Free Long Way Down (A Gus Dury crime thriller) by Tony Black Page B

understand fine. And it's still a no.' I put my hand
on his and tried to unclasp his fingers but he clung for grim life — it was the
strongest sense yet I'd caught of his sheer desperation.
    'It's Barry ...' he said. His voice so low it seemed
whispered into my ear like a secret.
    'Barry Fulton?' He was the only common ground we shared
of any significance and he knew this.
    Danny nodded. His grip still held firm. I lowered my
hand and stared into his concerned eyes.
    'He's inside.'
    He wet his thin grey lips, 'Not anymore.'
    'What? When did he get out?'
    Danny unclenched his fist and let his hand fall to his
side. 'Two days ago.' He raised the envelope stuffed with cash again and
pressed it into my chest, 'I knew you'd be interested, Gus.'
    * * * *
    You live the life I do, you meet people. Most
you wouldn't want to run into on a dark night but some of them you're glad to
know. Mac the Knife was wearing his hardy Glasgow chib-merchant stare when I
clocked him at the Foot of the Walk. It would be too crass to use the old
phrase you can take the man out of Glasgow etc but if it was possible to bottle
the No Mean City vibe then Mac was on the intravenous version. I watched a
jakey, torn Costa cup in hand, try to tap him for a few pence and felt my
insides wince for the poor soul. As I sidled up I could hear the jakey getting
into his 'Just 30p for bus fare to visit my mam in hospital' speech.
    Mac's reply was delivered deadpan. 'You want to join
her? I can put you in an ambulance there for nothing.'    
    The paraffin lamp was on the back foot as I arrived, his
sudden sobriety seemed to have been dispensed from Mac's thinned stare. It was
a look that said impending violence was a cert. He was still retreating,
backwards, yawing on wobbly legs as I put a palm on Mac's shoulder.
    'Alright, mate ...'
    Mac lit. 'Gus, lad.'
    Greetings over we made our way up the Walk towards
Robbie's Bar. This neck of Leith is like a kaleidoscope, sights continually
shifting. We'd had the gutting of the new tram tracks close down a stack of old
and familiar businesses. In their place were new pound stores and Polish
grocers running a sideline in protein-shakes by the bucket. I grimaced at the
over-tanned, over-muscled meat-head whose cardboard cut-out sat in a shop
window.
    Robbie's was reassuringly familiar. A drinker's bar. A
Leith legend. It felt like home. Mac got the pints in and I nodded him towards
a table by the door.
    'What's wrong with the bar?' he said.
    'Not today.' He got the message, even painted a look of
caution on his coupon that tugged at his half-Chelsea smile.
    I blew the head off my Guinness and sat down. Mac was
already on the sniff for information.
    'So what's the score?' he said.
    'Christ, I haven't seen you for weeks. Have you no
small-chat for me?'
    He creased his brow. Dropped one corner of his mouth,
where he seemed to be speaking from in a trippy drawl, 'Do me a fucking favour,
Gus, do I look like I've been picking tittle-tattle off the allotment?'
    The thought of Mac in wellies made me smile. 'If you
were doing any digging it would be because there was a body to dispose of!'
    He liked that, seemed to be running the visual image. 'Cemented
into a new motorway flyover is more my style.'
    I grinned at him; knew he was only half joking. 'Right,
Mac, I need you to test a few of those contacts of yours.'
    The tone turned to the serious notch. 'Oh, aye?'
    I hadn't known Mac as long as I'd known Barry Fulton.
There was a time in my life when I knew hardly anyone like Mac. Since my
marriage went tits up, and my career followed suit, I'd met quite a few people
like Mac. It was safe to say I wasn't exactly mixing with the professional-set
on the squash court.
    'I have this ... old friend.'
    Mac shook his head, 'One of them?'
    'No. Barry's a square-peg ... he just made a few wrong
turns and found himself in Saughton on a twelve stretch.'
    'What for?'
    I sipped my pint, then: 'A counter jump.'
    Mac winced. 'Must have been tooled