A Decent Ride (19 page)

From: [email protected]

Dear Lars,

Bring it the fuck on!

Checker

So ah fuckin goes n spondoogles this Lars Simonsen cunt, but oan the cheeky phone. This gadge is fuckin minted! Well, ah’m thinkin that anybody that’s got something these bams want hus goat tae be in a strong position! Guaranteed!

Ah goes intae toon n picks up a pair ay keks, estimatin that Ronnie’s about a 34-inch waist. Ah hand them intae the polis oan the desk. He gits discharged about an hour later, lookin a bit frazzled, as eh talks tae a lawyer, whae seems tae have smoothed things ower wi the cops.

Eh comes oot n the troosers seem tae fit okay.

— How did it go?

— Assholes! I got to make a phone call and they crumbled. He looks ower tae the lawyer. — I’ve a good mind to sue their asses!

— Thanks for no lettin oan that the ching was mine . . .

— For sure. But I would ask for your complete discretion regarding this episode.

— Course, mate. Ye cannae fuckin well bedroom-hop like the Juice T n no ken a wee bit aboot discretion. Ah wrote the manual, ah tell um. — How’s they strides? Ah nods tae his pins. Aw good?

— They’re okay, Terry, but I feel a little rough. Those fucking Tasers, man . . . assholes! he shouts back.

— Easy, mate, ah goes, — discretion, mind, steerin um tae the door. Best tae git the fuck oot ay here.

It’s no a bad drive up tae Inverness. Ronnie’s a bit nauseous, so we have tae stoap the car a couple ay times. The first time, outside Perth, eh’s a bit rough, but the next time, though, he’s quite chatty, and even the wee bit ay puke eh brings up disnae bother um. Ah ken what’s exciting him, awright.

We get oaf the motorway n oantae a B-road just north ay Inverness. There’s a sign for Bowcullen Distillery, but if ye didnae ken where the slip road was, ye could easy drive past it. We go intae this spooky wooded area, the road jist a singletrack. Ah huv tae pull in as some cunt wi a Land Rover is comin the other wey. The distillery’s oan the right, a great auld red sandstone villa, wi a modern building set oantae the back ay it. If it wis spring and the leaves were oot, the trees wid conceal it fae the road. We crunch up the gravel driveway, and open the car doors to meet the crisp, cauld air.

Inside the hoose it’s aw grand and wid-panelled, wi a reception desk. A posh, sexy-looking aulder burd, that ah’d love tae ram senseless ower that desk, gies us baith a wee smile. Then she rings for this boy and he comes acroass n greets Ronnie. Ah backs away, pretendin tae read this glossy brochure in a rack. It’s aboot aw thair whisky products, but there’s nae mention ay the Trinity collection.

This slick-looking cunt has a whispery voice, so ah cannae hear what’s bein said, but then Ronnie comes ower tae me, ehs eyes aw glistenin. — Terry, please follow us. I want to show you something beautiful, he goes, then intros me tae this boy, — Eric, Terry. Terry is a friend of mine, and Eric runs this distillery. A family business, right, Eric?

— For almost four hundred years, this smug cunt goes, escortin us past this security desk, n doon intae a big brick-wawed cellar the size ay a fuckin aircraft hangar. It looks auld n it is, but ye kin hear some kind ay modern ventilation system operatin. There’s mair boatils ay whisky than ah could ever imagine ma auld mate Post Alec gittin thru! We come oantae this corridor, at the end ay which is a locked door. This Eric gadge produces a big key and opens it. It’s another wid-panelled room, but fill ay gless display cases, n lit up, showin oaf this range ay vintage whiskies. It’s like they’ve aw got a date and a wee note on them. The one that’s in the most prominent place, on the back waw, is a boatil fae the Bowcullen Trinity.

It’s like a dark red colour, mair like a wine than a whisky, but it’s in a weird dimpled bottle shaped a bit like that Gherkin building doon in London.

— The Bowcullen Trinity, Ronnie says, nearly breathless. — One of only three bottles in existence.

— Yes, Eric goes, — our original plan was to keep one for perpetuity, and sell the other two. But . . . he smiles at Ronnie, — both yourself and the other party have made competitive offers, and running costs of this place are high and the recession sadly means that we have to look at all income options. The whisky does cost a lot of money, but that simply reflects the scarcity and rarity of the stocks it’s blended from. Some have been maturing at the distillery for more than a century and a half.

Ronnie licks his lips. He’s chatting away wi this Eric boy as we head upstairs. Then eh gets oan ehs phone. — Mortimer. Prepare the formal bid. Drop everything and expedite this deal.

So we leave the place and get back intae the cab. We wir apparently supposed tae be thaire for lunch, but Ronnie’s arrest hus snookered that. Ah ken how much that whisky shite is worth, but ah’m playin the daft laddie. — Ah’m sure it’s good whisky, but seems a lot ay dosh for a boatil ay pish, mate.

— You don’t drink it, Terry! It’s a collector’s item. An investment. It’s only going to gain value!

— Pity that other cunt’s involved.

— There is always a deal to be made, Terry, remember that.

We get tae this Highland Hotel n it’s fuckin barry. We get a few whiskies at the bar, Ronnie gaun oan aboot them. — I can’t believe you’re a Scotsman and know nothing about whisky!

Ah’m starvin n ah orders a steak n chips wi mushrooms, though ah cools it oan the chips, worryin aboot the love handles and that scud hotline. Ronnie struggles wi a bowl ay Scotch broth, that Taserin fucked his appetite, n eh decides tae huv an early night, tae hit the room n make some calls. Ah watches a bit ay a Champions League game wi the barman boy. It’s off-season n the hotel’s practically deserted, nae fanny hingin aboot. So ah decides tae head tae ma scratcher, n ah switch off the phone n ah’m lyin thaire oan the bed stripped fae the waist doon. Ah does the auld trick ay callin room service n orderin a sandwich, then pretendin tae be asleep.

Unfortunately, it’s a fuckin gadge whae comes in, wi a rid-couponed apology. — Sorry, sir . . . n eh sets the sanny doon n fucks off. Ah calls Big Liz fae Control n hus some phone sex wi her. It’s less risky than the real thing; when she sits on yir coupon, they flaps are like Gestapo officer’s gloves! So ah batters yin oaf, then it’s mair ay the same wi Suicide Sal. By the time ah’ve shot off a second load, ma knob’s sair as fuck; nearly pilled the fuckin end oaf it! Good night’s kip but.

So in the morning wir headed tae this restaurant, nestling by the side ay this loch. We gits in and thaire’s these two boys thaire; one’s a big tall radge, rail-thin, sandy-haired, Scandinavian accent. The other cunt, a chunky gadge, looks mair like a minder, n ah gits a chilly eye fae the fucker. Gies um yin back. Manners cost nowt.

Then Ronnie n the tall gadge are off tae this table, orderin breakfast and having a confab, so me and the minder boy are seated at another table, a wee bit away. A lassie comes ower n takes our breakfast order. — Pump that yin, ah sais tae the boy, as she heads oaf, — in a fuckin minute!

Cunt just sits thaire wi that funny puss oan um.

— Listen, mate, ah goes, — you can sit there with that face on aw ye like, but ah’m no fuckin lookin at it. Cheer up, or ah’m movin ma table.

He stares at me for a bit like eh’s gaunny swing for ays, then extends his hand. — Jens, he goes, wi a wee smile playin roond the lips.

— Terry, ah sais, n the boy’s goat some fuckin shake, — but ah git called Juice Terry.

— Juice Terry . . .

So the lassie comes wi the brekkie, n ah ken it’s decadent but a wee Bloody Mary tae go wi the oysters n the kippers fir me, n smoked salmon for the Jens felly. — Ah kin smell the loch oaf that cunt fae here, ah sais tae the boy, — nae whiff ay the fjord oan that bastard’s scales!

So we’re huvin a bit ay a laugh, and Ronnie n the other boy are still aw torn-pussed and aw deep in discussion. Then, they’re flippin a coin. Ronnie’s aw excited, the cunt must have called it right. After that it’s aw big handshakes.

As we’re headin back doon tae the city, Ronnie seems chuffed, but a wee bit thoughtful. He’s oan the blower tae Mortimer, no tipplin that ah’ve got the nosy switch oan and kin hear the fuckin lot.

— The agreement is that we put in fifty thousand dollars each, and purchase the second bottle of the Trinity collection for one hundred grand. Lars’s people will place fifty thousand dollars in the No. 2 account. We will make the purchase of the bottle and we’ll be custodians of it until Lars and I play a round of golf, the winner taking the bottle as the prize . . .

Ah glance at Ronnie’s coupon in the mirror; it’s startin tae flush up tae fuck.

— . . . I don’t expect discussion on this, Mortimer! You’ve made your views clear . . . For me this
is
the goddamn big picture! Make it happen!

Perr Mortimer’s getting it tight, the cunt!

— What do you mean, what happens if I lose? If I lose we have one bottle each, and we play another game, the winner taking both bottles. Now make it happen! Dammit!

Ronnie switches off the phone, as ah makes oot ah’m puttin the cab speaker oan. — Awright, Ronnie?

— Just an asshole that won’t do his fucking job, Terry. Mortimer doesn’t get whisky; he doesn’t get golf. All he’s focused on is this two-bit land deal, and his commission, Ronnie scoffs. — Sure, the numbers are good, but he’s an Ivy League Yankee stiff-ass with no goddamn soul.

— So ye made the deal then, Ronnie?

— Yes, but please, keep this confidential.

— Ah telt ye before, mate, ah wrote the fuckin book when it comes tae discretion. Listen, oan that very issue . . . we should celebrate. How d’ye fancy gittin yir hole?

— Prostitutes? I don’t pay for sex!

— Dinnae gies that, ah tell um, thinkin ay The Poof’s wise words. — Ah bet ah could take one sketch at yir exes, mate, n that wid tell ays that you’ve fuckin well peyed fir it awright! The clathes, cars, hooses, jewellery . . .

That fuckin well gits the cunt! — You got a point, dammit, I could dial some high-class call girl right now, he waves ehs phone, — but that shit does nothing for me.

— Me n aw, mate. Ah’m no suggesting hoor. Ah ken plenty weys ye could git a hot date!

— Terry, I’m too damned busy to get involved with women! I gotta call that fucking Swede about our arrangement –

— Dane, buddy, the boy’s Danish, ah tells the ignorant cunt. — N yir nivir too busy fir a ride, mate; what the fuck’s the point ay workin aw ooirs if ye cannae enjoy some rumpy-pumpy? Yir jist a sad fuckin addict tae graft. Leave it tae that Mortimer cunt tae sort oot. Ah eywis say: why huv a dug n bark yersel, n ye kin see eh’s comin roond at that. — C’moan, let’s check in at this daft wee speed-datin club ah ken, designed for busy professionals like us – it’ll take us ten fuckin minutes tae pill!

— Oh, what the hell . . . the cunt actually fuckin smiles, — . . . You know, Terry, I’ve kinda been enjoying our little adventures!

So am ah. It’s a smooth drive back tae toon, n ah parks up n we gits doon tae Bar Cissism. Right away ah kin see thit thaire’s some fresh minge oan offer! Ya beauty, a ginger burd n aw! So ah gits fired in, n wir gittin oan like hoose oan fire! Cannae wait tae see if the rug matches the curtains wi this yin! As we’re chattin away, fae the corner ay ma eye ah clocks Ronnie, sittin back talkin tae this burd. N ah kin hear her sayin, — What dae ye huv yir hair like that fir?

Ronnie disnae look chuffed, n eh gits up n goes tae another table! Fuckin radge!

Fuck him – ah’m layin it oan the line wi the ginger burd. — Tae be honest, ah’m no really lookin for a relationship. N if ah’m bein really upfront ah’m no even that fussed aboot a steady ride; a one-off’ll dae ays right now. Nae reflection oan you, you’re tidy likes, it’s jist thit ah’m solidly booked ower the next few months.

— That’s aw ah’m eftir n aw, the lassie goes, — ah’m busy tae. So ye stey near here?

— Your carriage awaits – excuse me a second, ah goes, thinkin,
result
, as ah heads ower tae Ronnie, whae’s talking tae some posh bint aboot gowf. — Ronnie, ah’ve goat tae shoot oaf for a wee bit. Thaire’s some minge needs splittin, ay.

— You can’t leave me here, he looks at the lassie opposite whae’s checkin something on her phone, — I’m getting hit on!

— Good on ye!

— But you’re my driver –

— Have tae jildy, buddy boy, minge needin split, ay, ah repeat, tae emphasise that ah’m no fuckin aboot here. — As you say: close the deal, business takes George Bernard Shaws, n ah winks ower at the ginger burd, — but the hotel’s just a short walk acroass the street. See ye in reception in an hour. You Yanks need tae dae a bit walkin, gittin in and oot ay motors aw the time isnae good fir ye!

— When in Rome, I guess, Ronnie goes, then sais, lookin ower at the lassie oan the phone and droapin ehs voice tae a whisper, — None of them seem to have seen the show, but they do get pretty impressed when I tell them I’m staying at the Balmoral!

— I’ll bet they do, ah tell um, cause every burd in here kens whae he is and thir poised tae take um tae the cleaners.

His problemo; ah’m fair taken by this ginger nut but, ay. She’s goat they freckles like some cunt just shot a wad ay orange spunk aw ower her puss. Her hair’s a bit short but; the point ay being a ginger is tae lit they fuckin locks flow. This is for a lassie, obviously; for ginger-heided laddies, the likes ay the Ginger Bastard, ye make sure the fucker’s razed oaffay that scalp. But she’s as obsessed wi ma hair as ah am wi hers. As we exit she starts pattin the locks. — Ah like your hair.

— Ah feel the same aboot yours, ah goes, as we gits oot intae the street.

— You jist want tae find oot if the rug matches the curtains, she smiles.

— Well, now that ye mention it, ah’m no gaunny lie . . .

So when we gits back up tae mine we strip oaf (she’s no fuckin shy!) n it’s the best ginger muff ah’ve seen in ma puff! She’s kept it thick but chopped it in a nice wee ‘V’ at the toap, like an array pointing tae the site, as if ah need some air-traffic-control cunt flaggin me intae that landing bay! Wish Sick Boy hudnae decanted tae London, could dae wi a digi cam oan this yin fir the catalogue! But that wee bit ay plumage oan top sais it’s Doaktir Who’s skerf time! — Ye must git that pussy munched oot a loat, ah goes.