Authors: Malcolm Mackay

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction

How a Gunman Says Goodbye (23 page)

Staring out the window, watching the rain come down. The life of the loner. How did Frank do it all these years? Calum’s been thinking about that for the last hour. Not thinking so much about Emma. He liked Emma, but it was only two months. She was great company, but anyone would have been welcome after so long without. Calum’s twenty-nine. Frank’s sixty-two. He’s had thirty-three more years of it. Right up until the Scott job he seemed as if he was handling it all happily. He must have had moments like this, when the sacrifices didn’t seem worth it. Maybe not. Maybe he was always stronger than Calum. It’s not the sort of thing you ever get to find out. No gunman is ever going to tell you about an emotional crisis. Strange thing is, this has only crept up on him in the last six months. Before that, nothing. He was happy to go along with the life he had. As long as he had control of it, he could live with the sacrifices.

A bitter determination. Time to take action. Do some work. Frank’s risking everyone’s freedom to try to protect his own. Inexcusable. Jamieson has to know. Calum’s pulling his coat on, picking up his car keys. No more messing around. This is the life you’re stuck with; let’s not make it any worse. He knew what the sacrifices were when he started. They’ve never been a surprise to him. He has no right moping about it now. You have a job. You have money. You have a life. You’ll have none of that if Frank talks to the plod. You don’t have to like the life you live, but you still have to protect it.

He’s out the door and down the stairs, out into the rain. Looking up and down the street. Moving slowly, not caring if he gets a little wet. It’s more important to be careful than dry. Make sure there’s nobody out there watching you. He’s in work mode now. He’s about to go and report to Jamieson. It’s important. The sort of thing Frank would want to stop if he were aware of it. It’s Frank he’s looking for, but there’s only an empty street looking back at him.

He’s parked a street away from the club. He’s walking briskly, but not too fast. The speed a person should walk in this weather without drawing attention. There’s nobody outside the front of the club, so he’s ducking into the alley. He’ll go in the side door. None of the regulars turn and look at him. They know better. Not for them to crane their necks at people who don’t want to be watched. A couple of people at the snooker tables look at him. Kenny’s one. The driver. He nods a hello and doesn’t say anything. The guy Kenny’s playing is Marty. A pimp and loan shark. A real scumbag with a big mouth. Calum doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s popular, though, because of what he supplies. All the wannabe gangsters want to get close to the guy who organizes the private parties. And he’s very profitable, so Jamieson and Young are willing to suffer his company now and again.

Marty’s probably there for a meeting. He’s probably sent word along the corridor to Jamieson that he wants to meet him. Doesn’t matter to Calum. Queue-jumping is hardly the worst thing he’s ever done. He’s marching along the corridor to Jamieson’s door. The security really is terrible, he’s thinking. Knocking on the door, waiting for a response. It takes a few seconds, but he gets a ‘Come in’. He’s opening the door and walking inside. Jamieson’s behind his desk. He’s sitting facing Young, who’s on the couch, as ever. They’re both looking at him. Watching him drip water onto the nice carpet. Calum has a stern look on his face, letting them know that this is serious. He tends to look stern and miserable anyway – it doesn’t require any effort. Perhaps they don’t realize that this is anything special. Jamieson’s turning back to Young, nodding dismissal.

Calum’s sitting across the desk from Jamieson. Jamieson’s good at doing the dead face, expressionless. He can do it whenever he wants to, which isn’t now. Now he looks worried. He knows Calum’s here to report, and that he wouldn’t turn up in the evening, drenched and dripping, unless he had something worth saying.

‘So what is it?’ Jamieson’s asking.

Worse than you think, Calum’s thinking. He won’t say that. That’s for Jamieson to judge. ‘I followed him yesterday and today. Yesterday, nothing. Today he went and met a guy. They met in a house out Renfrew way. I followed Frank in, followed the other guy out. The other guy drove back into the city centre. Stopped at Cowcaddens. At the police station. Parked in the car park, went in through the back. He was one of them.’

He’s told Jamieson what he needs to know. Now Jamieson’s saying nothing. Sitting there, staring at the top of his desk. It’s like he’s been asked a question he doesn’t know the answer to, and doesn’t want to admit it. He’s gone blank.

‘You sure he was a cop?’ he’s asking now. It’s a stupid question.

‘Wouldn’t have gone in the back on his own if he wasn’t.’ This doesn’t need to be said.

The wheels are turning. He’s thinking that every investigation that’s ever been done into his work has come from that station. He’s thinking that if Frank was ever going to turn grass, that’s where he would go. There are cops there desperate for Jamieson. They would protect Frank to get at the bigger fish. Frank could probably cut himself a handy deal.

‘There must have been contact before this meeting,’ Calum’s saying. He’s not going to sit in silence and play gooseberry to Jamieson and his brooding. ‘Phone records, maybe.’ If it was anyone else, Jamieson wouldn’t need corroborating evidence. But it’s Frank.

‘Tell me about the cop,’ Jamieson’s saying quietly.

‘Nothing special. Middle-aged, I’d say. Drove a red Renault. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but I got his reg.’ He’s taking a slip of paper from his coat pocket and passing it across the desk. It might be useless, it might not. ‘The only thing I noticed that might be something: when he came out of the house, he looked pissed off about something. He came out after Frank. Gave him a head start. When he came out, he pulled open the car door, slammed it shut behind him. Looked as if he threw something onto the passenger seat – I don’t know what. He looked like a guy who didn’t get what he wanted out of the meeting.’ Offering Jamieson a crumb. It’s no more than that. The fact that the meeting happened is all he needs to know. Frank couldn’t gain protection without spilling a lot of beans. Not after everything he’s done. There’s no comfort in the suggestion that their first meeting wasn’t a roaring success.

Jamieson’s nodding. They both know the cop’s mood means nothing. Frank has broken the golden rule. There are all sorts of bullshit rules in the business, most of which mean the square root of nothing at all. Most rules are never enforced. Most only exist because people want to look strong. Want to look like they’re organized. Truth is, only two things matter. Money and police. You don’t screw a senior out of money; that will be punished. You don’t talk to the police; that will be punished severely. The rest of it’s minor. All the talk about loyalty and honour, that’s fantasy. Men have done appalling things and been forgiven because they were profitable. Money is god. Police are the devil. Frank’s supping with Satan, and will have to pay the price. They both know it. Nothing gets done until Jamieson confirms that he knows it. Doesn’t matter that Frank’s actions affect everyone else. Calum could go and do something about it and get away with it. He’d be forgiven, eventually. But you don’t do that. You don’t make the boss look weak by acting without permission.

‘Okay,’ Jamieson’s saying, ‘I’m going to think about this.’ It’s said with finality.

Calum’s getting up, making his way out of the office. He’s opened the door, not expecting to hear any more.

‘I’ll probably be in touch,’ Jamieson’s saying. Quietly, with no enthusiasm. ‘Soon.’ His way of saying: Be ready.

Calum’s out the door and down the stairs. Going out the side door, so that he doesn’t have to face people. Happy people, going dancing. People looking for a good time. He doesn’t want to have to look at them. Emma’s gone from his life. With Frank out, he’s the only gunman Jamieson has. His next job will almost certainly be deeply unpleasant. A job’s a job. It detaches him from reality. It takes him away from all the boredom of his life. It gives him something to think about, every waking moment. Being in pro-mode is a relief. He’s checking all around him as he drops out of the rain and into the car. There’s nobody there. He’s starting up the car. He has work to do.

Today’s problem is Frank, and what a big problem he is. It means another conversation with Jamieson. More banging your head against a brick wall. Nobody’s ever said it to Jamieson’s face, but a lot of people consider Young the brains of the operation. Jamieson’s fine with that, always played along. He and Young both know it’s just playing.

Young’s driving to the club. He might just catch Jamieson there before he goes home for the night, might not. He’s trying to think of a time when he’s ever been able to compel Jamieson to do something he didn’t want to do. Something important. Sure, there have been times when Jamieson let a few minor things happen that he wasn’t happy with. He’ll always give Young a few little victories. Never anything that matters. The big things are always Jamieson’s decision. Young doesn’t kid himself. He’s a strategist and recruiter; he’s the right-hand man. But he doesn’t call the shots.

Pulling up outside the club. Almost silent in the street. No bouncers at the door, but it shouldn’t be locked. The cleaners will be in. Up the stairs, past the tables. One man sitting on his own in a corner, playing with his mobile. Kenny. Which means Jamieson’s still here. Down the corridor. Into the office with a brief knock. Jamieson’s behind his desk – where else? A glass of whiskey in his hand. He doesn’t look like a man who wants to hear confirmation of his worst fear. This is going to hit him hard. He wants to believe that Frank wouldn’t betray him. One of the few men he’s allowed himself to trust. Frank gets pushed out and straight away goes running to the police. It’s a blow. They have to act. Get over the disappointment and get on with the dirty work. Jamieson’s looking up at him. He looks aggressive, but he always does when he’s drunk. He’s always either a mischievous drunk or a nasty one. It can be a fine line.

‘What do you want, John?’ he’s asking. His voice is crystal-clear. He doesn’t slur or fall around when he’s drunk. You have to know him to see it. It’s in the look.

‘I just had a meeting with a contact in the police, the boy Higgins. The cop Frank met was almost certainly Michael Fisher. He’s been in charge of the Scott McClure investigation. Been ignoring it to pursue something else on his own. Something like a golden contact.’ That’s enough detail. Jamieson should know what to do with that.

‘Huh,’ is all Jamieson’s saying, and taking another swig from the glass. He’s looking sideways, away from Young. ‘You want me to hit him, don’t you?’ It’s an accusation.

‘No,’ Young’s saying, ‘I don’t want you to. But we both know you have to. I don’t think he gave them a lot of info in the first meeting. He’ll have to give them something the second time they meet. We can’t let that meeting happen. We’re fucked if it does. Every one of us. I’d like to do it tonight.’

‘No,’ Jamieson’s saying. Making sure his tone doesn’t invite any argument.

Young’s gone. He spent a few minutes standing there, waiting for Jamieson to agree with him, then said he’d be back in the morning. He tried to sound disgusted. Jamieson doesn’t care. He can easily win Young back around. Always been able to do that. But Frank. Frank’s gone. Gone and never coming back. If Frank’s talking to the police, then he’s gone forever. You trust a person. Jesus, the things he’s told Frank! The things he’s had Frank do for him. Frank knows it all. Every fucking detail. The bastard! The complete bastard. Jamieson was going to bend over backwards to keep him involved. He was going to give him a proper position. Not a gunman. The old fuck can’t handle that any more. But something else. Something that mattered. But no. Frank was just like all the other little bastards who swarm around, looking to get what they want for nothing. If he’s not getting his own way, he stabs you in the back, front and side. Going to the police. Shit, if only it had just been another organization.

There has to be a mistake. A misunderstanding. Frank’s old-school. He’s not a guy who would turn on you. Not that easily. Some of the kids, yeah, but not Frank. Maybe Frank’s been set up. Maybe he’s playing the copper. That could be it. Maybe he’s gone to the copper to set him up. Fisher’s been the pain in the industry’s arse for a while now. Might be that Frank has something he’s playing, to impress. To win Jamieson back round. Try to persuade him that he can still cut it as a gunman. No. Don’t kid yourself. The only way Frank could use Fisher to persuade the world he’s still a gunman would be to kill him. Frank’s not that stupid. No gunman could be that stupid. Killing a cop is off the table. Always. It’s pointless in anything but the most extreme circumstances. The dead cop gets replaced by a living one who’s out for revenge. No, Frank ain’t playing the copper. The only angle Frank’s ever been able to play is killing a man.

So much of what he thought about Frank is starting to fall down around him. He’s thinking about all the things Frank can’t do. The things he could probably never do. Yeah, he was one of the great gunmen, but that’s all. He was a specialist. No broad skills. And what is he now? Certainly not special. Look at the three jobs Calum MacLean’s done for the organization. Winter was textbook. Frank couldn’t have done it any better. Davidson was a minefield, and Calum got through it. Frank couldn’t have done that as well as Calum did. Not nearly so well. Then the Scott thing. Reverse the roles. Frank probably wouldn’t even have tried. He’d have struggled if he did. That was a big job. Would Frank have handled it so coolly? Hard to believe that he would. Maybe they’re better off without him. Better off without a friend.

He’s picking up the phone in the office. He knows Frank’s number by heart. He’s waiting. Is the old man in bed or out at another meeting? The phone’s answered, Frank saying hello. He doesn’t sound sleepy. He does sound old. He never used to. He always just sounded like Frank. Familiar old Frank. Now that you listen, you can hear the age.

‘Frank, it’s Peter.’

‘Peter.’ A slight pause. Might be nothing, but he’s not the pausing type. ‘Something up?’

‘I just think we need to meet and chat. Discuss where we are now. You know?’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘Why don’t you come round the club tomorrow morning, say ten o’clock? We can see where we are now. I think it’ll do the both of us a lot of good.’

‘Sure,’ Frank’s saying, ‘ten o’clock. I’ll see you then.’

He didn’t sound nervous about it. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he has nothing to be nervous about. Or maybe he’s just a good liar. He’s been in this business long enough. You get good at things like that, with enough practice. Frank couldn’t have come this far in this world without learning how to hide his feelings. Jamieson’s downing the last of the glass. Time to go home. There’s no more work to do here. A bad day at the office. Had a few of those, but this one might take the biscuit. He’s getting to his feet. No wobbles, which tells him he kept the drinking to the right side of stupid. It’s a painkiller. He’s smiling. Something Frank once said. You can tell a good gunman from a bad one by how much he wants to forget. A lot of gunmen fall to the drink. Not Frank. Not Calum either, apparently. They can live with what they’ve seen. What they’ve done. There’s a warning. A man who can live with doing that for a living can probably live with anything.

He’s switched the light off. Out into the corridor, along to the snooker room. Kenny’s sitting looking bored. Always there, always eager to help.

‘I shouldn’t have kept you this late, Kenny,’ Jamieson’s saying.

‘That’s okay,’ he’s saying. Not going to say anything else, is he? They’re down the stairs, out the front door. Along to the car, Kenny getting there a few paces ahead to open the door for Jamieson. Jamieson’s never liked that. Riding in the back of the car. Having the door opened for him. Makes him feel like some old man.

‘Let me ask you something, Kenny,’ he’s saying as they pull away from the club. ‘Do you trust all the people around you?’

Kenny’s making uncertain noises, shrugging his shoulders. He’s nervous. Jamieson’s smiling. Poor guy, doesn’t want to give the wrong answer. ‘I guess I do,’ he’s saying eventually.

‘Shouldn’t. You need to look out for yourself. Don’t rely on other people too much. Becomes a bad habit. You’re a good man, Kenny, you know that. You do a good job. I’m thankful for it,’ he’s saying, leaning back in the seat. He didn’t realize he was this tired.

Other books

Valour by John Gwynne

Blurred Lines by M. Lynne Cunning

A Taste of Seduction by Bronwen Evans

Colun's Passion (Alien Mates Book Four 4) by Serena Simpson

Black Noise by Hiltunen, Pekka

The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) by Linda Nagata

Fae by C. J. Abedi

The Scholomance by R. Lee Smith

Midnight by Odie Hawkins

A Killer is Loose by Brewer, Gil