The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘Just zat he’s a bad bastart. Bare kinuckle fighter vay back ven. Zen he vos a fixer. Used to fix boxing matches by scaring ze shite out ov fighters. Bad vee bastart no mistake. But zere’s no vay he vould be involved in fixing up Kirkcaldy’s fight. Or at least so zat it vent against Kirkcaldy. He kens vat side his vucking bread iss buddered.’

‘Thanks, Tony. See you around.’

‘Vaddya zay? Vaddya hear? Eh, Lennogs?’

I left the beaming Pole behind his counter. I still hadn’t got anywhere, but someone was playing with the light switch in that small, dark room at the back of my brain.

I tried Lorna again from a call box. Still no answer. I was becoming seriously concerned and I decided that once I’d done all I had to do that day, I’d take a drive down to Pollokshields and see what, as Tony would have put it, voz occurin’.

I drove up into Partick, parked on Thornwood Drive and walked to Craithie Court. There was a pleasant, late afternoon light and I had that cloyingly melancholy feeling again. The Young Women’s Hostel in Craithie Court was off Thornwood at the top of a gentle hill and I had a view down the street, a corridor of sandstone tenements, to where the forest of cranes marked the edge of the Clyde. There were more cars parked in the streets here and cars were beginning to change the shape of the area. For the last six years there had been plans to dig a tunnel under the Clyde to make it easier to move from north to south. Whether the local inhabitants were keen that Govan, on the opposite bank of the Clyde, should have such ease of access to Partick was something I couldn’t comment on.

When I got to the Hostel, I knocked on the administrative office door. Difficult though it was to believe, I did have some hard and fast moral codes and rules of behaviour, one of which was that I would never hit a woman. The matron who answered the door was one of the best arguments for my moral stance I had encountered. Burly isn’t an adjective normally attached to women, but it stuck to the hostel matron like crap to a shirt-tail and I would never have hit a woman like her for fear she might hit me back. She was dressed in a dark grey suit of tweed so abrasive that I was sure some religious order somewhere must use it for mortification.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked. I didn’t answer right away, mesmerized as I was by the way her eyebrows knitted themselves together above the bridge of her nose and by the rich baritone of her voice. I explained that I was looking for Claire Skinner, and that it was business-related.

‘Then you’ll have to arrange to meet her somewhere else. No male visitors here.’

Such steadfast but ill-placed guardianship of virginity brought to mind empty stables with locked doors. I brought all of my weapons to bear on Hairy Mary, including my not-inconsiderable homespun Canadian charm. None of them worked on her and she raised an eyebrow, or more correctly one half of her cyclopean eyebrow in weary disdain. I decided, because I had a Plan B up my sleeve, to drop it for the moment. I shrugged as if it had been no skin off my nose but big trouble for someone else and made to leave. She let me. She’d seen that trick, along with all the others, before.

CHAPTER TEN

I drove back into town and parked the Atlantic in Buchanan Street where I could have a clear view of the Alpha Hotel’s main entrance. It was sixish when I parked and it was another half hour before Devereaux arrived back. He was dropped off by a marked police Wolseley: if Devereaux was a private detective and the City of Glasgow Police was extending him this kind of courtesy, then I decided it would be a good idea for me to change my brand of cologne. I certainly was doing something wrong.

Devereaux got out of the car and trotted into the hotel. I gave him a couple of minutes to get into his room then locked the Atlantic, crossed the street and walked into the lobby.

The desk clerk was a small dark man of about forty who smiled welcomingly at me despite the fact that he was small, forty and a desk clerk.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked, still smiling.

‘Yeah, you sure can,’ I grinned back. I hammed up my accent a bit. Generally Brits couldn’t tell me from an American, providing I avoided diphthongs. Americans pronounced diphthongs flatly; we positively yodelled them. Linguists called it Canadian Raising. The Americans just called it Canuck. ‘I’m looking for a buddy of mine,’ I said, dodging diphthongs. ‘Dex Devereaux from Vermont. He’s registered here I think.’

‘Yes sir. Do you want me to send a boy to his room to tell him you’re here?’

‘Before we do that, I just want to make sure I got the right Dex Devereaux. If it is he’ll have been booked into the hotel from Washington DC, is that right?’

The clerk continued to smile. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give out that kind of information.’

‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘I quite understand.’ I took three pound notes from my wallet and laid them on the reception desk, my fingers pinning them to the mahogany.