Saturday's Child

The Pringle got balls then. I saw him glance at me finger. Reckoned I weren't much of a threat, obviously. 'He puts that out, or I put you out.'

'Ah, you're threatening now,' I said. 'You're fuckin' threa- tening us.' I kicked me chair back and it crashed to the floor. I were on me feet, in the cunt's face. 'What's your fuckin' problem, you have to come round here starting shit?'

'Put it out,' the Pringle said to Baz. But his voice were wavering.

'You put us out, nobhead,' I said.

'You want to get nicked?'

'You want to get fuckin' cut?'

I reached for me Stanley, then remembered where I'd left it. Felt me heart skip. But it didn't show in me face. Rossie were getting up slow and quiet.

'Maureen, call the police.'

Baz grinned through the sweet smoke, set his spliff down in the ashtray. He reached into his jacket like he were reaching for his wallet, ticked out the blade of his Stanley and slapped the knife hard on the table. 'Fuck off out of it,' he said.

'Maureen — '

Rossie took his pint and broke it over the Pringle's head before he could shout double-knit. The Pringle swayed, but I

went at the cunt's gut before he got his feet. And there weren't a bastard in the place ready to jump for his love. The Pringle hit the floor, brought the table down with him. Rossie lashed at him with his butterfly. The blade cut slight, but the Pringle rolled like he'd been shot. Baz sucked his gut and made it round in time for the Pringle to sway up to his knees. When the Pringle opened his eyes, he had to blink from the light bouncing off Baz's Stanley blade.

I dusted meself down, wiped me nose. 'Cut his fuckin' eyeballs open.'

'Wait a sec,' said the Pringle. And his bladder emptied out onto the carpet. I loved that smell of piss in the air. Smelled like… victory.

'You know me,' I said. 'You know me now.'

Blood ran down the Pringle's face. Glass in his head shone like stars.

'Aye you know me, son.' I pointed at him with me finger- splint. 'I'm Mo Tiernan. And I'll have you buried in less time it takes to have a dump.'

It were fuckin' good to be me sometimes.

TWENTY-FIVE

There's nothing as bright and painful as the morning after sunlight.

The walk to Central Station, and the casino near it, is a long one. My legs aren't happy about it, and neither's my stomach. But I pop into a cafe on the way, sit down with a cup of coffee and a bacon buttie. Smoke a few cigarettes. The owner, a camp guy with a Greek accent, welcomes me with a smile, but as soon as he smells the drink on me, he buttons up.

I don't want small talk. Just food.

The bacon is almost burnt, but I like it that way. The coffee is black and sugared. I drink it slowly and rub my eyes. I shouldn't drink so much. Or I should stay away from the spirits.

The drink-shakes private dick, a walking, talking cliche. I should be shot for crimes against reality. But instead I'm stuck looking for a dealer who may be somewhere in this city. Or I may be chasing up a lead from a Jilted John who'd tell me anything to stop Morris Tiernan coming after him.

I dump my Embassy, push away from the table. Stop your whining and get to work, Cal.

The place on St James Boulevard is new by the looks of it, purpose-built. It looks like a tombstone in a sea of concrete. I arrive at reception, all plate glass and plastic ferns. If they're going for the classy look, they've failed. Mostly because the girl behind the counter has yellow teeth and dead eyes. She smiles at me with her mouth only and it's an ugly sight.

'My name's Callum Innes. I called yesterday.'

She asks for ID and I hand it over. After a quick scan, she gets me to fill out a membership form. I lie about everything apart from my name. She gives me a card which I tuck in my back pocket, and I catch the smile slip from her face as she reaches under the desk. Probably caught the whiff of drink on my breath. Or vomit. Maybe just the stench of failure. You would have thought she'd be used to it by now. Besides, it's better than whatever Avon shite she bathed in this morning. A low buzz as the double doors unlock, and I push through into the casino.

The place is a space-age warehouse. Tables stretch back as far as I can see, most of them unmanned. The room is airy to the point of goose pimples. Looks like only three tables are open: one roulette, one blackjack, one poker. At the card tables, the blackjack dealer stares off into space, the poker dealer has something in his nose. An inspector stands between them.

If Rob Stokes comes in here, it's not during the day.

I head to the bar, order a pint and take a seat on a stool that threatens to examine my prostate. Looking over at the roulette table, I can make out an elderly couple playing the outside bets. Red or black, even money, but it means the dealer has to spin up for the sake of a fiver. He clears it; they'll get it back on the next spin. It's dull to watch. I can't imagine how dull it must be to play.

Sip my pint, light a cigarette. The hangover's gone into a slight remission; the beer takes effect but the Embassy turns my stomach if I inhale too deeply. The guy behind the bar wears a blue shirt with forced pleats down the front and a cock-eyed name badge that reads 'George'.

'How you doing, George?'

He bristles at his name. One of the many people who hate the informality of the service industry. 'Fine,' he says.

'How long you been working here?’

‘A while. Couple of years.’

‘Huh. You know many of the punters?' George's left eye closes halfway. He's either trying to work me out, or it's a nervous thing. 'Some of them,' he says. 'How well?'

'We're not allowed to fraternise.’

‘I know the dealers aren't.’

‘Nobody is. It's a security risk.'

'Right.' I drink from my pint. 'No, I get it. You have friends who aren't in the business, you're a criminal, am I right?’

‘Something like that.'

'Yeah, I know all about that,' I say. Shake my head and watch the old couple at the roulette table. 'Listen, you know your punters by name?'

'Some of them.'

'Rob Stokes ring a bell?'

'What's he look like?'

'A bloke. Salt and pepper hair. Tall. Bad attitude. A chip- chaser.'

'Mate, you just described ninety percent of the blokes we get in here.'

I finish my pint, order another. 'Take one for yourself.’

‘So how much does this Stokes guy owe you?' says George. 'Owe me? Nowt. He's a mate. I heard he came in here. Why?'

'You're not police,' he says. 'Nah, I'm not police — '

'And you're not a mate of his. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking questions.'

'Maybe I just lost his number. You have it?'

'I don't know who you're talking about,' he says. Smiling like he's really enjoying this. And he knows the guy, I can feel

it. I dig out a business card — one of those I got done at my local Shell — and bang my mobile number on the back with a wee bookie pen.

'Tell you what,' I say. 'If anything springs to mind, or your memory comes back, you give me a ring, okay?'

He looks at the card and the smile turns upside down. 'You're a private detective.'

'Investigator,' I say.

'What's the difference?'

'A private detective solves the case. A private investigator just looks into it. I'm not the type to gather suspects in the drawing room. I'm the poor bastard who follows cheating husbands, wives, runaways. I'm the one sitting in the car with fuck all else to do. And I'm the one who'll slip you a wad if you can point the finger, George.'

He blinks. 'You practise that speech in the mirror?'

'Twice a day. But the deal stands.' I down half the pint and leave the glass on the bar. 'You see him, let me know. I'll make it worth your while.'