35

BJ Quick said, ‘Good grass.’

Furf said, ‘Cool.’

‘Let’s have the joint back, big man.’

Grass made Furf talkative and loose. ‘You do the hokey-cokey and you shake it all about,’ he said, and passed the blackened joint to BJ Quick, who toked deeply.

They were wandering along Anderston Quay on the north bank of the Clyde. The early-afternoon air over the river was tinted a little by a grainy mist. The giant Finnieston Crane, built in the 1930s to heave locomotives on to ships, stood like a forgotten metal cathedral.

They strolled past the glassy tower of the Moat House Hotel and the shell-like structure of the Exhibition and Conference Centre, known locally as the Armadillo. They paused and surveyed the river for a while before Furf said, ‘I lived over there years ago,’ and pointed with a gloved hand. ‘Lorne Street.’

BJ Quick sucked on the grass. Smoke escaped through his nostrils. Dope made him feel a strange clarity. He knew it muddled the senses of most people, turned their brains to semolina, but it acted on him differently.

Furf said, ‘There used to be a brothel over there. The Pox Palace. Got myself a bad case of the crabs there. See here, do you think I’ve got rabies?’ He showed Quick the little bruises left by Dogue’s bite.

‘Rabies, fuck off,’ Quick said. He coughed, then spat in a long arc. A neon light went on and off in his head: club farraday club farraday club farraday. He’d already decided to give his first interview, when the club opened, to the Sunday Express, because it hadn’t harassed him like some of the other papers, such as the Daily Record or the Sunday Mail.

‘I think we’re getting away from business,’ he said.

‘So we are. We were discussing … Abdullah, right?’

‘Here’s what I want to know. How is it the names I pass on to him come to unhappy endings? Lindsay, okay. They say he did away with himself. Who knows if that’s true? But this other punter, Wexler, was definitely murdered. So what does it mean when I give the names of two people to our mate Abdullah and they both turn up dead, eh? Coincidence? Not on your life.’

Furf frowned. He was having a hard time staying on track. ‘I saw Abdullah go inside Victor Morris this morning. Tattooheid Jack, a kid that hangs around there, said he bought a knife. Then I saw him jump in a cab –’

‘Fucksake, that’s the third time you’ve told me. Your memory’s shot every time you smoke grass, Furf. Now where was I? Righto. Do you know what’s been crossing my mind? I’m thinking, okay, somebody sent Abdullah here to kill these people in the photos.’

‘Kill them?’

‘Why else are they feeding him the bloody names and addresses and photos? To deliver Christmas presents? You heard how Abdullah sounded off about Lindsay. Killed my father, deserved to die, blah blah blah. But the Arab’s always too fucking late. Something happens to these people before he can get to them. First Lindsay pops his clogs, then the second bastard gets his head chopped off. I’m beginning to think he’s not meant to reach his bloody targets. He believes he is, but somebody else gets in there ahead of him. He’s one step behind the action.’

Furfee studied his worrisome hand again. ‘Who the hell sent him here anyway?’

‘Good question. And who’s beating him to the punch? And who the fuck asked me to be the go-between? I mean, basically this job is delivering envelopes, and they’re willing to pay twenty thou? How come my name was picked out of the hat?’

Furf said, ‘It pongs, BJ. What do we do?’

‘Do? We keep delivering the photos, what else? We go about our business and we ask no questions.’

‘If it’s dodgy –’

‘Dodgy or not, either I deliver or I’m out of work. No moolah flows in. No moolah, no club farraday. And no future. See my drift?’

‘Clear’s a.’

Quick looked in the direction of the Moat House, where a white stretch limousine was drawing up. He watched a uniformed lackey leap into position like a startled scullery-maid, bowing, opening the passenger door. A long-legged woman and a tall man, both fashionably dressed, both too beautiful for this world, emerged from the stretch and glided inside the hotel. Quick was shot through with flames of resentment. He used to get the toady treatment in the Moat House. In The Corinthian, waiters jumped when he clicked his fingers. Yes Mr Quick, no Mr Quick, anything you say Mr Quick. He’d been a celebrity, and he hated the way it had all turned to shite.

Furf lit a cigarette. ‘Listen. What if everything blows up in our faces?’

‘Blows up how?’

‘What if these people who are one step ahead of Abdullah decide they need to remove all traces of him, and everybody and everything associated with him?’

‘What am I hearing? Are you panicking, Furf?’

‘I never panic. Never.’

BJ Quick laid a hand on Furf’s broad shoulder. ‘One step at a time, big man. If it goes badly wrong, we bail out. Simple. Have I ever led you into a bad situation?’

Furf shook his head.

‘See,’ Quick said. ‘Just trust me. I’ll never let you down. Remember that.’

His mobile vibrated in his coat pocket. He took it out, flipped it open, answered. A man’s voice said, ‘Bear. You got another message.’