Sparked up a bensons, my last one. Scrunched the pack, dropped it in the bin. Made a show of looking up and down the street. I darted for a newsagent’s across the road. My fan club followed suit while I smoked the cig near to the filter.
Outside the shop, I stubbed my tab. Went in.
‘Twenty Marlboro, mate… red top.’
Paid the man, then made a call on my mobi.
‘Hod, you about?’
‘Fucksake, Gus… where you been?’
I stalled him, ‘Around.’
‘Don’t give me that — where?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Well, yes, actually… we’ve had a bit of a stroke of luck.’
Luck. What was that? ‘Do tell.’
‘Well, my dog-fighting contacts came up trumps.’
‘You what?’
A sigh on the other end of the line. ‘We have a pit fight on.’
I knew where he was going with this: catch Sid in the act, see who was pulling his levers. But I also needed to grab hold of the dog-torturing wee bastards. Things were getting desperate.
I played Hod along: ‘Good.’
‘“Good”. That it?’
‘Well, I’ve kinda got a fair whack on my mind right now, Hod.’
‘What’s up?’
It was time to spill. ‘I had my collar felt again. Now I’ve got two of Lothian’s finest clocking my every move.’
‘ Christ.’
‘What’s he got to do with it? Although they do look a bit like Jehovah’s on the door-to-door.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Just out the nick.’
‘Got any ideas?’
‘You know me — Mr Creative.’
‘Well, c’mon, let’s hear it.’
I filled Hod in. Told him to jump in his motor and wait for me outside the Cameo cinema. I tucked away my mobi, hit the street again.
I took plod onto Lothian Road. At St Cuthbert’s Church I stalled, took a deck at the graveyard. They have a watchtower in there, a remnant of Burke and Hare’s grave-robbing antics. I always stop to stare at it — reminds me there’s more to this city than most people imagine.
Made for the Lavazza coffee stall and bought up a large black. Kept my shakes at bay till I could get hold of something stronger.
A Romanian beggar approached me. She carried a cardboard sign that read: PLEASE HELP ME FEED CHILD. GOD BLESS YOU. I looked at her. Her face was dark, heavily lined. She wore a red shawl; intricate stitching and beads fell all the way round the edge of her face. Below she seemed to be wrapped in a blanket. Popping out beneath were a set of Nikes, the swoosh on show.
She made to open her mouth, brought pinched fingers up. Thought: The international symbol for I’m friggin’ hungry, right?
I said, ‘You want a feed?’
She looked at me, put out her hand.
I’d read a story in the local paper recently, said people had reported seeing vanloads of these Romanian beggars being dropped off at strategic locations around the city. I thought it sounded like a typical slow news day beat-up. This woman looked dirt poor, starving.
I pressed: ‘Look, you want food? I’ll buy you something to eat.’
She put her hand out, ran a finger over the palm. ‘Money. Money.’
I shook my head. ‘No. I’ll buy you food.’ Slit the air between us with my palms. ‘No money.’
Her face turned, twisted. The teeth gritted as she ranted at me in Romanian, a hail of curses, then she spat at my feet. Could have sworn I heard laughter following me; turned to check my stalkers were still on plan.
Guess she wasn’t so hungry after all. Was that me cursed now?
I made my way up to the top of Lothian Road and followed the dog-leg round to the Cameo cinema. It is one of the few remaining places in the city you can go that hasn’t been taken over by one of the multinational chains. Still looks like a cinema — cornicing, old-fashioned balconies, ornate plasterwork. Not a hint of plastic cup-holders. It still has chairs that feel like they’re stuffed with horsehair.
The Cameo is said to be Quentin Tarantino’s favourite picture house in the world. I would have thought Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood might have the edge, but what do I know? That’s the thing about your home city: you lose sight of its charms. It takes the tourists, the visitors, to point them out to you sometimes. I know one thing for sure — we lose the Cameo, this place would be poorer for it. We’ve lost too much of the old stuff already.
I ordered up a ticket to the matinee: 3:10 to Yuma. Was a remake starring Russell Crowe. Christ, have they made an original film in the last ten years? Still, wasn’t intending to watch the thing anyway. Would serve my purposes.
I got myself settled in the very last row. End seat, nearest the door.
Watched as plod came in. There was some confusion.
Heard, ‘Shit.’
Some tutting.
They opted for the same row as me. Other side of the cinema. What choice did they have? Sit in front of me? Unlikely.
The dodgy cinema ads were mercifully short. Must save the long-play ones for the later shows. Trailers for a few soon-to-be-released films, then we were into Crowe strutting his stuff. Carrying a few more pounds, I thought. His co-star was Christian Bale. Obviously going for the Antipodean crew; probably shot in the outback too. Was looking to be not too bad a flick, quite getting into it when I remembered why I was there.
My first move was to loosen my belt.
Had the entire length wrapped round my hand when I stood up, stretched. Saw plod get jumpy at my side. Shifted uneasily in their seats. I was about, say thirty or forty yards from them. Maybe another twenty to the doors. Figured that gave me a bit of time to get a start on them.
I sat back down.
Fired off a quick text to Hod. It read: You set?
He replied: In place. Outside Cameo.
In a second, I vaulted the back of the chair, made for the doors. As I ran, I unfurled my belt, caught the buckle in my hand.
On the other side of the doors, I fed the belt through the handles, drew it together, fastened it on the last notch. It held tight.
I was off, chanking it for the street.
I could hear the thumping on the cinema doors as I got to the foyer.
Outside, I flashed my eyes left, right.
A blast of horn. Hod’s tyres screeched.
I jumped towards the road.
The car just about mounted the pavement, then, ‘Get in!’
I wasn’t about to argue.