Wullie the Painter’s first day on the vans was unremarkable. Since he’d asked Fat Franny for an introductory accommodation on one of Terry Connolly’s more lucrative routes, he’d anticipated countless wired, half-cut jakeys ‘waitin’ for their ‘ice-cream’ man. All he got was a shifty-looking dude asking how much for number 32 for a week, and when Wullie the Painter asked him to elaborate, the guy clammed up and said it was the chip van he’d wanted. Wullie thought this a little bizarre since the unmistakably tuneless sound this one made – allied to the massive ‘Ice Cream’ writing all around it – seemed a sure-fire giveaway. Onthank was full of strange characters though. By the end of the shift, Wullie the Painter was starting to wonder if it was all just a ruse; some sleight of hand to deflect Don McAllister’s Keystone Cops away from where the real action took place. It was a warm day, mind you. The Embassy Regal and ’99 count was substantial. He’d also gone through four boxes of flakes and had completely sold out of Tudor tomato-flavour crisps. The thru’penny bags were the top seller though. A wee scoop of Kola Kubes and white chocolate mice and other bizarre gummy crap that stuck to your false teeth were the uncontested Onthank winner. Ironically, there was even jelly fruit-flavour ‘false teeth’ sweets sold to kids who’d soon need the real thing. Maybe sugary confectionary was the real addiction after all? A tiny wee boy had almost run in front of the van trying to get it to stop. Wullie leaned out and shouted at him.
‘Ya stupid wee shite, ah nearly ran intae ye there!’
‘Mister, ma mam says ye only sell cigarettes efter tea time,’ the boy said. ‘Izzat true, mister?’
Wullie laughed. ‘Naw it isnae. Yer ma’s talkin’ pish,’ he said. ‘Here, ah’ll gie ye a ’99 for free!’
‘Ma mam says it’s too close tae tea time for a ’99,’ the boy said sadly.
‘Just take it … she’ll no’ ken.’ The wee boy’s eyes lit up as Wullie the Painter handed the ice-cream cone over the counter. ‘Have ye got a phone in the hoose?’ he asked the boy.
‘Aye, mister.’
Wullie handed the boy a piece of paper with numbers on it. ‘If she talks pish again, phone this number an’ ask for Esther Rantzen!’
Wullie the Painter lamented Bob Dale’s passing more and more with every day. Why could the stupid bastard not just have accepted his level in the Fat Franny empire? Wullie had enjoyed a cosy, stressfree existence these last three years since signing up. He’d paid his dues, got his own Wullie out, and was just starting to reap the rewards. There was no going back now, though. Fat Franny’s grip had slipped immeasurably in just nine months. Added to this, Des Brick had also gone ‘off the boil’. Fat Franny could still command a bit of respect simply because of past reputation. There remained a number of the young, up-and-comers straight out of school expulsion who wanted into the firm and were willing to do the Fatman’s bidding. But there were new, potentially more organised factions emerging in Onthank, ones that quickly understood that Bob Dale was the foundation on which Fat Franny Duncan’s tower was constructed. Although still standing, the removal of this big sturdy block left everything else above it in a precariously unstable position. All it would take would be a big gust of wind blowing down from the big city.
Wullie had reached out to Benny Donald in Crosshouse through an old football team mate. The approach was actually an honest one: The Fatman’s fucked an’ ah’m lookin’ for a transfer. Benny’s initial response – filtered through the same contact – was that everybody was feeling the pinch, but if Wullie the Painter could bring an income stream with him, Washer Wishart would consider it. It wasn’t a massive earner, but Wullie the Painter had cultivated a private sideline with a Kilmarnock removals driver. The driver brought back substantial amounts of beer and cigarettes from Europe, smuggled in through compartments in the vans. They were bought from ‘sources’ he’d established in Calais and Zeebrugge, and sold on in Ayrshire at a tidy profit. Wullie the Painter provided the purchasing funds and organised the sell-on. The driver took the risks at customs. The split was 50/50. It was decent business, but with Washer’s connections, the initiative could perhaps be expanded. Regardless, it was enough to get Wullie an audience, and that was his primary motivation right now.
The Quinns would be much harder to infiltrate. They were relentlessly suspicious of outsiders and since Wullie wasn’t planning to get married to one of Magdelena’s mental daughters, another route in would have to be considered. Ged McClure was the only non-family connection Wullie the Painter knew, but Ged was a headcase. The scams he ran were ridiculously dangerous and increasingly involved substantial personal risks, being associated with bigger and more ruthless organisations outside of Ayrshire. It was entirely likely that Ged McClure was one of the conduits to the McLartys and their apparent desire for Ayrshire resettlement; perhaps even the only one. Wullie had tried to contact Ged but had been informed ominously that he was ‘out of town on important business’ and that the timing of his return was ‘uncertain’. Wullie was certain his request would’ve gone on record. One way or another, Ged McClure would find out Wullie the Painter was looking for him.