White Rage (42 page)

‘He has a stomach upset,' Kilroy said.

‘I thought he looked definitely under the weather, so I did. Looks dead queasy.'

‘Better dead queasy than dead,' Kilroy said.

‘Aye, right enough.' She touched the back of Perlman's hand in a maternal manner, then shuffled off, vanished behind a curtain where the kitchen was situated.

Kilroy said, ‘I've been coming here for years. I used to live in Yoker. I was a pupil at St Brendan's Primary, just round the corner. It's a comfort to come back sometimes. There's a sweet security about the past you can't get in the present, if you know what I mean.'

Perlman tapped the surface of the table. His fingertips felt numb. ‘The woman who shot me is dead, Leo.'

‘Is that a fact? Well. Quick justice anyway.'

I'm not sure you can call it that. She was murdered by your friend and, er, factotum Frankie Chasm.'

‘What?'

‘In a flat in Dennistoun.'

‘You're pulling my chain, sly dog. Why would Chasm kill this woman?'

‘Maybe he couldn't find any more use for her. Maybe he wanted to break his connections with White Rage.'

‘Come again? His
connections
with White Rage? Have you been imbibing some serious narcotics? What fucking connections could he possibly have had with that fascist gang?'

‘He gave them cash. He provided at least one weapon.'

‘Oh nonsense, Lou. It's a mistake –'

‘No mistake, Leo.'

Mrs Bane came back with a cup of coffee and a plate of white bread smeared with margarine. She set the bread down in front of Kilroy, who instantly stuffed away a couple of slices.

Perlman tasted his coffee. The liquid had a chemical whiff. ‘This coffee's shite,' he said.

‘That's the worst instant money can buy,' Kilroy remarked. He dabbed his lips with a paper napkin. ‘I seriously doubt what you're saying about Frankie.'

‘He's in custody, Leo. He's confessed to the fact he killed the girl, also to gifts of money and procuring a gun. And he looks like he has plenty more phlegm to hawk up.'

Mrs Bane returned, carrying a plate piled with assorted fried meats and a large mound of thick glistening chips. Kilroy squeezed tomato sauce on the whole thing; the plastic tomato made a farting sound. He scattered salt on the food, then shovelled forkfuls to his mouth. The sight was amazing; Perlman felt an odd admiration for the Fat Man's magical ability to make his grub disappear. Nor was there any visible evidence that Kilroy chewed his food before swallowing. It was seemingly conveyed whole into the cavity of his throat and from there began its voyage, intact, to the processing factory that was his gut.

Perlman said, ‘I have the distinct impression, Leo, he's going to sing a wee bit more.'

‘What tune and in what key?'

‘Some sorry little song in a flattened minor,' Perlman said.

‘I don't like the look in your eye, Lou.'

‘What look is that?'

‘Bleary but watchful. Under all that pink there's something ticking away, keeping score.'

‘I'm always keeping score.' Perlman moved the troublesome wounded arm slightly, trying to find comfort, liberation. ‘The point is, Leo, what Frankie might have to say could be highly problematic for you.'

‘How so?'

‘Consider what he knows about you.'

‘He's not going to hang anything on me, Lou.'

‘Don't count on that.'

Kilroy pushed his food aside. Unfinished. An historic first, Perlman thought. Alert the press. Send photographers.
Kilroy Leaves Meal Uneaten
.

‘You're murdering my appetite, Lou. Let's get out of here.'

Kilroy left a stack of notes on the table and moved towards the door, and Perlman followed, trying to keep his back stiff, determined not to slouch. Pain had re-shaped him: he had limited parameters of movement. He forced himself to think bright thoughts; like nailing Kilroy. Like bringing him to justice for the death of Colin as well as any other crimes he could lay on the Fat Man's doormat.
I'm after you, fucker, and homing in. I'm a lard-seeking missile
.

‘Why don't we walk down to the river,' Kilroy said.

‘Why not.'

They crossed Dumbarton Road. Perlman grimaced. He couldn't postpone the other painkiller indefinitely. He palmed it, took it from his coat pocket. Do it now. He held back. He needed an unclogged mind.

They walked past a pub called the Wharf Inn and stopped by the edge of the water. The river was grey and slow and narrow at this point. From the Yoker side you could take a ferry across to Renfrew, a journey of a few hundred yards that lasted a little more than a couple of minutes. Gulls screamed all around them.

Kilroy looked up at the birds. ‘I hate it when they dump shit on you.'

Never mind the gulls, Perlman thought. I've got shit to dump on you. ‘Chasm admitted his association with White Rage, Leo.'

‘Until he tells me that straight to my face,' and Kilroy shrugged, staring at the opposite bank.

‘He also denied ownership of Bute Transport.'

‘Denied it? That bastard. See?
See?
You
give
to people. You act
kindly
. You offer a charitable hand to an ex-con and what does he do? I have a big heart, Lou. I should learn to be careful of it. Bute? I gave it up. I gave it to Chasm. There are papers. Official papers.'

‘So he's the one responsible for importing human cargo?'

‘
What
kind of cargo?'

‘Asylum seekers. General illegals.'

‘And he says Bute brings them into the country?'

Perlman remembered Chasm's denial. What the hell. The end justified the means. ‘That's what he says.'

‘I don't know what the fuck he's on about.' Kilroy stamped his foot like a petulant boy. Buy me that lollipop. Buy me that fucking lollipop, Mummy. ‘I regret my generosity. I swear to Christ.'

‘My understanding is there's a problem with competition. Bargeddie Haulage.'

Kilroy watched the ferry come in. He ignored Perlman's comment. ‘Let's take a ride on the ferry, Lou. When did you last go across the Clyde on a boat?'

Perlman had a memory of sailing the small Govan Ferry with Colin – when? The middle of the 1950s? He recalled the stink of smoke, the dank smell of the river and rotted wooden steps and water seeping through his shoes. The craft approaching now bore no resemblance to the old ferries, which had been small soot-blackened tugboats. This new ferry was bigger, and wider. It didn't even look like a boat, Perlman thought.

The vessel docked. Perlman followed Kilroy on board. There were no other passengers. The Fat Man paid the conductor.

‘My treat,' he said.

‘Thanks.' Perlman leaned against the side and looked upriver. If Kilroy was uneasy, he managed not to show it. If he was worried about further revelations or accusations, he concealed the feeling. He was singing under his breath:
‘Clang clang clang went the trolley.'
He beat one of his meaty hands softly against his thigh.

‘So what about Bargeddie Haulage, Leo?'

‘What about it? I'm not sure of the relevance.'

Perlman thought how good Kilroy was at bland statements of denial. He lived, when he so chose, in a sealed world of his own making. ‘If you're at all confused, Leo, allow me to make it clear. Bargeddie is in the people-smuggling business too. But Bute Transport, in the great and good spirit of capitalism, doesn't like competition.'

‘Is that a fact?'

‘A nasty fact, Leo. The Gupta family, owners of Bargeddie, represent a jaggy thistle up Bute's arse. Two rival companies, only one can be the
balebhos
.'

‘Is that Yiddish?'

‘It means the boss, the big boss.'

Perlman felt the engine of the ferry throb. Coming aboard had been a mistake; the motor thudded inside him. He longed for the quiet stillness, the certainty, of dry land. The ferry edged away from the bank.

‘The Guptas have experienced more than their share of misfortunes recently,' he said. ‘But you know that.'

‘I saw on TV a daughter was shot. I think.'

‘Killed by White Rage. Also a nephew died falling from the balcony of his flat. Probably pushed. And one of their trucks exploded – the one Glone stole. Glone was a big mistake, Leo.'

‘Glone. I never met Glone.'

‘If he hadn't crashed that truck, I might not have had a connection to Chasm.'

‘Chasm maybe. Okay. You can't connect Glone to me, Lou.'

‘You don't know what Chasm's going to tell us, do you?'

Kilroy had the expression of a man who wished he was in the kind of location from which he might send postcards saying
Having A Great Time
.

Weakened, Perlman sat down. He thought of Chasm, of the money he'd invested in White Rage. The question reared up at him: Where did Chasm, ex-con, get the cash? From the moneyman, of course. And who was he? The answer was as obvious as a firework going off on a wintry night. Perlman hesitated a second, listening to pennies rumbling down a chute.

‘You gave the instructions, Leo. That's how it worked.'

‘Speak so's I can understand you, Lou.'

‘You told Chasm what targets you wanted to hit.'

‘You're a cherry short of an empire biscuit, Detective,' Kilroy said. ‘Targets? Instructions? Where do you get this guff?'

‘It makes sense. White Rage pops up on the scene. In your warped brain you get the idea this organization might be useful to you. Why? Because your competitors are the right colour for White Ragers to target. Chasm the factotum becomes the go-between. You give him money, he pays White Rage to kill people associated with the competition. The intention is a warning to Gupta to get the fuck out. He leaves the scene and tally-ho, the market's all yours again. You've blown your rivals out of the water.'

Kilroy said, ‘Get a grip, Lou.'

‘I imagine you also disposed of Perse McKinnon, because his computer records probably contained material a little too close to the bone for you, Leo. Who knows what lurked in the depths of that electronic box of his? And he happened to be black. Natural candidate for White Rage.' Perlman finally placed the painkiller in his mouth and swallowed. ‘It's neat enough, Leo. White Rage go about their business as normal. Two Africans with absolutely no connection to you or Gupta. Fine. As for Indra Gupta, and the unfortunate bystander Ajit Singh, White Rage will get the blame. Who else? And Blum, alas poor Blum. When he gets shot, White Rage go over the top defacing the building where he works. Swastikas, no less. But it wasn't Blum you wanted, although I suppose he'd served a purpose, except he knew a wee bit too much about you, always a danger facing anybody who enters your employ.'

‘This is like listening to a man trying to play the fiddle with woolly mittens on.'

‘Blum got the chop, but it was me you had in your sights, Leo. Right? It was
me
you wanted. You just fucking
hated
the idea of me trying to dig up stuff about Colin, making a nuisance of myself. Blum was a good start. He was Jewish. Set a precedent. Kill a Jew or two. Maybe after me you might have singled out a rabbi, I don't know, any Jew to keep the anti-Semitic thread going. Suddenly Jews are dying, Indians, Nigerians, Zambians, White Rage knows no bounds … see tomorrow's headlines. City locked in more terror. But White Rage are just fucking fall guys.'

The ferry banked on the Renfrew side of the river. Perlman gazed at the pub beyond the dock. The Ferry Inn: imaginative. He wanted a drink, but he didn't want to move just yet.

Kilroy shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. ‘It's turning cold. I can't stand this city in the cold. Not that I don't love Glasgow, because I do. I love it less and less, that's all. It's been dismantled, Lou. So much of it is lost.'

Perlman waited for the drug to release him from pain. His lips were numb now. He wondered where Kilroy was drifting.

‘What do you miss about the old city, Lou? Remember the Oswald Street Zoo?'

‘The animals smelled like they'd been dead for years.'

‘It was a zoo stink. Terrific, exotic. Wild animals right in the city centre.'

‘Every Saturday night, Leo, we get wild animals in the city centre. You might not be aware of this.'

‘Aye, I suppose you do. I also miss high tea at Pettigrew's, and the little trio that played. My mother used to take me there. We'd get all dressed up. I'd eat cream buns.'

‘I remember the place,' Perlman said.

‘And the Victor Sylvester Dance Studio? I learned to tango at that place. Can you believe that?'

Not easily, Perlman thought.

The ferry moved again, turning back towards the Yoker shore.

Kilroy looked suddenly fierce. ‘Your accusations aren't really about Chasm or Bute or Gupta or White Rage or anything like that, are they? It's all about that fucking
photograph
.'

‘The photograph?'

‘Dalness Street. Night. Bentley. Man driving. You
should
remember. You sent it.'

‘I never sent you anything, Leo. I received a photograph like the one you describe, but I never sent a copy to you.'

‘Somebody did. Including a note that hinted at blackmail.'

‘It wasn't me. Take my word for it. So who sent it?'

‘You tell me, Detective.'

‘I can't tell what I don't know.'

‘I'm not buying your Lucky Bag, mister,' Kilroy said. ‘The tape. The photograph. You're out to get me. You're conspiring against me. This story about Chasm and White Rage, that fucking photograph, it's all some plot to drive me up the wall, drive me fucking mental.'

Kilroy sat beside Perlman. Kilroy was breathing hard. Perlman felt the painkiller cloud his brain; a pleasing sensation. Dreaming your life away. How nice. Not a worry. Not a care. The world turns and turns. The bills pile up. Nobody gets paid except the man who brings the opiates.