Anton smiles, allowing Franco to feel the younger man’s cool charisma. What sort of education he’s received is neither here nor there: his intelligence is obviously formidable. Then a focused gleam comes into his eyes. — You dinnae seem tae be that upset for a man who’s just lost his son.
— Ah was never close tae him, Franco shrugs. — Nae sense in lyin aboot it, or playin oot some fucked-up drama tae suit other people. Of course ah want tae know what happened, but that’s aboot it. He looks around, taking in the overhanging cranes, glancing across to the factory units, over the top of the new-build casino. — I’ve nae emotional investment in this place. Besides, times change. Franco nods at Anton and his associates with a half-grin. — I’m oot ay my depth here.
— Franco Begbie, ootay his depth. Anton seems to toy with this idea. — You had some rep in this toon.
— Mibbee once. But you type ay guys were always better than me; the likes ay you and Power. Ah wis never in that league. Ah wis jist a thug. A good thug, but that was it, and he thinks about Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power’s statement. — I never hud you boys’ entrepreneurial zest.
A slight smile that might have been a reaction to flattery plays across Anton’s lips, but his tombstone-grey eyes stay glacial. — Heard you’ve done awright for yourself. An artist, oot in California.
— No bad, Franco concedes, — but that’s aw hype and fashion. They buy ma stuff cause it’s in vogue, so ah make tons ay it and flog it while ah can. Some day soon, they’ll lose interest. Till then, make hay while the sun shines.
— You’re a smart man.
Frank Begbie shakes his head. — Spent too much time in jail tae ever be called that.
Anton looks to his associates, then back to Begbie. — Let’s go for a wee walk, just the two ay us.
Franco nods, thinking that whatever is going to happen, one versus one is better odds than one versus three. They stroll together along the edge of the old dock, heading out to the jetty and the breakwater. The wind is cold and biting as they stop, leaning on a railing, looking out to the dank, dull waters of the Forth Estuary. Frank Begbie thinks of the Pacific Ocean by his home, all those hues of blue. What is he doing here, with all those shades of grey? Does Anton want a square go, or is he planning to shoot him and push his body into the sea?
Or maybe he just wants to talk. Certain types of success can be isolating, and make people lonely. — Ah’ve made money. But it’s aw overseas. In banks. Anton is staring out to the horizon, but with intent, as if he sees something out there.
— So ah’ve heard, Franco says. — And I won’t kid on that ah’m no impressed. Even the likes ay Power, it took him twenty-odd years tae get the sense you’ve got now.
Anton turns to face him, with an impatient, almost mocking leer. — Do you ken how easy it is tae go tae Switzerland and open a business account in a bank? Or even the Cayman Islands? Ye jump on a fuckin plane, n walk intae a bank wi your passport and a bag full ay cash. Tell them you want to open a business account. That’s it. Tougher tae open one wi the RBS or Clydesdale.
Begbie remains impassive.
— The point ah’m makin is that schemies have an aversion tae walkin ontae a fuckin plane that isnae gaun tae Amsterdam, or Ibiza or Thailand or some fitba game. Somewhere they’re told they can go. They’d rather stuff their money under a mattress.
— I trust my bank in California, Frank Begbie states. — Of course, they’re ripping me off, but the money isnae gaun anywhere.
Anton suddenly looks at Franco in a different way, as if he considers he might be being played. — You wake up in the sun every morning, nice wife, kids, looking oot tae the ocean. Not a worry or a care. That’s gaunny be me a couple ay years fae now.
Franco tries to hold his poker face but he can feel doubt creeping into his expression.
This isn’t lost on Anton, who responds with a grin that briefly makes him look boyish, but somehow more dangerous. — Aw aye, you’re right tae be cynical. Talk’s cheap, every bam says that, but ah’ve gied masel a target. The amount’s written doon in black and white. Ah’m almost there. Then ah go. Dunno where, but somewhere warm and sunny.
Franco thinks of himself at that age, a mere primitive in comparison. It’s so strange for such a young man to be able to converse like this. But how much has he really considered? — What will ye dae when ye get there? he asks.
Franco can see by the slight narrowing of his eyes that this question has cut Anton. — That’s the part ah still need tae figure oot, he concedes, turning back to the sea. — But ah ken what ah’m no gaunny dae. Ma auld man worked hard aw his life. He was a welder tae trade. Then that dried up, the yards shut. So he worked abroad for a bit. Then he came back, and took a job on the TV detector vans. See, he was a straightpeg, did fuck all wrong his whole life. Anton turns back to Frank Begbie. — Fuckin mug.
— Don’t think I know the boy, Franco responds, deadpan.
— Take it fae me, Anton jeers. — You’ve got tae set the world on fire, and his eyes suddenly blaze, as if in illustra-tion. — And see your Sean, ah always liked that boy. He was awright, a good laugh. And whatever cunts are puttin aboot, he never, ever ripped me off.
— That’s good, Franco says, — you have tae be able tae trust people.
— But eh wis a waster. Anton shakes his head. — Drugs got him. Drugs ah sold, drugs he sold. Ah used tae tell him: Sell drugs, get rich. Take drugs, fuck yirsel. Tae me that’s always the ultimate no-brainer. Sean should have got that. He wisnae a daftie. Till he was wasted.
— Ah never knew him that well. Ah was either in jail, or kipped up wi some other bird when he was growing up. Heard he was a drug addict, though. That’s disappointing tae me. Franco arches his brow. — These people always disappoint.
Frank Begbie’s voice has dropped ominously, but Anton now seems lost in his own dark thoughts. — Ma auld man; ah bought him n ma auld girl a hoose on a nice estate at Barnton, oot ay the scheme. Took them roond there in the car. A big surprise. Drove them ootside this nice walled-and-gated development, landscaped gairdins, the lot, and handed them the keys. He telt me tae stuff it; refused tae even get oot the motor. My ma greetin her eyes oot, her dream hoose, and this prick wouldnae even get oot the fuckin car tae have a look at it. And he wouldnae let her get oot either. Said he didnae want anything that was peyed for by misery money. That was what he says: misery money. Can ye fuckin believe that?
Franco is silent, looking out to sea. The light is fading. It’s getting really cold. — People are hard tae figure oot sometimes, he states, then looks at Anton. — Who do you think murdered Sean?
Anton stares him coldly in the eye. — The easiest thing tae say would be Power, or one ay his mob. But that would be a lie. The truth is, ah’ve no got a clue. But if you find oot, let me know. As I say: he had his faults, but I liked Sean.
— No enough tae go tae his funeral.
— There isnae much ye can dae for somebody when thir deid, Anton shrugs mildly. — You think half the bams who were there, those fuckin ghouls, really wanted tae pey respects tae Sean? If ah’d turned up, there would’ve been an atmosphere, wi Power and a few others. Ah showed ma respect by stayin away.
Franco thinks about this, and his confrontation with Cha Morrison. — Fair enough.
— You know. . we’ve got something in common, Anton ventures, a slight wistfulness creeping into his tone. — Sean wisnae the son you wanted. Ma auld man wisnae the faither ah wanted.
— We’re baith too auld tae bother aboot adoption papers now.