The Long Glasgow Kiss

With the distraction of Small Change’s murder out of the way, I decided to drop the whole thing about what kind of deal he had had going with Bobby Kirkcaldy. The main thing was to find out who was trying to put Kirkcaldy off the fight. I knew it wasn’t anyone in the Schmidtke camp; they weren’t due in the country until the end of the week. Of course that didn’t mean they hadn’t recruited local talent, but somehow it didn’t seem feasible, and my money was on finding out who had a bundle riding on Kirkcaldy losing. I spent the rest of the day going from one bookie shop to the next. A tour of the public toilets of Calcutta would have been more edifying.

Lunchtime found me in the East End and I tried a café I hadn’t been to before. It turned out to specialize in viscosity: the bacon, sausage and fried bread I was served with were islands on a lipoid ocean. I decided to spare my bowels the violence and stuck to the coffee. Afterwards, I walked to a telephone kiosk and fed it copper and brass.

I tried Lorna’s number again but it still rang out. There was a telephone directory on the shelf, and I went through it until I found the numbers of the three hotels within walking distance of St. Andrew’s Square and in the kind of price range that the City of Glasgow Police would usually stretch to. Each time I asked to speak to Mr Dexter Devereaux out of Vermont, USA. Three strikes. I tried the Central Hotel and St. Enoch Station Hotel. No American called Devereaux. It turned out that I should have worked alphabetically: I tracked him down to the Alpha Hotel in Buchanan Street. The reception told me that Mr Devereaux was out on business and was not expected back until the evening. I said there was no message and I pushed the silvered buttons on the ’phone to break the connection. I released them and dialled the number I had for Sheila Gainsborough’s Glasgow apartment. Again nothing.

My next call was more successful, if you can call having to talk to Willie Sneddon a success.

‘Have you seen the news?’ I asked.

‘I seen it.’ Sneddon’s voice was flat. Neutral. ‘Fuckin’ pikeys. Can’t turn your back on the bastards for a second.’

‘Tommy Gun Furie … from what the papers said it sounds like he was a bare-knuckle boy. You ever come across him?’

‘Naw. Not that I know of. Maybes. No names no pack drill and shite. I don’t stamp their fucking insurance cards. Anyways, all that shite has got fuck all to do with fuck all. You got anything on Bobby Kirkcaldy?’

I took a moment to absorb the richness of English as it could only be spoken in the Mother Country.

‘No. I’ve spent the day going round bookies trying to find out who’s betting against him.’

‘They fucking tell you that stuff?’ asked Sneddon.

‘I’ve been using your name in vain … in vain … no one seems to know of any big bets.’

‘Means fuck all,’ said Sneddon. ‘The really big stuff won’t go through fucking street shops. Talk to Tony the Pole.’

‘Grabowski?’ I asked, but was prompted by the exchange to put more money in the pay ’phone. It was a reminder to be careful what you said from a public callbox. I fired a couple of brass threepenny bits in and hit the A button.

‘Grabowski?’ I asked again. ‘I thought Tony had given up the gambling business as well as opening doors.’

‘Naw. Fuck knows he’s made enough money to retire, but he’s still running the odd book. If anybody’s been touting a big bet around town then Tony the Pole will know about it.’

‘I’ll check it out. Can I keep using Twinkletoes for staking out the Kirkcaldy place? I’ve got my guy on it early evenings.’

‘Suppose. That it?’

‘There is something else …’ I hadn’t been sure if I was going to voice my suspicions, but I reckoned that Sneddon, as my client, had a right to know what was going through my head.

‘What?’

‘This may or may not be something to worry about. You know I asked you if you knew someone called John Largo?’

‘Aye, what about it?’

‘Well, I asked one too many people about John Largo and I got a visit from a police chum of mine last night. He brought company. A Yank claiming to be a private detective from Vermont.’

‘And?’

‘If he was a private detective then I’m Grace Kelly. He’s calling all the shots as far as the City of Glasgow Police are concerned.’

‘What’s it to me?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know that it’s anything to anybody, but it means two things: some heavyweight American law enforcement is in town and whoever John Largo is he’s a big, big fish. And Glasgow’s a small pond. Your pond.’

‘I take your point. I’ll ask around. Have you let Cohen and Murphy know yet?’

‘No, but I will. And I wouldn’t ask around too loudly. That’s what brought me to the attention of Eliot Ness.’

After I hung up from Sneddon I drove out of the East End, across the river and south in the general direction of Cathcart and Newton Mearns.