The Night the Rich Men Burned (11 page)

This is another thing that pisses him off. Why is Marty giving Peterkinney all the work, and hardly any to Glass? That doesn’t make sense. It was Glass that set up the job on Holmes. It was Glass who led the job. They did a good job. Must have, because Marty’s using them both still. But he uses Peterkinney all the time. Glass hardly at all. Occasional jobs that don’t pay much. Not much use. Just doesn’t seem fair.

He’d mention it to Peterkinney, if he ever saw Peterkinney. Hardly ever comes round these days. Seems like he’s working hard to keep his distance. Obviously doesn’t like Ella. Or doesn’t like the fact that Glass has a girl and he doesn’t. Or maybe just doesn’t like the life that Glass and Ella are living now. A couple. A proper relationship. Hard to tell what his problem is. Probably because he doesn’t like Ella, which is another thing to piss him off. Peterkinney could always be a bit snobby. Not much to be snobby about, but that’s the way he was. Looking down his nose at people like Ella.

Ella’s out of the bathroom now. Slept until afternoon. Hasn’t spoken to her since some time last night. Can’t remember anything they said since before they left the flat last night. There are a lot of episodes like that in his life now. Vague conversations. Lost evenings. Failed memories. Still, as long as she’s a part of it, this is what he wants.

‘Morning. How you feeling?’ he’s asking. He knows how to work the tone now. Took him a little time to realize that what you say is less important than how you say it. With Ella, anyway. Say it with a smile, a little charm. Don’t let it sound anywhere close to an accusation. No judgement allowed.

‘Little tired. Little sore,’ she’s saying with a weary smile.

She has a small cut on the top of her shoulder. He saw that when he was getting up in the morning. Wasn’t there last night. He won’t mention it. It’s happened a few times. She’s arrived home hours after him. She’s had a bruise or a cut or something like that. And he says nothing because she doesn’t want to talk about it. Upsets her to talk. It’s a separate part of her life, she said the first time. Work and home, they stay apart. One doesn’t talk to the other. So he doesn’t mention these things, because they’re work and he’s home.

‘Got anything on today?’ he’s asking. Trying to make it sound hopeful, like he wants to spend time with her. That’ll keep her happy.

‘I got to go see someone,’ she’s saying. ‘But I’m not doing anything tonight. We should go out. I know a guy who can get us in at Fourteen. You been there before? It’s a great club. Real classy. We should go.’

How does he say no? They’ve been together a couple of months. Long enough for him to know that she’s out of his league. Long enough to know that he has to work very hard to keep a hold of her. You don’t say no. That’s the first rule. He’s worked that one out for himself. No trial and error required. He knows. He has to say yes.

‘Sure, that sounds great. I haven’t been.’

‘Oh, you’ll love it,’ she’s saying. All casual and happy now. Her chirpy, flirty self. Going across to the fridge to see if there’s anything that could pretend to be breakfast in there. ‘I’ve been there a couple of times before. Great parties. But even without a party, it’s a great night.’

‘Sure. Great.’ He’s nodding. Happy to make her happy. Working hard to make this work. Oblivious to the fact that what she loves most about him is the chance of normality. The chance of a proper relationship and regular life. The parties, the nights out, they’re just what she’s used to. Part of the routine.

Thinking about the cost. Fourteen is a swanky kind of place. An expensive kind of a place. If it was just him, he would never have thought of it. Not his kind of hangout. Not the sort of club him and Peterkinney used to hit for a night out. Ella can only know it through her work. It’s the sort of place those sorts of men go. The kind of men who can show her luxury Glass can’t afford.

While she’s making her breakfast at lunchtime, he’s thinking about Marty. Needs to get in touch with him. Call him up, see if there’s anything to do. Must be, surely. Could do with a little extra money. Actually, scratch the word ‘extra’. He needs money. Right now his wallet contains a video rental card he hasn’t used in two years. That’s it.

He’s left her to it, walking through to the living room. She likes to be alone when she’s making food. A little bit obsessive about it. Started baking as well, the other afternoon. Made a banana loaf. It was okay. She loves that, cooking and baking. Likes to drag him round the supermarket, picking out ingredients.

He has a number for Marty, but Marty’s fussy about answering. He made it very clear that he doesn’t want to be called all the time. Doesn’t want every little nobody calling him every time they’re short of cash. Well, Glass has been careful. He’s only called once before, and Marty didn’t seem to mind. So he’s got his phone in his hand and he’s tapping on Marty’s name. Holding it up to his ear and worrying that he’s pushing his luck. But he isn’t. Truth is, Marty loves it when people call him up. Loves it because he gets to feel important. Tell people that he has work for them. Or tell them that he doesn’t, and listen to them deflate.

‘Hi, Marty, it’s Alex Glass. Is now a good time to talk? Good, cool. Listen, do you have any work needs doing? I’m happy to do whatever, you know, anything at all.’ Now he’s standing there and he’s listening. You wouldn’t need to hear what Marty’s saying to know that it isn’t good news. You can read the expression on Glass’s face. ‘Okay. Yeah, that’s fine. You know, whenever you need any work, I’ll be around. You know I . . . Sure, I’ll let you go. Bye, Marty.’

He’s dropped his phone onto the couch and he’s standing in the middle of the room. He can hear Ella moving around in the kitchen. She expects to go out to Fourteen. She wants to be there, and if he can’t take her, someone else will. He can see how tenuous this is. He needs to keep impressing her. So he’ll get the money. Hook or crook, he’ll get it.

Ella’s out of the kitchen with a poor excuse for a sandwich in one hand and a mug in the other. Not much effort went into that, but she’s tired. Dropping into the chair that happens to have the TV remote on the arm of it. Looking up at Glass and smiling. He’s standing there in the middle of the room, for no obvious reason. He smiles back and nods.

‘Just going to head out for a wee while. Bit of work, maybe,’ he’s saying.

She looks disappointed. Always does when he does anything to compromise the domestic bliss. She hoped they’d have an hour together before she went to work. It’s always nice to spend time with Glass. He’s always nice. Always considerate. Always different from all the others.

‘Right, sure. I’ll be away in an hour. So, I don’t know, I’ll see you later.’

‘Yeah,’ he’s smiling, and leaning down for a kiss. She likes that. Proper couples kiss goodbye.

He’s getting his coat and his phone and he’s out of the flat. Got to think about this. Think, man. Think of an alternative. There isn’t one. He knows what he has to do; something he doesn’t want to do. Got to make sure he gets this just right. Make the wrong judgement here and he’s under the thumb for years.

3

You can make all the plans you want. Doesn’t matter. Not a damn bit. Potty spent the thick end of two months trying to come up with a clever way of getting to Patterson. All through those two months, Patterson was growing and growing. Getting stronger, taking more clients away from him. All the time, Potty stewed. Trying to come up with some ingenious route to the heart of Patterson’s business. Trying to find a weak spot and the silver bullet to exploit it. Two months wasted.

Then it fell right into his fat lap. Straight out of nowhere. A rumour that one of his muscle heard and passed on to him. Muscle didn’t even know that it might be important. Dickhead. Even muscle should have the basic sense to keep their ear to the ground. To know what matters and what doesn’t. Hardly brain surgery, is it? But some people . . .

Potty would have found out eventually. Everyone found out eventually. Not the sort of thing that could be hidden. Jamie Stamford ends up in hospital and the city gets to hear about it. Now, Stamford was the first one to try and cover the whole thing up. Didn’t reflect well on him. Premier muscle, beaten to a pulp. But details leak out. People find out. They have to, otherwise the message Patterson was sending isn’t heard. It was in Patterson’s interest to make sure the story got out. But that was always going to piss important people off. Impressed some important people, no doubt, but pissed a whole bunch of other ones off.

So Patterson had sent one of his boys to smash up Stamford. Punishment for not paying a debt Patterson had bought. Potty was offered that debt. Turned away the two bookies that had come together to try and sell it. No way Potty was going looking for trouble with Alex MacArthur. Everyone knows MacArthur likes Stamford. One of the muscle he keeps close. He trusts. So you ignore his many debts.

Patterson made the mistake of buying it. Of thinking he could act without consequence. All men are equal, and all that. Nope. Not true. You don’t treat everyone the same. You’re never in your own little bubble. People won’t accept your behaviour just because you’re right. Being right means very little in this business.

Potty knew all that when he made the phone call to Alex MacArthur. He knew MacArthur would talk to him. The Cruickshank name still carries a lot of weight in this city. In the right circles, at least. And MacArthur is the master of his circle. Just about the biggest criminal network in the city. One of the big three. Not a man a little shit like Billy Patterson should be picking a fight with. Potty chatted to MacArthur. Mentioned Patterson’s name just the once. Casual, in passing. The mention of a mutual problem. That got him an invite to one of MacArthur’s offices.

A good office. You can tell a lot about what he thinks of you by the office you meet him in. He has a lot to choose from. Clubs and pubs, shops and companies. You name it, he’s either got it or got access to it. He’s been in the business so long. A fixture. One of those people you don’t want to see leave. Not that anyone really likes him. Rasping, chainsmoking old egomaniac. But what replaces him? He’s one of the few big old sharks that know how to keep order. If that goes, you don’t know what’ll step in to fill the gap he leaves. Nothing deserves greater fear than the unknown. Stick with this old devil, he’s familiar.

Potty’s being driven to the office block where the meeting will take place. Have a driver, have an expensive car. Make sure MacArthur can see that the Cruickshanks are still in the money business. The office block is nothing special to look at, but it contains the heart of MacArthur’s operation. His office on the top floor is one of his favourite offices. Probably makes him feel legitimate. Potty knows that a meeting here is a sign of respect. It’s MacArthur acknowledging that Potty is a man worthy of respect. Two big beasts of the old guard, meeting on equal terms. Up in the lift, and being shown through to the office straight away by a young secretary. More respect. It’s a good start to the meeting.

‘Ronald, good to see you,’ MacArthur’s saying. Standing up from behind the desk in the office. There’s always a desk for the boss to sit behind. Doesn’t matter if he needs it. Doesn’t matter if he never uses it. Sitting behind it makes him feel important. Makes him feel like he’s in charge, the rest of the room facing him. Potty understands that. Does it himself. He does appreciate that they’ve put a large cushioned chair in front of the desk for him. Making an effort. MacArthur’s domain, but Potty’s welcome.

‘Alex. How are you keeping, sir?’

‘I’m a decrepit old bastard, Ronald. Can’t say more than that.’ Said with a smile, but nobody’s going to argue with the truth of it. That smile is sad and knowing, not funny. Been rumours about his health recently. Smoking God knows how many a day will do that.

As will eating too much, Potty is thinking to himself. MacArthur’s a skinny little fellow. Always looked weak, now looking frail. A little wisp of a man, aware that he’s survived all the dangers just long enough to kill himself with his own lifestyle. Something Potty’s doing, just at a faster rate. Should have taken up smoking instead of eating.

Ray Buller is in the room too, but he’s sitting off behind them at a small table. Buller has been one of MacArthur’s senior men for decades. If MacArthur’s age and health are worrying, Buller won’t make you feel any better. At sixty-four, he’s two years older than MacArthur. His health is better, sure, but better is relative. Better doesn’t mean healthy. He’s not a replacement. That’s probably why MacArthur keeps him so close. Nobody wants the man standing next to them to be eyeing up their seat.

It’s quite the office. Paintings on the walls, furniture designed to look expensive. Good views, if you want to spend your time looking out the window. Even got a TV up in the corner of the room. Supposed to give a more casual feel to the place. A thin computer monitor and keyboard on the desk, no sign of the hard drive. No filing cabinets or stacks of paper, that would cheapen the place. This is an office in which you reflect on your success. There are other, more functional, offices where you go to earn the money to pay for this.

‘I hope I’m not intruding with this wee problem I have,’ Potty’s saying. Careful to call it his problem, not theirs. You never imply that MacArthur has a problem, not unless he brings it up. Not some bullshit ‘you must respect the boss’ routine. Just good manners. Uncle Rolly always stressed the value of good manners around the wealthy and respectable.

‘Never an intrusion. I’ve been interested in this Patterson kid for a while. Little shit’s been running round without anyone slowing him down. Thinking he has the run of the place.’ And that’s as much of a mention as Jamie Stamford will get. MacArthur likes the boy. He’s not going to embarrass him by discussing this in front of an outsider. Potty knows, and MacArthur knows. That’ll do for detail.

‘Well, I’ve been looking to do something about him for months,’ Potty is saying with a shrug. Trying to sound casual, but he knows he’s leaving himself open to criticism here. ‘Haven’t had a chance. The lad has some mean bastards around him. Toughest crew I’ve seen coming up in a long time. He’s been careful putting it together. I intend to do something about him, but I think it will take some support to wipe him out.’