The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘Well, I work for them all, on and off. I do know your father and he’s nothing in the scheme of things. A nobody. If Hammer Murphy decided to squash him he could, as easy as a bug. So you run to Pop with tales and I’ll do the same with Hammer Murphy. We understand each other?’ I punctuated my question with another vicious squeeze of his wrist. His face contorted and when I eased the pressure he nodded violently again.

‘Okay,’ I continued. ‘Now that we understand each other, I think we should have our little chat. Now … why do you have a key to this flat?’

‘Sammy gave me one.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re friends.’

‘What do you mean “friends”? Good-mate friends or knob-jockey friends?’

‘What the fu—’

I interrupted his profanity with a light squeeze.

‘I’m no poof,’ he protested when he got his breath back. ‘Sammy and me are just friends.’

‘Now you’re going to find this a tad difficult to believe,’ I said self-deprecatingly, ‘but I have a lot of friends myself, and none of them have a key to my place. Try again, Mr Costello … Junior.’

‘That’s the truth. Sammy lets me crash here every now and again. I work at the club too.’

‘What club? The Poppy Club?’

‘Poppy Club? I’ve never heard of it. I work at the Riviera … my Da’s place. Sammy sings there now and again.’

‘The Riviera?’ My laugh came out a snort. ‘Very glamorous. And on what particular part of the Ligurian coast does your father’s club reside?’

Costello looked at me as if I was talking Japanese. In Glasgow it paid to keep your cultural references simple. ‘Where’s the Riviera Club?’

‘Partick. Near the river,’ he said.

This time my snort came out a full-blown laugh.

Costello looked offended. ‘It’s a classy place.’

‘I’m sure it is. It must be high on every VIP’s itinerary. I would guess you see a lot of Princess Margaret.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Now, now, Junior. Don’t get tetchy or I’ll hold your hand again. Speaking of holding hands, why are you so cosy with Sammy Pollock? I wouldn’t have put you two together.’

‘We’ve got ideas. Business ideas. He’s fed up of just being Sheila Gainsborough’s brother and I’m fed up being thought of as just Jimmy Costello’s son.’

‘Please stop. I’m getting all teary. When did you last see Sammy?’

‘A couple of weeks ago. I was out of town.’

‘Where out of town?’

‘What’s it to you?’

I smiled and squeezed. He winced and glowered.

‘London …’ He strained it through his teeth. ‘I was down in London for a couple of weeks.’

‘So you didn’t know he was missing?’ I let go of his wrist and lit a cigarette.

‘You fucking enjoy this, don’t you?’ He smiled maliciously through his pain. ‘Hurting people. You really do enjoy it, don’t you?’

‘Oh, please don’t generalize …’ I looked offended, then smiled ingratiatingly. ‘I don’t enjoy hurting people, I enjoy hurting you. Let’s just say it’s our thing. Now …’ I let the smile drop as I leaned forward. ‘Did you know Sammy was missing?’

‘Missing? Is he missing? I know he’s not about. That doesn’t mean he’s missing. I tried to get him on the ’phone a couple of times from London. I just thought I’d missed him, been unlucky. That’s why I came around today.’

‘What kind of business?’ I blew smoke into his face.

‘What?’

‘What kind of business are you and Sammy thinking about getting involved in?’

‘Just … I don’t know … artist management. We were going to represent some of the musicians who work the pubs and clubs. The better musicians. We know a lot of them. So we thought we’d offer management.’

‘Are you sure you’re competing with Bernard Delfont and not ICI?’

‘What?’ Costello gave me an irritated frown.

‘I wondered if you were thinking about getting into the pharmaceutical business.’ I took the metal syringe box from my pocket, opened it and held it out for Costello to see.

‘Is this supposed to mean something to me?’

‘I was just wondering if you and Sammy were thinking about supplying more than career advice to your musician chums.’

‘You’ve lost me, mister …’ If Costello was lying then he was hiding it well. Although most of his expression was tied up with pain. I got the feeling his cheek was now competing with his wrist for his attention.

‘Who’s Largo?’

‘What?’

‘You thought I was a cop, then you thought I’d been sent by someone called Largo.’

‘Largo? Nothing. I mean nobody. Someone I owe some money to. I thought he’d sent you round here to see if I’d show up.’

‘Does Sammy know Largo? Does he owe him money too?’

‘No …’ Costello kept my gaze. He didn’t look like he was lying, but with a slimy piece like him it was difficult to tell.

‘You didn’t answer me. Who is Largo? I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Just a guy.’

‘Just a guy who sends people to collect his debts, apparently.’

‘Listen, Largo’s got nothing to do with Sammy. They don’t know each other.’ He winced and eased his wrist closer to his chest with his other hand.

‘Give me the key,’ I said, pocketing the syringe box again.

‘What?’

‘Give me the key. Sammy Pollock doesn’t own this flat and you sure as hell don’t. So hand it over.’