2
Saturday/Sunday
There is a Turneresque42 sunrise over the river Clyde. Through the mist a River Police launch can be seen. A tattered topcoat is being dragged from the water. As the ragged coat is hoisted aboard, a toilet bag covered all over in succulents bobs to the surface. A brown envelope floats in the middle of the powdery scum that forms on the undulating waters.
* * *
(Frank McLusky is scrubbing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror. There is the sound of a hoover from the other room, and he hears a muffled voice shouting at him)
FRANK: (loudly) What’d you say?
(He turns his head. His face contorts in agony)
FRANK: Aaaaahyah …
(Frank, in boxer shorts, woolly vest, and thick socks, clutches at his lower back with one hand while gripping the basin with the other … his toothbrush jammed in his mouth. Cissie Crouch appears at the bathroom door clutching the hoover. She is wearing Frank’s Burberry over Frank’s pyjamas)
CISSIE: (over noise) I meant to ask you last night but you looked that cosy tucked up in your armchair I didn’t like to waken you.
FRANK: (unintelligibly) How very thoughtful!
CISSIE: Hang on …
(She disappears)
FRANK: (unintelligibly) Jesus God …
(The hoover noise dies down, and Cissie reappears in the doorway)
CISSIE: Naw, I thought mebbe with you workin’ at the Echo you might have one or two contacts on the Country scene, that was all.
FRANK: (unintelligibly) Yeh, I’m quite pally with the guy that …
(He reaches up and extracts the toothbrush from his mouth with some difficulty)
FRANK: I’m quite pally with the guy that does the ‘Farming Outlook’ column on a Wednesday …
(He bends stiffly and splashes water on to his face)
FRANK: … cycles up from Maybole43 with his copy in a sheepskin briefcase … chuck us that towel, will you?
(Cissie’s face clouds over)
CISSIE: The Country music scene.
(She chucks a towel at his head)
FRANK: Ah, it’s a ‘scene’, is it? I’ve always regarded it as a ‘disaster area’, myself …
(He squeezes past Cissie, drying his face on the towel. The apartment has been tidied up beyond recognition)
FRANK: What you askin’ for?
CISSIE: Because it’s a good ten years since I set foot in …
(Frank takes the towel from his face and looks around the room)
FRANK: (interrupting) Hey, you’ve hung up my togs.
(Frank’s ‘wardrobe’ has been salvaged from the decks and hung neatly on a row of hangers)
CISSIE: Yeh, that’s gonnae be a slight problem …
FRANK: I thought I’d lost that …
(He points to one of the shirts)
CISSIE: … you’re gonnae look a right haddie goin’ round the clubs in any them get-ups …
FRANK: … an’ there’s my corduroys! I was positive they’d walked.
CISSIE: … people are just goin’ to clam up.
(Frank pales)
FRANK: Please … don’t say stuff like that.
(He slips his arms into the sleeves of his newly found shirt)
CISSIE: Well, they are … we’ll have to think about gettin’ you some different …
FRANK: (interrupting) Naw, I meant, please don’t mention clams.
CISSIE: Are you goin’ to listen to me?
FRANK: I’m listenin’ … I’m listenin’.
(He wanders across the room)
CISSIE: You an’ Dorwood’re about the same build, right?
(Frank pops his head into the kitchen)
FRANK: And you’ve done the kitchen …
(Frank goes into the now-sparkling kitchen)
FRANK: … Good God, you managed to get the grease off the dishes. I’ve just been chuckin’ them in the bin.
(Cissie appears at the doorway behind him)
CISSIE: Did you mean what you said last night?
FRANK: What … ‘This armchair’s givin’ us gyp. I wish that doll in the bed would invite me over to share my own mattress’?
(He starts filling the kettle)
FRANK: ’Course I meant it … oooow …
(He puts his hand to his lower back)
CISSIE: About doin’ somethin’ to help Dorwood … gimme that.
(She takes the kettle and plugs it in)
FRANK: Aw, yeh … Dorwood … I’d forgotten all about him …
(Frank inches his way out of the kitchen, clutching on to the doorframe)
FRANK: … I was rather hopin’ that you had as well … ohyah …
CISSIE: (from the kitchen) Yeh, I’ll bet you were.
FRANK: I mean, it’s hardly as if I know the guy … you either, come to that. An’ I didn’t say I’d help him, I said, I’d try an’ think of somebody that might.
(He crosses the room laboriously to where his corduroy pegbottoms are)
FRANK: … or you could have a word with the Polis … tell them it’s all been a ghastly mistake. I’m quite sure you’ll get a sympathetic …
CISSIE: (interrupting) Will you stop soundin’ off for a second an’ listen!
(Frank freezes, his back to Cissie, bent double with his trousers halfway up his legs)
FRANK: Watch it, Ginger … just because I let you red up my kitchen, rearrange my wardrobe, an’ lend me nineteen pounds fifty for a taxi, that does not give you licence to …
CISSIE: (firmly) Shut up. And you needn’t bother haulin’ up those trousers, they’re only comin’ straight back off again.
FRANK: I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch …
CISSIE: You heard … get them off.
(Frank makes to turn round)
CISSIE: Stay where you are, I’m just about to step out of these
pyjamas of yours.
FRANK: Good God, she’s serious … (Aloud) What made you …
(His voice cracks. He clears his throat)
FRANK: what made you change your mind? You must be nuts about this Dorwood to plump for such a ploy … or was it catchin’ sight of a manly calf that …
CISSIE: (interrupting) Don’t look, I said!
FRANK: You’ll understand, of course, that I’m possibly not at my best first thing in the mornin‘… what guy is? ’Specially not after spendin’ the night curled up like a kirby grip in my unfavourite armchair …
(He hobbles across to the mattress, clutching on to his trousers, still bent over)
FRANK: … but I think I can promise you a forenoon of unparalleled ec … (He bends further to slip his trousers off)
FRANK: (softly) … ahyah.
(Cissie tucks a borrowed shirt into the waistband of some borrowed trousers)
CISSIE: What size are you?
FRANK: (still bent over wrestling with his trousers) I beg your pardon?
CISSIE: Size … how big?
FRANK: Big? What d’you mean, ‘big’?
CISSIE: Dorwood’s a ten and a half.
FRANK: (to himself) Ten and a half? Good grief …
CISSIE: You’ll be about the same, I fancy …
(She rolls up her trouser legs and slips her feet into her shoes)
FRANK: (quietly) Centimetres, we talkin’ about, yeh?
(Still bent double, Frank measures out 10½ cm with his hands)
FRANK: I think that most medical men …
(He starts to shuffle painfully across to the mattress again)
FRANK: … or indeed, most medical women, come to that’ll tell you that size is totally irrevelant … in fact, I have it on good authority …
CISSIE: (interrupting) Not when it comes to cowboy boots, it isnae.
(She looks around for her bag)
CISSIE: You don’t want to be scliffin’ your feet in them.
FRANK: Scliffin’ my what?
CISSIE: Or mebbe you do, you’re such an oddball.
(She regards the seat of Frank’s boxer shorts with a raised eyebrow)
FRANK: You ready yet?
CISSIE: I’ll not be long.
FRANK: (quickly) Naw, take your time … no rush. Hey, we never did settle on what I should call you … ‘4-8-4’, perhaps? Mrs Crouch sounds a bit stiff in the circum …
(He hears the front door slam)
FRANK: … stances … hullo?
(He manages to twist round and look with considerable effort. The room is now empty)
FRANK: Well, that’s her missed a treat.
(He straightens his back, and slowly hauls up his corduroys)
FRANK: … aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.
* * *
(Tracey is standing at the counter in the Bar-L, a white 40s style plug-in telephone to her ear)
TRACEY: (on phone) Yeh, hang on …
(She holds the receiver against her chest)
TRACEY: Give him a shout, Shirley.
SHIRLEY: (shouts) Telephone, Mr Cole.
TRACEY: (on phone) If it’s a banquette you’re after we’re fully … aw …
SHIRLEY: What we supposed to do with this?
(She holds Cissie up Cissie’s ‘convict’ suit)
DAVID COLE: (to Tracey) Who is it?
TRACEY: The toilet wrecker …
DAVID COLE: Huh?
(He takes the receiver from Tracey who returns to her sweeping up)
DAVID COLE: (on phone) Yeh, David Cole, who is this?
(Tracey bends down and retrieves the torn fragments of a ‘dinner for two’ invitation card from the floor)
SHIRLEY: It’s never gonnae fit anybody …
DAVID COLE: (still on phone, voice rising) … That’s your responsibility, man, I ain’t got no more.
SHIRLEY: … not even if he puts an advert in the Echo for a stiltwalker. Check the gams …
(She holds the trouser legs against her own)
DAVID COLE: (on phone) … Awright, awright, relax … relax lemme find out, huh?
(He looks around for Tracey, who is busy piecing together the invitation card with Frank’s signature and phone number on it)
DAVID COLE: (to Tracey) The weirdo in the wing-up footwear, honey?
TRACEY: (to Shirley) You don’t fancy a pancake tea in Faifley, do you?
* * *
(Cissie has now returned to Frank’s apartment and is standing in the doorway draped in several cowboy shirts with a pair of jeans over her arm. She has changed into her own clothes. Frank is standing in the middle of the room looking down at the very new cowboy boots on his feet)
CISSIE: Try strollin ‘up an’ down for a bit.
FRANK: Backwards an’ forwards, d’you mean?
(Frank takes a few tentative steps in his unfamiliar footwear)
FRANK: Ohyah …
CISSIE: Don’t point your toes out, it makes you look a right jessie.
FRANK: Nup, they’re killin’ us …
(He cockles over and starts limping)
CISSIE: Keep goin’ they just need breakin’ in … Dorwood never even got to wear them.
FRANK: Lucky Dorwood. What they made out of … teak?
CISSIE: What shirt d’you want?
FRANK: I don’t want a shirt, I’ve got a shirt.
CISSIE: Here … try on these Wranglers.
(She loops the jeans over his shoulder)
FRANK: S’that where you wear them, yeh?
CISSIE: Stop actin’ the goat.
(Frank reaches out and leans against the wall)
FRANK: Would it look stupit if I wore my slippers to the OK Korral? I’m pretty sure the Kilwinning Chapter of the ‘Kid-on Cowpokes’ wouldnae object to a tenderfoot turnin’ up in his baffies … you could stitch some fringes round the toecaps, give them a sort of devil-me-care Western look, naw?
CISSIE: Are you gonnae take this seriously or …
FRANK: (interrupting) Aw, c’mon, Cissie, you’re jokin’. What the hell’m I gonnae discover that the whole of the Strathclyde CID … okay, okay, I’m walkin’ … look, I’m walkin’.
(He strides to and fro, his arms swinging)
FRANK: How’s that?
CISSIE: You’re not meant to walk, you’re meant to …
(She buries her face in the cowboy shirts she’s holding)
CISSIE: (Muffled) … aaaaaaargh!
FRANK: Meant to what … mosey, you mean? Lemme try some moseyin’ for you … watch.
(He starts moseyin’ around the room)
FRANK: You’re not watchin’, Cissie.
CISSIE: (looking up) Forget it, awright! It was a stupit idea in the first place … gimme those off.
FRANK: Naw, naw … I just need a bit of practice … right, who’s this?
(He does his John Wayne walk for her)
FRANK: He was in Fort Apache and Space Dudes Eat My Ka-ka … d’you give in?
(The telephone at his feet rings. Frank bends his knees and picks up the receiver)
FRANK: (on phone) Big Bill Campbell … Naw, don’t hang up, it’s me, Tamara … hi. (To Cissie) One of my colleagues on the Echo … (On phone) What can I do for you, sweetheart?
CISSIE: (interrupting) You can post that stuff on to us, okay?
(She stuffs the shirts into her bag)
FRANK: (to Cissie) Naw, wait, this might be the very person we’re lookin’ for …
(Cissie crosses to the door)
FRANK: (to phone) Can I call you right back, Tama … what? yeh, yeh, right … hang on till I get a pencil …
(He lays the receiver aside)
FRANK: (to Cissie) Silly bugger’s on a carphone … you’re not away, are you? This dame works on the Crime Desk …
(He hunts around for something to write with)
FRANK: It was her that wrote up that stuff on Dorwood’s trial. God, see when you tidy up, it’s chaos …
(He hears the sound of the front door slamming again)
FRANK: … Cissie?
(He starts limping across to the door, only to be brought up short by Tamara’s small but insistent voice from the phone. He doubles back and picks up the receiver)
FRANK: (on phone) Listen, Tamara, I want you to do me a big favour, d’you remember the coupla cowboys that just got … what?
* * *
(Fraser Boyle is in a telephone box in Candleriggs. He’s holding a ‘Dinner for Two’ card, sellotaped together, with Frank McClusky’s phone number on it. He listens to the engaged sig¬ nal, and slams the receiver down. He picks it up again and dials Directory Enquiries)
BOYLE: C’mon, ya imbecile! (To phone) Yeh, City Centre area … Name of McClusky … naw, k-y, like in Jelly … F for Francis … naw, I’ve got the number, I just need an address to go with it … gonnae hurry up, it’s a matter of life an’ death!
* * *
(Frank is still on the phone to Tamara)
FRANK: (on phone) Holy God … poor old Gordon, that’s tragic … I’m really choked … naw, I am … I happened to bump into him last night quite by … wait a minute, the guy was a hobo, what you phonin’ me for? I hadnae clapped eyes on him since … what!
(Frank stands up alarmed)
FRANK: Fingerprints … what d’you mean, fing … what envelope! All I gave the durty dropout was a ‘Dinner for Two’ card an’ a coupla qu … aw, God, it’s just occurred to me … where’d you say they found his … naw, skip it, how the hell should I know how the sod got his manky mitts on a
(He’s interrupted by a loud banging at the front door)
FRANK: … listen, I’ll have to go, Tamara, there’s somebody at the … Christ, the Polis …
(There is more loud banging)
FRANK: (on phone) … I hope their computer gets a virus, tell them. Aw, an’ listen … tell the Features Editor not to worry, I’ll keep in t … hullo? Buggeration.
(He slams the phone down, grabs his Burberry, and hobbles across to the window in his cowboy boots. The banging at the front door continues as Frank throws the window up. At the front door Fraser Boyle bends down and flips open the letterbox with his gloved finger)
BOYLE: (loudly) Kissogram44 for McClusky … open up!
(A long moment of silence is shattered by a sickening crash as Boyle barges in through the door. Once inside he stops and looks around, his eyes light on a blind flapping in the breeze)
BOYLE: Aw, classic … empty room, open windae, flappin’ drapes … bugger’s legged it down the fire escape.
(He clumps across the bare floorboards in his highly-tooled Western footwear. Frank cowers in his bathtub behind the half-open bathroom door, and listens)
BOYLE: Exceptin’, there isnae one.
(Boyle’s clumping footfalls come to a heart-stopping halt outside the bathroom door. A rivulet of perspiration trickles the length of Frank’s still-swollen nose and falls with a soft plop on to his bunched up Burberry. A floorboard creaks. The half-open bathroom door is pushed full open by an unseen hand. Frank sinks lower in the tub and draws his knees up towards his chin. A pin might be heard to drop in Dennistoun.45 Then …)
BOYLE: (echoey, sings) ‘Well, since ma baby left me, I’ve found a new place to to dwell … ’
(Boyle, eyes shut, hands braced against the doorframe, has his head thrust inside the echo chamber of the bathroom)
BOYLE: (sings) ‘It’s down at the end of Lonely Street, call’ Heartbreak Hot … ’
(He breaks off)
BOYLE: For God’s sake, get a grip, Fraser …
(He pushes himself backwards off the doorframe and sets about searching the living-room. Frank, still in the bathtub, twitches spasmodically at each crash and bang as Boyle systematically demolishes the apartment. The ‘studio’ is now reduced to an even worse shambles than it was prior to Cissie’s tidy-up exercise. As a final PS, Boyle picks up Frank’s treasured Hofner Senator guitar, places an ear to one of the F-holes, and gives it a shake before raising it above his head and bringing it crashing down on to a low table. Frank stuffs the Burberry into his mouth in an effort to stifle the involuntary squeal of anguish upon hearing the awful splintering ‘twang’ resonate round and around the bathroom. A deadly silence ensues. Then …)
BOYLE: (quietly sings) … ‘Heartbreak is so lonely, baby … heartbreak is so lonely … doo doo-doo … heartbreak is so lonely, I could …’
(The front door slams. Slowly, very slowly, Frank straightens his legs and lowers the Burberry from his face. He stares at the ceiling for several seconds)
FRANK: I know you don’t exist, but thanks a million … ya bastard!
* * *
(The OK Korral in Kilwinning is a ‘bona fide’ Western saloon with cowboys and cowgirls of all ages, sizes, and shapes, crowding the tables and bar. Billie and Jolene, collectively advertised as ‘The McPhail Sisters’, are onstage at the far end of the room giving it big licks on a somewhat old-fashioned PA system. At the other end of the room, perched on a bar stool, and aloof from the crowd, sits Cissie, a glass of once-sparkling water in front of her)
BILLIE AND JOLENE: (together, sing) ‘Why does the world keep on turning? Why do the stars shine above? Don’t they know it’s the end of the world, it ended when I lost your love … I wake up in the morning and I wonder.’
(Jolene takes an accordion solo)
JOLENE: (over music) Don’t look, Billie, but look who’s proppin’ up the far end of the bar.
BILLIE: Where? I cannae see … aw, yeh, I’ve spotted him.
JOLENE: It’s not a him, it’s a her … Spotted who?
BILLIE: The guy with the speech impediment that wanted you an’ I to go with him to Lourdes.
JOLENE: Lourdes?
BILLIE: Aye … d’you not remember he came up to us in the Wells Fargo an’ he was walkin’ all funny?
JOLENE: Aw, wee Desmond, you mean? Don’t talk daft, it wasnae Lourdes he wanted took, it was the loo, he’d got his galluses all twisted.
BILLIE AND JOLENE: (onstage, sing) ‘… don’t they know it’s the end of the world, it ended when I lost your love.’
(Billie and Jolene finish their song and their set, and leave the stage. There is a smattering of applause followed immediately by the clamour of conversation as the assembled ‘cowpokery’ return to their refreshments)
BILLIE: You don’t want to push your luck an’ do an encore, naw?
JOLENE: Naw, I think we’ll just hoof it for the hills … you didnae tell anybody who we were, did you?
(At the other end of the room a tall cowpoke, with hands and forearms smothered in tattoos, edges up to the bar beside Cissie)
TALL COWPOKE: Howdy Slim … High Noon,46 is it?
(Cissie reacts with a blank stare)
TALL COWPOKE: All on your ownsome … (To barman) Give us a big Glen Campbell, chief, an’ whatever the little lady’s huvvin’. (To Cissie) Whit you fur hen?
CISSIE: I’m fine, thanks … an’ we’ll have less of the little lady.
TALL COWPOKE: Somebody give you a dizzy, yeh?
CISSIE: Nobody gave us a dizzy, gonnae just vanish?
TALL COWPOKE: Now, that isnae what I’d cry ‘neighbourly’, honeybunch.
CISSIE: What you gonnae do, shoot me? I said I was fine … I’m fine, okay?
TALL COWPOKE: (sotto voce, to barman) Little lady’s hud a dizzy … give it a coupla minutes an’ bring us another big wanna these an’ a Malibu, awright? Here …
(He hands the barman a fiver)
TALL COWPOKE: … bung whatever’s left over into the boattle fur the weans’s wigwam party.
(He picks up his glass and turns to Cissie)
TALL COWPOKE: ’Time was he supposed to be here at?
(Cissie ignores him)
TALL COWPOKE: Eh?
(Cissie continues to ignore him)
TALL COWPOKE: I guess you don’t rightly know who I’m are, right?
(Billie and Jolene have now started to pack up their gear by the side of the stage)
JOLENE: Look, Billie, there she’s talkin’ to Timberwolf Tierney, what d’you suppose she’s bitin’ his ear about?
BILLIE: Away over an’ ask her.
JOLENE: Naw, I couldnae, I’d be too … stop that, you.
BILLIE: She’ll be orderin’ up a set of louver doors, he’s got them on special offer.
JOLENE: How, what’s up with them?
BILLIE: Same as what’s up with all his stuff, they’re all … (Sniffs) You been eatin’ garlic?
(Frank, Burberry buttoned up to the neck, makes his way backwards into the OK Korral bar from the street. He turns, this way and that, spots Cissie and presses his way through the crowd towards her)
TALL COWPOKE: … an’ that wan there wi’ the daurk herr’s ‘Geronimo’ …
(He is giving Cissie a guided tour of his tattoos)
CISSIE: What about that one with the pigtails an’ the face like a burst tamatta … that wouldnae be Sittin’ Bull,47 would it? Or have I got it wrong?
TALL COWPOKE: That’s ma girlfriend.
CISSIE: Whoops …
TALL COWPOKE: See, it’s got it roon there at the tap …
‘Roxanne’ … boy took it affa Polaroid of her …
CISSIE: (quickly) Naw, I’m sure it’s a good likeness.
TALL COWPOKE: (slowly) Aye, it is.
(He drains what’s left in his glass)
TALL COWPOKE: Right, that’s me … don’t furget yur brochure … you’ll fun yur dinette doors wi’ yur prairie oyster motif on page two … ready-to-hang, fourteen quid. S’yur man handy wi’ a hammer?
(Frank slides up to the bar behind Cissie)
FRANK: Don’t turn around but guess who this is?
TALL COWPOKE: Better late than never, eh?
(He gives Cissie a wink and takes off)
CISSIE: I don’t have to turn around, I got a whiff of the raincoat from two blocks away … what you doin’ here? I thought you told me …
FRANK: Yeh, but that was before Big Gordon OD’d … pretend you’re not with me.
CISSIE: I don’t have to pretend …
(She turns to face Frank)
CISSIE: … who’s Big Gordon?
FRANK: ‘The Boy Most Likely’, Class of ’68, St Saviour’s High.
(Frank turns away to try and catch the barman’s eye)
FRANK: … thought you said you didnae know anbody?
CISSIE: Who, that geek that just left? Don’t be …
FRANK: (interrupting) God, these boots arenae half tight …
(Cissie reaches down and lifts the tails of Frank’s Burberry. He is wearing cowboy boots and Dorwood’s Wranglers)
FRANK: … yeh, okay, okay, I’ve decided to take on Dorwood’s case.
(He removes Cissie’s hand and smooths down his raincoat)
CISSIE: You’ve what?
(Frank turns to face her)
FRANK: Well, not take it on, exactly …
(He takes a pair of Ray-bans48 from his raincoat pocket and puts them on)
FRANK: … look closer into it, as you might say.
CISSIE: What made you change your mind? Not that I’m not grateful, you understand … wasnae anythin’ to do with Big Gordon, was it?
FRANK: D’you ever catch the Hitchcock movie, The Wrong Man? Hank Fonda was in it … 49
(The barman comes up and places a large malt whisky and a Malibu on the counter in front of them)
BARMAN: It’s paid for, Stevie … Malibu’s to your left.
FRANK: Just saved me burstin’ a ten-spot, Jim … (To Cissie) Played the bass fiddle in a night club orchestra.
(He hands the Malibu to Cissie)
CISSIE: Who … Big Gordon?
(Frank picks up the whisky and sniffs at it)
FRANK: Hank Fonda. This isnae funny, sweetheart.
CISSIE: Penny’s dropped, has it? Cheers.
(She upends the glass and pours its contents on to the floor)
* * *
(Over at the Bar-L David Cole in Ray Charles-type wraparound shades is seated at the Blüthner purveying Ray Charles-type wraparound R ’n’ B.50 Fraser Boyle, in identical shades, is perched on a bar-stool by the piano, a tall glass clutched in his gloved fist)
DAVID COLE: (not looking at Boyle) So what happened?
BOYLE: (not looking at Cole) Nothin’ happened … he wasnae in, was he?
DAVID COLE: You didn’t hang around
BOYLE: Just as well I never … another five minutes an’ the joint was gonnae be hoachin’ with SAS.51 Accordin’ to my sources the guy’s some kinda left-wing dev …
(He breaks off as Shirley passes)
BOYLE: Gonnae freshen that up for us Gorgeous?
(Shirley takes his glass)
SHIRLEY: Mr Cole?
(Cole shakes his head. Boyle waits till Shirley is out of earshot)
BOYLE: ’Course, that’s me all over, innit? Mr Trustin … the Gestapo’s got his life story an’ a full set of dabbities on file an’ there’s me swappin’ pleasantries with the guy in the toilets.
DAVID COLE: Yeah, what you gonna do ’bout my doors, man?
BOYLE: (interrupting, shouting at Shirley) Ho, ask the fruitcake to go easy on the lemon scliffs, will you?
DAVID COLE: Hey, I’m talkin’ to you, meathead … you wrecked my goddam men’s room, huh?
BOYLE: Aye, awright, awright, I’ll get my joiner to come over an’ have a look-see, stop buggin’ us about it, I’ve got enough on my plate with this missin’ merchandise an’ havin’ to go round all my customers replicatin’ their fish in a jotter!
DAVID COLE: So what do I tell the Man from Motown when he calls?
BOYLE: Just tell him everything cool, yeh?
DAVID COLE: Everythin’ better be cool ’cos this dude from Motor City don’t mess with no amateurs, you know what I’m sayin’?
BOYLE: You tell this dude not to fret himself, these people are pros … when the boys an’ me met up with them in thon back room in Derry52 it wasnae just our side that were blindfolded … don’t laugh, that was a gag. Believe me, there’s nothin’ amateur about these guys.
DAVID COLE: I wasn’t talkin’ about those guys, stupid.
BOYLE: Eh? Who were you talkin’ ab …
SHIRLEY: (interrupting, loudly) One Ball Breaker, plenty lemon scliffs!
(She bangs the drink down in front of Boyle)
* * *
(In the Lone Star Chinese restaurant in downtown Kilwinning Billie and Jolene are seated in a booth scanning menus)
JOLENE: … Yeh, fine, but if we get the Lone Star Dinner-for-Three, an’ the Cantonese Banquet over the page, we just need another two dishes an’ you can wrap whatever beancurd you don’t want in your neckerchief …
(In the far-end booth Frank and Cissie are eating)
FRANK: Cherokee what?
CISSIE: Cherokee George … I’ve got his address in my bag …
(Frank manipulates his chopsticks and manages to convey a single Singapore noodle to his mouth)
CISSIE: … the only problem is you’re gonnae have to get whatever lowdown he’s got while you’re in gettin’ one done … d’you want that other pancake?
FRANK: Help yourself …
(He makes a note in his shorthand notebook open on the table)
FRANK: … while I’m in gettin’ one what done?
CISSIE: A tattoo … pass me the Hoi Sin.
FRANK: (looking up sharply) What?
CISSIE: The Hoi Sin sauce, you just put your elbow in it … Thanks.
FRANK: I know this’s goin ‘to strike you as wantonly perverse, given that I said I’d look into Dorwood’s case, but I don’t think I fancy gettin’ a tattoo done … naw, cancel that … if I was asked what was the most obscene thing a human being could …
CISSIE: (interrupting) It doesn’t have to be anythin’ elaborate.
(She spoons some Hoi Sin sauce on to her pancake)
FRANK: Aw, sure … coupla rattlesnakes an’ ‘Howdy, Stranger’ across here in ‘American Gothic’ …
(He draws his chopsticks across his forehead)
FRANK: … in exchange for what, the name an’ address of the nearest skin graft clinic?
CISSIE: You’re just bein’ stupit now.
(She arranges some cucumber and spring onion on a saucy pancake)
FRANK: And you’re bein’ perfectly sensible, are you? S’up with me just takin’ along a shorthand notebook an’ askin’ this Cherokee what’s-his-name to …
CISSIE: (interrupting) The guy isn’t goin’ to talk into a shorthand notebook, ya mutt … we’re tryin’ to infiltrate a closed community here … what d’you think I put you into camouflage for? Look, you don’t imagine I’d ask you to go visit this party if I didn’t reckon we were on to somethin’? Everybody that’s anybody on the Country scene’s been to Cherokee George, includin’ Fraser Boyle, right?
(Frank pours himself a glass of wine)
FRANK: So?
(He offers some wine to Cissie who refuses)
CISSIE: So, it’s like goin’ to confessions to these dingbats, they all unburden themselves to their tattooist, don’t they?
FRANK: You tell me … I get the distinct impression I’ve just landed on Mars an’ I’ve left my Baedeker53 in my other boilersuit.
(Frank downs his glass and pours himself another)
CISSIE: You remember that illustrated geek I was talkin’ to in the OK?
FRANK: The one you didnae know, yeh?
CISSIE: I don’t know him, he just came up an’ started givin’ me a guided tour of his torso … I gathered from him that … s’up. You’re not tellin’ me you’re chicken, are you?
(She places some shredded duck on the pancake and rolls it up)
FRANK: I’m not sayin’ another dicky burd … how’s your duck?
CISSIE: My duck’s awright.
(She takes a bite out of the pancake)
FRANK: ‘Awright’ is not an officially recognised Rag Haw rating … on a scale of one-to-ten, I’m talkin’?
(Cissie ignores him)
FRANK: A four, mebbe?
(Cissie carries on munching)
FRANK: Higher … lower?
(He waits, pencil poised over his notebook)
FRANK: C’mon, Crouch, I want to get this written up an’ posted off to my editor … I might be on the run but I still have to earn a crust … a five, a two … what?
CISSIE: You show me your bluebird, I’ll let you know how I score the duck … right?
FRANK: What blueburd?
JOLENE: (muffled in the distance) They want to get some Hoyt Axton54 on their hi-fi, that’s hellish …
* * *
(The same evening finds Frank leafing through a tattoo design catalogue. He is sitting in a dentist’s chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, his Burberry hanging by the pay phone. The tiny, insalubrious back street tattoo parlour has peeling walls festooned with bleeding hearts, writhing snakes, and voluptuous mermaids. A thin layer of brownish grease has embalmed all surfaces. Oriental tintinnabulation carries on in the background)
FRANK: Naw, naw, they’re very handsome, I was just wonderin’ if you had somethin’ a bit less … y’know?
CHEROKEE GEORGE: (leaning close) Did you say ‘meadow pipit’?
FRANK: Okay, forget the meadow pipit … ’much is that one?
(He points to a particularly gruesome troup of vultures in the catalogue)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Aw depends where you want it done, pal.
FRANK: Up the Royal under a general anaesthetic, I would’ve thought.
(Frank gives a little laugh, Cherokee George remains stony-faced at this witticism)
FRANK: You not got anythin’ from the Disney archive I could look at?
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Disney?
FRANK: ‘Disney’ matter … I’ll come back another time when you’re better dressed …
(He makes to get up from the chair)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: I know your face from someplace, ya cheeky bastart.
(He places a hand on Frank’s chest)
FRANK: D’you mind not doin’ that, I’m an asthmatic …
(Coughs)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: It wasnae the cages at Peterheid, was it?
FRANK: Naw, it was livin’ up a close in Possilpark, my whole family’s got it …(Wheezes loudly)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Who was it you said put you on to me?
(He fixes Frank with his wall eye)
FRANK: Aw … er … I don’t think you’d know her … him, I mean … Big Ted … Tex … Big Tex …
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Big Tex what?
(Cherokee George puts his face next to Frank’s and breathes on him)
FRANK: … mebbe it was Wee Tex … yeh, come to think of it, he wasnae all that tall … in fact, ’m not all that sure his name was Tex, now that you mention it. Rex, naw? Lex? Yeh, that was it … Lex Somethin’. Or was it Rudy? Randy? Don’t know any Randys, naw?
CHEROKEE GEORGE: I’ve definitely saw your face someplace … just cannae put ma finger on it.
FRANK: (interrupting) Jody? Jesse? Wayne? Dwane? Clint?
(George’s eyes narrow)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Did you say ‘Dwane’?
FRANK: Did I?
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Wasnae Dwane Devlin, was it?
FRANK: Dwane Devlin …?
(Frank snaps his fingers)
FRANK: That’s who it was … the Deadwood Playboys, right?
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Only your most decorated pedal-steel player in the business … aye, I done some of my best work on Dwane … s’a matter of fact, I was workin’ up a special for him when he got flung into the slammer. Somethin’ along they lines you were after, was it?
FRANK: Was it?
(There is a whooshing sound as Cherokee George depresses the dentist’s chair pedal and Frank finds himself being lowered rap¬ idly backwards. Frank’s eyes alight on a grubby notice affixed to the ceiling warning potential customers about the possible dangers of contracting the Aids virus)
FRANK: (to himself) Aw, my God, that’s all we need … (To George) You are goin ‘to be wearin’ some kinda gloves, I take it?
CHEROKEE GEORGE: ’Course I’m are …
FRANK: That’s somethin’ … lemme find you a very small blueburd on page …
(Frank flicks through the catalogue that he is still clutching)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: … freeze the gonads offa gopher in here.
(He pulls on a filthy pair of fingerless Fair Isle gloves and uncorks a bottle of methylated spirits)
FRANK: Naw, I’m sorry, that isn’t quite …
CHEROKEE GEORGE: (interrupting) Page twenty-three.
(He drenches a cotton wool swab with meths)
FRANK: Page what?
(He flicks through the catalogue)
FRANK: Good grief.
(Frank finds the page, he swallows in horror as he sees a picture of ‘The Eagle of the Apocalypse in a Titanic Death struggle with the Sidewinders of Satan’)
FRANK: Er … ’scuse me I don’t really think …
(He is cut off in mid-sentence by the high-pitched whine of a tattooing ‘gun’)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Here, hold that a second …
(He hands the tattooing ‘gun’ to Frank and sets about securing him to the chair with a stout leather strap)
FRANK: (alarmed) What you doin’?
CHEROKEE GEORGE: That’s not too slack for you, naw?
FRANK: Oooow!
(Cherokee George takes the ‘gun’ from Frank)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Better have a slug of this ’fore we get tore in, eh?
(He tilts his head back and takes a swig from the meths bottle)
FRANK: Aw, my God …
* * *
(The Irish ferry is berthing at the Sealink terminal at Stranraer. Fraser Boyle, a pay phone to his ear, watches)
BOYLE: (on phone) … not that Bar-L, ya mug, this’s a Yankee-style establishment I’m talkin’ about … some vandal’s put all their toilet doors in, I’m doin’ the boy a favour … how quick can you … never heed what Roxanne wants to do, this’s an emergency!
* * *
(Cissie’s apartment is a veritable shrine to 40s’ and 50s’ cowboy ‘collectables’, most of which are in the process of being wrapped up and packed into tea-chests. Cissie hands a steaming mug to Frank who sits ashen-faced, his Burberry draped around his shoulders, his left arm in an improvised sling)
CISSIE: Well?
FRANK: (shakily) Give us a chance, I havenae tasted it yet …
CISSIE: You’ll get that other arm in a sling if you’re not careful … what’d you find out, I’m askin’?
FRANK: That I don’t go a bundle on guys with Red Indian nicknames tyin’ me up an’ stickin’ needles into me, then chargin’ sixty-five quid plus vat for the privilege, but I could’ve told you that before I went …
(He takes an exploratory sip from his mug)
FRANK: … mmmm, Melrose’s Darjeeling,55 my very fav …
CISSIE: (interrupting) It ‘Bovril.56 an’ if you don’t hurry up an’ tell me what you discovered it’s goin’ straight down the front of your Wranglers, right!
FRANK: (indignantly) Dorwood’s Wranglers … I wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of …
CISSIE: Hurry up, I said!
FRANK: Aaaaaarg, my arm! Quit shoutin’ will you! D’you ever hear … (Lowers voice) D’you ever hear Dorwood talkin’ about a buncha guys callin’ themselves … God, what was it again?
CISSIE: Callin’ themselves what?
FRANK: This is really aggravatin’ … I kept repeatin’ it to myself all the way here on the bus …
CISSIE: Repeatin’ what? C’mon.
FRANK: … tch … it was on the tip of my tongue, dammit … Somebody Somebody and Somethin ‘Somethin’ … I told Cherokee what’s-his-face I was doin’ a profile on the Playboys for Country Life … an’ I’d give his tattoo parlour a plug if he filled in some background detail on the Deadwoods personnel for us … which is when he brought up this other buncha brainless bandits … beg your pardon, this other band …
* * *
(Meanwhile, back at the Sealink terminal in Stranraer, Fraser Boyle flicks a cigarette butt away as a convoy of trucks disem¬ barks from the ferry. Boyle crosses the yard to the parked fish van. As he does so a Winnebago57 with ‘Jim Bob O’May and the Wild Bunch’ lettered on the side rolls down the ramp and joins the convoy heading for the exit gate. Boyle turns the key in the van’s ignition and nudges his way into line behind the Winnebago)
* * *
(In Cissie’s apartment Frank is still wrestling with his memory)
CISSIE: Forget about this other band, what’d he say about Fraser Boyle, ya dooley?
FRANK: I’m comin ‘to that, I’m comin’ to that … he seems to’ve been particularly palsy-walsy with Dwane … you havenae got a drink, have you?
CISSIE: Dwane Devlin?
FRANK: You know a lotta Dwanes, do you? An’ you can cut the dooley, I’ve just been through the most horrendous experience of my …
CISSIE: (interrupting) Yeh, fine, just get on with it, hurry up.
FRANK: Quit badgerin’ us, I’m tryin’ to collect my thoughts! This’s bloody goupin’! Right, where was I?
CISSIE: Rabbitin’ on to no good purpose about some other band … will you get to the point, McClusky!
FRANK: I’m gettin’ to the point … if you’d chuck harassin’ me for a second an’ pin your ears back you might just latch on to the nub of this narrative!
CISSIE: Don’t shout!
FRANK: (loudly) It’s you that’s shoutin’! Calm down … calm down … (Calms down himself) So, in bet … (Clears throat) So, in between beltin ‘down a half-litre of meths, workin’ round my vaccination mark an’ my polio injection, Cherokee what-d’-you-call-him lets slip about how Boyle wasnae all that heartbroken when the other two band members got busted ’cos he, Boyle, had already got his marchin ‘orders from the Deadwoods an’ was about to …
CISSIE: (interrupting) Dorwood never mentioned that to me … carry on.
FRANK: … an’ was about to buddy-up … naw, sorry, I tell a lie … his exact words were ‘do a deal with’ … and here I quote … ‘a buncha bog-hoppin’ badhats from the back-of-beyond called …
CISSIE: Called what?
FRANK: … hold on, hold on!
(He screws his eyes shut in a desperate bid to recollect their name. Cissie waits with bated breath. Frank opens his eyes. There is a deathly pause …)
FRANK: (matter of fact) Nup, it’s away … gonnae chuck us a cushion? This arm isnae half …
(Cissie rams a cushion at his back)
FRANK: … ahyah!
CISSIE: See you, you’re hopeless … that’s the last time you’re gettin’ sent for a tattoo!
* * *
(In the Bar-L Timberwolf Tierney — aka Tall Cowpoke — adjusts his holster with its new hammer slung around his waist like a gunbelt and sniffs. His ‘entourage’ — apprentice, Drew, and girlfriend, Roxanne — lounge against the fittings awaiting instructions from their leader)
TRACEY: (to Tall Cowpoke) I’m just after tellin’ you, the boss isnae here, he’s went for a haircut … (Loudly) Shirley? You talk C ’n’ W, come an translate for us … (To Tall Cowpoke) … he’s away gettin’ scalped, yeh?
* * *
(Cissie is trying to attend to Frank’s wounds, but he shrinks away as she reaches out towards the dressing on his upper arm)
CISSIE: Don’t be a sap, I’m not goin’ to hurt you … I just want to … look, we’re not gonnae get very far if we don’t trust each other …
(Frank raises a skeptical eyebrow)
CISSIE: Trust me, Frank …
(Frank deliberates)
CISSIE: (softly) … trust me.
(Frank hesitates. He looks into Cissie’s eyes, and relaxes somewhat)
FRANK: Awright, I trust you, but don’t go an’ … oooooooooooow!
(Cissie peers at the spot on Frank’s upper arm from which the dressing had been so untimely ripped)
CISSIE: What is it?
FRANK: That was bloody excruciatin’, ya …! What d’you mean, what is it?
(Cissie looks at a hideously discoloured and totally unidentifiable wound on Frank’s upper arm)
FRANK: It’s the ‘Eagle of the Apocalypse in a Titanic Death Struggle with the Sidewinders of Satan’, innit!
CISSIE: Aw, yeh … so it is.
FRANK: Aw, God, I think I’m goin’ to … bwoop.
CISSIE: Here … hold this under your chin.
(Frank grabs the proffered newspaper and runs to the bathroom)
CISSIE: (shouts) An’ don’t use the wash-hand basin, d’you hear!
* * *
(In a side-street in Candleriggs58 Boyle’s fish van and Jim Bob’s Winnebago are parked. A motorcycle cop dismounts and starts slapping parking tickets on everything in sight. In the Winnebago Boyle is talking to the Outlaw who is guarding Jim Bob’s inner sanctum)
BOYLE: Naw, hey, listen … tell Jim Bob I’ll get him a ‘taste’ for later on the night an’ he can let us know how much you guys want to order up for the European market …
(The Outlaw carries on watching TV)
BOYLE: … I had to return the sample I had to my suppliers … wasnae just your top-notch quality, know what I mean?
(The Outlaw turns a bloodshot eye on Boyle, Boyle sidles towards the door. The Outlaw goes back to watching Kind Hearts and Coronets on his Sony59 as Boyle makes his exit. Boyle leaves the trailer and finds the motorcycle cop putting a ticket under the fish van’s wiper)
BOYLE: (to cop) Ho, that fish motor’s mine, I’m on a mercy dash to the Sick Children’s Hospital with a loada cod liver oil capsules!
* * *
(In a fashion shop nearby Jolene, all in black, turns this way and that in front of a full-length mirror)
JOLENE: Well, what d’you reckon?
BILLIE: I reckon it’s about time we made some more phone calls, we’re onstage at the Ponderosa the morra night an’ we still havenae …
JOLENE: (interrupting) Och, stop annoyin’ us, there’s a thousand guys’ll jump at the chance.
BILLIE: We don’t want a thousand, we just want a couple, Jolene.
JOLENE: We’ll get wurselves a couple, will you quit worryin’ about it, Billie?
BILLIE: I cannae help worryin’ about it, we’re advertised on all the Wild Bunch posters as The McPhail Sisters and Friends, a right pair of numpties we’re gonnae look turnin’ up on wur tod.
JOLENE: Speak for yourself … there’s no way I’m lookin’ a numpty.
BILLIE: Naw?
JOLENE: What d’you mean, naw?
BILLIE: You seen the price that is?
(She examines the price ticket dangling from the hem of the blouson she is modelling)
JOLENE: Good God, they’re jokin’!
BILLIE: What about the wee guy that used to play with Big Norrie’s Texas Handful? We could try givin’ him a call.
(Jolene shrugs off the overpriced blouson)
JOLENE: Yeh, I suppose we could, but you’ll need an awful lotta change …
(She selects a green leather jacket from the rack)
JOLENE: … he’s in Tristan da Cunha with the Territorials60 … gonnae hold that for us?
(Billie holds the leather jacket while Jolene slips her arms into its sleeves)
BILLIE: Okay, what about the guy with the stigmata that used to turn out all them tepee lampshades for Timberwolf Tierney’s DIY shop, was he not quite an accomplished … awright, awright, scrub him. That leaves an amputee with an autoharp an’ the big guy from Bearsden with the steel plate in his heid … let’s face it, Jolene, the McPhail Sisters cannae come up with any Friends.
JOLENE: Don’t talk garbage, Billie, ’course we can.
BILLIE: Awright, name two … name one, you cannae.
JOLENE: There’s wee Desmond.
(She strolls up and down in front of the mirror)
BILLIE: Jolene, wee Desmond cannae even say his own name right, we’re talkin’ about wur big chance here.
JOLENE: Okay, how’s about the boy MacIndoo?
BILLIE: MacIndoo?
JOLENE: You forgot all about him, didn’t you?
BILLIE: I sure did … who the hell’s the boy MacIndoo?
JOLENE: Don’t tell me you don’t remember the big fulla in the bi-focals that ran up all the bridesmaids’ frocks for our Jinty’s weddin’?
(She executes a twirl)
JOLENE: Him an’ his pal used to front The Desparadoes …
(Billie buries her face in the garment rack)
JOLENE: … I’ll get him to bring along your poncho.
* * *
(Cissie is now clearing up her apartment and is wrapping cowboy memorabilia in sheets of newspaper and packing them into tea-chests. The loo flushes)
CISSIE: (loudly) There’s a half-bottle of Listerine in the medicine cabinet … use it.
(She picks up her Gene Autry radio and runs her fingers over its smooth bakelite contours)
FRANK: (from bathroom) Naw, it’s okay. I washed my hair last Monday.
(Cissie flicks the radio on and off, and then on again. Jim Bob O’May’s version of ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’ comes surging faintly forth before spluttering out. Cissie turns the radio over and prises the back off with her fingernail. In the bathroom Frank, looking pale, is already investigating the contents of the medicine cabinet and has come across a cracked snapshot of a smiling Cissie, Dorwood and a small child of about four in a cowboy suit)
CISSIE: (from living-room) D’you find it?
(Frank looks at the photo for some moments)
FRANK: (loudly) This’ll be Dorwood junior, yeh?
(Cissie’s eyes widen in disbelief)
FRANK: (from bathroom) I said this’ll be Dorwood junior, yeh?
CISSIE: (to herself) Aw naw …
(She withdraws a tightly-rolled bundle of twenty pound notes and then an avalanche of them tumbles out of the radio on to the carpet)
* * *
(Back at George’s tattoo parlour the sound of wheezy snoring can be heard while Jim Bob’s ‘Your Cheating Heart’ plays over the radio. Cherokee George’s manky socks are resting on the dentist’s chair, there is a pair of discarded boots and an empty meths bottle on the floor. The shop door rattles, and the unmistakable features of Fraser Boyle’s face are pressed up against the glass panel)
BOYLE: Right ya dozy half-breed …
(He takes a step away from the door and raises a boot)
* * *
(The Tall Cowpoke is shaking his head while surveying the extensive damage to the cubicle doors of the Bar-L men’s room)
TALL COWPOKE: Tch, tch, tch, tch … Drew, away oot tae the covered wagon an’ get Roxanne tae start makin’ oot some invoices …
(He takes a hammer from his gunbelt and smashes at a door hinge)
TALL COWPOKE: … c’mon move yursel’.
(His apprentice finishes blowing his nose on the roller towel and ambles across to the door)
TALL COWPOKE: (shouts) An’ bring us a coupla lengths a timber …
(The Tall Cowpoke takes a swing at the bottom hinge of a cubicle door, and it falls drunkenly on to the WC pedestal)
TALL COWPOKE: … thuv had some bloody cowboy daein’ thur carpentry fur them.
* * *
(Frank is outside Cissie’s apartment rattling the door handle)
FRANK: Cissie? It’s me … Frank … What you locked the door for? C’mon, I kept my side of the bargain … I want to know how you scored the duck. Cissie?