April 1984
It was the latest, crucial Biscuit Tin Records shareholders’ meeting and Max Mojo had a job on his hands. The frost hadn’t thawed between Grant and Maggie, although the fact that she was still turning up for rehearsals was at least something to build on. Max felt that dealing directly with Maggie was like going for a bath with a toaster, never quite knowing if it was plugged in; all risk and no obvious reward. He had tried to treat her differently, but his youthful impatience often intervened. The Motorcycle Boy had regressed further, and was now represented on band matters by his brother, who also seemed to have undergone something of an attitude transformation. Hairy Doug was present, as was Hairy Fanny. They came as a double-act nowadays. She was omnipresent in band matters and since Hairy Doug was a shareholder not only in the band’s future royalties, but also in Biscuit Tin Records, she had a Yoko Ono-type effect on the others. As the newest shareholder, Jimmy Stevenson was just delighted that years of ferrying ungrateful bands, DJs and general punters had actually resulted in something approaching ownership. It didn’t give him a platform for an opinion that anyone took notice of, but it did constitute the odd arm-raising in support of a motion. It was empowering and Jimmy loved it. Only Clifford X. Raymonde and Max’s dad, Washer Wishart were still to show for the meeting.
Max had prepared an agenda, to which he had no real intention of sticking. The main meat of the meeting was to plan activities around the recording and release of the band’s next – as yet unidentified – single, and then their debut LP.
‘Nae need tae go through intros then, since every cunt kens every other cunt…’ Max noticed Fanny’s hand shoot up. ‘Aye. Whit is it?’
‘I don’t ken that cunt!’ she said, very politely and with no trace of disdain for the chair.
‘Jimmy Stevenson, meet Hairy Fanny. Hairy Fa…’
‘Hey you!’ Hairy Doug stood up, knocking his chair over. ‘Don’t you refer to Fanny like that, you little bastart!’
‘For fuck sake! Ah dinnae even ken her name. Does it matter? Fuck me!’ said Max. It hadn’t been a good start. He’d anticipated consternation at the ‘accounts’ section, not at the introductions.
‘Just watch yer mouth. A bit more respect needed, eh?’ said Hairy Doug, sitting back down.
‘Fuckin’ hell. Right … noted. Can we get oan?’
‘It’s Fantasia, by the way,’ said Fanny. ‘Fantasia Bott.’
‘Fanny Bott?’ said Simon Sylvester. ‘Yer havin’ a fuckin’ laugh, hen!’
‘I’ll take ya outside an’ kick seven shades of shite out of ya, son!’ Hairy Doug stood tall. His chair went spinning again. Max sighed. It was beginning to feel like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting involving George Best, Oliver Reed and Giant Haystacks.
‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ! Sit the fuck doon, will ye’se? Item two … the new records.’
Grant smiled casually at Maggie. She looked away.
‘Right, Delgado, where are we?’ said Max, glad to have wrestled the focus away from Fanny the hippy and Biker Doug.
‘Aye. It’s goin’ fine, pal. Got a few ideas, an’ that. Once X-Ray shows, ah can go ower some ae them. Jist acoustic drafts at the minute, mind,’ said Grant quietly, as he played with the tuners on his guitar.
‘Ah telt ye, ah think we need one oot at the start ae May,’ Max reminded him.
‘It’s cool, man. Nae problems,’ said Grant. If he had been any more laid back, he would have been horizontal. They were a constant contrast these days. Grant, all ‘dopey’ carefree laconicism; and Max, a screwed-up ball of wired pulsating energy. Different personalities being exaggerated by different narcotic stimulants.
Washer Wishart stuck his head in to say hello to everyone just as the band’s profit-and-loss accounts were being distributed. They didn’t make for healthy reading. If Max had been able to convert them into a graph it would’ve resembled the downward side elevation of Mount Everest. You have to speculate to accumulate in this business, Max implied. He was surprised at Washer’s nodding acknowledgment that the spending was part and parcel of the music business. Max simply assumed that his father had bought into the dream just like the rest of them. The Miraculous Vespas’ manager had no idea that the dream was being financed by money appropriated from Scotland’s most dangerous gangster.
The meeting adjourned less than thirty minutes after its contentious beginning. A few gigs had been set up in Glasgow for the end of April and Max had stated his desire to see the new LP material showcased. Grant saluted. Maggie had stared at her shoes for most of the meeting before leaving sharply without speaking to anyone. The all-new, caring, sharing Simon Sylvester went though to the back of the church hall to report to his brother by telephone. After he’d noted the gig dates, Hairy Doug and the newly identified Fanny Bott left, accepting the offer of a lift from Jimmy Stevenson. Only Clifford X. Raymonde stayed. He wanted to hear Grant’s new songs, which Max had told him about weeks earlier. Max hadn’t actually heard them himself but he was quickly learning that the music business was 40 percent hype, 40 percent bullshit and 20 percent actual content.
Washer Wishart was met at the top of his driveway by a tense Benny Donald. Washer had been expecting him.
‘Uncle Washer,’ said Benny. Washer noticed the beads of sweat on his top lip. He didn’t seem out of breath. ‘Any chance ae a wee word … in private, like?’
‘Jump in, son. Ah’m away tae pick up Frankie. We’re goin’ a drive doon tae Ayr. Ye can come if ye want,’ said Washer, knowing Benny wouldn’t.
‘Jist a wee five minutes. That’s aw it’ll take. Drop me at Frankie Fusi’s hoose,’ said Benny.
When they arrived at Casa Fusi, Benny got out. He was as white as a sheet.
‘Fuck sake, son,’ said Frankie Fusi, ‘get yersel a fuckin’ sunbed. Ah’ve seen healthier lookin’ ghosts.’
Benny Donald sloped away without acknowledgement.
‘Sup wi’ that dozy wee prick?’ asked Frankie.
‘Well, thereby hings a fuckin’ tale,’ said Washer Wishart.
On the drive down to the West Coast, Washer told Frankie how Benny Donald had been supplying him with increasing amounts of drug money that had been accumulated through the ice-cream vans on Fat Franny Duncan’s Onthank patch. Washer also explained that Benny had taken it for granted that the money was being washed through the Crosshouse consortium.
Frankie Fusi knew that wasn’t the case. Too many people asked him desperate questions about how business was for Washer. It was apparent that if business was in fact good, none of that goodness was washing its way downstream. Frankie Fusi was stunned when his oldest friend told him that the McLarty drug money was being invested into his son’s band. It seemed a highly risky strategy and although Washer was a wily old fox, Frankie couldn’t immediately see the pay-off. And that would put the McLarty spotlight on all of them. Frankie Fusi was hard, but not so hard that he was prepared to face off against the full weight of the McLarty family. He’d had a brief encounter with Malachy McLarty before. The old man had tried to recruit him almost fifteen years earlier. Gregor Gidney eventually filled the role originally scoped out for Frankie. But Malachy McLarty said he admired Frankie’s loyalty to Washer, and accepted his respectful refusal. The whole experience shook him. For at least a year afterwards, Frankie Fusi remained vigilant in anticipation of a Glasgow ‘send-off’ – a severe kicking followed by a shotgun fired up the anus – but Malachy McLarty stayed true to his word.
Washer went on to tell Frankie that Benny had made the situation potentially worse by creaming off a slice of the money, in an attempt to pay back casino debts to organisations controlled by the McLartys. He’d come to Washer to appeal to him to cover for this, but Washer had said he couldn’t. When Benny asked what Washer had done with the funds, the old man replied cryptically that he had stored it away safely in a ‘biscuit tin’.
It had been the early-morning news headlines on BBC Scotland that had prompted Benny Donald’s sudden fears. Several members of a family in the East End of Glasgow had been murdered as part of a gangland turf war being played out over control of lucrative ice-cream van routes. As a consequence of this upswing in national attention, the focus of the McLarty operations was about to take a very immediate turn south down the A77. Benny Donald was suddenly running out of time.