The Dead Hour

I

The audience had gone home. The comics and bartenders were all sitting at a corner table in the empty cellar, sipping their staff drink. For the open-mike attempters it was the only kind of payment they’d get for their efforts, one shitty drink, a pint of the cheapest lager or a sweet wine. Paddy thought they were being overpaid.

Lorraine was two giggles and a hair flick away from offering herself there and then to George Burns. Paddy watched him, noting that he was pleased at the girl’s attentions but also somehow detached, observing Lorraine ’s behavior and thinking about it.

Lorraine listened to his stories along with the rest of the table, laughing extra hard at the punch lines, sitting forward to fill his line of vision, touching her hair, her décolletage, her lips, drawing his eye to them. Burns held the table rapt. He had never done a gig, yet almost every comic at the table was listening to him talk. Usually, Paddy had noticed, when one of them told a joke another comedian would tell a better one, or interrupt to rewrite the punch line, but they were all deferring to Burns, laughing at his stories and enjoying him. It wasn’t because of his age, either; it was because he was a great storyteller and the police was the perfect place to pick up material. Even Dub listened, smiling at the table and nodding occasionally, mentally charting the technicalities of what Burns was doing instinctively.

Paddy downed the last of a flat Coke she had bought an hour ago, pulled her scarf on, and stood up, announcing that she would need to leave now for the last train. Normally Dub walked her to the station, but before he had the chance to reach for his coat Burns shot to his feet, knocking Lorraine over a little.

“I’ll run you home.”

“No,” she said, “no, I’ve got a Transcard anyway. It’s not costing me.”

“I need to talk to you about the guy you mentioned the other day.” He glanced at the adoring clowns around the table and decided to risk the indiscretion. “Lafferty.”

Dub dropped his hand to his lap and conceded to him. He could only offer to walk her to the station. He didn’t have a car.

“Oh,” she said, “okay.”

Burns looked at everyone. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Brilliant,” said Muggo the Magnificent.

Burns and Paddy gathered their things and said their good-byes. She felt proud being escorted out by him. She didn’t like him or want to spend time with him but she loved the idea of Lorraine and the others watching them leave together. Lorraine looked crestfallen that he was leaving with someone else. Even Dub, who had just been usurped as their leader, raised his hand in salute: “See ye, Paddy.”

Paddy led the way upstairs, aware that Burns’s eyes were watching her fat arse. She found herself putting an extra bit of swing in her walk, swaggering almost, not ashamed of her body the way she usually was when she felt observed.

Upstairs in the pub the staff were cleaning up, washing ashtrays and loading dirty glasses onto the bar. One guy dragged a trash bag after him, gathering rubbish from the tables. No one acknowledged Paddy and Burns as they walked to the far doors and let themselves out into the frosted street.

Burns rolled his shoulders back proudly when he reached his car, a Triumph TR7 sports car, beige with black trim, the roof sloped backward as if bent by the incredibly high speeds the car routinely reached. Through the window she could see bucket seats upholstered in black leather, designed to curl around the body, with matching lush headrests and a leather-coated steering wheel. She was impressed but determined not to comment on it.

“I stay in Eastfield, know it?”

“Yeah.” He looked a bit surprised. “Had you down as a Pollockshaws girl, to be honest. Somewhere a bit nicer.”

“Eastfield is nice, it’s just fallen on hard times.”

He unlocked the passenger door for her, giving her a frank look that lingered too long to be innocent. He skirted around the bonnet for the driver’s door as Paddy climbed into the low seat. The interior of the car was immaculately clean; she could imagine Burns lovingly oiling the leather on his days off.

He opened his own door and dropped in next to her, smiling to himself, anticipating his return to the comedy club next week. “You watch a lot of comedy, tell me this: what goes down better, characters or observational stuff?”

She thought about it. “Well,” she said, “character does well initially but observational has a longer life. You can keep the same act for years with observational but it’s easier to make a breakthrough with a novelty character.”

He smiled at the road as he started the engine. “Which attracts the most birds, though?”

Uncomfortable, she arranged her narrow black skirt to hide her fat legs. “So,” she said, “how long have you been married?”

He tutted sullenly and looked at her. “You don’t mess about, do you?”

She shrugged. “I’m just asking.”

Burns flicked on the indicator and checked the empty street, looking over his shoulder, avoiding the straight answer. “Why? Are you married?”

“Burns, if I was married I’d wear my wedding ring all the time and everyone would know.”

They drove on in a heavy rankling silence for a few minutes, negotiating their way out of the deserted narrow valleys between the buildings. The pine air freshener swung rhythmically from the mirror, the cellophane envelope hanging off it like a pair of trousers dropped to the knees. She should have taken the train.

They hit the main thoroughfare and the Friday-night traffic. Closing-time drunks littered the streets, staggering out in front of the traffic and causing trouble among the bus stop queues. A woman wearing a flying suit and gold belt with strappy high heels swung her handbag playfully at her boyfriend. Paddy saw short rara skirts and ski pants and nipped waists. It was a bad time for big girls. She suddenly thought of Vhari Burnett and remembered that she had to get Burns talking if she wanted to find out who Lafferty was.

“The town’s been quieter in the past month or so,” she told the window. “Or maybe it just seems that way.”

“It is quieter. Do you want to know why?”

“Go on, then, why?”

“I’ll show you.” Burns swung the car in a sharp U-turn, doubling back through the Trongate in a highly illegal maneuver and cutting through a red light. He drove onto the Gorbals, taking the Rutherglen Road and an off-ramp to St. Theresa’s Chapel next to the high-rises. For a moment Paddy thought it was a bad idea to be alone with this man; there was a frightening energy at his core. If he did anything to her she wouldn’t be able to go to the police: he was the police.

II

Burns pulled over and stopped the engine, sliding down in his seat.

“Watch,” he said.

They were across the road from the shopping center, in a tall, wide alleyway straddled by massive stilts supporting the high flats above it. The breadth of the building was picked out in wide stripes of gray and black. The underbelly of the flats was a stained concrete slab. Between the stilts was a row of squat, shuttered shops.

It was a familiar scene to Paddy. The next-door police station was a nightly stop for her and Billy. It was usually the last stop before the death burger van at two thirty and the lit blue POLICE sign hanging over the door made her feel hungry and a little bit excited at the prospect of a cheeseburger. The incidents in the station were usually drink-related family fights.

“Why are we here?”

“Just watch.”

“Are you going to tell me about Lafferty?”

“Seriously. Watch.” He pointed at the block of high-rises looming over them. A lot of the windows were open, she noticed. An unusual number for February. She’d heard the heating was sometimes controlled centrally in the older council blocks and they could easily overheat if the system went berserk. But not all the windows were open.

At first she thought it was something falling slowly from a window on the third floor, but it was a bit of paper being lowered softly on a string. When it reached five feet off the ground, a tiny shadow figure materialized from behind one of the stilts, tugged the paper free, and melted away again. The string hung there, billowing gently until another young man ducked out and tied a note to the end, watching as it rose above his head. Farther down the block another weighted string was lowered from a first-floor window and someone else stepped out of the shadows, caught it, and tied a paper to it.

“What’s going on?” whispered Paddy.

“That’s money going up, heroin coming down. It’s the reason the town’s so quiet. The people used to be in the town on Friday nights having knife fights. Now they’re around one another’s houses, jagging up and watching telly.”

She thought about the traces of cocaine Sullivan had found on her note, currently sitting in PC McDaid’s cupboard. “What about cocaine? Do they sell that here?”

“No, that’s the other end of the scale. Rich people. They never really catch those ones; they’re too well connected. See, we can’t search the flats without a warrant and the tenants won’t open the door unless they know who it is. This way they can deal without opening their front doors.” Burns paused. “I asked around about Lafferty, by the way. He’s up to his elbows in all of this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He pointed to the shadows and the strings. “He’s a known face but no one knows which outfit he’s working for and there aren’t any charges outstanding against him.”

“Did Vhari Burnett ever prosecute him?”

“The Bearsden Bird?”

She didn’t want to give Sullivan’s lead away and half-wished she hadn’t mentioned it but nodded softly.

“Not that I know of.” Burns stroked the leather steering wheel. “Someone else was asking about that. Have you heard something we should know about?”

“No, name just keeps coming up, that’s all.” Paddy looked and found his eyes drinking in her bare neck and her mouth. He didn’t stop when he saw the coldness on her face, either, but smiled ruefully, as if he knew he’d never touch her and regretted it.

He turned the key, starting the engine and startling the buyers so that, black on black, they scattered like a flock of bats under the black belly of the building.