Butcher (31 page)

‘A more interesting question is what are
you
doing there?'

‘Looking for a headache cure.' Chuck thought, eejit, I didn't owe him an answer. Why offer one? Perlman sometimes put a question in such a fashion that if you didn't answer you left him an opening, which he often used to his own advantage.

Perlman glanced at the bottles, shook his head. He picked up a couple from the floor, shook one in each hand, making a sound like maracas. ‘Cha cha cha. Tried aspirin?'

‘Aspirins? Never crossed my mind.'

‘Any chemist shop will have them. Just ask.'

‘Right enough.' The indignity of Perlman finding him on the crapper was bad enough, but what the fuck
was
he doing here? He got up quickly.

‘You left the front door unlocked,' Perlman said.

‘And you just popped in.'

‘I'm like that. Unlocked doors tempt me. You never know what you're going to find.'

‘Depends what you're lookin for.'

Perlman scanned the bathroom. ‘Smells like a high-class bordello in here.' He walked out of the bathroom and into the living area. ‘Ah, you had the demolition crew in, I see.' He picked up an overturned plant and righted it. I'm becoming Betty-like.

‘It was like this when I got here,' Chuck said, wondering why he felt the need to explain
anything
to Perlman, when it should have been the other way round. Perlman could talk you into a dance, all the while pretending he was following your steps when in fact he was the one leading you. Smart fucker, it was so easy to be bamboozled by his sleekit manner and his battered coat.

You always had to be on your toes with the Jew.

Perlman sat on the sofa and placed his hands on his knees. ‘Nice flat. Once you ignore the wreckage.'

Chuck said, ‘You're trespassin.'

‘I'm looking for Glorianna.'

Chuck thought: No, I'm no goin to ask why, no way, if he thinks I am, he's gonny wait a long time. I show this fucker too much respect.

Perlman said, ‘You know where she is?'

‘I always know where she is.'

‘But you're not telling me.'

Chuck said, ‘What's this, a polis state all of a sudden?'

Perlman yawned, didn't bother to cover it. ‘That line's grown a beard, Chuck. Polis state – the evasion of last resort. You can do better than that.'

‘I'm savin my best answers for another time.'

‘I suspect you don't have any best answers, Rube.'

‘Sez you.'

‘You don't have the equipment.' Perlman tapped his skull. ‘Somebody asks you a question you don't like, you jump on a slogan straight away. A polis state, there's a good example.'

‘You piss me off sometimes, Perlman.'

‘Another zippy riposte.' Perlman stretched his legs, crossed them. ‘You're going out of your heid wondering why I want to see Glorianna – or is it Annie – but you think it's a weakness to ask.'

‘We've split up, Perlman. She lives her own life. Comes and goes as she pleases. I look like I give a fuck?'

‘So why are you here rummaging through her medications?'

‘That's my business.'

‘You're peeing your pants to know if I had an appointment with her. You're gagging to ask. Does she have something she wants to get off her chest, something she needs to tell me? What a mystery. If I was you, I'd be chewing my insides.' Perlman got up and slowly roamed the room.

Chuck said, ‘You're fulla shite. Why would she have an appointment with you when you've been drummed out the Force? If she had anythin she wanted the polis for, which I seriously doubt, she'd want a
real
polisman, and that rules you out, pal.'

‘That's better, Rube. You're getting the hang of it.' Perlman got up, stared out of the window. ‘Two guys are sitting in a car down there. They yours?'

‘Mine?'

‘Black leather jackets, serious expressions. Minders?'

‘They're nothin to do with me.'

Perlman said, ‘It's got to be a very shaky proposition running a gang, Rube.'

‘Gang? Whit gang? You polis all live in a comicbook world.'

‘Do you ever wonder what all these wee men are thinking about the Big Man? They must talk about you. The Big Man says this, the Big Man does that. Mibbe they're critical. Mibbe they don't like some of the things you do, the decisions you make. Mibbe some of them feel a little leftover allegiance to Citizen Stoker or the late Curdy—'

‘You're a flowin river of shite.'

‘In your shoes, I'd be lying awake at night wondering if I hear anything moving in the bushes, worrying about this guy or that guy, are they plotting against me? I'd be on a tightrope, Rube. I'd need a second army to protect me from the army that's already protecting me.'

Chuck laughed. ‘Some imagination, Perlman. A second army. You're a comedian.'

‘And I'd be worrying about the polis as well. What are they up to? What do they know? They're fucking sly bastarts.'

‘You should know—'

‘And their powers, oy. Search and seizure. Imprisonment without specifying a charge under the new terrorist laws.'

‘I look a terrorist? You see a towel round my heid?'

Perlman sailed on. ‘You don't know half the powers they possess. Or the pressures. They'd wear anybody down so fine you could pour them through a salt-cellar.' Perlman strolled the room again, singing quietly to himself, ‘These Sleepless Nights Will Break My Heart in Two'.

‘I've heard crows with better voices, Perlman.'

‘I wasn't aware I was singing.'

‘Sign of old age,' Chuck said. ‘I was about to leave when you came in. You've cured my headache though.'

‘I thought you had a guru for that.'

‘Oh aye. Your mate Scullion's a nosy bastart.'

‘He keeps an eye on you, Rube. He's manic when it comes to you.'

Chuck felt little thrusts of pressure in his head. ‘He's got me aw hot and bothered, I don't think.'

‘You should be. You're number one on his list.'

‘Number one, eh? Top of the pops. I'm a hit.'

Perlman smiled. ‘He'll get you, Rube. Don't have any illusions about that.'

‘He'd need to be awfy sharp off the mark. He's on to plums, Perlman.'

‘Sharp
and
relentless.'

Chuck clapped Perlman on the back as he edged him toward the door. Scullion, he thought. Perlman delivers rave notices about his old china.
He'll get you, Rube
.

Predictable pish.

‘I'll walk out with you.'

On the landing Chuck locked the door, turning the key twice. He went downstairs with Perlman and into the street.

‘Here, try my bistro some might,' Chuck said.

‘What's it called? The Pissed Ox?'

Chuck released a big fake laugh. ‘You know the fuckin name.'

‘Too rich for my blood,' Perlman said. ‘When I'm flush, mibbe.'

‘The chef's a fuckin magician.'

‘So I hear.'

Perlman walked toward his car.

Chuck laughed at the Ka. ‘You driving a purple flyin saucer these days?'

‘I boldly go,' Perlman said.

Chuck watched him drive away. He didn't believe Perlman had a meeting with Glori. She'd never set up such a thing. Perlman was a liar, a good liar, but a liar all the same. What roused the hissing snakes in Chuck's head was the simple question he couldn't find an answer for: why had Perlman come here if Glori hadn't asked him?

Simple question, my arse. There's no such thing any more.

Complex world.

The Jaguar approached and braked beside him. Ron Mathieson got out and opened the back door for him.

Chuck got in. ‘The Temple, Ron.'

‘Right-o, Mr Chuck.'

36

Perlman made a phone call to The Triangle Club from his car. A girl answered, sing-song little voice. ‘Fi-on-a. How can I help you?'

Perlman had hoped he'd get the irrepressible Rhoda. ‘Is Jackie working tonight?'

‘She's here training some new dealers. Hang on, I'll get her for you.'

Perlman cut the connection. He'd have Dysart to himself. Good.

He travelled east through a heavy drizzle that had just begun. He thought about bumping into Chuck, the human smear test. The slick-haired douche bag had looked ill at ease, which could be ascribed to Lou's unexpected appearance – but more. Chuck was obviously undone because he couldn't find Glorianna, and it was twanging on his nerves like a truly awful country song. His tics came into urgent play. The hollow laugh, the way the eyes protruded, two black moons expanding from internal pressures. Chuck was running on low, and vulnerable, and his lies were as transparent as a school of jellyfish.

Reuben Chuck always left a sour taste in Lou's mouth, like he'd sucked on the heart of a lime.

So where are you, Chuck's golden girl?

He found the house much as The Pickler had described it, an unexpected red sandstone Victorian, high-walled, gated, austere in its dilapidation. Tall chimneys crumbled, chimney-pots were missing. He parked a few yards away from the gates. He heard dogs bark with the sound of hand-grenades exploding.

He could see, beyond the walls, the rooftops of the housing scheme with their satellite dishes. In the hardening rain the view was dismal. Maybe once, in the dreamy summer days before the Great War, the house had been enchanting and toffs came out to visit in their primitive motor cars or graceful horse-drawn carriages, and tea was served on the lawn by a cast of low-bred maids happy to be on tuppence a week. He'd always thought it curious how you never saw horse-droppings in old sepia tints of the city.

He hesitated before getting out of the car, checked to see if he'd brought his umbrella. A pair of old leather gloves, but no fucking
brolly
. He was going to get wet no matter what. He hated damp overcoats, leaky shoes, water dripping down his face.
I belong to Glasgow
– and yet. Sometimes the bones yearned for warmer places, blue skies, blue sea. He pulled on the gloves, his hands were chilled.

He opened the car door, slammed it, caught his raincoat. Bloody rain was chucking down now. He opened the door again, freed his coat, hurried to the gate and pressed the enamel button set in the wall. Two big Dobermans appeared beyond the gates, white-fanged, barking with harsh savagery.

We guard this space. We are Dobes, the SS of dogs. My name is Heinrich, my chum is Rudi.

Nobody answered the bell. He rang again and made angry growling sounds at the dogs, inciting them to jump. They obliged, rose on their hind legs, flattened themselves against the gates. They were six feet or more fully extended. Huge buggers.

A man appeared on the gravel driveway beyond the gates. He had a yellow plastic raincoat over his head and he ran hunched against the downpour. When he reached the gates he calmed the dogs while he scrutinized Perlman's face.

Perlman introduced himself. He uttered his name and rank in the stern tone of a debt-collector. He knows my name, Perlman thought. Jackie told him.

The man wore glasses and had the expression of a worried scholar interrupted on the last page of his monumental PhD thesis. ‘What is it, s-something w-wrong?'

A stutter. Perlman always had a soft spot for anyone even slightly disadvantaged. ‘You're Dysart?'

‘Doctor Dysart.' He uttered his title proudly, without faltering.

‘Doctor Dysart, eh? I'd like a word.'

‘With me?'

‘You see anyone else? Do I have to stand out here getting drooned?'

Dysart offered a small awkward smile and said, ‘M-my manners. I don't get a lot of company. In a place like this,' and he gestured with his head toward the housing scheme. ‘I k-keep to myself.'

‘Understandable. A rough element.'

Dysart unlocked the gates. He grabbed the Dobermans by their collars and yanked them aside with enormous effort. They eyed Perlman and snarled.

I am top of their foodie wish-list, Lou thought.

He stepped through the gate, which Dysart immediately locked. Still straining with the dogs, Dysart led the way up the drive toward the house. He released the dogs, shooing them off with wild hand gestures, and they scudded away into the rain.

Dysart went inside, dropping his mac on the floor. Perlman followed him along the hallway, noticing a pair of gloomy oil portraits that seemed to scrutinize him, as if they suspected an admission fee was being avoided.

‘In here please.' Dysart showed Perlman into a room with drawn blinds. An old rolltop desk, a couple of worn leather chairs, a wood floor badly wormholed. Dysart switched on a desk lamp, which gave a frugal light.

‘I leave the b-blinds down … for privacy. Sometimes Slabbite spawn climb the walls.'

‘Slabbite?'

‘From over there,' and Dysart nodded toward the scheme. ‘They try to see in. They g-give me a hard time.' He sat down and grinned unexpectedly, as if a funny thought had popped into his mind. It gave his mouth a lopsidedness. Perlman had the impression of a man not entirely attuned to the exchanges of everyday life, but trying hard to figure them out for the sake of sociability. The smart navy blue blazer and grey flannels he wore seemed to make him uncomfortable. He sported them as a dummy in a tailor's window might.

Perlman was drawn to a diploma on the wall: University of Glasgow, the degree of Doctor of Medicine conferred on Dorcus Dysart, June 1997. ‘Are you in practice? Here, maybe you can advise me about these painkillers I'm told to take, personally I think they're far too strong—'

Dysart interrupted. ‘I used to w-work in hospitals. But n-not now. I don't like them.'

‘Hate them myself. What's your reason.'

‘They're t-too impersonal. I n-never felt at ease.'

Perlman didn't probe this line. He suspected he knew where it would lead. He'd learn that Dysart wasn't really a team player. Something about him suggested the nervous loner who wandered the night shift corridors, riding the lifts as much as he could, trying to avoid the nurses who jokingly flirted with him.