LITMIR.BIZ

      EIGHT

      McCoy stepped out his close, yawned, looked up at the sky. Rain had gone off but it was foggy, could barely make out the cranes and the big granary by the river at the bottom of the hill. He’d lived in Gardner Street for a few years now. Everyone knew Gardner Street, was the steepest street in Glasgow – looked like something from The Streets of San Francisco – big drop down to the Dumbarton Road below.

      They’d eventually managed to get rid of Wattie around nine, and him and Cowie ended up in a lock-in at the Doublet until way past midnight. Was paying for it now. His stomach rumbled. Maybe he needed something fried, could go to the wee cafe by Partick Station. He was about to cross the road when a silver Zephyr pulled up beside him. The window slid down and a head leant out.

      ‘Cooper wants to see you.’

      He didn’t recognise the particular bloke driving the car, but he looked the same as all Cooper’s boys did. Bit too flash and a bit too thick. Feather cut, suit with big lapels, open beige shirt with pictures of Charlie Chaplin on it. The young hard man’s look of choice.

      ‘Now?’ he asked.

      The driver nodded. ‘That’s what he said.’

      McCoy sighed, he didn’t need this on top of a hangover and Murray doing his nut, expecting results in hours. Driver was chewing gum, waiting for him to get in. Cooper wasn’t going to go away, though. Maybe he’d be better getting it over with before Murray noticed he was missing. He opened the door of the big silver Zephyr and got in the back. The cafe would have to wait.

      McCoy hated sitting in the back of cars, always made him feel a bit sick, especially after what he’d drunk last night. Had vague memories of a hamburger from some van on the way home, no wonder he felt ropey. The driver didn’t tell him where they were going but they ended up in Tollcross. It was in the East End, made Springburn look like a holiday resort. They stopped at the lights and McCoy watched the wrecking balls disappear in the clouds of dust as another big wall went down.

      The driver muttered something about the dust ruining the finish of his motor and pulled the car in outside a pub called the Grapes. McCoy’d been in it once, when he’d first started, was still on the beat. Was a Friday night, packed full of punters, must have been fifty or sixty in there. Some bloke had got his face slashed twice while he was standing at the bar and nobody saw nothing. Not one witness, just Duncan Stewart sitting in the corner with his cronies, grin on his face. No one would say anything, too scared. The bloke’s girlfriend was screaming and crying while McCoy held a bar towel to the guy’s wounds, trying to stop the blood while everybody kept their eyes down, supped at their pints.

      ‘He in there, is he?’ McCoy asked, looking out the window.

      Driver shook his head, pointed. ‘Next door.’

      The Tropical Sauna consisted of a dingy-looking shopfront, cracked frosted glass windows with two palm trees etched into them. There was a handwritten sign taped to the window saying ‘New Girls’, just in case some passer-by was stupid enough to actually think it was a sauna.

      ‘Starting a bit early, isn’t he?’

      Driver shrugged. ‘Don’t think he’s been to bed yet.’ He slumped down in his seat, closed his eyes. ‘I’ll be out here when you’re done, just chap on the window.’

      The woman behind the counter looked up from her copy of Cosmopolitan with a big smile until she realised who she was looking at. Smile disappeared immediately. She pressed a buzzer under the counter and the door behind her clicked open.

      ‘He’s in the premier suite,’ she said, eyes back on her magazine. ‘Blue door at the back.’

      Cooper wasn’t the only one starting early. Most of the cabin doors off the corridor were shut, moans and rhythmic squeaks coming from behind them. Tends to happen when you build cubicles out of plywood to save money, not exactly soundproof. He knocked on the blue door at the end and a voice boomed out immediately.

      ‘That you, McCoy?’

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘Well, get in here then, ya dozy prick!’

      If this was the premier suite, he’d hate to see a normal one. The room was painted light blue, overheated, one of those paintings that Boots the Chemist sold by the bucketload of a naked girl on a beach hung above a wee table covered in bottles of lotion, faded towels and boxes of paper hankies. The window had a grille over it, only light coming from two fluorescent strips in the plasterboard ceiling. Cooper was sitting on the massage table in the middle of the room, legs dangling over the side, white towel round his waist not doing much to hide his obvious erection. He’d his arms wrapped round two girls, blonde on one side, brunette on the other. Both were topless, fancy knickers and high heels, Page Three come to life. Except Page Three girls didn’t normally look scared, or like they needed a bath.

      McCoy took in the scene. ‘You want me to come back? Looks like you’re busy.’

      Cooper shook his head. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

      Glasgow was a town of small men, wiry. Anyone over five foot eight tended to get called ‘Big Man’ but Cooper was the real deal. Well over six foot, built like a bear, as they say. Hair fashions had come and gone, but none of them had touched Cooper, blond hair cut into a short back and sides, side shed, just like he’d always had. Same as his clothes, unless it was a funeral or a wedding; he’d be wearing jeans, a short-sleeved shirt and a red Harrington jacket. James Dean had a lot to answer for. He pushed the blonde girl off the table and smacked her on the arse. She winced; he’d hit her hard.

      ‘Away and warm each other up. I’ll no be long. And you, ya prick, come here. C’mon, what’s up? Gone all shy on me?’

      McCoy shook his head. ‘I’m no in the mood, Stevie.’

      Cooper didn’t say anything, just kept staring.

      ‘I mean it, Stevie. I’ve got a hangover, give us a break.’

      Nothing. Just Cooper staring at him with a stupid grin on his face. He sighed. Nothing much ever changed between him and Cooper; he always got his own way eventually.

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