Laidlaw

30

Lennie was enjoying feeling deadly. He stood at the bar of the Burns Howff measuring the remainder of a man’s life with sips from his pint. For he was sure Matt Mason must be intending to get rid of the tenant of 17 Bridgegate. That meant Lennie at this moment held the power of life or death over another person.

He was careful not to smile, keeping his face innocently straight, just another punter having a pint. He had been putting off giving Matt Mason the information. He had walked in the centre of the city, wondering how many of the people going past could guess. For once, their indifference didn’t bother him. He carried a secret like a million-pound note.

The feeling made up for a lot. All the hard cases he had grown up with in Blackhill would have to think twice about him if they knew about this. The real tearaways had never taken him seriously. He remembered Mickey Doolan saying to him once, ‘Stick to yer granny’s gas-meter, Lennie. That’s your size.’ So look at him now.

He looked round the pub, giving a private performance. He saw them all gesturing against the background of the plain brick of the walls, trying to talk above the noise of the Pony Express Disco. Some of them probably thought they knew about hardness. He had a marvellous sense of himself standing quietly at the bar, a professional among amateurs.

But his time was up. He knew Matt would still be in the office but not for much longer. Lennie came out of the pub as quietly as he had gone in. He left a little of his pint in the glass. Some people had other things to do besides drink.

Keeping to the same side, he went up West Regent Street. The shop was locked. When he knocked, it was Matt himself who let him in. They went through to the private office.

Lennie told him, and was disappointed that Eddie wasn’t there to be impressed.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Ah’m sure. At least that’s where he wis the day. He could’ve moved, Ah suppose.’

‘No chance. The way Big Harry explained it, he’s nailed to the ground. Big Harry didn’t see you? You’re sure?’

‘Not a clue,’ Lennie said.

‘That’s very nice.’ He took out a wad and peeled off two fivers. ‘Here. Buy yourself some comics. In fact, buy yourself the Beano Annual. You did well.’

Lennie was glad of the money but the anti-climax of the event depressed him. It wasn’t just the way Mason referred to him, although that felt as insulting as a secret agent being issued with a pop-gun. It was the inevitable way circumstances always seem to fall below the vividness of imagination.

Then Mason said, ‘We’ve got the man for the job,’ and Lennie’s imagination was caught again. He could forgive events for making him just an extra because they were so exciting.

‘Who is it?’

Mason let him wait for a moment. The pause was part of the circumspection by which Mason lived. For him walking was a simultaneous testing of the ground. All the corridors he constructed for himself had plenty of doors giving off them.

He had already made a decision about Lennie but there was still time to change it, if instinct suggested. The decision was to use Lennie further in this. That had its risks. His approach to things had all the subtlety of a mugging. Eddie would be a more obvious choice. But Lennie must know already what was going to happen. Even he could add up two and two. The best way to keep somebody quiet about something was to involve him more deeply in it. Mason knew that Lennie’s lusting after fantasy violence was matched by his deep fear of it. To edge him just a little closer to the real thing might frighten him very effectively into silence about it. Besides, if that didn’t work, there were other ways to frighten him, like to death.

‘You know what the job is, Lennie, don’t you?’

Lennie nodded, and realised from Mason’s reaction that he had found exactly the right response. Professionals didn’t need to spell things out.

‘You’re going to help. The man’s coming here tonight. I want him to meet you. And you can show him where the job is.’

Mason watched Lennie feed his ego with importance. There was no point in telling him just now what the price might be. Let him enjoy it. Mason even decided generously to spice the experience for him with a little mystery.

‘Who is he, boss?’ Lennie asked.

‘You couldn’t guess.’

Lennie spread his hands.

‘No. You could guess for a week and you wouldn’t be near it. That’s what makes it so good.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Minty McGregor.’

He was pleased to see Lennie go cautiously round the name, looking for the joke.

‘But Minty wis never a hit man.’ Lennie had seen a picture about the Mafia.

‘It’s perfect, isn’t it? It puts it as far away from us as the moon. Who would ever think it was Minty McGregor? And if they get that far, who would ever connect him with us?’

The difficulty Lennie was finding in connecting Minty with them made Mason’s point.

‘But Minty’s never done anything like this. He’s a brek-in man. Always has been. Why would he change now?’

‘He’s got cancer,’ Mason said, as if that explained everything.

To Lennie it didn’t.

‘What’s that got to do wi’ it?’

‘There’s a point in everybody, Lennie, where if you reach it, you’ll do anything. Minty’s at his.’

‘How d’ye mean?’

‘He’s worried about his family. Right? They don’t have a great pension-scheme for house-breakers. We’re his insurance policy. And he’s ours. Because if they want to catch who did it, they’ll have to hurry. And even if they catch him, what’s he got to lose? No percentage for him in shopping us. Cast-iron investment. Think about it.’

Lennie did. The thought of it awed him — a man who had nothing to lose and so could do anything.

‘That’s terrific,’ he whispered.

‘It’s not bad,’ Mason admitted modestly.

There was a tapping at the outside door.

‘That’ll be him now,’ Mason said. ‘Eddie’s bringing him to see me. Let them in.’

Lennie hurried through the shop. In his haste to see Minty as if for the first time, he fumbled with the lock. But when he got the door open, all that came in with Eddie was a wake of cold air.

‘Where’s Minty?’

‘In ma inside pocket,’ Eddie said.

Lennie followed him through to the office where Mason seemed to be counting them.

‘What’s the score?’ he asked.

‘Minty’s no’ comin’ out tae play the night,’ Eddie said.

‘So what’s the score?’

‘He’s got tae pace himself, he says. He’s on drugs or somethin’. He’ll be fine by the morra.’

‘Are you sure he’s fit for this?’

‘He’s got the badness. That’s all ye need for a job like this. A long time since Ah spoke tae a meaner man. The way he is the now, the cancer must be the healthiest thing about ’im. But ye can judge for yerself. He wants tae see ye the morra. In the “Ambassador”. He’s no’ known there. An’ neither are you. He says if the wages is right, he’ll do the job.’

‘The money’ll be right. You’re sure he’s on?’

‘Ah’d say he’s keen.’

Mason nodded.

‘That’s it then. The night would’ve been better. I don’t like leaving that Laidlaw any room. But Minty can do the job tomorrow. Lennie here’s found the other half of the arrangement. That’s us set.’

He took a bottle of Glenfiddich and two glasses out of the cupboard.

‘You’ll get a teacup through in the shop, Lennie.’

When Lennie came back, they stood having a drink. It was a wake at which the corpse was missing. Hearing traffic pass unaware of them in the street above, Lennie felt like a member of a secret society. Tonight he would be having a drink with a couple of mates. He would have to be careful not to give anything away.