Butcher (30 page)

He removed his smock, gloves, mask and dropped them on the floor. He washed his hands in steaming water.

Nurse Payne took the cooler out of the surgery into the hallway. She set it down and looked at Dorcus. ‘We have to quit for a while. We're running too many risks.'

‘We need the money—'

‘I'll postpone my plans for a time.'

Dorcus felt a quick fizz of anger directed at Glorianna. ‘I should've refused when Mr Chuck offered to send that girl.'

‘You couldn't. Why derail the gravy train.'

‘If she hadn't sh-shown up so bloody early—' He was conscious of time pressing him, he had to move the cooler, deliver it.

‘Get over it. What worries me is Glorianna telling Chuck what she
might
have seen. Maybe all she got was a very
quick
glimpse of me through the steam, and nothing else.'

‘If you'd
locked
the door,' Dorcus said. He picked up the cooler. He imagined he heard the heart beat weakly inside the container.

‘I didn't
expect
her to come prowling upstairs, did I?'

‘All I'm saying is
if
you'd locked the door—'

‘Arguing doesn't change the facts. She might tell Chuck something
else
about her experience here – like how you totally lost control and smashed her phone. And he might think fuck you, Dorcus, nobody treats my girl like that, no more work.'

Dorcus was flustered, felt a tightening in his chest. He imagined dire possibilities. No more money from Chuck. And then there was the cop. ‘I h-hate that old f-fuck Tartakower putting the cop on to you. Now there's this business with the hand.'

‘I've thought about Tartakower. He'd be easy enough to find and old enough to scare.'

Dorcus could still sense Glorianna in this house. ‘She didn't have to show up when we were work—'

‘One of you got the wrong time. Pointless to argue.'

‘I better go.' Dorcus went inside the bedroom, changed his clothes hurriedly.

When he came back out again she looked at him and said, ‘You need a haircut. I'll do it when you come back, love. That coat's on my dump list too. You need new clothes. You need to feel good about yourself …'

‘First my hair, then my clothes.' He moved toward the stairs, and Nurse Payne followed him. As they descended Dorcus said, ‘We never shouted at each other before. I didn't like it—'

She said, ‘Neither did I.'

‘I rushed out after her, I wanted to c-calm her down.'

‘You don't radiate calm, Dorcus. All you had to do was
pretend
you enjoyed her touching you. Instead you left her alone to – oh, drop it.'

In the hallway she placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed, as if to give him reassurance in a world that wasn't always charitable to him. ‘Sometimes love isn't enough to get us through. We need to be practical …'

She was planning something, a precautionary measure, whatever, he knew that scheming light in her eyes. He loved how it gave her an authority he couldn't match.

He kissed her forehead. ‘My precious lady.'

Jackie Ace smiled at him in an absent way, but she was elsewhere, gone to that place where she did her thinking.

Dorcus hated leaving her. It was as if he abandoned not only her but his strength. With her at his side he hardly ever stuttered or stammered.

Alone, he was at the mercy of language.

Dorcus in duffle-coat and glasses, the deliveryman. She was right. It's time to look different. A more mature look. He hadn't had his hair cut in three years. He hated the duffle-coat. He looked silly in it, like a simpleton who'd lost his bus-pass, or his library card.

He drove with the cooler on the floor at the passenger side. Every so often he glanced at it. Heart, liver and kidneys in an ice-box. He had a thought he didn't like. If Tartakower could set that cop loose on Jackie, maybe he could also direct him to
me …
A cop at the gates.

Don't think that.

He reached The Gallowgate, turned up Melbourne Street. He was near the old abattoir. Every time he passed here he imagined cattle being herded inside to receive the stun-gun direct to the brain. He saw the animals going down on their front knees and then the slick slice of knife that slashed their windpipes.

He took a left along a narrow street and parked at the end of a lane where a company called Kanga Textiles was located inside a pristine cream-painted one-storey stone building behind a metal fence. A small grey car was parked beside the fence. Dorcus pamped the horn three times, which he'd been instructed to do by Mr Chuck at every delivery. A man came out and walked toward the van and opened the passenger door.

Dorcus said nothing. The man was a grave Oriental of about thirty-five. He was brisk, all business. Dorcus was glad he never demanded conversation. The man didn't ever look inside the cooler, never conversed. He was always in a rush.

Dorcus wondered vaguely about Kanga Textiles. There was never any movement inside the building. It's none of my business. I deliver, I get paid, the money goes to a good cause, the rest isn't my problem.

I won't be coming back again for a time.

The man took a thick white envelope from the pocket of his coat. He handed it to Dorcus, who didn't open it.

The man took the cooler. He got inside his car, squeezed it past Dorcus's van and drove off at speed. Dorcus stuffed the envelope inside his glovebox before he headed homeward, thinking overlapping thoughts – the pathetic cat he almost hit the other day, and the possibility of the cop coming into his life, but mainly of Jackie and how they'd protect one another and keep this sorry world's putrescence away.

35

Chuck walked through Glorianna's third-storey flat in Belmont Street. Noon, and still no sign of her. He hadn't heard from her since she'd gone to visit Dysart and that was about forty hours ago. He checked the bedroom first, thinking – what? He'd catch her with a man?

Would you be jealous—

No way –
me
jealous?

His brain was rumbling.

Four-poster bed empty, unmade, panties and bras in a white wicker laundry basket, a pile of skirts and blouses on an ironing-board. So where is she, where is she? Where's my wee Glori?

He wandered back out to the big open living room. He stared at a row of browning bonsai trees. How long since they'd been watered? He tested the earth with his fingertips. Dead dry.

Books lay in disturbed stacks. She reads, she reads. Does she ever finish a book? Most of them had strips torn from newspapers as markers. He scanned titles.
The Ultimate Self-Help Book. A Guide to Acting. The I-Ching For a New Age
. He recognized some of the titles as books Baba had recommended to him, none of which he'd ever read.

He saw piles of CDs and magazines and discarded T-shirts and jeans tossed aside. A mess, how different from the person she was at the Fitness Centre, where she was fastidious: everything in its right place. He didn't know this side of her and somehow it caused him an ache – the Glorianna he never saw. The few times he'd come here in the past the flat was always spic. She must have cleaned it before he arrived. Look how nice I keep things, Rube.

The bathroom had knickers and towels on the floor. He bent, touched the towels, they were just slightly damp. So she'd bathed or showered – but when? After returning from Dysart? The questions, questions.

On the kitchen table a half-eaten Chinese takeaway lay in congealed cornstarch. The noodles looked like dead flatworms.

He thought: She leaves Dorcus when? Early a.m., late p.m. – and no cabbie remembers picking her up and Mathieson squeezes no juice out of the gypsy cab people either and she hasn't answered my phone messages.

Where the fuck is she?

Angrily he kicked books around and knocked over a couple of plants and ripped some oriental scrolls from the off-white walls.

There. Fuckin cunt.

Leave me hangin, eh? Leave me without so much as a word, eh?

He stopped, breathless, heart going like a machine gun. He was furious with himself. For losing control. For sending Glori to Dysart in the first place, using her like she was just another bit of office equipment, an adding machine, a laptop.

Baba once said,
Arise each day, cherish your body, but remember you are foolish, ignorant and without understanding
.

That's me, he thought. Ignorant and without understandin.

All this time on the planet what have you learned?

He sat down, shut his eyes, inclined his head.

This mood was useless. He stirred himself, took his mobie from his coat and dialled Mathieson. Nothin. Why couldn't he get anybody on the fuckin telephone? Mathieson had dropped him off and then asked to use the Jag to run a quick errand, back in fifteen mins to pick you up, Mr Chuck, oh aye, so how come you're no answerin your mobie?

Mibbe Dorcus had lied
.

What would Dorco gain from lying?

Where did he live? It was somewhere way out in the east of the city. He had it written down in his address book. What should he do – go out there with Mathieson and apply a wee bit of shoulder to the stutterin doc and see if he was holdin somethin back? Like what? A suspicion threw a wicked shadow across Chuck's mind. No, Dorco would
never
dream of applying his skills on Glorianna, not in a hundred years, a thousand. He'd be signing his own death-warrant, for Christ's sake.

Nobody was that stupid.

He called Mathieson again.

This time Ronnie picked up.

‘Where inna fuck you been?' Chuck asked.

‘I stopped to collect some shoes I had mended.'

‘And you use the Jag for that? A fuckin trip to the cobbler?' This anger was no easy thing to shake off. Veins popped in his neck.
Forchristsake cool down
.

‘Do something useful, Ronnie. Check the hotels. Remember she could be usin her real name.'

‘Will do,' Mathieson said.

Chuck clicked the off button.

He rolled up the shades and looked down into the street and saw two uniformed cops stroll past. Beat polis, doin the neighbourhood thing. We're your friendly Glasgow polismen. Need any help? Cat stuck up a tree needin rescuin?

Fuckin window-dressin.

He suddenly remembered Rick Tosh. Tosh hadn't phoned to verify that bank deposit. This worried Chuck – were there problems Tosh hadn't told him about? He found Tosh's number on the Contacts list of his mobie and punched it in, without thinking of time-zones – night or day in Texas? Was Tosh asleep? Who gives a shit.

The phone was answered after two rings and Chuck said, ‘I wake you, Rick?'

‘I never sleep,' Tosh said. ‘What's the skinny over there?'

The
skinny
, Chuck thought. He didn't even try to keep up with Yankee slang. Fuck, why should he? When Tosh was in Glasgow he didn't ask what a
rammy
meant and
stoater
went right over his head. No curiosity, some of these Yanks. The whole world was America to them.

‘What news of that transfer?' Chuck said.

‘Yeah, been a slight delay, sorry.'

‘Delay. What are you tellin me?'

‘Don't sweat it, Rube. Seems like there's a holiday of some kind in Luxembourg, so even though the money's been wired, the banks are empty.'

‘I thought it was all done automatic these days.'

Tosh said, ‘Well, there's automatic and there's automatic, if you know what I mean.'

‘Millions of dollars waitin for some fuckin clerk to punch a button or two, what kind of set-up is this? Just keep a very close eye on it, Rick.'

‘My eyes are never shut, Rube. Now you come to Texas, you hear?'

‘When that cash arrives, you never know.'

‘You ever eaten barbecued dillo?'

‘Zat one of they prickly fuckers?'

‘Tastes like sweet pig. Finger-licking good.'

‘Aye, well, you call me,' Chuck said, and hung up.

A delay in Luxembourg. Some days were bad from the start. What if Tosh was a con? OK, Tosh had supported the overthrow of Stoker and Curdy because
his
bosses told him they wanted a younger man to run some of their interests in Glasgow: guys like Stoker and Curdy were getting old and lazy. But that support didn't mean a bucket of pish in this world. Tosh's bosses, whoever they were, could change, their mind at the drop of a wee jobby. He imagined them sometimes – overweight Americans, big fucking rings, western cowboy's suits, bola ties, mirrored aviator sunglasses, pompadour haircuts.

He didn't like wondering if Tosh was on the level. It was more clutter than he needed. I want a Valium, sort myself out, calm myself down. He searched the bathroom, rummaging through all Glorianna's mysteries. Skin moisturizers, talc, creams, false nails. Tiny glass tubes of essential oils – why were they
essential?
Dr Bonner's Peppermint soap. Fuck this, where are the meds?

Glorianna, come back to me, doll.

He spotted a handful of prescription bottles tucked away at the back and pulled them out. He sat on the toilet and read the labels. What was Celebrex and Zithromac and Aciclovir and Buspar? Was Glori using this stuff? He recognized none of these names. This was useless. He only wanted common everyday Valiumsky.

OK. Another solution. He'd get a taxi, go to the Temple, seek out Baba. So it wasn't a quick fix, maybe no fix at all. Plus he'd sworn off fuckin drink, pills and sex – and look at the state of him, squattin, surrounded by drugs like a junkie, turnin Glasgow upside down for a wee lassie whose heid was filled with Hollywood dreams.

Big fuckin man.

The city is yours – but not the girl.

He was about to rise when he heard a familiar voice.

Perlman said, ‘There's a sight I would've paid money to see. Reuben Chuck on the toilet.'

Chuck looked up, surprised. ‘What the fuck are
you
doin here?'