The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (12 page)

  “Even if Ah wis efter a wee bit ae revenge, which Ah’m no, who appointed you Bawheid Baxter’s guardian angel anyway, eh?”

  “Ha, ha, nice wan, Johnboy.”

  “Joe, shut the fuck up!” Tony and Johnboy hid baith shouted at him thegither.

  Efter the advice session wis o’er, everything hid gone reasonably tae plan up in Leehill Road in Colston.  They’d soon realised where the ‘sweaty basturt’ tag hid originated fae.  Fur the size ae him, he wis surprisingly nimble oan they feet ae his. Tony and Joe’d hid tae gie chase efter he bolted, panic stricken wae fear, through the maze ae back gardens ae the hooses, screaming fur somewan tae call the bizzies as some basturts wur robbing him. Johnboy hid still been pondering o’er Tony’s snide advice when Bawheid hid surprised them by suddenly appearing oot ae a semi-detached hoose coonting his payment.  As soon as he’d clocked them, he’d fucked aff in blind panic, running intae the back gardens, wae Tony and Joe in hot pursuit. Unfortunately fur Joe, he’d been wearing the wrang kind ae tights o’er his face.  While Johnboy and Tony hid been using sheer wans, Joe hid been wearing a pair ae thick black wans.  Joe hidnae realised that the wans he’d oan must’ve been made tae hide some auld bat’s varicose veins, and he’d only discovered that he couldnae see a bloody thing through them wance he’d pulled them doon o’er his face.  Efter Bawheid hid made his dash fur freedom, Joe hid automatically chased efter him, only tae run straight intae a wooden telegraph pole that wis oot the back court.  Because it wis Colston, there wis a lot ae private hooses up there and telegraph poles wur scattered aw o’er the place.  Efter Tony and Joe hid dragged him aff ae a fence he wis trying tae get o’er, kicking fuck oot ae they baws ae his fur no accepting his fate, they’d made aff wae his dosh.  Efter aw that unwanted advice, Johnboy hidnae managed tae take part in booting Bawheid Baxter’s baws intae space, as some auld codger, who’d warned Johnboy in advance that he’d been a commando during the war, hid ran across threatening tae take a garden rake tae that heid ae his while Tony and Joe wur in hot pursuit ae their sweaty quarry.  He wis a lovely auld guy, Johnboy remembered thinking at the time…the type that ye’d want tae hiv as yer neighbour because he wisnae feart tae jump in and try and help somewan oot who wis in trouble.  Johnboy’d felt a wee twinge ae guilt later oan when he thought back tae how he’d slipped his haun intae his jaicket, making oot he wis reaching fur a gun or a knife, causing the auld commando tae dae a quick aboot-turn before dashing intae his garden shed and noisily sliding shut the bolt oan the inside.

  It hid been the fourth Provi-cheque man, which hid been much closer tae hame, that hid kicked aff aw The Mankys’ bother wae The Simpsons.  This wan wis supposed tae hiv been Craigie Shaw, who worked as a salesman in Jacksons The Tailor’s doon in Union Street in the city centre by day, bit who serviced Johnboy’s ma and aw her pals and neighbours wae their loans between Springburn Road and Gourlay Street oan a Friday night and Saturday morning.  Johnboy hid never met him, bit tae hear that ma ae his talking aboot him, ye wid’ve thought he wis the saviour himsel.  They’d hung aboot at the back ae a closemooth oan the Friday night, jist opposite the gates ae the cemetery oan Keppochhill Road.  Everything hid seemed tae be gaun according tae plan.  They’d changed their robbing clobber fae the previous week oan account ae Joe hivving nearly knocked himsel oot.  Fur this wan, they’d aw been dressed up in balaclavas, wae motorbike goggles wrapped roond their heids.  Joe hid goat the balaclavas aff ae a bunch ae wee boys fae Gourlay Street Primary School.  He claimed they’d cost him fifteen bob as the wee basturts hid haggled o’er the price before settling fur hauf a crown each.  Although he wis only efter three ae them, there wis six wee boys and he’d felt sorry fur the other three, so hid bought the lot.  Tony hid nicked the goggles aff the helmets ae a bunch ae polis bikers that hid stoapped aff at The City Café, doon in Castle Street, fur a plate ae mushy peas.  The stupid basturts hid stacked aw their helmets oan the wan bench seat while they’d goat torn in tae their peas. 

  Waiting fur the Provi-cheque man tae arrive hid been the usual hoot, Johnboy remembered wae a smile.

  “Ur we no supposed tae be staunin here looking mean and threatening?” Joe hid asked, as Johnboy and Tony cracked up laughing at the sight ae Joe staunin there in a bright green balaclava wae a big black question mark knitted oan the back ae it that wis four sizes too wee fur him, wae a pair ae biker’s goggles wrapped roond the ootside ae it.

  “Fuck, Joe, ye look like The Joker oot ae wan ae they Batman comics,” Tony hid said tae mair cackles.

  “Hoi, if ye think Ah look stupid, ye should see whit Ah kin see,” Joe hid replied, quick as a flash, staring at Tony wae his skin tight red and black Spiderman balaclava and Johnboy wae a yellow and black hooped bumblebee wan covering that heid ae his.

  Unfortunately, the Provi-cheque man that they’d robbed that night hidnae been Craigie Shaw. The fact that he wisnae done up like a tailor’s dummy should’ve alerted them that something wisnae quite right…that and the fact that this wan wis the spitting image ae Cat Weasel and wis sporting bright yellow troosers and a multi coloured knitted poncho.  They’d found oot later that the tailor’s dummy hid been aff oan the sick wae a painful doze ae gout in wan ae his big toes and ‘Herbie’ Maxwell, whose real name wis Gordon…wan ae Toby Simpson’s dope dealers…hid been tasked wae daeing the roonds and collecting Craigie’s payments fur him, seeing as Herbie wis awready daeing the roonds oan the hash front.  It hid jist been a bit ae bad luck.  Right fae the word go, Tony hid decided that they’d avoid Possil and Milton, oan account ae no wanting tae upset or cross any ae The Simpsons.

  “Ah widnae rob me, if Ah wis you, man.  Ah’m protected, so Ah am,” Herbie hid declared, confident as fuck.

  “Shut the fuck up and haun o’er that wee bag,” Tony hid demanded.

  “Ah’m telling ye, man, youse cats ur making a big mistake, so youse ur,” he’d squealed, clasping the wee oblong leather pouch against that poncho ae his wae baith hauns.

  “Aye, well, take us aff ae yer Christmas card list then,” Joe hid snarled as they surrounded poor Herbie, the hapless hippy.

  “Ah’m telling youse.  Whit’s in this wee bag belongs tae The S...” he’d jist started tae plead, when Joe, who wis never particularly patient at the best ae times, hid gied Herbie a wee right hook oan tae that left lug ae his, sending him and the arse ae his bright yellow troosers flying sideways oan tae a pile ae dog-shite.

  “Arghhh, please, please don’t hurt me, man,” Herbie hid howled. “Here, take it, it’s aw yours.”

  Johnboy’d hid a bad feeling efter they’d robbed him, when Herbie’d shouted efter them that they couldnae say they hidnae been warned, as he’d fucked aff alang Keppochill Road, in the direction ae the cinder pitches that wid take him o’er intae Possil, leaving a dust trail ae dried earth fae the freshly dug graves across in the cemetery in his wake, fae they Jesus sandals ae his.

  “Whit did he mean when he said he wis protected?” Johnboy hid asked later.

  “Probably thought that mentioning the bizzies wid scare us aff,” Joe hid scoffed dismissively, haudin up a wee square block, wrapped up in silver wrapping paper, that looked like a misshaped Oxo cube.

  “Fuck, we’ve hit the jackpot.  There’s o’er ninety quid here,” Tony hid declared, surprised at the amount.

  “Whit’s that, Joe?”  Johnboy hid asked him.

  “Fuck knows, bit there’s aboot forty ae them,” he’d replied, sniffing the wee block, which he then passed o’er tae Johnboy and Tony tae hiv a whiff ae.

  Whenever they robbed or assaulted anywan, they usually burnt any incriminating evidence.  They hidnae burnt it this time though, which hid been a lucky move.  They’d been slumming it, doon in Flemington Street, beside the engineering college, oan account ae Johnboy being oan the run fae Oakbank at the time.  Because it hid still been the summer and warm, they hidnae lit a fire in the hoose, so, insteid ae burning the bag wae the thirty or forty wee foil-wrapped blocks in it, Joe hid slung it in the big bins at the side ae the engineering college, across fae their hidey-hole.

  The shit hid soon hit the fan, big style.  Wan-bob Broon hid tracked them doon the next morning.  Everywan hid been lying snoozing when Wan-bob hid turned up at the door at aboot eight o’clock.  As usual, he hidnae said too much, although he’d been spitting nails.

  “Right, youse fucking eejits.  Get they arses ae yers doon tae The Capstan Club pronto, and take The Simpsons’ money and hash wae ye, if ye know whit’s good fur ye,” he’d growled, gieing them a look that wid’ve frozen the baws aff ae a polar bear.  “As if Ah hivnae goat enough tae dae wae ma time.”

  And wae that, he’d aboot-turned and stomped aff, back doon the stairs.

  “He could’ve at least offered us a lift, so he could’ve, the selfish basturt,” hid been Joe’s classic retort at Wan-bob’s back, efter the gorilla hid disappeared and Tony and Johnboy hid cracked up laughing.

  None ae them hid been any ae the wiser as tae whit wis gaun oan.

  “Hiv any ae youse goat a clue whit he wis oan aboot?”

  “The Big Man seems tae be pissed aff wae us fur some reason.  Whit hiv ye been up tae, Tony?” Joe hid asked. “And whit wis that aboot a stash?”

  “He mentioned something aboot they Simpsons.”

  “Fuck knows, bit we better get oor hooves oan and get doon there tae see whit it’s aboot.  The next time Wan-bob comes through that door, he might hiv a butcher’s knife in his haun,” Tony hid warned them, sitting doon and pulling oan his Oxford boots.

  Nowan, at least nowan that Johnboy knew, wanted tae be summoned tae The Capstan Club doon in Frederick Lane, jist alang fae the side entrance tae Queen Street Station.  Nowan really knew whit the fuck went oan doon in they cellars ae The Big Man’s, though there wur plenty ae rumours flying aboot.  Johnboy hid been in the place a few times before wae Tony.  The last time hid been a few years earlier, tae pick up some payment fur stealing a briefcase wae a blue folder and some gambling chips in it, oot ae a bizzy car which hid been parked doon in the lane across fae The Chevalier gambling casino in Buchanan Street.  Johnboy hidnae been too bothered aboot The Big Man, bit it hid been the ugly bogeymen that always hung aboot oan either side ae him that hid goat his arse jumping, especially the Murphy brothers, who, fur some reason, hated The Mankys wae a vengeance.

  “Right ya wee baw-bags, where’s the dosh and the hashish?” Pat Molloy, The Big Man, hid growled at them as soon as they’d darkened his door.

  He’d been sitting there, looking like the gangster that he wis, in an open necked shirt, red braces haudin up his pin-striped suit troosers, wae a Tiger’s Eye ring oan the pinkie ae wan haun and a gold sovereign oan the other wan.

  “Whit money and whit hashish wid that be then, Pat?” Joe hid asked, even though it hid been agreed beforehaun, that Tony wid dae aw the talking.

  “Right, Tony, Ah’m warning ye, son…Ah’m no gonnae fucking staun fur any lip oot ae youse whippersnappers.  Tell that wee cretin that if he utters wan mair sound through they lips ae his, Ah’m gonnae pull oot they teeth ae his wan by wan, wae a fucking set ae pliers…see if Ah don’t,” The Big Man hid snarled.

  “Er, sorry, Pat,” Joe hid mumbled.

  “Whit money and whit hashish wid that be then, Pat?” Tony hid asked, trying tae emphasise a wee bit ae respect in they dulcet tones ae his.

  “Ur youse fucking taking the piss oot ae me, or whit?” The Big Man hid demanded, erms spread oot, scowling towards Shaun and Danny Murphy, Peter The Plant and Wan-bob Broon, whose eyeballs hid rolled heavenwards tae the ceiling in disgust at the flairshow.

  “Naw, naw, Pat.  We’re jist wanting ye tae remind us whit ye’re oan aboot, that’s aw,” Tony hid shot back, in his maist pleading, friendly voice.

  “Nae wonder they call this crowd Tony and His Right Tits,” that wanker, Shaun, hid guffawed.

  “Tell them, Bob,” The Big Man hid growled across at Wan-bob.

  “The guy ye robbed last night?  The Provi-cheque man?”

  “Aye?” the three ae them hid said aw at wance.

  “He wisnae really a Provi-cheque man, so he wisnae.”

  “Well, he looked, acted and screamed like wan,” Tony hid said indignantly.

  “Naw, the Provi-cheque man fur Keppochhill Road wis in his bed, sick.  The bam ye robbed, Herbie Maxwell, wis daeing the roonds fur his pal as a favour.”

  “So, where dis the hashish come in then?”

  “Herbie Maxwell, wis also drapping aff his weekly supply ae hash tae those who happen tae be the same customers that the regular Provi-cheque man gies loans tae.  He dis that every week, so he dis, ya eejits, ye,” Peter The Plant hid chipped in gleefully, seeing the penny drap in the three pairs ae eyes in front ae him.  “He wis daeing Craigie Shaw a favour.”

  “So, how wur we supposed tae know he wis a bloody drug dealer?  Aw we wur interested in wis his money,” Tony hid shot back, playing up the hurt innocent line brilliantly.

  “He wisnae any auld hash dealer either.  He wis delivering fur Toby Simpson,” The Big Man hid said, leaning back in his seat, wae his hauns up behind his neck, watching the boys’ reactions.

  “We never clocked any dope.  Ah think this Herbie wan probably claimed that we robbed his hashish and kept it fur himsel,” Tony hid suggested, as aw the gangsters, including The Big Man, burst oot laughing.

  “Ur youse bloody jesting us or whit?” Shaun, The Big Man’s, scar-faced right-haun man hid demanded incredulously.