Alabama 3 took us to Lochee high street. Pulling in at the side of the road, I experienced the old sense of unease that used to accompany beat walks through the area. Lochee has a reputation – deserved or not – for poverty and danger. The sense that it is somehow separate from the rest of the city adds to the degree of unease. Especially if you look like you don’t belong.
Looking up the main street towards the library, which was housed in a grand old building as you left Lochee and headed back towards the town, I saw some guys in cheap jeans and horizontal-striped polo shirts lounging around. Smoking cigarettes. Generally wasting time. One of them had a bag at his feet. The kind of bag that would clink if you kicked it. They turned to look our way, maybe wondering who we were and what we wanted. When they saw Findo, they quit looking. Guess his face was known round these parts. Or it was ugly enough that suddenly the guys figured whatever we wanted was none of their business.
Findo didn’t pay attention to them. He had that kind of confidence. Maybe they had attuned to that. No sooner was Findo out the car, than he was walking down in the opposite direction, towards the Crow and Claw. He walked with purpose. Strong strides. Arms swinging. Anyone got in his way, he’d have walked right over them.
The Crow used to be owned by a guy called Big Ian Machie, before he toppled over from a heart attack at 58. Machie had been neutral in Dundee’s turf wars, declared the Crow a free drinking ground for all. His one edict was that no one conducted official business on his premises. His rules were backed up by a cricket bat. And one hell of a swing. Since his passing, the pub had fallen into the hands of a guy named Coleman. On the way over, between his grudging appreciations of Alabama 3, Fin told me that Coleman was one of Nairn’s front men. ‘Fuck knows where he’s getting the money to buy off a guy like that, but that’s the word on the street.’
Coleman was an older guy with a hearty laugh and a slap on the back for everyone. But he had always been one for dancing to someone else’s tune. One of life’s natural followers. For the most part, the old man had little interest in Lochee. Gaining a foothold there had always been hard for him, and he finally reached the decision that it was simply easier to leave the place alone. But since Coleman had fallen in with Nairn, what had been one of the quietest pubs in the city soon became a nightmare call out for any copper with a radio and a patrol car. I heard through the grapevine that nowadays, uniforms would play coin toss or scissors-paper-stone to decide who answered Crow call outs. In the old days, they’d just pop in their heads for a wee pint, rubbing shoulders with the kind of pricks they’d arrest if they saw them out there on the high street. Now, they were no longer welcome. In the brave new world of twenty-first-century Dundee, there were no longer neutral spaces.
As we walked down the street, Findo said, ‘Those fucks weren’t so bad.’ Talking about the music again. Like he’d been considering it a long time, finally reached a decision.
‘Glad you liked ‘em.’
‘What’s with the religion though?’
The Church of Elvis the Divine? Someone needed to get Findo a dictionary so he could understand satire.
We hammered on the doors of the Crow. I used the old police knock. That attention-grabbing hammering that you pick up after a few years on the beat.
We waited.
After maybe a minute, a voice said, ‘Piss off. Don’t start serving til eleven.’
‘Open the door,’ Findo shouted back.
‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘You know who we work for?’
‘Could work for the Good Lord Himself and I wouldn’t open the fucking door. Not that this time. Jesus Christ himself could be out there dying of thirst, and I wouldn’t spare a glass of Buckie.’
‘How about David Burns?’
‘Fucksakes!’
The door opened in double quick time. Coleman sweated through his shirt. The effort of turning keys had clearly been enough to threaten a major cardiac incident. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you say so?’
‘You had to ask?’ Findo said. ‘When we knock like that?’
We pushed past Coleman, into the pub.
Coleman locked the door behind us. ‘So, what can I do for your man, then? I mean, has to be something special for him to send two fine fellows all the way over to Lochee.’ As he turned back to face us, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. The sweat dripped.
‘Can the shite,’ Findo said. ‘Or I’ll can it for you.’
I propped myself against the bar. Coleman’s eyes were on me the whole time, even though Findo was the one taking the lead.
Findo knew what he was doing. Playing it like a pro. In another world, he could have been interrogating prisoners of war on behalf of the Government. Would have made the whole war on terror a lot shorter with men like Findo around.
The bar itself was basic. Wooden floors, heavy oak bar, tables and chairs that could have come out of a church hall. In the days of Big Ian Machie, the place had style, although whether that was a good or bad thing was a matter of some debate. But under the new ownership, the Crow had gone back to basics. Pints in plastic tumblers. No food served in case customers decided to use the forks for more than just stabbing at the blackened meat of their burgers. Aye, it was that kind of place.
Coleman said, ‘Look, we don’t have any argument with David Burns. He doesn’t give a fuck about us. He’s said so …’
‘Your boss has an argument with him.’
‘I own this place. I am the boss. And I …’
‘Don’t shit a shitter.’
Coleman had forgotten about me now. His focus was on Findo. He’d figured who he needed to be afraid of. Forget me. I was the silent partner. Findo was the Voice of God.
Coleman looked ready to make a run – or at least a stumble – for the door. Not that he’d get far. I figured on a stitch before he even reached the back office. Coleman was nothing, really, in the grand scheme. Just a front. A name on the licence. A wee man at the bottom of a very big and very greasy pole. Old, out of touch, out of place.
And now, out of time.
Findo hopped behind the bar, grabbed one of the whisky bottles from the back wall, unplugged it, took a swig. ‘Fuck, that’s good.’ He waved the bottle in my direction.
‘Too early for me,’ I said.
He waved it at Coleman. ‘No. No, its fine.’
‘Your loss.’
Findo poured the liquid on top of the bar. I stepped back. Kept watching. Thinking this was all a bluff. Findo was a mental, but I figured even he had his limits.
Coleman was frozen. Even if he wasn’t scared before, he was terrified now. His face was grey. The sweat rivuleted down his face like Niagara Falls.
Findo said, ‘Tell that arsehole Nairn that we’re on to him. If he wants a fucking war, we’ll give him one. It’s not too late, like. Not too late at all. So he can consider this a warning, aye?’ He casually reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver zippo. Flicked the lid. Grinned. Probably saw the move in a movie somewhere. I wondered who he thought he was at this moment in time. Which particular badass he was channelling. Someone from the eighties, no doubt.
‘Oh, come on, man,’ Coleman said, voice raising an octave in desperation. ‘Insurance is a bitch. You want me to talk to Craig, that’s grand. Fuck, I’ll get him to get in touch with the old man if that’s what you want. I don’t know what he’s done, but he’s not an eejit. It’s nothing worth blowing out of … oh, come on!’ Findo had flicked the flame into life.
I forced myself to keep still. Keep my face in neutral. Observe.
‘Tell him we’re serious,’ Findo said. Flicked that naked flame against the bar.
Coleman lumbered to the door.
Findo looked at me.
I looked at the bar. The flames whipped over the surface. I figured when they hit the booze behind the bar, we’d be in trouble then.
Coleman was trying to undo the locks. Fumbling each one. Fat fingers drenched with sweat, slipping against the cool metal of keys and Yale locks.
Findo was cool as a cucumber, still by the bar. ‘Come on, man,’ he said to Coleman. ‘We’ll roast alive in here.’
‘Fuck you!’
‘Aye, OK, so think of it like a steam room. You’re sweating off the pounds. Jesus, be nothing left of you after a few minutes. Big fat bag of skin, maybe.’
‘Fuck you!’
The last lock. Coleman fell out on to the street.
Findo strolled. I followed. Forced myself to keep pace. Like I was in control. Like this was all in a day’s work.
On the street, Findo walked to Coleman, grabbed him by the collar, spun him round and kneed him in the groin. As the big man went down, Findo leaned into him and whispered something I couldn’t hear.
As we walked back up to the car, Findo said, ‘That’s how you stamp out the worm, man.’