Butcher (35 page)

‘I'll come by later. I wish I could tell you exactly when, but I don't know. Meantime, do what I just told you.'

He cut the connection and walked to his car and tossed the paper onto the passenger seat. Poor Betty, exposed to the hawks, those tenacious fuckers. They were pitiless and unrelenting and they dug into fresh wounds without mercy.

The directions he'd been given were misleading. First left, first right turned out to be second left, second right, and he only saw the hearse after he'd circled a couple of blocks. It was parked outside one of the towers. Long, black and rust-eaten, bald tyres, a hairline crack on the windscreen – this hearse had shed its original purpose long ago.

He got out of his car, locked it, walked quickly through the rain and entered the building. The hallway floor was puddled. There were doors on either side, and a stone staircase ahead. He knocked on the first door he came to.

A good-looking young man answered. He wore a bandanna and in his right hand he dangled a plastic sword.

‘Zup,' the young man said.

‘Where can I find Pudge?'

A smell of hashish drifted out of the room. Inside some girls giggled. Perlman heard one of them say,
I'm no carryin his wean – it'd look like a turnip. Fancy the nurse's face when she sees a turnip comin oot between ma legs
.

The young man said, ‘Tell me honestly. You think I look like Johnny Depp?'

‘Depp? Aye, well, there's a resemblance, definitely.' Perlman knew nobody with the name of Depp, but what was the point disagreeing?

The young man laughed and shouted back into the room. ‘Telt youse I was a double for Johnny Depp!' He turned his face round to Perlman, posing as if for a picture. ‘Pudge, eh? One up, on the left.' Then he slammed the door.

Imagining a turnip-like baby, Perlman climbed the steps. The world is unreal. He stopped outside a wooden door that had its paint scratched by the long claw marks of an animal. The letterbox hung at an angle. He knocked on the door, nobody answered. He lowered his face and yelled through the letterbox. ‘Anybody home?'

A voice inside the flat shouted back. ‘I'm buyin nothin, no insurance, no charities, no hairbrushes, no vacky cleaners, nothing, so pish off.'

‘I'm here to see Pudge.'

A long silence. At the foot of the stairs rap music started up, loud and repetitive.

The door opened and a heavy man in a stained white singlet appeared. He was unshaven and his braces hung outside his shiny black trousers. On his bare arms were a couple of faded shamrock tattoos.

Perlman asked, ‘You Pudge?'

Pudge frowned defensively. ‘Mibbe. Or I could be his brother Fudge.'

‘Let's assume you're Pudge. Did you drive a young woman into Glasgow the other night? She was running from Dysart's old house—'

‘Anybody in their right fuckn mind would run from that place. So what's your interest?'

‘Where did you take her?'

Pudge rubbed his chin. There were tiny shamrocks on the backs of his hands. He eyeballed Perlman, assessing his cash potential. ‘This'll cost.'

‘Business as usual.' Perlman put his hand in his jacket pocket, fumbling for his wallet. He took out a twenty. I'm a cash cow – Tartakower, The Pickler, now Pudge.

Pudge said, ‘Make it fifty. A round five-oh gets you the whole setta bagpipes and no just the chanter.'

Perlman wondered about his bank balance as he watched two twenties and two fives vanish into Pudge's shamrocked hand. He was on basic sick-leave pay, which left him very little after the handouts he was constantly splashing around.

Pudge said, ‘I took her to the top end of Belmont Street.'

Belmont Street. Perlman felt a flutter in his heart. ‘You dropped her off and left?'

‘Naw naw, she asked me to wait. I didny mind, she's a looker. Nay sense of humour, didny laugh at any of my jokes, but a right wee stoater. She goes inside a tenement, five – six minutes later she comes back down, hair wet, clothes changed. She's carrying a bag.'

‘And?'

‘Asked me to let her out at the corner of Bath Street and Campbell Street.'

‘You see where she went after that?'

‘I watched her a wee minute in the mirror. She went back down the block, and I started to drive away. I checked the mirror again, didny see her this time. I'm guessing she went inside one of the buildings along that stretch. There's a hotel there she might have gone into. She wouldny want to be seen getting out my hearse right in front of a hotel, aw no. No good enough for her.'

Perlman tried to remember hotels located in that part of Bath Street. ‘Did she say why she was running from Dysart?'

Pudge shook his head. ‘She barely said two words to me, mac. She just wanted the hell away from here. Scared blind in my opinion.'

He thanked Pudge.

Pudge said, ‘Any time.'

He went downstairs and back to his car. He turned the key in the ignition and thought of Glorianna,
scared blind
, running, riding a hearse in the night.

39

Mathieson drove to The Potted Calf, listening all the way to Chuck mutter in the back seat. Sometimes he tuned Chuck out like a Scottish dance band radio station he didn't want to hear. Sometimes he only caught key words.

Got to be somewhere. Tried all the hotels. Checked the Y. Checked her friends
.

‘I turned the city over, Mr Chuck.' The fuck.

Chuck nibbled on his knuckles. ‘She'll show up. Bound to. How many hidin places are there for fuck's sake?'

Thousands, Mathieson thought. But only one.

Chuck was miserable. Heartache and regret, heavy loads. What had he done in his past life to deserve all this?

What past life? Oh aye. That fuckin guru was talking shite.

The onslaught of rain darkened his mood. Glasgow was awash. Foaming rain rushed down gutters unable to cope with the deluge. The street lamps were lit and rainwater changed reflected light into quicksilver. Rain like this, you could scrap the Jag and get a fuckin Ark.

Chuck got out of the car in his parking space behind The Potted Calf and went inside his office at the back of the restaurant. Mathieson followed. Chuck's room was small, lime-green walls, a mahogany desk, two expensive black leather chairs. An electronic map of Glasgow hung on the wall facing the desk.

Chuck sat. ‘That fuckin garlic again. Smell it?'

Ronnie Mathieson said aye, it was strong. I'm not smelling anything, Ronnie thought. The Big Man's fucked.

‘The system's flawed, Ronnie. Those cowboy installers never got the plan right. The smell should bypass my office
entirely
, but there's a loosely fitted pipe some fuckin place or a leak so small you'd never see it with the naked eye. Get these cowboys back, Ronnie, even if you have to hold a fuckin shotgun to their heids to make sure they do the job properly.'

Moans, the Big Man is all moans. Chuck crumbles. When you smelled things that weren't there, wasn't that a sign of some brainbox junction on the blink?

Chef Pako Sg came in, carrying a bowl of noodles in a vegetable broth, and set it down on Chuck's desk. Chuck looked at the dish, then at Pako Sg. The wee man's uniform was spotless white, his hat black with a chequered black and white band.

‘
Beef
,' Chuck said. ‘Take this gruel away.'

‘You want
beef
, Mister Chuck?
Beef
?'

‘My body's tellin me, gimme
beef
. The bloodier the better.'

Pako Sg smiled. He twinkled. He twinkled a lot. Too much for Chuck's liking.
Man who twinkles isn't always a star
. Where did that come from? Confucius or Baba, the Holy Wanker?

‘I sear you some very fine fillet of Aberdeen Angus, free-range, no antibiotics, no ho-mones. Just so perfect.'

‘Bring it on, cookie,' Chuck said. He fell silent a second, thinking – a drink to fire his spirit, keep him buoyant. ‘Ah, throw in a bottle of gin, Pako. And make Ronnie a sandwich or somethin.'

‘Gin?' Pako Sg hid his surprise. He bowed, picked up the soup.

‘You all set for the special tomorrow night, wee man?'

‘Under control. 9 p.m. seating. Fifty covers.'

Pako Sg went out, still bowing. Still
twinklin
.

Chuck thought about the Special, a private affair held every month or so – depending on circumstances. It always brought in big spenders. People with money to pish away. People with diddybrains and cash up the Khyber. Some travelled miles to attend.

He pressed a button on a remote control device that lit the map of Glasgow. Red sensors blinked, each denoting a property that had, so to speak, come Chuck's way. There were also yellow sensors, which indicated a property he was thinking of acquiring – by legal means, thus obeying the mandate of his lawyer: keep your head down, don't make any loud noises, and do nice things for charity.

Chuck rose, walked to the map. ‘Ronnie, did you know Glasgow has eighty-somethin parks? All that space wasted on fat wee women pushin prams and boys wankin in the bushes and doddery old tossers walkin their fuckin dogs.'

‘Eighty parks, news to me.'

‘Aye, but not for long, because …' Chuck winked. ‘I intend to buy a few of them. Startin with Elder Park here, very handy for the Clyde Tunnel. I let some time go past, then I get plannin permission from those crookit flyboys on the City Council, and I build a small development of seven or eight de luxe executive houses in one corner of the park. I'm thinkin steel and chrome and bagza glass, a new look. Then …' Chuck paused, engrossed in his vision. ‘Park Executive Properties, that'll be the company name. Like it?'

‘Terrific.'

‘I buy another park and I do the same thing. See here,' and he jabbed the map. ‘Linndale Park, nice acreage adjoining Carmunnock Road and close to King's Park, which has a golf course attached. I'll develop these parks very carefully and with style. Maybe six classy semis in Linndale, then a
second
wee development in Elder, and probably a coupla mansions in King's Park eventually.'

Mansions. Mathieson listened to this scheme, then said, ‘Can you actually
buy
public parks, Mr Chuck?'

‘I can buy fuckin well
anythin
.'

‘I thought the parks belonged to the people—'

‘The
people?
Ho ho. Them scruff don't deserve parks. They shag in them, they vandalize the gardens. Christ, even if I end up purchasin half a dozen, they've still got enough parks left for their dogs to shite in. Everythin is locomotion, Ronnie. They'll have a statue of me one day in George Square.'

Mathieson said, ‘I can see that.' The Big Man. Pigeons crapping on his stone heid. Chuck would never be able to buy a public park, for fuck's sake. He was going to the dugs. He never had balls enough to be the Big Man anyway, in Mathieson's opinion. He had insecurities as pronounced as open sores. He felt menace in empty stairwells. He heard gossip behind his back when nobody was there. He fought these enemies with bluster and bravado and a touch of Baba – but who was he kidding?

And now Baba was away.

Chuck stepped back from the map. All these streets, these railway lines, these parks and ponds and colleges and monuments, they seemed unfamiliar to him for a second –
where in all this strange jumbled city is she
?

Pako Sg returned carrying a tray and a bottle of gin he set on the desk. A fine grilled steak for Chuck, and a ham sandwich for Mathieson. Chuck cut into the steak and blood flowed rich and oleaginous over the plate. When you lose your beliefs, you turn back to all the things you've been foolish enough to deny yourself.

Includin sex. Booze.

That bastart Baba swizzled me. Nobody does that to me.

Pako Sg waited for approval.

The beef dissolved in Chuck's mouth. Delicious flavour, texture of silk. Chuck was blissed. ‘It's like a fuckin slice of Christ,' he said.

Mathieson chewed resentfully on his ham sandwich.

‘Very glad Mr Chuck is pleased,' Pako Sg said.

‘I'm in heaven, Pako.'

‘In heaven, ah, very good, very good.' Pako went out with a slight bow.

Chuck finished his steak, wiped his lips with a napkin, and drank a good mouthful from the bottle of Gordon's. How long since he'd had booze? It went like a dragon's flame to his head. Woo, not such a bad feelin. He'd missed that blast and roar somethin terrible.

‘I keep comin back to that weird git. He knows somethin.'

‘What weird git?' Ronnie Mathieson mumbled, mouth filled with dry white bread, shredded lettuce and some fatty bits of ham. A ham sandwich, well fuck, thanks a lot. All the things I do for you. And not an offer of a drink.

Chuck glugged another fair measure of gin and belched softly. ‘Comes back like perfume … sweet as a lathered twat. Fuckin Dysart. I'm gonny do somethin about him.' He stared at Mathieson with that chill, slicing look he sometimes used. It was X-ray and cut through steel. Then he held the gin up to the light and admired its clarity. ‘Mother's ruin, down the hatch,' and he jammed back another mouthful.

Ronnie said, ‘Mibbe Dysart knows nothing. Mibbe she'll show up tonight.'

‘Aye. With some story. Some long complex explanation. I'd just be glad to see her, honestly. Just to see her and know she's safe. No questions asked. This gin, you know it comes from berries, Ronnie?'

‘Junipers, aye.'

‘Right, jupiters,' Chuck said. ‘It's a hell of a kick.'

Mathieson said, ‘I'm sure Glorianna's OK.'

Chuck clapped a hand on Mathieson's shoulder. ‘She's got me goin like banjo string, Ronnie. I swear to God. Somethin I wasn't expectin. I'm feelin sixteen again.'

Mathieson, unaccustomed to hearing Chuck express any depth of emotion, observed his boss's face, which was flushing from the booze. He saw a kind of forlorn hurt in Chuck's eyes, which he'd never witnessed before. He almost felt sorry for him. He almost said, I know where she is. I'll get her for you, Big Man.