Free The Long Glasgow Kiss by Craig Russell Page B

became yet another casualty of war. Whoever it was I became during the war, he fitted right in, right here in Glasgow.
    And it had been while I stood in Glasgow, wearing a demob suit that I otherwise wouldn’t have been seen dead in and holding a ship ticket to Halifax, Nova Scotia, that I had first encountered the Three Kings.
    There’s this misconception that all gangsters are the same. That all coppers are the same. Some people even believe, sometimes with a fair amount of justification, that all gangsters and all coppers are the same. The truth is that the underworld is a community like any other, with the same range and variety of personality, physical type and character that you find in any walk of life. You can’t even say that they are united in dishonesty or immorality. Some villains have a very strict moral code. Some don’t.
    The Three Kings were a good example. What Willie Sneddon, Jonny Cohen and Hammer Murphy didn’t run in Glasgow wasn’t worth running. In 1948, Glasgow’s three leading crime lords had sat down over lunch in a civilized manner in the elegant surroundings of the Regency Oyster Bar and discussed the future. The upshot was that, while they sat and divided the lunch bill equally between them, they had done pretty much the same to Glasgow.
    There had been nothing elegant or civilized about what had preceded their lunch. A vicious gang war, Sneddon and Cohen on one side, Murphy on the other, had threatened to wipe them all out. Added to which, the first casualty of war was profit. By the time Sneddon, Cohen and Murphy emerged from the Regency, a coronation had taken place: the three crime lords had become the three crime kings.
    But, like I said, no one is the same, and the Three Kings were very different people. Willie Sneddon was a truly nasty piece of work. Devious and malignant. Sneddon, the Gorbals hard man, had robbed, murdered and tortured his way to the top. But he was smart. Even subtle.
    Subtlety was not something you associated with Hammer Murphy, in much the same way you wouldn’t associate camels with the Antarctic. Michael Murphy had gained the epithet ‘Hammer’ after pulping the skull of rival gang boss Paul Cochrane with a lead barrel-headed builder’s mallet, in front of the assembled members of both gangs. Murphy was a man of limited intellect but possessed a viciousness as truly, awesomely monumental as the chip on his shoulder. He had embraced his new nickname with enthusiasm and was known to wield a hammer against knees, elbows and skulls whenever a suitable opportunity arose. It was, he had once confided in me, good to have a trademark.
    Jonny Cohen, the third king, was a perfect illustration of the variety of personality and type within the criminal fraternity. Known as Handsome Jonny because of his film-star looks, Cohen was a decent kind of guy and a devoted husband and father who lived a quiet life in Newton Mearns – Tel-Aviv on the Clyde, as it was known in Glasgow. Or at least he was a decent, quiet-living kind of guy when he wasn’t holding up banks, organizing jewel robberies, running illegal bookies, that kind of thing. It was also true to say that Jonny had moved a few souls closer to the Lord in his time, but they had all been competitors or active playmates in the big Glasgow game. No civilians. I liked Jonny. I had good reason to: he had saved my neck. And when I first arrived in Glasgow, it had been Jonny who first suggested he and his colleagues could perhaps make use of my skills.
    Don’t get me wrong. I had known exactly the kind of people I was getting involved with. And I had known that some of the enquiries I carried out for them took me very close to, and often over, a very fudged border between the legal and illegal. I’d gotten involved in some seedy and unpleasant shenanigans and, as time had gone on, I had felt like I was sinking deeper and deeper into a personality that I really didn’t care for. That’s why, over the last twelve or