The Long Glasgow Kiss

I stood before the Pacific Club and contemplated glamour. It’s a funny thing, glamour. The word itself was as Scottish as they come, meaning a spell or an enchantment cast over someone to enrapture them. It was odd that, having invented the word, the Scots were totally at sea with the concept. Whenever they strived to achieve it, it just came out all wrong. No, that wasn’t entirely true. There were exceptions: Sheila Gainsborough had glamour in spades. Naturally and effortlessly. A rare achievement, given the lack of it in her origins.

The Pacific Club was intended to be glamorous. It failed. More than that, its failure was the kind that would have helped Neville Chamberlain feel better about Munich. The Pacific Club was the ground floor and basement of a soot-blackened building on Broomielaw, down on the north bank of the Clyde as it dissects the city centre. It was a gloomy place even in daytime, being almost tucked under the latticed ironwork of the rail bridge over the river. The sun was still blazing when I got there and it was a relief to step into the club’s clammy coolness, like walking into a subterranean cave.

Officially, the Pacific was a private, members-only club, a legal wriggle that allowed Handsome Jonny Cohen to circumvent most of the licensing laws. Like all such night-time venues, it had that depressing tacky look during the day. Like a seaside resort off-season. The air in the club was clear but the greasy odour of stale cigarettes clung to every surface. There were two dozen chair-stacked tables, a small stage and a bar in the corner. The nautical theme was represented mainly by ship life rings, emblazoned with ‘SS PACIFIC CLUB’, on the walls, and by some netting half-heartedly arranged over the stage. The small curved bar had a driftwood sign above it stating that it was the ‘HAWAIIAN HULA BAR’ and some more netting draped around it. There were crab shells dotted about the netting. Maybe it was just me, but I couldn’t image anywhere within the known universe and probably several parallel ones that could possibly be further away from some sun-drenched, azure-sea tropical island than the Broomielaw in Glasgow.

Although, I had to admit, the Pacific Club was probably as good a place as any to catch crabs.

I got there about ten before five just as the staff were arriving to unstack the chairs from the tables and start preparing for a long night of overpriced drinks, under-clad girls and mediocre jazz. Handsome Jonny was already there. He beamed a searchlight grin of perfect teeth above the Cary Grant cleft in his chin. He looked clean, cool and fresh. I am definitely no slouch at turning myself out, but I had the distinct feeling that Jonny’s tailor and barber had gotten together to conspire to give me an inferiority complex. I was suddenly aware that my shirt was clinging to my back with sweat. Jonny’s thick, dark hair had been immaculately cut and for a second I wondered how feasible it would be to travel to Hollywood from Glasgow once a fortnight for a trim. I decided to keep my hat on for the moment.

‘Stands Scotland where it did, Lennox?’ He reached out his hand and I shook it.

‘Wrong character.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got the wrong Macbeth character. MacDuff asks Ross: “Stands Scotland where it did?” The character of Lennox doesn’t say anything much to anybody. Just sticks by his king and ends up getting killed for it.’

‘Is that the kind of Lennox you are? The question is which king would you stick by?’ Jonny didn’t wait for an answer and grinned. ‘You know what I like about you, Lennox? Talking to you is always an education.’

‘It’s the company I keep. I’ve been hanging around with Twinkletoes McBride. Sometimes it’s just like the Brains Trust when we get together. Anyway, I think it’s fair to say you and I have learned a few things from each other … about each other… don’t you, Jonny?’

Jonny’s smile stayed in place but changed a little, like a wisp of cloud passing across the sun. ‘What can I do for you, Lennox?’

‘Well, I’ve got two cases on at the moment and you’re involved in both, in a way.’

‘Oh? I take it one is the Bobby Kirkcaldy carry-on.’

‘Willie Sneddon has asked me to speak to Kirkcaldy. Looks like someone’s trying to spook your fighter.’

One of the staff started to vacuum and Jonny winced at the noise. He beckoned for me to follow him and we sat at a table right at the back of the club, on an elevated section that over-looked the small stage. It was odd seeing Handsome Jonny Cohen here: he could not have looked more out of place; which was even more odd because it was, after all, his place. If you had seen him here as a customer, with his looks and expensive haircuts and tailoring you paid for in guineas, not pounds, you would say to yourself: ‘That guy’s slumming it.’ But he wasn’t a Pacific Club customer: he was the owner. And Jonny the businessman knew that he didn’t need to lavish his good taste or better cash on the place.