Reheated Cabbage (22 page)

Cunt thit ye are, ah couldnae fuckin believe it when ah saw thon Brandi the Septic burd waitin fir ays at the Cleveland. Ah'd hud a good wank before ah came oot, well, ah huv tae, cause ah kin git a bit too frisky n make a cunt ay masel wi a burd, n it's nae use scarin oaf the fanny till the deal's fuckin signed, sealed and delievered. Mind you, when ah saw they pins in that pleated skirt, ah could feel the auld spunk tank fillin up again, big style. Too right; better game than tame, that's what ay eywis say.

So wi settle doon n huv a cocktail n wee blether. This burd kin fairly gab n it's aw borin shite aboot crappy modellin jobs, promotin aw sorts ay pony perfumes in malls n the like, but life's taught ays thit ye huv tae gie fanny a bit ay air time n pretend tae be interested in thair obsessions (them) if yir gaunny be drawin open they beef curtains later oan. Aye, yuv goat tae take a few tap-tappy jabs in order tae land the killer hook.

So eftir a bit ah suggests a wee stroll doon towards the club n wi head off but the first fucker wi sees oan the street is thon big Lucas gadge. — Juice T, my man! eh shouts, giein ays a big welcome. Sound cunt, that Lucas. Ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot the colour ay any cunt's skin, it's whether or no they pit thair hand in thair poakit thit counts, n this fucker wisnae shy aboot hittin the bar. The bird's well impressed n aw, ye kin tell. Lucas must be quoted in the world ay hip hop; mind you, aw that shite sounds the same tae me.

Ah like this Juice T tag but, eh. That's what the cunts doon the Gauntlet, the Busy n the Silver Wing ur gaunny huv tae git used tae. Ya cunt, wi the corkscrew hair, big tadger n natural rhythm, ah'm mair ay a nigger thin any black cunt in this fuckin toon!

As Lucas high-fives ays n gies Brandi a gentlemanly peck oan the cheek before takin oaf, she goes, — Wow! Is that really Lucas P?

— It certainly is. Great gadgie, one ay ma favourite homies.

Brandi's lookin at ays as if her ship has jist come in. It hus n aw, but no the wey she thinks. As the lights ay the Cameo come intae sight, she turns tae ays n goes, — Wanna do a hit of X?

Ah'm wonderin what she's oan aboot for a bit, before ah realise it's probably eckies. — Nae charlie? ah ask. Ah jist turn intae a big touchy-feely poof oan that gear. Ah like tae see a burd oan it but.

— No, but these are really great. We can score some coke later.

So ah thoat, fuck it, ah'll take it, n ah necks the pill she slips ays. Dinnae want tae be a party pooper, especially no wi game fanny in tow. Besides, naebody here's gaunny walk intae the Busy Bee or the Gauntlet or the Silver Wing n go, 'Aye, Lawson, ah saw ye E'd oot ay yir nut in Miami Beach n actin the daft twat instead ay daein ching wi the boys!'

When in Rome but, eh. That's me: as cosmopolitan as fuck, ya cunt! Instead ay gaun straight intae the dance hall, we heads tae this barry place called Mac's Club Deuce, fir a beer, jist tae lit the pills kick in. Within half an ooir ah'm oaf ma fuckin tits. Well, ya fucker, ah'm used tae eckies thit ye kin neck aw night like Smarties n still hate every cunt in the place, wi that crap, shite music still gittin oan yir tits. N coke where ye can dae a couple ay grams n still tackle a fish supper oan the wey hame n git the best fuckin kip ay yir life. So ah'm thinking, if the pills ur like this, how good's the fuckin ching gaunny be! Yuh cunt!

Emerging with stealth from his room a couple of hours later, Albert Black was intercepted by William and Darcy as he tried to sneak out the door. — Where are you going at this time of night, Dad? William asked.

— Out, said Black, feeling like a sullen teenager. They were standing so close to him, filling the narrow space between the marble pillar and the front door with their bodies.

— But you haven't eaten anything, Darcy said in a wide-eyed protest, which seemed to knock a decade off her.

— I'm fine, I'm just going out for a walk. Black felt his features condense to the point of concentrated insult.

William inched forward, his face pained and boyish, reminding Albert Black of the time his young son had stood on a jellyfish on that grim pebble beach near Thurso. He went to touch his sulking father's shoulder, then pulled back. — Dad . . . I lost the rag a wee bit earlier, and perhaps I was a bit . . . well, I know that things were different when you were growing up . . .

More's the pity!

—. . . and that you only wanted the best . . .

— Please, Albert Black tersely shook his head, — I think enough has already been said. I shall return later, and he looked at his son and daughter-in-law and swallowed down some humility. — You've both been very kind. It hasn't been easy for me . . . without your mother.

— But you've got us, Dad, William protested meekly.

Black forced a kindly smile and mumbled something in appreciation before departing.

It hasn't been easy.

But why, he considered, should it be easy? He was in the final phase of his life, and he was alone. Nobody, not even in the Good Book, told you it would be this hard, this frightening, to see out your mortal existence, to try and make sense of it all. God had never informed you that it was all over so quickly, or that your dreams turned to dust long before your body. His life's work; it had to mean something!

He walked down Alton, heading east on Lincoln, making his way towards the ocean. Albert Black now felt that he was on an island, a desert island full of people he was invisible to. A musky nightfall was thickening like smoke around him. As he pressed on towards the nightclub, the shops were still open and Lincoln remained busy. The urban exhibitionists, the street performers, skateboarders and bums strutted and surfed and ranted for the entertainment or irritation of the rest. Boys swaggered, girls giggled, couples laughed, people went in and out of stores.

On Washington, the red neon of the Cameo buzzed its invite, and a queue of youths were already lining up down the block. The name reminded him of the cinema in Edinburgh's Tolcross district. He found film a devious and corrupting medium, but had occasionally relented and accompanied Marion to the pictures as he knew how much she had loved them. She had always been inordinately impressed by William's employment. He tried to think of the last picture he had truly enjoyed: it would have been
Chariots of Fire
.

He looked ahead and there it was, in black letters against a lit background: N-SIGN. Black advanced to the door, disinclined to wait in the line of kids who regarded the old Scottish schoolmaster with a wary fascination. — No ticket, no can do, a well-built bouncer said in response to his enquiry about entrance. — Are you on anybody's guest list?

— No . . . but I know Carl Ewart, Black informed him.— N-Sign. Please tell him to put Mr Black from the old school onto the guest list.

The bouncer gazed quizzically at this old guy. Perhaps it was his age, or the strange accent, upright bearing and that authoritative demeanour, but there was something about Black that made the doorman feel duty-bound to at least try to comply. He pulled out his cell phone and punched a number.

The taxi Helena had taken at Miami International Airport cruised on a raised concrete freeway above the city, passing over the downtown area and onto the McArthur Causeway, bound for Miami Beach. The windows were shut, and cool air was blowing through the air-conditioning system.

— In town for the WMC? the driver asked. He wore the reflective shades of the psycho cop or killer.

— Sorta, yeah.

— Party time, he smiled into the mirror, exposing a row of crooked teeth. From the back seat, Helena could see her own face, drawn and tired, in the reflection. Then the driver's voice dropped into a zone of sleaze as he added,— You need anything, let me know. I give you a card.

— Thank you, Helena heard herself primly respond.

— I mean a ride, a taxi, or anything like that, the driver said, in more cautious tones, as her eyes scanned the sign in the cab that contained his number and who to call for official complaints.

I'm way too straight for Carl Ewart, she thought. He would have the guy cruising around town to some ghetto looking for drugs, or heading out to a racetrack. She wondered what her big bond was with him. Was it simply that they'd lost their fathers at roughly the same time? Surely there must be more to it than that? Surely. She couldn't think straight.

They stopped outside the hotel and she gave the driver two twenties and left him a decent tip from the change. — Remember my card, he smiled.

— Sure.
Don't fucking think so, mate.

Normally she would have been pleased that no intrusive, tip-hustling bellboy descended on her, as was generally the American way, but with her fatigue after the long journey, she could have done with some help. She lugged her case up the short bank of front steps and into the cool, still foyer, where a camp desk clerk greeted her before issuing her with a key to the room.

Carl Ewart was chatting to Lester Wood, a local dance-music journalist, at their table under muted lights in a corner of the VIP lounge. He scanned the edgy ranks of the incoming cognoscenti and the usual liggers for signs of Terry, before remembering he had gone to meet the girl from the restaurant. He saw Max Mortensen, one of the promoters, making his way across the room towards him. — Hey, Carl. Had a guy trying to get in, says he knows you. A Mr Black from the old school.

A nefarious smile played across Carl Ewart's lips.
That'll be
Terry fucking around.
They often took the pish out of Blackie, the tyrannical master back at their school, who was the religious education and modern studies teacher. Carl thought of the term 'housemaster', which the scheme comprehensive school had ridiculously borrowed from the English public-school system. — He's a very important character, Carl grinned, — and a huge influence on me. I'd be obliged if you could make sure that he, and whoever he's with, get the full VIP treatment.

— You got it, Max winked and clicked on his cell phone.

Lester sparked up a Havana, offering Carl one, who refused. He wasn't sure about Lester, but his grin seemed to be saying that he was a man of vices. You never knew with music journos. Many were closet wasters trying to get the business out the way before they partied, but others were total straight pegs playing the cool and hip angle though they'd obviously be happier working in corporate PR. He decided to take a gamble and cut to the chase. — Any pharmaceuticals kicking about?

The corrupting charm in Lester's grin could have had a Christian soccer mom turning tricks for ninety minutes. — Ask a silly question. What's your poison?

— Some pills and couple ay grams ay ching, eh, coke, Carl said gratefully.
Now I'm sure.

— Done and dusted, Lester said, then asked thoughtfully, — Is that a Brit saying?

— Sounds generic, he mused, trying it on in cockney with a 'mate' tacked on the end, then in Glaswegian with a bonus 'big man', before concluding, — Maybe it is.

Lester inched forward in his seat. — And I have a little 'welcome to Florida' present for you.

— I'm all ears.

— You ever had angel's trumpet tree?
Brugmansia suaveolens
. It's part of the
Datura
family, a hallucinogenic
and
a narcotic. All grown locally.

— Heard of it, not tried it. It's supposed to be poisonous.

— For sure. You can't just pick that shit off the tree and cook it up and eat it without knowing what you're doing. You're pretty likely to drop down dead, or at least retch up. But if you get the right dose . . .

— How do you do that?

— A friend of mine picks it, dries it out and puts the measure into tea bags.

— I'd like to try it. I've always loved different teas. Count me in.

As they ironed out the details of the clandestine transaction, the news of his approved status was conveyed to Albert Black who, in spite of himself, basked in delighted vindication as he was wristbanded and issued with a VIP pass. — Any guests accompanying you, sir? the doorman politely asked.

At that point he heard a high screeching voice of disbelief coming from the crowd. — Granpa?

He turned to see Billy, accompanied by the ubiquitous harlot girlfriend. They were gaping at him in shock. Black instantly felt like he'd been spotted going into a strip club. But he fought the sense of mortification down, turning to the doorman and pointing over to them, gesturing at the youths to approach.

Billy Black and Valda Riaz tentatively made their way over. — This pair, said Black, forever the frugal Scot and gaining some satisfaction from thinking about what they would save in two admission fees.

— The VIP list at the Cameo? Awesome, Billy gasped. Black couldn't help but be moved by the fact that he and his grandson wore identical panama hats. For a second or two he felt so close to the boy that he wanted to weep.

Black turned away in order not to let sentiment betray him, as they were signed up. Then he heard Billy asking him how he had this sort of clout.

— I know N-Sign, Black stammered, scarcely aware of what he was saying.
This clown represents everything I despise, and now
I'm dropping his name.
— He's speaking at the conference . . .

The youthful couple were far too grateful with their passes and bands to take detailed note of Black's comments. — That's excellent, grandpa, Billy said, then struggled,—. . . thanks. Um, catch you later. Valda smiled and said, — Thank you so much, Mr Black, this is very kind of you.

She displayed such grace that Black, in spite of himself, felt shame gnaw at him. He thought of Alisdair Main, his old university friend, whom he heard had died some years ago. He felt himself profoundly wishing that he'd gone to the funeral, and fired off a quick prayer, attesting to the essential goodness of that particular sinner, and urging the Lord to err on the side of leniency.

— Thanks again, Grandfather, he heard his grandson say in formal, respectful tones, with no hint of mockery, before he and Valda vanished inside and into the crowd, both parties relieved to be free of the excruciating proximity of the other.