A Decent Ride (44 page)

It’s barry cause it tastes like good lager, thick lager wi tons ay gas, but aw sort ay sweet, like a lager tops!

Ronnie n me toast like it wis New Year or whin Herts won the cup. — We should go back to my hotel, eh sais, — and get more of this goddamn champagne.

— Goat tae run a wee message first, it’s oan the wey in, ay, Terry goes, but aw sort ay snappy.

— Terry, we got a result! Don’t be so goddamn uptight! Ronnie sais, hudin up the funny boatil ay whisky that looks the same colour as rid wine.

Terry keeps lookin at what’s behind us in the mirror aw the time. — Ah’ll be happier when ah’ve droaped oaf this twenty grams ay ching tae this cunt doon the Taxi Club.

— A two-bit drug deal! You are carrying twenty grams of cocaine around, with everything that’s happened to us? Ronnie shouts. — Gimme a fuckin break! Drop me off at the hotel, now!

— It’ll take ays twenty minutes tae git tae the Taxi Club n meet this boy, Terry goes. — Huv some fuckin balls!

— But it’s a goddamn drug deal!

Ah’m watchin thum gaun at it, one yin, then the other.

— So? It’s still fuckin business. What does business take? George Bernard Shaws! Huv a bit ay fuckin pride: wir stickin it tae they polis cunts! These wankers, they pilled ye in. They took the pish, Ronnie. N they called ye a shitein cunt cause ye kept phonin them during the storm. They’ve hud yir caird marked since then. Then fucked ye aboot tryin tae find that second boatil ay whisky. Terry turns ehs heid roond. — The fuckers are probably doon some Masonic club right now, drinking shots oot ay it!

— You really think those assholes would have the audacity –

— Ah’d pit nowt past those fuckers. Stick it tae the cunts, mate!

— Right, let’s goddamn do this! Ronnie punches ays oan the thigh. — Take me to this faggot-assed club where it’s all going down! And give me a fuckin bump of that shit! We done kicked Scandinavian ass!

— That’s ma man! Jonty, see this cunt here? Terry points back at Ronnie. — Business takes baws n he’s goat baws ay fuckin steel. Watch n learn, wee man, eh sais, n ah feel the Ronnie boy sort ay pumpin ehsel up next tae ays in the back seat. Terry hands um ower a caird in a bag ay devil’s poodir. Ah turns away, in case they try n gie it tae me. Aw aye, ah does that, cause it makes ye ride other people’s lassies. Aye sur, it does. Cannae be daein wi yon.

— YEE HA! Ronnie shouts oot, n eh seems tae be feelin good.

So ah asks um, — See, in New York, huv they goat McDonald’s thaire?

— Of course they have. They have McDonald’s everywhere. It’s an American franchise!

— Bet thir no as guid as the yin in Gorgie but! Naw, thi’ll be like they snobby up-the-toon yins if thir in New York! Aye sur, that they will. Aye aye aye.

— What in hell’s name are you talking about, Jonty?

— Snobby McDonald’s, Ronnie, aye, snobby McDonald’s, ah goes, then, n it jist comes oot, — snobby Ronnie McDonald’s . . . N ah starts laughin at that mistake n Terry does tae. Ma hand goes tae ma mooth n ah hope Ronnie doesnae think ah’m sayin eh’s a clown even if eh looks like yin wi that sort ay reverse clown hair, aw stickin oot oan top wi nowt at the sides, cause that’s jist what Jinty wid say . . . but ye cannae say that, naw sur, ye cannot . . .

But Ronnie’s jist sortay laughin n shakin ehs heid. — What in hell’s name – are you goddamn crazy?

— McDonald’s . . . jist sayin . . . Ronnie McDonald’s, aye sur, aye sur . . . n wir aw huvin a rerr laugh, but ah tell thum thit ah’m no touchin the devil’s poodir, naw sur, ah am not.

— Wise man, Ronnie says, lookin at Terry and laughin, — this goddamn motherfucker is gonna be the end of me, and they start laughin again n ah dae n aw.

So wir drivin back intae Embra, n headin tae Powderhall n the Taxi Club! Terry promised me he’d take ays thaire: the cheapest pint in toon! Aye sur! Hank said tae ays once: ‘Ye willnae git in there withoot me signin ye in.’ But ah will! Ah’m wishin eh wis in there tae see it now! Barry-barry!

Wi gits inside n Ronnie’s lookin no too comfy but Terry leaves ays wi a peeve n tells ays eh’s gaun tae the bogs for a line ay that awfay poodir. Ronnie’s lookin at um n sayin, — Terry, don’t you think you’re doing a lot of cocaine for somebody with a heart condition?

— Aye, but we won, mate.

Ronnie high-fives um. — We kicked ass! N eh follays Terry tae the lavvy.

Ah sortay agree wi Merican Ronnie but, cause ah believe it wis that poodir thit switched off Jinty’s light. Mind you but, ah’m no sayin hur ma, Maurice’s wife, did the same, no sur, ah am not cause that’s no fir me tae say. N ah dinnae think cocaine wis invented back then fir Edinburgh, back whin she wis alive. Ah want tae ask Ronnie if it wis invented back in America, in New York n that, but ah’m no happy wi Terry n him daein this funny stuff cause Barksie does that. Eh gied it tae Jinty n she wid still be here n no wi the ghost trams if he hudnae gied hur it. Devil’s poodir: aye sur, that’s what ah call it. Aye sur: the devil’s poodir.

Ah sees ma cousin Malky n ah waves um ower! Ah cannae believe ma luck! Eh’ll tell Hank ah wis in! Eh’ll vouch for ays! — Malky! ah shouts. — What ur you daein here?

— Jonty! N eh’s right ower to me as Ronnie n Terry ur comin oot the lavvy. — I’m down to see a friend, Colin Murdoch, who works as a part-time taxi driver. He droaps ehs voice. — We’re thinking of setting up a local private cab-hire firm, and we’re just canvassing to see who’s game for jumping ship, Malky goes, lookin ower ma shoodir at Ronnie but gaun, — Do you know who that is?!

— Aye sur, it’s Terry n Ronnie, n ah grabs Terry’s airm. — Ma cousin Malky!

— Sound, Terry nods at Malky. — Mind ay ye fae ehs ma’s funeral, but Ronnie does that thing like eh disnae see um. Mibbe eh’s shy, mibbe that’s aw it is.

— Ah yes, that was so sad, Malky sais tae Terry.

Then ah nearly dies cause thaire’s a big mob ay laddies fae The Pub Wi Nae Name thit walk in. Thir lookin roond like they own the place. Then Evan Barksie looks at ays, n ah turns away, n eh’s straight ower tae Terry.

— What ye brought us doon tae this mingin tip for, Lawson?

— Ye got the poppy or no? Terry goes.

— Aye.

Terry nods tae the bogs n they vanish inside.

— What you daein here, Jonty? Tony Graham asks. — You’re no part ay oor syndicate.

— He’s part of my goddamn syndicate, Ronnie says, stepping forward.

Then Malky sais tae Ronnie, — Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind me interrupting but I’m a businessman myself, and I’m a great fan of
The Prodigal
. I couldn’t help hearing the rumour that you’re involved with the syndicate!

— I dunno anything about a goddamn syndicate!

— But you just said –

— Figure of speech, Ronnie sortay snaps.

Malky winks at um, then at me. — I see.

That Craig Barksie’s giein me the evil eye, eh is that, sur. — What’s the fuckin hold-up? eh goes, lookin tae yon lavvy whaire Terry n Evan Barksie are dealin the bad poodir. — Let’s git the deal done n git the fuck oot ay this tip, n eh’s lookin around wi that burnt coupon, whaire the chunks ay muh ma exploded oantae his puss.

This boy wi one leg, whae’s sittin at the table, hus heard this, n goes, — Youse shouldnae be in here. Then eh turns tae ehs mates. — Ah bet these are private-hire cunts, come in tae snoop around!

Malky looks aw nervous n turns away fae the boy. — I understand. Eh taps ehs nose at Ronnie. — These things require discretion.

Ronnie boy sort ay looks at him, then at me n Terry, whae’s come oot the bogs wi Evan Barksie. — What the fuck is this shit?

— Cousin Malky, ah goes. — Aye sur, cousin Malky, aye, aye, aye . . .

Craig Barksie goes, — This place is fuckin well daein ma heid in!

Malky leans intae Terry. — Listen, I hope you don’t think I’m being pushy, but are you involved with the syndicate?

Evan Barksie’s lookin daggers at Malky, then at me.

— You polis? Terry goes.

— No . . . and I’m not press, and he looks at Merican Ronnie n droaps his voice. — I really want to be part of . . . you know, I want to be involved in the syndicate. Jonty here will vouch for me, n eh looks at ays wi hope in his hert. Me!

— If you vouch for me wi Hank thit ah wis in here, ah will that, sur!

— Of course, cuz . . .

— Set up yir ain fuckin shite, Evan Barksie sais, — you’re nowt tae dae wi us. We’re oaf tae Magaloof!

— Eh’s cousin Malky, Terry, Ronnie, ah tells thum, — cousin Malky fae Penicuik, aye sur, Penicuik, aye, aye, aye, aye . . .

— Ah left Penicuik a while ago, Jonty, you should ken that, Malky goes.

So ah sais, — Ye nivir really leave Penicuik but.

Evan Barksie moves ower tae his mob in the corner, some ay thaim fae The Pub Wi Nae Name.

Ronnie’s pit ehs hand back intae ehs poakit. — Terry, these assholes are giving us the stink eye, n eh nods ower tae Evan Barksie in the corner, whae’s lookin at ays. — We oughtta go.

— It’s ma fuckin club, Terry sais, — ah’m gaun naewhaire. Cheeky cunt tried tae say ma ching wisnae worth a sook, n eh’s oaf ehs fuckin tits oan it!

N thir aw ower, surrounding ays, sortay standin close and crowdin ays aw oot. Ah dinnae like this, no one bit at aw.

— This is a funny show, wee dimwit Jonty here, wi ye, Terry? Lethal Stuart goes.

— Thaire’s a few fuckin dim-witted cunts in here the day, Terry goes. — The wee man isnae one ay them.

— You’re the cunt oaffay that TV show! Evan Barksie goes tae Ronnie.

— Takin the pish ootay fuckin Scotland, wi they gowf coorses! Tony sais.

— You fired that fit burd, that Lisa, hur wi the big tits! Craig Barksie sais.

Fair play tae Ronnie but, ay, eh turns oan um n goes, — She was fucking incompetent, you scatterbrained asshole!

— What . . . what did you jist say? Craig Barksie steps forward.

— Cool it, Terry sais tae um. Craig steys whaire eh is bit doesnae step back, naw sur. Aw, ah dinnae like aw this, naw sur, ah do not.

— What the fuck’s these private-hire cunts daein in here? the boy wi the stump goes.

— Look, we were just trying to find out the lie of the land, cousin Malky goes.

The stumpy boy isnae happy. Eh turns tae the other two boys at his table, Like taxi boys, one of thum wi glesses, whae sounds aw funny n English, then back tae Malky. — So yir admittin it? Yir admittin yir private-hire!?

— Must’ve fuckin rode it but, mate . . . oan yir show . . . ah’d’ve fuckin rode it, Tony sais tae Ronnie.

— Thaire’s other things in life, Terry sais, then stands back, like eh’s shocked at his ain words, aw aye, like eh’s aw shocked.

— Dinnae git fuckin wide, mate, Evan Barksie goes tae Ronnie, — yir no in some fuckin posh New York place now!

— This goddamn shithole! I could buy and sell this place and raze it to the ground, Ronnie shouts.

— Naw ye couldnae! the boy wi the stump roars in ehs face.

— Who owns this place? Ronnie’s gaun aw rid, like eh’s aboot tae huv a hert attack – that’ll be the devil’s poodir, aye it will. — I’ll make them a cash offer right now! Ronnie looks aroond. — The building’s worth jack—

— How dae you ken what ah’m worth, ya fuckin capitalist American bastard? the boy wi the stump shouts.

— All that’s worth anything here is the land . . . Ronnie goes. — I’ll give you ten million dollars!

— Much is that in real money? Evan Barksie laughs.

— Eh’s goat the poppy! Tony sais. — Showed ye ehs hoose oan the telly. Barry fuckin doss, likes.

This wee boy wi glesses gits up. Eh’s goat a voice that’s aw English. — The committee, under the CIU rules and regulations, article 14, paragraph 22, states categorically, and I quote: ‘that the acquisition of any assets by the club, and the disposal of said assets (including property) held by the club, requires a two-thirds committee majority at the AGM or EGM, the latter of which also needs a two-thirds committee majority to be instituted –’

— What! Is this how you do business? Ronnie shouts in his face. — Fuck this Soviet Third World socialist bullshit! You’re goddamn assholes! All of you! I’ve seen your kind before! In our country they call them ghetto-dwelling losers! New Orleans!

— Nice tae be nice but, Ronnie, nice tae be nice . . . ah goes.

— Actually, I think you’ll find that Scotland is developing into a mature democracy, the English felly sais.

— Aye . . . aye . . . Scotland, ah goes.

— N what are you sayin, ya fuckin retard mongol? You want yir cunt kicked in? Evan Barksie goes tae me, standin awfay close.

Ah’m lookin at the burnt bit oan ehs face, the bit eh disnae ken ah gied um, naw sur, eh does not . . .

— STOAP STARIN AT MA FACE!

— FUCKIN SACK IT, BARKSDALE, AH’M TELLIN YE! Terry shouts. — You’ve goat what ye came for, so git the fuck oot ay here!

Evan Barksie sortay blinks like eh’s shocked, then eh moves forward, but ehs mates hud um back. Tony goes tae um, — That Ronnie Checker’s here tae buy Herts oaffay Vlad, ya daft cunt, leave thum.

— Terry, I think we maybe oughtta leave, Ronnie goes.

Now The Pub Wi Nae Name boys huv went tae thair corner whaire thair drinks are, n thir drinkin up, but thir makin five-one signs at Terry, n callin him a Hobo.

— Fuck you, Lawson, Evan Barksie shouts ower, — n we ken yir jist hingin aboot wi that muppet simpleton cause ye wir kno—

Terry jumps ower n batters Evan Barksie in the mooth, aw aye, n Barksie faws back, hudin it but no bleedin even though ye kin tell it wis a sair batterin, aye it wis, n it aw goes mental. Everybody’s fightin or shoutin or hudin n somebody kicks me up the erse fir nowt! Aye sur, that they did. Ah goes tae turn but some beer comes flyin ower, then a gless, n it hits Malky n cuts ehs hand n thaire’s a big row n they boys, like the boy wi one leg, come ower n shove the other boys taewards the door.

— Git the fuck away fae here, the one-legged boy sais tae us, n tae Ronnie. — You ought tae be ashamed of yirsel!

— ASHAMED?! ME? GOD DAMN YOU!

So Terry’s sort ay shepherdin us aw oot the door eftir The Pub Wi Nae Name boys. — Sorry, Jack, Bladesey, eh says tae the boys fae the club. — Ah brought them here. Ah thoat they’d behave. Ah’ll git thum oot – c’moan, boys, eh sais tae us.