The Night the Rich Men Burned (29 page)

Down the steps and out through the door onto the street. Marty has to say yes, and he will. He would have anyway, without knowing about Potty’s arrest. He would have said yes because he needs to make the moves that make Jamieson happy. But Potty’s arrest tips it over the edge. Doesn’t matter who you are, an arrest makes you look weak. Once you look weak, you look like a target.

5

His grandfather’s still on his mind. Shouldn’t bother him at all, but it does. He never exaggerated their relationship. He was already a teenager when he went to live with Arnie. Arnie didn’t have any profound effect on making him the man he is today. He didn’t mould him. Always seemed to Peterkinney that his grandfather was counting the days to him leaving. Tried to push him in the right direction now and again. Never openly begrudged the expense of having Oliver there. Tried to bring him up with the least possible effort.

Now he’s all over him. Giving him an earful. Captain fucking Morality. Where did that come from? Jesus, think back. Who was it that set him up with Roy Bowles in the first place? Bowles the gunrunner. That was his grandfather’s grand plan to steer him away from Marty Jones. Get away from that frying pan and into the fire. Please. Coming over all moral now. Gets on his nerves. Really does.

And he’s still angry as he pulls up at Jazzy Jefferson’s office. Shoving his car door shut and walking briskly inside. Late in the day for a business meeting. It was Jefferson who called him up. Asked him to come round to have a look at the books. Might be a good deal or two in there for him. Sounded a little too pleading. Sounded like Jefferson was having a hard time shifting some debts and wanted the always-generous youngster to help him out. Well, the youngster is more established now. Less need to be generous. And he’s not in a helping mood.

‘Oliver, good to see you,’ Jefferson’s saying. Smiling so broadly you would almost think he meant it. Smiling so broadly he’s beginning to look like he’s in pain.

‘Sit down, let’s see these books.’ No mood for pleasantries. Not with Jefferson anyway. Like Peterkinney doesn’t know what Jefferson’s been up to. Like he doesn’t keep a keen eye on people like him. Any sensible collector keeps a beady eye on the behaviour of lenders. He knows Jefferson’s been pawing at Potty’s door again. Looking to keep onside with the fat man. They’ve all heard the stories about Potty teaming up with Alex MacArthur. Squashing Billy Patterson. Big deal, very impressive, whoop-dee-doo. Peterkinney’s one of the few who doesn’t seem to be impressed by these old farts squabbling. No surprise that Jefferson’s gone running back. He really shouldn’t be so naive as to think Peterkinney wouldn’t realize.

Jefferson’s passing the book across the desk. A hardback notebook, very neatly kept. You’re always looking at the first page. All previous pages carefully cut out with a razor blade when they’ve been used. Peterkinney knows the debts Jefferson wants to shift are at the top of the page. There’s one up there that’s leapt straight out at him. But he’s making a deliberate effort to ignore it. Not letting Jefferson see that he’s noticed. Making a show of scanning down the page.

‘Not a lot of fruit in the garden,’ Peterkinney’s muttering.

‘There’s a few in there that are as safe as houses. A few where you can’t go wrong. Easy profit. Rest of them just need the sort of nudge I can’t give them. Nothing there you wouldn’t turn a profit on, Oliver, I’ll tell you that now. Good list.’ Selling too hard, realizing and backing off.

Peterkinney looking through them. Looking at the name, the address, the amount, the borrow date, the amount repaid, employed or not employed, known assets. Last one’s a key indicator. Do they own a house or a car? If not, and they don’t have a job, you’re going to have your work cut out. Jefferson’s good at detail. Plenty there to read through. Some aren’t. Some lenders think you only need a name and an amount. But Peterkinney’s eyes keep creeping back up the page. Creeping back to the name Jefferson has put there in the hope of him seeing. The hope of him buying. Alex Glass.

Everyone knows Glass was his best friend. Jefferson only put the name on the list in the hope that friendship would make him buy. No point pretending he doesn’t recognize the name, although he has little inclination to purchase. He knows Glass’s situation. Still in thrall to that hooker. Pissing his life away, is what he’s heard. Heard he was drinking and using heavily these days. No job. No assets. No prospect of paying that debt. Still, Jefferson expects him to ask about it, so he’ll ask.

‘Alex Glass, what’s his condition? Doesn’t look good here.’ Borrowed and didn’t pay back a penny. Never a good sign when they don’t pay anything at all. The ones who aren’t trying are the ones you can’t turn a profit on.

‘I won’t bullshit you, Oliver,’ says the professional bullshitter. ‘You’ll struggle to get your money back on him. That’s if you go the conventional route, anyway. I put him on there for a couple of reasons. First is that I know he’s your mate. Won’t yank your chain on that one. I thought you might want to know what the situation is. Try and stop him being in debt to someone who might think it’s a good idea to get at you through him, you know. Other people might use him to hurt you. Second thing is, he had a debt with me before. Little bigger than this one. Okay, he was in better shape then than he is now, but still. I sold that debt to Potty Cruickshank. This is going back a ways. Few months now. You’d only just set up your own business around then. But he paid Cruickshank off in full. Don’t know how. Heard he did some sort of job for him. But he got the debt settled in full. Potty was happy. There might be something there for you. Must have some sort of skill that he used the last time. A chance to get him working for you.’

You have to admire Jefferson. You really do. Initially Peterkinney thought Glass had been shovelled onto the list in some desperate attempt by the lender to play on emotions. Try and get him to help out an old mate. That wasn’t going to work. Not today of all days, when any part of his old life is a foul reminder of his grandfather. But Jefferson had a backup plan all along.

Jefferson’s giving him a route to Potty. Not telling him outright that Glass did something dubious for Potty. Not saying that having Glass under his thumb on the debt could prove useful in attacking Potty. Jefferson would never come out and say something like that. That would look like picking sides. He’s too smart for that. But he’ll hint at it. He’ll talk about Glass doing a single job for Potty that was enough to pay off a large debt. Something that made Potty happy. That’s a hint Peterkinney can’t ignore.

Potty is a big target. No sniggering, this is serious. He’s big. Too big for a young guy like Peterkinney to take on directly. But any time you get a chance to take a shot at him, you have to. Bring him down a peg. That’s what Peterkinney’s focusing on. If Glass knows something big. If he was involved in something that Peterkinney can use to keep chipping away at Potty. Well, you don’t let a chance like that fly by, do you? He’s not in a mood to make people happy though. Doesn’t want Jefferson thinking he’s done something clever. But he has, the bastard, and this opportunity is too good to miss.

‘Okay then,’ Peterkinney’s saying. And saying no more about it, because Jefferson isn’t going to give him any more detail than that.

They’ve talked for another few minutes. Peterkinney’s asked a few pertinent questions about a couple of other names on the list. Just going through the motions. In the end, Peterkinney’s buying two debts. One that he knows he can turn a quick profit on. The other belongs to Glass. Jefferson does look pleased with himself. That’s the downside.

Peterkinney’s back in his new flat, feet up. Relaxing in nice surroundings. This is what his grandfather doesn’t understand. An old man, spending his life in some shitty little flat. Cramped, damp, dark and hopeless. Thinking that because he spent most of his life on the right side of the law he deserves some fucking medal. Most of his life, not all of it. He strayed from the righteous path as well. Never forget that. Standing in that office and lecturing him. Shit, makes him angry to think.

Walking through to his kitchen. Comparing it to the tiny little kitchen in Arnie’s flat. The ancient wall units and the grotty little washing machine that sounded like a struggling helicopter. If that’s what your flawed attempts at honest living get you, you can keep it. Peterkinney isn’t going to live that sort of life. He knows that if you have the guts, you can have more. You can have the good life. You just need the courage to take it. You need the smarts to take advantage of every opportunity that comes along.

6

It feels like morning. It’s morning, right? He’s opening his eyes. Still seems dark. And wet. And he’s beginning to realize that something’s amiss. Slow awareness that he’s not where he should be. A few more seconds. Now Glass is coughing loudly. Trying to sit up, but everything hurts. His stomach, his shoulder. Feels like there’s something pressing at the back of his head.

Then a few minutes of nothing. Somewhere close to sleep. Now he’s suddenly awake. Suddenly very aware of where he is. Lying in the alleyway behind Fourteen. Lying on the wet ground. The pain in the back of his head is from lying on the tarmac. The pain in his shoulder and stomach? They’ll take a bit more memory work. First challenge is to get to his feet. Struggling up.

Damn it all, he’s soaking. Not just rain, either. They must have dumped him in a puddle. All down his back is wet. Shaking his head, and remembering how he ended up here. Stopping shaking his head, because it makes his shoulder hurt. Coughing hard again. He feels like throwing up. Yeah, that would just about top it off.

Ella wasn’t at home when he got back to the flat after meeting Jefferson. That pissed him off a bit. He wanted to be with her. Spend some time with her. So he called her. Didn’t get through first couple of times. Got through to her on the third call. Demanded to know where she was. She was oblivious to his tone. Didn’t get that he was angry with her for not being there. That he was angry with everything for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on. She told him she was at Fourteen. Said she would be home late. He said he would come see her there.

Managed to get into the club. Found Ella. She gave him some attention. She was nervous, and that annoyed him. They had a few drinks. They danced. It was going okay. Then she went off to speak to someone. Some guy, he remembers. Must have been the guy she was there to work. Can’t even picture him now. Older than Glass, for sure. Some rich-looking bastard. Glass let it slide. It was her work. What she was there for. He remembered feeling rather mature. Sitting there. Letting her have her conversation with this guy. Not letting his jealousy show.

Can’t remember what sparked the argument. Way too far gone at the time to remember it now. They were sitting together. She said something. Something about another guy in the club. That was it. Something about him being a nice guy. It was her way of implying she needed to get back to work. Glass made a snide comment. Ella said something to try and calm him, there was shouting. Then the guy from the earlier conversation came across and intervened. Trying to do the decent thing. Protect a young woman from her scruffy, angry boyfriend.

Punches were thrown. Glass must have thrown some. Can’t for the life of him remember connecting with any of them. His knuckles aren’t scuffed, which suggests if he hit anything, he didn’t hit it hard. More than one person hit him. The guy who was intervening in the fight, and at least one other person. A few hits in the stomach. Then security came and dragged him out through the back. They gave him a few hits as well. Then threw him into the alleyway. He fell over, remembers that. That might be where the shoulder injury came from. Then he passed out.

Glass has spent five minutes just standing in the alley, staring at the ground. Trying to remember. Wishing he still couldn’t. The more that comes back, the more upset he gets. It’s just humiliating. If the police are going to come and get him then they should hurry up about it. If Billy Patterson wants him killed then he should bloody well do something about it. Living day-to-day, and every day is getting worse. Can’t have many more days like today.

No idea what time it is. No watch on. No sound of life from the club. It’s still dark though. The sort of quiet dark that suggests everyone else has gone to their bed. Sort of quiet dark that makes him wish he was in his. So he’s starting to walk, trying to find a way out of this alley. Never been here before, but you don’t need a map to find the end of an alleyway.

One step and he’s wincing. The pain in his stomach, mostly. He’s cold and stiff and his shoulder doesn’t like him much either, but it’s the stomach pain that flares the most when he moves. Muscle damage, he’s telling himself. Like he knows. Doctor Glass. Another step, and another. Pain doesn’t get any weaker. Home. That’s a long way away right now.

Out onto the street and looking around. Not a single person on this busy street. Must have been in that alleyway for a few hours. Coughing again, and by God his stomach hurts when he coughs. He’s bending over slightly in the hope it’ll help, but that’s getting him nowhere. Shuffling slowly towards home and stopping. What’s the point in trying to walk home when you know you won’t make it? He has no hope. Not in this state. Walking just to collapse in the street. Doesn’t have his phone on him any more. Not a penny in his pockets. He needs to find a shorter journey.

Only one place comes to mind. Only one place that he thinks might be welcoming. And a lot closer than his own flat. Shambling along, pathetic and knowing it. Walked past one person on the way. Glass walking hunched, struggling to keep any sort of pace. The person looked at him and walked past. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t want to engage with him. Didn’t want to get involved. They never bloody do.

The walk should have taken ten, fifteen minutes maybe. He doesn’t know how long it took, but it was fifty minutes and felt like two hours. Having to stop every hundred yards. A new challenge when he reached the block of flats and had to take the stairs. Every time he pushed up, the pain shot through him. But he’s there. Knocking on the door of the flat. Another humiliation. Another desperate act. He’s starting to cry. Out of nowhere, he’s crying. It’s such a weak thing to do. Makes him feel so pathetic. Humiliation piled on top of humiliation. He wants to stop crying before the door is opened. He wants to be able to maintain at least a tiny bit of dignity. But it’s gone. Running down his cheeks and out of sight.