The Long Glasgow Kiss

We were interrupted by a small woman in a headscarf, pinnie and faded tartan baffies – as carpet slippers, for some reason light years beyond my ken, were known in Glasgow. She was somewhere between thirty and eighty. Glaswegians generally bypassed middle age, taking the direct road from youth to decrepitude. The indeterminately aged woman placed her order and Tony snapped open a bag with the kind of theatricality that only greengrocers and stage conjurors seem to attach to paper bags. He dropped the onions into it and, with the same conjurer’s flourish, spun the bag around to seal it.

‘Zere you go, hen …’ Tony beamed as he handed the bag to the woman in slippers. She shuffled from the shop.

‘Vad kind of invormation?’ he asked after she was gone.

‘This is all very discreet, Tony. Just between you and me … No one will know that you are my source. I just need to know if anyone’s been trying to tout a big bet on the Bobby Kirkcaldy–Jan Schmidtke fight. I mean a serious wager.’ I was relying on Tony’s good will. No bribe or threat here: it was always easier if your source was poor or yellow.

‘Oh aye, here vee vucking go … “Between you and me”, my Silesian arze … You’re vorking for one of ze Zree vucking Kings, I’ll bet. Who zent you here, Villie Zneddun?’ said Tony. It was like having a conversation with Count MacCula.

I ignored the question. ‘That’s not important, Tony. Has anybody been trying to lay over the odds on Bobby Kirkcaldy losing?’

‘Naw. I vould have heard about it. I’d have had to broker it wiz zome o’ ze bigger buoys …’ The skin on his brow corrugated, the limit of his frown indicating the ghost of a long-dead hairline. ‘Hold on … zere vas something. A couple of wee gobshites …’ Tony pronounced the insult ghubzhides. ‘Zey vere in ze Zaracen’s Zord … about zree veeks ago. Zey vere comin’ ze big bollogs …’

I knew the Saracen’s Sword, the pub Tony referred to. He used it as an informal office much in the same way I used the Horsehead Bar.

‘And they wanted to place a bet?’

‘Naw … no’ qvite. Zey made oot zat zey vere just interested in finding oot vat vey it vood vork. Zey vere a couple of vee bambots acting ze big bollogs, like I zaid. I got ze impression zat zey didn’t have ze money to lay a big bet, but zey vere expectink to get ze money.’

‘Where from?’ I asked and only through a monumental effort resisted the impulse to turn my ‘w’ into a ‘v’.

‘Vuck knows, Lennogs. I zink zey vere just talkin’ shite. Ken vat I mean?’

‘But they were talking about placing a bet against Bobby Kirkcaldy?’

‘Naw … I didnae zay zat. Zey didnae zay vat vay zey vanted to bet. Zey just vanted to know who vould take on a big bet like zat. I didnae pay zat much attention tae zem, tae be honest. Like I zaid, zey vere just a couple o’ vee vankers talking shite, like.’

‘And what did you tell them?’

‘Zat it vould be me vot vould broker a big bet like that. Get ze big buoys involved. Me or Zmall Change MacFarlane. But zat vas bevore Zmall Change got his coupon stoved in.’

‘Small Change MacFarlane?’ I felt a tingle in my scalp.

‘Aye … ’course I vould normally zend zem to Zmall Change. But ze only bet Zmall Change iz takin’ now is who’z next to get it up ze arze viz ze devil’s pitchfork …’ Tony chuckled more than giggled this time.

‘Have the police been to see you since the murder?’

‘The Polis? Naw … zey dinae bother wiz me. As far as zey’re concerned I’ve nae got a record. Zey dinnae know half ze shite I’ve been up to. And everybody kens zat I’m straight noo.’

‘So these two young wideboys … do you know who they are? Did you recognize them?’

‘Naw. A couple ov vucking Flash Harrys, iv you azk me. Didn’t pay much attention to zem, ken vot I mean?’

‘Okay, thanks, Tony.’ I shook his hand and made to leave. Something occurred to me and I turned back to the short, smiling Pole. ‘What do you know about Jack Collins? He was Small Change’s partner in a couple of businesses.’

‘Aye … Did you know he vos also MacFarlane’s bairn? Illegitimate bairn? Zmall Change and Mamma Collins had been playin’ a vee game ov hide-ze-kielbasa, as vee used tae zay back in ze ol’ country.’

‘Was that common knowledge?’

‘Oh aye … Everybody knew zat. I’ve never had vuck all to do vid young Collins, zough.’

‘One other thing. Bobby Kirkcaldy has a minder of sorts. Claims he’s his uncle …’

‘Oh aye … I ken zat old skurvysyn vell.’

‘Skurvysyn?’ I asked. I had been concentrating hard, untangling the Breslau from the Glasgow in each of Tony’s utterances, but he’d taken me beyond any recognizable landmark.

‘Aye … skurvysyn. Bad vord in Polish. How do you zay in English? Fucker … no. Zat’s no’ right. Arzehole … Maybes. Vanker? No, zat iznae right eezer. Zon of a Bitch …’

‘All right, I get it Tony …’ I held my hands up. ‘What do you know about him?’