Jill, with angry tears welling up, lifted her white stiletto with pace in the direction of her husband’s balls. The applause made no difference to Jill’s pride and she stormed out, leaving her limping spouse to follow and Tony Palomino to carry the rest of the night.

Normally, Tony did two sets of around twenty-five minutes each; usually split by the bride and groom actually leaving. His repertoire was pretty limited: ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’; ‘Pretty Woman’; ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ … the most contemporary song he did was ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’, but with the same backing track as Tight Fit. Tony knew he was way out of his depth. The Cheezee disaster had struck early, at around eight-thirty. There were at least four hours to go and – by the looks of it – no buffet breaks planned. Unsurprisingly, Tony floundered. Shouts for ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, ‘The Model’ and – right before he was hit in the face by a beermat – ‘Heart of Glass’ had the Vegas lounge singer sweating profusely. Fat Franny had been contacted and instructed to appear before an irate Mickey Martin, after Tony had sung ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’ four times.

‘Ah cannae pay ye. No after that fuckin’ fiasco,’ said Mickey. He’d had no intention of parting with cash in any case. But he
had
been prepared to dangle the carrot of The Metropolis. Now he had an alternative approach. ‘Dae ye ken how ah can get in touch wi’ they Heatwave boys, Franny?’ Mickey knew this would skewer the
fat fuck.

His daughter wasn’t unhappy with her night. For her it had been a cult success; and, besides, her father had just bought her an Austin Maestro that could talk to her and remind her to wear a seat belt.

Fat Franny left without speaking to Bert Bole, and pointedly left him to call a taxi to get home.

The conversation with Mickey Martin gnawed away at Fat Franny like toothache. He hadn’t been able to sleep soundly for the two nights since. Admittedly, the party hadn’t gone well, and although he’d initially attempted to defend his acts, deep down he knew that it had been his fault. There was no question of payment being offered by Mickey Martin, given their history, but it was the mention of these new
fuckers –
Heatwave – that had really got to Fat Franny.

‘Ah’m gonnae gie these
Heatwave
boys the shout for the anniversary, big man,’ Mickey had said in a phone call yesterday. ‘It’s nothing personal Franny, but that was a fuckin’ shambles, mate. Ah’m no fuckin’ havin’ it.’

‘We’ve kent each other for years, Doc. An’ in aw that time, I’ve never let ye doon afore,’ pleaded Fat Franny. This didn’t come easy for him. Begging wasn’t his style.

‘Aye mibbe so … but we aw need tae move on,’ said Mickey. ‘Ah want tae gie them a shot, wi’ The Metropolis comin’ up an’ that. Ah’ve heard good things about them, ken?’

The mention of The Metropolis cut Fat Franny to the quick. He’d known for a while that Mickey was planning a mega-nightclub with different bars and a resident DJ in place. Mickey was also rumoured to have secured a previously unheard-of four a.m. licence. Speculation was that it was now going to be located in the vast spaces under the Foregate car park, and that it would be open five nights a week. This was the Holy Grail to Fat Franny. An opportunity to cut loose all the charlatans who were dragging him down:
The Cheezees, Bert fuckin’ Bole, That
Sunshine
walloper … all of them could go an’ take a flying fuck to themselves
… if he landed this gig. Maybe even Hobnail – and the domestic carnage that always seemed to surround him – would be expendable. But at the moment, the dream was drifting away from him.

‘Franny. Ye still there? Ah need tae go. Ah’ll speak tae ye sometime … later.’ Mickey Martin hung up.

Fat Franny was left holding the receiver, staring at it and trying to decipher the significance of the word ‘sometime’. Eventually he pulled the bit of paper with the numbers written on it in red felt pen from the cork pinboard to his left. Time for a word with the new kids on the block.

‘Bob, it’s me. These two cunts have got a party at the Tory Club on the twenty-fifth.’

‘Apwil?’

‘Whit? Aye, this month. Get on tae Des an’ the Painter.’

‘Dith ye phwone him, th’ Cassidy boy?’

‘Eh? Aye, aye … ah phoned the cunt. Offered him a place at the table. Fuckin’ walloper’s no interested. He told me they were doin’ a’right. Stupid prick also telt me the bookings they had.’ Fat Franny
could hear Hobnail sniggering, but the Fatman wasn’t in the mood for humour. ‘Listen. Gie Ally Sneddon a phone. He’s the manager at the Tory Club. Owes me a favour. Tell him Des an’ Wullie’ll dae the door on the twenty-firth. Free fuckin’ gratis.’ There was silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Huv ye
got
it?’

‘Aye,’ replied Hobnail. ‘Don’th worry. Ah’ve goath it.’ The phone’s tone flatlined.

Bob Dale hated Fat Franny at times like these. Ally Sneddon was
his
mate! Why could the Fatman not fuckin’ phone him direct? He could be such a wanker at times
.

Despite a difficult start, with all the early accusations from the punters that they didn’t know what they were doing, unforeseen circumstances had intervened and their popularity was now definitely on the rise. That Heatwave Disco had
anything
in common with the Thatcher Government was surprising. That they should be here – at the Tory Party’s Kilmarnock HQ – was, for Joey Miller at least, nothing short of shocking. Joey had been here with a group of colleagues from CND only five months ago. They had banged on the massive wood-panelled doors of the old Georgian building, supporting the Greenham Common Woman’s Peace Camp in their demands to overturn the decision to site ninety-six nuclear cruise missiles in Berkshire. And now here he was – walking through those same black doors to entertain people who held views to which he was fundamentally opposed.

A
different
woman called Margaret phoned and made the booking for her husband’s fortieth birthday party. Bobby had taken the call. He didn’t care for the Tories either, but he reckoned their money would be the same colour as everybody else’s. The venue was the Conservative Club in Kilmarnock. Bizarrely, the Conservative Club was immediately adjacent to the
Labour
Club.
Private functions were regularly held in both, as the alcohol was subsidised to Bowling Club levels. The Labour Club was an unusual building halfway up a very steep hill and perched on three levels on the banks of the river behind the Palace Theatre. It had a similar concept to Frank Lloyd Wright’s famous Falling Water building in America, but resolved and constructed to a much poorer standard. Its stained, brutalist concrete was in stark contrast to its more refined neighbour.

The Conservative Club was at the bottom of the hill. Both buildings shared a car park and service area. The Tory retreat was a more conventional, two-storey sandstone villa, sitting on its own, out of context and severed from its original surroundings by the town’s one-way traffic system. Only members of the Club – and therefore the Party – could book a function there. The Labour Club, on the other hand would take anyone’s money.

Joey was in a bad mood. Bobby and he had recently left school in advance of their exams. This had gone down badly with Joey’s mum, as her son’s explanation that a career as second-in-command of a Kilmarnock-based mobile DJ business hadn’t matched her aspirations. Bobby’s initial dialogue with his own parents was similar, but his dad was an accomplice and had therefore given up the moral high ground weeks before. His mum was worryingly ambivalent about most things these days, including – it seemed – her youngest son’s future plans.