53

Tommy Gurk took a taxi to Gorbals Street, south of the Clyde. The car was a bottle-green Fiat, parked close to the Citizens’ Theatre. The keys were inside a magnetized steel box attached to the underside of the bumper. Gurk opened the box, got the keys. The heat inside the car made his hairless skull sweat. His head felt raw, like a rash was developing. He’d worn dreadlocks a long time now. It was bizarre having a scalp as naked as a baby’s bum.

He glanced at the directions somebody had left on the passenger seat. Written on a sheet of blue-lined paper, they were easy and explicit. Gurk shook his head, amazed. See, this is where you had to hand it to Kaminsky, the way he had of doing things, he had minions all over the shop, geezers who did stuff without even knowing who they were working for, locating weapons, delivering envelopes, providing cars, no questions asked – there was a big intricate network of connections in different countries. People always owed Joe Kaminsky favours. And they always obliged. The consequences of failure, well, they didn’t bear consideration.

Off we go, Tommy Gurk thought.

He drove along Pollokshaws Road, heading south. There were cop cars all over the place, and once or twice he felt he was being scrutinized, once or twice he had a little electric-prod of paranoia, but the trick was to look cool, and that meant you had to feel you had your shit together inside. You had the juice. Cool within, cool without. All the way, baby. You were just a guy driving along Kilmarnock Road, and the fact you had brown skin, tally-ho, that was no impediment. Just follow the directions, get into the rhythm of the road, put some miles behind you, drive into the sweet Zone. Then the directions got a little more complicated, but not much, he could handle it, he was beginning to feel more like himself.

Into the roundabout, zippedy-doo, no sweat. A few more blocks and here we are. And a jolly nice street it is too. Prosperous. Very much so. Go slow. This is white bread land and you stand out like Malcolm X at a Klan convention. He sang to lull himself. He did his Paul Robeson voice. Old man ribber. He was close to the house now, he checked the numbers, noticed how some of the homes had names because jokers who lived here thought that was posh. He sang Belafonte’s ‘Banana Boat Song’ and stared at the name of the house and waited, slouched in the driver’s seat, motor running.