The Long Glasgow Kiss

Twinkletoes returned with a shortish, compactly built and hard-looking man wearing a suit that was well tailored and expensive without being flash. His blond hair looked freshly barbered and there was a brutal handsomeness in the face. Unfortunately, the ugly deep crease of an old razor scar on his right cheek clearly dated from a time before he could afford the kind of expert needlework evident in his clothes.

‘Hello, Mr Sneddon,’ I said.

‘Do you know where you are, Lennox?’

‘Hernando’s Hideaway?’

‘Aye … very fucking funny,’ Sneddon said without a smile. ‘This is my newest little sideline. You see the fight?’

‘Yeah. Lovely.’

‘Pikeys …’ Sneddon shook his head in wonder. ‘They fight like fuck for pennies. They would do it for the love of it. Mad fuckers.’

‘And you run a book on it …’

Sneddon nodded. ‘It’s been a good night.’

‘I’ll bet …’ I said. Old Ben Franklin once said that the only certain things were death and taxes. But that was before Sneddon’s time, otherwise it would have been death, taxes and Willie Sneddon’s hand in your pocket.

‘I’ve had the place six months. It took a while to fix it up. I got the house, the barn, the whole fuckin’ farm because some toff bet more on the ponies than he had in readies. Wanker. It’s quite poetic that I run a wee gambling thing here, considering I got it because of gambling.’

‘Aye Mr Sneddon, that’s eye-ron-ic,’ said Twinkletoes at Sneddon’s side.

‘Was I fucking talking to you?’ Sneddon glowered up at Twinkletoes who loomed above his boss. Twinkle made a hurt face and Sneddon turned back to me. ‘Anyway, I’ve kept this place pretty quiet. I don’t even think Cohen and Murphy know about it yet. So keep your mouth shut.’ Sneddon referred to the other two Kings: Handsome Jonny Cohen and Hammer Murphy.

I took a moment to ponder why everybody felt that they had to tell me to keep my mouth shut all the time. ‘If they don’t know about it, then I’m sure they soon will,’ I said. ‘This is a village masquerading as a big city. Nothing stays quiet for long.’

‘Like Small Change MacFarlane getting his coupon smashed to fuck …’ Sneddon smiled. Or moved his face around in an attempt. The result was something cold, hard and careless.

‘Yeah … just like. My God, it doesn’t take long for word to get around. MacFarlane’s not cold yet. Is that why you had Twinkletoes and smiling lad pick me up?’

Sneddon cast a glance over his shoulder at the crowd. ‘Let’s go over to the main house. It’s quieter …’

I’d been to Sneddon’s house in Bearsden, a mock-baronial mansion with manicured gardens, a few times. This place was totally different. As soon as I stepped into the entrance hallway I knew that this was a business premises. From the outside it was a Victorian farmhouse; inside it was a Victorian brothel, all thick velvet crimson drapes, chaises-longues and Rubenesque tits in frames on the walls. The living room of the house had been converted into a bar with scattered sofas. On one a working girl sat with a bored expression as a drunken customer drooled and pawed inexpertly at her. Mel Tormé crooned from a record player in the corner, and the bar was manned by another girl in her early twenties who, too, had applied too much make-up and too little frock.

‘What do you think?’ asked Sneddon in a tone that suggested he didn’t give a toss what I thought.

‘Nice ambience. Brings out the romantic in me.’

Sneddon snorted an approximation of a laugh. He tapped Twinkletoes on the chest and nodded in the direction of the drunk and the girl. Twinkletoes obliged by conducting them out of the lounge.

‘So what’s a nice boy like me doing in a place like this?’ I asked. Sneddon told the girl behind the counter to pour us a couple of whiskies and I noticed she brought a single malt up from beneath the bar. The good stuff.

‘You was at Small Change’s place tonight. What business do you have with him? Was he getting you to do a bit of sniffing for him?’

‘The only sniffing I’ve been doing has been around his daughter. All pleasure, no business.’

‘You sure?’ Sneddon narrowed his eyes. It made him look all brow, which was an advantage in Glasgow. Athens had been the cradle of democracy, Florence had given the world the Renaissance, Glasgow had refined, to a precise art, the head butt. The Glasgow Kiss, as it was affectionately known amongst the nations of the world. ‘I would be put out if you was being less than square with me.’

‘Listen, Mr Sneddon, I would think a long time before I’d lie to you. I know Twinkletoes didn’t get his name because he dances like Fred Astaire. I’m attached to my toes and I like to think it’s a mutual arrangement. And anyway, I was asked the same thing tonight by Superintendent McNab.’

‘McNab?’ Sneddon put his glass down on the bar. ‘What the fuck is he involved for? I thought it was a robbery gone wrong.’