Greyhound for Breakfast (12 page)

The Square itself was brightly lit. The Christmas decorations had yet to be dismantled. There was a lot of hustle and bustle. Queues of folk lined the different bus stops; some were in uniform,
mainly transport workers going home off backshift. A couple of guys were touting razor blades and other things, plus the newpaper vendors. Girls stood alone, in couples, in groups, as also the
youths watching them – some speaking in really loud voices. Now and again policemen strolled by in pairs, gloved hands behind their backs, occasionally pausing to chat to bus inspectors. A
newspaper vendor exchanged words with Tommy Rollo and Ellen and he gave them a
Daily Record
without taking money for it. When Alec bought one he winked and said, I thought you’d have
landed in Majorca by this time!

Alec smiled slightly, glanced at the headlines before folding the paper away into his side coat pocket. As they continued along the newspaper man called: Yous going up the Duke?

Aye! replied Fat Stanley.

Maybe see yous later on!

No if we see you first, grunted Oanny.

Fat Stanley grinned. He’s no that bad, he added.

Fucking idiot, muttered Oanny.

Alec had stepped on a bit and was walking with Rollo and Ellen. They cut down a side street and about twenty yards along a cobbled lane. It was quite dark, light glinting on the cobbles
occasionally. Rollo pressed the doorbell and the chime rang out inside. When the door opened the guy behind it greeted Rollo and Ellen and smiled at Alec: Long time no see!

He ignored Fat Stanley and Victor. But when he noticed Oanny bringing up the rear he beckoned to him and whispered, The least bit of argy bargy and you’re out the fucking door.

What . . .

You heard.

Oanny squinted at him. He saw Alec inside the lobby gesticulating at him and he shrugged and strolled past the doorman, accompanying Alec down the corridor and into the main gaming area of the
club, but he continued on alone, into the wee room where the coffee and food were to be had. There was nobody inside it. He moved to one of the tables towards the centre, and he sighed as he sat
down.

*

With the carpets and general decoration, plus the green baize on the tables, there was little resemblance between the Duke and the last place. But at one time you could have
bought a full meal up there as well. Ellen kept complaining that the profit she made on the soup and bread barely repaid her outlay but maybe if she tried a wee bit harder, put on a variety –
a plate of egg and chips for instance would not take much sweat – then she would get a better turn out it. And anyway, how much did it actually cost to set up a few big pots of soup! Pennies.
The place had definitely deteriorated and it was Rollo himself who had to accept most of the blame. Rumour had it his licence was not going to be renewed and this was given as the reason how come
he was no longer bothering. If it had been Oanny’s club he would have turfed out the riff-raff right away, and that was just for starters. Rollo never seemed to worry about the number of
dossers who used the place. They only turned up for a heat and a bowl of soup and to see what the fuck they could beg on the side. What amused Oanny was the way they all materialized just in time
for the last couple of hands at chemmy, especially if there had been the one big winner like this evening. This was because usually a big winner chipped a couple of quid – a fiver sometimes
– into the centre of the horseshoe table once the play had finished. Rollo took the dough and he dealt a card to everybody standing round the table, first jack lifted the money. It was
supposed to go to a genuine loser but half the time some fucking wino ended up getting it. Now apart from giving somebody the taxi-fare home the thing had another purpose, it was to stop the big
winners getting pestered by guys looking for the busfare. It worked to some extent but subtleties like this never bothered the real down-and-outs – especially when it was a stranger had won
most of the dough, it was like flies round shite watching them. People could get desperate. And walking home was like that when it was the middle of winter, fucking murder polis so it was. Oanny
hated being in that situation and it did not happen too often. His habit was to fall asleep shortly after arrival in Rollo’s and when he woke up the losers were usually hanging about giving
their post-mortems on the night’s play. It was rare for him not to have kept the busfare once the kitty had been collected. It was even more rare for him to be tempted into having a go
himself on the table. To tell the truth, punting was beginning to bore him. If Alec was going through a bad spell he would pass the cards on to somebody else to play for a while. Oanny used to be
the second string. But not any longer. And because Fat Stanley showed his excitement too much Alec had started passing the cards onto Victor. This was right up Victor’s alley. But what Alec
never seemed to appreciate was that the cunt was every bit as excitable as Fat Stanley, he just did not show it too much. But if you knew him; if you knew him you could see he was a bundle of
shakes and twitches.

Oanny rose from his chair a little, enough to see through the glass partition, but it was difficult to distinguish things. No sounds from the gaming section reached into here either. But he
could see that only one game of poker was in progress. That was good. Settling onto the chair again he lifted the teacup and stared into it, drank down what was left in it. He brought the
halfbottle of vodka out from his inside coat pocket and poured himself another, adding a wee drop of lemonade from the bottle he had lying on the table. What a carry on everything was! He shook his
head.

You talking to yourself?

It was the doorman. He must have come in on his tiptoes. He was staring at Oanny and had not spoken as he had as a joke. You’re sitting there talking to yourself, he said.

Am I?

Aye.

That’s good.

Some people wouldnt think so.

Ach away and give us peace!

Peace? If you wanted peace you wouldnt be sitting about here at all hours!

Oanny frowned at him but then he gestured with the half-bottle: Want a voddy?

Naw, I dont want a voddy.

Good! The fucking price your man charges! What a carry on – a fiver? For a fucking halfbottle!

Well if you dont fucking like it!

Oanny shook his head. He glanced about, opened the new packet of cigarettes and he offered one to the doorman as an afterthought. Each lighted his own. Then Oanny swallowed too big a mouthful of
the alcohol and he shuddered and dragged immediately on his cigarette, keeping the smoke down inside his lungs for a longer period than normal.

He put the bottle back in the inside pocket again. He would have to forget about it being there otherwise he could end up doing it in, without even noticing! He shook his head and glanced up.
But the doorman had vanished.

He got to his feet, intending to go through and see what was what in the poker but he went for a piss instead. On the return he stopped by the small group of spectators but when Victor chanced
to look across he kept on walking, back into the snacks room and onto the same chair as before.

It was enough to have shown his face, just so they would know he was still compos mentis. And anyway, what was the point in spectating? It was only a game of stud and he knew that inside out and
back to front. It was a good skilful game mind you – but so was chess, and Oanny would not have watched that either. He knew Alec was doing okay, just seeing Victor’s face was enough.
Although it was one of those wee surprising things about life that occasionally Oanny could get feelings. It was the same when he was married. He always seemed to know in advance when something was
going to happen. It annoyed Doreen. She used to fucking blow her top! Oanny grinned. But it was true, he could get these feelings. In punting it had to do with luck and hunches and that kind of
thing. You could sense something was going right. You walked up to back your dog and suddenly you knew it made no difference which one you selected because whatever it was it would fucking guy in,
it was a stonewall certainty. Your luck was in and that was that.

And vice versa as well of course. There were times nothing went right. You punt a dozen odds-on chances in a row and each one of them would fucking run backwards. Your luck was out, end of
story. The shrewd thing was to get that feeling and use it properly, know when it was best to call a halt, or best to stay with it to the very last. The way Alec was going for instance he had to
stay with it and then know that exact moment to get up and call it quits. That was the hard part.

Oanny crushed out the cigarette he had been smoking and folded his arms, leaning them on the edge of the table. It was typical how Victor was the one to see him look in on the game. George Raft
with the dirty shirt. What was interesting was how come he had managed to wangle himself in on the company. He just seemed to turn up one time and tag along. Then suddenly he was there every Friday
night, up in the usual place at Ashfield. Nobody even knew where the fuck he lived. Maybe he was dossing. He knew an awful lot of the riff-raff. So did Oanny right enough! But you could not help
getting to know them when you saw them once or twice every week. Even if you never acknowledged them they still liked to say hello, just to kid on they knew you, in case they wanted to nip you for
a couple of bob in the future. Bastards. That was a good point about Victor, you had to admit it, he was not a beggar. That was one thing you had to admit. But where did he stay? Imagine not even
knowing where the cunt stayed! And there was no way of finding out, not unless you just came right out and asked him. And how could you do that? Some sort of conversation would have to be on the go
first of all and Victor never got involved in conversations, especially not with Oanny. What a carry on it was.

*

Fat Stanley grinned as he sat down facing him across the table. He nodded at the halfbottle of vodka: Any of it left?

What . . .

The vodka, any of it left? Fat Stanley grinned.

Aye . . .

It’s for Alec. Fat Stanley watched Oanny pour some into another cup and add a fair proportion of lemonade. When Oanny was putting the halfbottle away into his inside coat pocket the other
man added, Eh – what about Victor, should we give him one as well?

I suppose so . . . Oanny shook his head, reached for another cup and poured in a tiny amount and then added a good proportion of lemonade, and muttered, The cunt’ll no notice anyway! He
glanced at Fat Stanley: You should’ve told him to come and get it himself!

Ach Oanny, you know what like he is!

Aye, no fucking brains!

Fat Stanley chuckled. Naw, he said, but he likes watching the game.

I know he likes watching the game Stanley. Well I’ll tell you, he can watch it till fucking doomsday for all the good it’ll do him cause he’ll never make a fucking poker
player. I mean you ever seen him fucking twitching! Poker by fuck! Couldnt play ludo that cunt!

Ah he’s no that bad.

Your trouble is you’re too soft.

Fat Stanley raised his eyebrows and smiled while lifting the two teacups. No coming ben? he asked.

In a minute.

It’s good. Some rare hands coming out.

Oanny shrugged. Either we win or we dont, it’s as simple as that Stanley. Who’s all playing?

McArthur and big Dessy, Billy Hendrie, the Ragman . . .

Oanny nodded. How’s Alec doing anyway?

Och up and down, up and down.

Early days. Only takes a couple of good pots and we’ll be well away.

Fat Stanley smiled. Coming then?

In a minute.

Right you are . . . He headed back through towards the gaming area. After a moment Oanny took the halfbottle out again and he checked the amount remaining. He continued to read the label then
sniffed and returned it into the inside pocket. He lighted another cigarette and exhaled onto the table-top, scattering crumbs from the surface.

*

The sound of people talking quite loudly; somebody laughing. The poker had finished. And the main lighting was now on in the gaming area. Alec was a winner. Oanny would have bet
money on it. He was standing central to the company and although he was not speaking the ones who were made a point of including him in the general conversation. When Oanny appeared a few of them
had exchanged greetings with him. He took out the cigarettes and offered them about. The manager of the club was a guy in late middle age by the name of James Millar. He had nodded to Oanny without
any comment, friendly enough but keeping his distance. Now he signalled to the doorman and together they left to stick on some coffee and knock up a few sandwiches. When the kitchen door shut the
Ragman said, Well Oanny, dont see much of you these days.

The way that doorman was acting I thought I was barred!

Aye, he’s keen.

Keen! Oanny rubbed his hands together, exhaled a puff of smoke. How’s business? he asked.

Aw no bad no bad, surviving.

Good.

Heh Oanny, called Billy Hendrie, ever hear anything of the Ghoul these days?

Some of the company laughed. In the background Victor could be seen, he stood several yards to the side of Fat Stanley and to the rear of the main poker table. Oanny chuckled: The Ghoul eh! What
a man yon was!

You’re no kidding! laughed Hendrie.

Last I heard he was up in the ’rigs.

That’s what I heard as well, said the Ragman. The Shetlands?

Oanny nodded.

I wonder if he’s still into the Crown & Anchor? asked Hendrie. What! Oanny pulled a face and the company laughed. He glanced at the Ragman and said, Mind that fucking pitch-and-toss
game he set up down in Bellshill? The heavy squad ran him out of town!

The laughter again. But after a moment the Ragman answered, I dont think it was Bellshill but.

Tommy Rollo called, Naw I think you’re right, I think it was somewhere else.

It was Blantyre, said Alec.

Blantyre, aye.

Oanny nodded. Blantyre, he said, that’s right. A team of heavyweight boxers they sent after him. Fucking lynched him if they’d caught him!