a letter from Tony at all. What if there were more letters? He wondered if one would arrive at his house or office – if it did, he certainly wouldn’t be calling in the cops. But right now there was an even more pressing matter: striding towards him with a face like thunder was big Al Howie, flanked by two of his henchmen.
‘Frank.’ Big Al looked down his nose at him, his eyes narrow with contempt. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll see you up in the office. Got a phone call to make first.’
Frank nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but Al – cocky bastard that he was – was gone before he had time.
Al Howie was always tipped to be the man who would take over Big Jake Cox’s mob if it ever came to the crunch. He’d grown up under Jake’s watchful eye, coming into the family as a tearaway teenager with balls like coconuts, who was as handy with a knife as he was with a gun. After the statutory stints in young offenders’ institutionsand graduation to a stretch in jail, Jake had used him as an enforcer for drug debts and watched with pride as his protégé carved out a reputation for violence that even he would struggle to match. But Al was an even bigger psycho than Big Jake, and with Jake now more on the sidelines since his near-fatal shooting in Spain last year, the word on the street was that there would be a bloodbath if Al were left to run Jake’s turf. He wasn’t old school like Jake. Frank shuddered involuntarily. He knew exactly what Howie was. Big Al had no boundaries, no lines he wouldn’t cross; he was one of the most chilling bastards he’d ever encountered. Added to that he was a total cokehead, and since he wasn’t yet forty, he still had a lot of damage to do.
Frank waited and looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes and still no call to go upstairs. He watched another stripper and sipped his drink.
‘Nice tits.’ Clock Buchanan, one of Al’s henchmen came up beside him. ‘You’ve to go up.’ He stood facing Frank, with one hand in his jacket pocket.
Frank looked at him, and glanced at the hand in his jacket. Clock’s real name was Billy, but the nickname came from a birth deformity that had left him with a withered left hand, much smaller than the right. In the Glasgow housing scheme where he grew up, they weren’t big on sympathy towards anyone who stood out from the crowd, even if it was because of a physical handicap. So they nicknamed him Clock, on account of his big hand and wee hand. Clock had told Frank the story himself, and said that as long as his good hand could pull thetrigger of a gun and handle a knife that was all that mattered.
‘Come on,’ Clock said. ‘I’ll take you up, but I’ve got to go out to get something for Al.’
Frank got off his stool and followed Clock along the front of the stage into the darkness of the musty hallway and up the tight stairway.
*
‘What’s this pish I’m hearing, Frank, that you don’t want to work with us any more?’
From behind his desk, Big Al motioned him to sit down. ‘By the way, sorry about Tony. Fuck’s sake, man.’
He sniffed and touched his nose. ‘Got to be better ways to top yourself than hanging from the ceiling.’
Frank didn’t answer. His mouth was dry. He sat down.
Al looked at him and folded his arms. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
Frank could feel the damp on the palms of his hands. ‘I’m just worried, Al. It’s not that I don’t want to work with you. Not that at all. But this business … this refugee business … I just don’t think it can go on indefinitely.’ Frank shifted in his seat. ‘What if something comes out.’
Al looked impatient. ‘How the fuck is it going to come out, Frank? Tell me. How? Nobody gives a toss about these bastards. It’s not as if they’re doing a head count every day, making sure they’re all there.’ He snorted. ‘It’s working for the boys down south and they’re not having a problem with it – London, Liverpool,
‘Frank.’ Big Al looked down his nose at him, his eyes narrow with contempt. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll see you up in the office. Got a phone call to make first.’
Frank nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but Al – cocky bastard that he was – was gone before he had time.
Al Howie was always tipped to be the man who would take over Big Jake Cox’s mob if it ever came to the crunch. He’d grown up under Jake’s watchful eye, coming into the family as a tearaway teenager with balls like coconuts, who was as handy with a knife as he was with a gun. After the statutory stints in young offenders’ institutionsand graduation to a stretch in jail, Jake had used him as an enforcer for drug debts and watched with pride as his protégé carved out a reputation for violence that even he would struggle to match. But Al was an even bigger psycho than Big Jake, and with Jake now more on the sidelines since his near-fatal shooting in Spain last year, the word on the street was that there would be a bloodbath if Al were left to run Jake’s turf. He wasn’t old school like Jake. Frank shuddered involuntarily. He knew exactly what Howie was. Big Al had no boundaries, no lines he wouldn’t cross; he was one of the most chilling bastards he’d ever encountered. Added to that he was a total cokehead, and since he wasn’t yet forty, he still had a lot of damage to do.
Frank waited and looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes and still no call to go upstairs. He watched another stripper and sipped his drink.
‘Nice tits.’ Clock Buchanan, one of Al’s henchmen came up beside him. ‘You’ve to go up.’ He stood facing Frank, with one hand in his jacket pocket.
Frank looked at him, and glanced at the hand in his jacket. Clock’s real name was Billy, but the nickname came from a birth deformity that had left him with a withered left hand, much smaller than the right. In the Glasgow housing scheme where he grew up, they weren’t big on sympathy towards anyone who stood out from the crowd, even if it was because of a physical handicap. So they nicknamed him Clock, on account of his big hand and wee hand. Clock had told Frank the story himself, and said that as long as his good hand could pull thetrigger of a gun and handle a knife that was all that mattered.
‘Come on,’ Clock said. ‘I’ll take you up, but I’ve got to go out to get something for Al.’
Frank got off his stool and followed Clock along the front of the stage into the darkness of the musty hallway and up the tight stairway.
*
‘What’s this pish I’m hearing, Frank, that you don’t want to work with us any more?’
From behind his desk, Big Al motioned him to sit down. ‘By the way, sorry about Tony. Fuck’s sake, man.’
He sniffed and touched his nose. ‘Got to be better ways to top yourself than hanging from the ceiling.’
Frank didn’t answer. His mouth was dry. He sat down.
Al looked at him and folded his arms. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
Frank could feel the damp on the palms of his hands. ‘I’m just worried, Al. It’s not that I don’t want to work with you. Not that at all. But this business … this refugee business … I just don’t think it can go on indefinitely.’ Frank shifted in his seat. ‘What if something comes out.’
Al looked impatient. ‘How the fuck is it going to come out, Frank? Tell me. How? Nobody gives a toss about these bastards. It’s not as if they’re doing a head count every day, making sure they’re all there.’ He snorted. ‘It’s working for the boys down south and they’re not having a problem with it – London, Liverpool,
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