Free Paying For It by Tony Black Page A

nibbled on his lower lip.
    ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’
    ‘After.’
    ‘After what?’
    ‘After.’
    I took his response for what it was, Scots for ‘Don’t fucking bother me right now.’
    I saw Mac the Knife was on edge. I knew the signs. The Weejie stride was in place, chest out, in a dead heat with the spacehopper guttage.
    What worried me, though, was the way he kept looking from side to side, and occasionally, over his shoulder. It wasn’t fear. Not with Mac. This guy was a Bonnie Fechtir, take on all comers. It looked like serious caution, the act of an ex-crim who didn’t want to go straight back inside.
    Mac picked out a greasy spoon with an old barber’s pole outside. Minimal attention to decor, less yet to the cleaning, I felt my Docs sliding on the oily linoleum. I was all for budget dining, but this place screamed ‘salmonella to go’.
    ‘Mac, are you sure about this joint?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘It’s a bit rough, is it not?’
    His lip curled, downward. ‘Maybe you’d prefer the Shandwick.’
    I pulled out an orange vinyl chair, tipped the covering of crumbs onto the floor.
    ‘Aye, sit doon,’ said Mac.
    ‘What is this?’
    ‘Eat!’
    The waitress came, a hard-faced fifty-something. Running to retirement and dour as heartache. A phiz of ruined features, the rewards of a lifetime spent struggling for nothing.
    I ordered up two eggs on toast. Smothered them in brown sauce and vinegar. Washed the lot down with coffee. In here I felt no shame filling the cup with the last of my scoosh.
    ‘You still hitting that?’ said Mac.
    ‘Lecture time?’
    ‘Stuff’ll be the end of you!’
    I drank deep. ‘Trouble with the rest of the world is they’re two drinks behind!’
    ‘Bogart.’
    ‘Bang on.’ Felt he’d thawed, said, ‘Have you something to say to me, Mac?’
    He sat back in his chair. Leaned forward. Sat back again.
    I prompted: ‘ Mac ?’
    ‘Okay. Okay …’ He reached below the table, took something from his belt. ‘I want you to have this.’
    I felt something touch my knee. Looked down to see a shooter, Browning 9mm, the type Canoe Reeves packed in The Matrix . Until now, that was the closest I’d come to one. ‘Fuck that!’
    Mac shook his head. ‘Gus, I’m not messing about here.’
    I rose to my feet. ‘Forget it.’
    ‘Sit down.’ His voice sounded calm now, quiet almost. ‘Look, Gus, this visit I got …’
    I put the bead on him. ‘Spill it.’
    ‘I got a message to pass on to you.’
    I’d strayed into some decidedly dodgy territory, I saw that now. My first thought was Stalin. Next, Nadja. The weak fuck had tipped her off to cover his own arse.
    ‘So let’s hear it.’
    ‘You won’t like it.’
    Another thought entered my head: the Cube. ‘Was this a stocky little shite, smoked Berkeley Menthols?’
    ‘What? No. No fucking way, it was a hard-core thug, bling on his teeth, the lot – Gus, this is all the way from the top. I told you not to mess with this lot. The Bullfrog’s spoken and he wants you to get out. To leave the city – now!’
    ‘No way.’ I had the murder to think about.
    Mac shook his head again, it grated on my nerves. ‘I thought that’s what you’d say … so here.’ He frowned, creased his mouth into a taut wire and pressed the gun into my leg again.
    I needed to know what was going on, and just what the hell I’d gotten myself into. I had tapped into more than just the killing of a young lad who’d got himself into a bit of bother.
    ‘What’s this about? I don’t see how Billy Boy suddenly becomes Billy the Kid overnight.’
    ‘I told you, Gus. I warned you. Didn’t I warn you? Right from the start, I told you – don’t mess with this mob. End of story. You just don’t mess. They’re into more shit than you ever dreamt of.’
    ‘Is my name Horatio?’
    ‘ What ?’
    ‘Thanks for the tip, Mac.’
    I got to my feet again, headed for the door.
    ‘Gus – Gus, you bastard, we haven’t got the bill