Laidlaw

13

The man standing at the bar had become drunk slowly. But his declaration of the fact was sudden and spectacular. He pushed himself off from the counter as if it was a jetty. He seemed to be treading water. His eyes were seeing far horizons. The downstairs lounge of the Lorne Hotel was his oyster. He was ready to serve notice on the world.

The place was busy. He started to approach various tables by indirections. Now he seemed to be heading off in a vaguely westerly direction, now he wasn’t. His shuffling footwork was a cunning illusion. He was, as it were, surrounding everybody. His arms had begun to move with a kind of amorphous menace and he was talking.

‘Ho-ho! Yese fancy yerselves, do ye? Ah didny come a’ through the war fur this. In an’ oot, in an’ oot. Quick as a flash. Houf, houf! Houf, houf!’

It was a nasal sound, the noise amateur boxers make when hitting the heavy bag to time their punches. But then it wasn’t amateur night at the Lorne.

‘Nya-hah! How about that then? The more ye know the less the better. Houf, houf!’

He was circulating haphazardly, trying different tables. In Hollywood films it’s gypsy fiddlers. In Glasgow pubs it isn’t. With that instinct for catastrophe some drunk men have, he settled for a table where three men were sitting. Two of them, Bud Lawson and Airchie Stanley, looked like trouble. The third one looked like much worse trouble. He had thinning hair and eyes that seemed as impressionable as pebbles. A thick scar ran down his left cheek and vanished under his chin. It was him the drunk man chose.

‘Ho-ho! A big guy. Ah’ve never been known to lose. Ah’m doom on two legs. Get up, ya midden!’

The man with the scar stood up. The barman materialised beside the drunk man and took his arm.

‘Is this man causing a disturbance, sir?’ he asked the man with the scar.

‘Unless he’s yer cabaret, Ah’d say he is.’

‘Come on, sir. You’ll have to behave.’

The drunk man was offering resistance.

‘On ye go, sur,’ the man with the scar said. ‘It’s past yer bedtime.’

The drunk man focussed for one clear second on the man with the scar. Then he became wisely drunk again and was led out, content to challenge a table and apostrophise the carpet on his way. He hit the end of Sauchiehall Street as if it was the edge of the world, and he might fall off.

‘The thing is,’ the man with the scar said, sitting back down, ‘he probably thinks he wis unlucky getting flung oot.’

‘Anyway,’ Airchie Stanley said. ‘How about it?’

‘Behave yerself,’ the man with the scar said. ‘Ye’ve seen too many gangster pictures.’

‘But you know people, like. Ah know you know them.’

‘Whit dae ye mean by that?’

‘Now, now. Don’t take offence. Ah mean, Ah know you’ve got contacts.’

‘You know nothin’ about me,’ the man with the scar said. ‘Except that Ah mairrit yer cousin. An’ the way you’re talking, Ah’m beginnin’ tae think it wis a bad marriage.’

The man seemed to be feeling a disproportionate amount of anger. His scar had been gettin whiter as he talked, becoming as livid as a lightning-flash. Bud Lawson sat between the two of them saying nothing. It had been Airchie Stanley’s idea. He left him with it.

‘Ye divert me,’ the man said. ‘Ye get me along here so that ye can talk like an American coamic. Dick Tracey or somethin’. Whit’s the gemme?’

‘Look,’ Airchie said. ‘Ah’ve explained the thing to ye. Fair an’ square. Ye know whit’s happened tae Bud’s lassie.’

The man sipped his whisky.

‘Well. You’ve got an ear tae the ground. All Ah’m sayin’ is if ye heard a whisper, we’d appreciate it. Ah’d raither Bud got ’im than the polis. Fair enough?’

The man stroked his scar.

‘Fair enough for therty year in the jile.’

‘Who needs tae know?’

‘Look behind ye,’ the man said quietly.

Airchie looked round quickly. All he could see were the customers drinking and chatting. He looked back at the man.

‘All you dae,’ the man said, ‘is you pick a packed lounge tae set somebody up to get murdert. That’s how clever you are. Yer mooth’s that loose Ah’m surprised yer teeth stey in. Why no’ hire the tannoy in Central Station?’

‘Naebody can hear us.’

‘How many other people have ye telt?’

‘Not a wan. That’s the God’s truth. Ah telt the boays at Bud’s Ah wis jist takin’ ’im oot tae get some air.’

‘Anyway, that’s the least o’ it. How am Ah supposed tae find oot who did it an’ where he is? The polis’ll have a big enough job doin’ that.’

‘Yer connections.’

‘Listen! You know me. Ye’ve seen whit Ah can dae.’

‘You can handle yerself,’ Airchie said instantly and placatively.

‘Correct. But you know who Ah work for. An’ Ah’m no feart. But Ah know catchweights when Ah see it. A thing like this wid need his say-so. He could put the three o’ us in a bag an’ droon us like kittens. Ye don’t offend that big man.’

‘Fair enough. Ah jist thought Ah wid ask.’

‘Ye’ve asked then. An’ Ah’ve telt ye.’

Airchie finished his drink. The man with the scar watched Bud Lawson. He hadn’t spoken, even when they were introduced. He impressed the man. He had sat staring at the table, very powerful-looking and utterly still — a stick of gelignite just waiting for a match.

‘Look, sur,’ the man said. ‘Ah can appreciate whit you must be feelin’ like. But this is a wild idea. Ah’ll tell ye whit. If Ah get any word — an’ it’s hundreds against — Ah’ll see aboot passin’ it on. That’s all Ah can say. Noo Ah think we should separate before this man gets the TV cameras in.’

‘Right, Bud.’ His friend was on his feet, signalling farewell. ‘That’s good enough fur us. Much appreciated. Be seein’ ye. Cheerio.’

‘Cheerio,’ the man said. ‘Watch ye don’t fa’ ower yer mooth goin’ oot the door.’

Bud Lawson hadn’t touched his drink. The man lifted it. He might as well get something out of the conversation.