Read Online Last Orders (a Gus Dury crime thriller) by Tony Black - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tony Black
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name — Urquhart. It didn't ring any bells, but there were a few strings of
my curiosity being tugged. I trousered the letter and made my way back to the
bedroom to get suited and booted. There couldn't be any harm in a call and it
wasn't like I was flat-out, or even had something else to do.
* * * *
I'd flung my Crombie over the back of the couch the
night before; as I retrieved it now I could see it was covered in all the dust
and crap that the hoover didn't reach. I needed a coat-brush. Fuck it, I needed
a hoover. The coat looked just the job, for a jakey; as I tied a scarf around
my neck I could already sense the stares. Ones that said 'low-life'. There was
a time I might have been rattled, cared even. Not now. I pointed my Docs in the
direction of the door and got moving.
We had some weather, the usual Edinburgh kind. If it
wasn't rain, it was the threat thereof. I looked up to the grey skies and
crossed Easter Road between the gridlocked traffic. I was headed for the
Coopers Rest pub, couldn't say it held any special attraction for me. It was a
Hibs bar through and through and, being painted green and white, didn't wear
its credentials lightly. I'd been drawn to it lately because of the actions of
a cheeky Jambo roadworker. He'd set the winning Scottish Cup scoreline — Hearts'
5-1 drubbing of Hibs — into the tarmac with a mosaic of chalk chips. I wasn't a
Hearts supporter myself but I was a big fan of chutzpah in all its guises.
A slow-blinking old bluenose was hocking up a dose of
phlegm for the pavement, directing it carefully with a hanging drip from his
drooping lower lip. I could see this taking off, like the Heart of Midlothian
on the Royal Mile. We'd have Japanese tourists filming themselves here before
long. I smiled at the irony on my way through the door.
There were one or two old soaks propping up the bar,
hardy enough old boys with tractor tracks cut in their brows. One of them had a
nose you could open a bottle with, a heavy physique that had once been
impressive but had now gone south. He was supping a pint of Tartan and tapping
the top of a pack of Berkeley Superkings that made him a metronome for the
smoking ban. I ordered up a pint.
'Guinness, please ...' My eyes flicked onto auto-pilot
and chased the line of optics all the way down to the low-flying birdie. 'And a
double Grouse chaser.'
The barman nodded, said, 'You're as well hung for a
sheep as a lamb.'
I didn't answer. The early moments upon entering a
Scottish pub are a telling time. If you give away too much, you're liable to be
engaged in chat. I was in no mood to pass the time of day about the state of
the nation and the Tories' role in robbing us all blind or what seventies
telly-star was going to be next on the sex-offenders register.
I took my drinks and headed for the corner of the bar.
The pint of dark settled a craving, greeting me like an old friend. I was
eyeing the wee goldie when I heard the hinges of the front door sing out.
A middle-aged man, tallish and heavy-set, stood in the
lee of the door and looked unsure of himself. He was wearing a wax jacket,
mustard-coloured corduroys and brogues. His type have a name for the colour:
ox-blood. I was wearing Docs, same colour, but I call them cherry. Go figure.
I put the bead on him, knew at once he was Urquhart. My
hand went up, slowly.
He nodded, then looked upward. I could tell he wanted to
bolt, turn on his heels, throw up his hands. In the days of Empire, I'd be
flogged for failing to look the part. That's when I noticed the tweed cap in
his hands. He twisted it like he was wringing the neck of a pheasant on some
country estate. Everything about him boiled my piss. I'm working class, c'mon,
it's in the contract.
He strolled over; his voice was high and full of
affectation. 'Mr Dury, I have come a long way and ...'
'Stop right there.'
His eyes ducked into his head.
'Call me Gus. I hear the misterin there, I think
you're after money, or worse.'
He looked to the
my curiosity being tugged. I trousered the letter and made my way back to the
bedroom to get suited and booted. There couldn't be any harm in a call and it
wasn't like I was flat-out, or even had something else to do.
* * * *
I'd flung my Crombie over the back of the couch the
night before; as I retrieved it now I could see it was covered in all the dust
and crap that the hoover didn't reach. I needed a coat-brush. Fuck it, I needed
a hoover. The coat looked just the job, for a jakey; as I tied a scarf around
my neck I could already sense the stares. Ones that said 'low-life'. There was
a time I might have been rattled, cared even. Not now. I pointed my Docs in the
direction of the door and got moving.
We had some weather, the usual Edinburgh kind. If it
wasn't rain, it was the threat thereof. I looked up to the grey skies and
crossed Easter Road between the gridlocked traffic. I was headed for the
Coopers Rest pub, couldn't say it held any special attraction for me. It was a
Hibs bar through and through and, being painted green and white, didn't wear
its credentials lightly. I'd been drawn to it lately because of the actions of
a cheeky Jambo roadworker. He'd set the winning Scottish Cup scoreline — Hearts'
5-1 drubbing of Hibs — into the tarmac with a mosaic of chalk chips. I wasn't a
Hearts supporter myself but I was a big fan of chutzpah in all its guises.
A slow-blinking old bluenose was hocking up a dose of
phlegm for the pavement, directing it carefully with a hanging drip from his
drooping lower lip. I could see this taking off, like the Heart of Midlothian
on the Royal Mile. We'd have Japanese tourists filming themselves here before
long. I smiled at the irony on my way through the door.
There were one or two old soaks propping up the bar,
hardy enough old boys with tractor tracks cut in their brows. One of them had a
nose you could open a bottle with, a heavy physique that had once been
impressive but had now gone south. He was supping a pint of Tartan and tapping
the top of a pack of Berkeley Superkings that made him a metronome for the
smoking ban. I ordered up a pint.
'Guinness, please ...' My eyes flicked onto auto-pilot
and chased the line of optics all the way down to the low-flying birdie. 'And a
double Grouse chaser.'
The barman nodded, said, 'You're as well hung for a
sheep as a lamb.'
I didn't answer. The early moments upon entering a
Scottish pub are a telling time. If you give away too much, you're liable to be
engaged in chat. I was in no mood to pass the time of day about the state of
the nation and the Tories' role in robbing us all blind or what seventies
telly-star was going to be next on the sex-offenders register.
I took my drinks and headed for the corner of the bar.
The pint of dark settled a craving, greeting me like an old friend. I was
eyeing the wee goldie when I heard the hinges of the front door sing out.
A middle-aged man, tallish and heavy-set, stood in the
lee of the door and looked unsure of himself. He was wearing a wax jacket,
mustard-coloured corduroys and brogues. His type have a name for the colour:
ox-blood. I was wearing Docs, same colour, but I call them cherry. Go figure.
I put the bead on him, knew at once he was Urquhart. My
hand went up, slowly.
He nodded, then looked upward. I could tell he wanted to
bolt, turn on his heels, throw up his hands. In the days of Empire, I'd be
flogged for failing to look the part. That's when I noticed the tweed cap in
his hands. He twisted it like he was wringing the neck of a pheasant on some
country estate. Everything about him boiled my piss. I'm working class, c'mon,
it's in the contract.
He strolled over; his voice was high and full of
affectation. 'Mr Dury, I have come a long way and ...'
'Stop right there.'
His eyes ducked into his head.
'Call me Gus. I hear the misterin there, I think
you're after money, or worse.'
He looked to the
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