The sky looked black as a gypsy’s curse, throwing down rain that felt personal. Hod crammed himself under Amy’s umbrella; his one concession to the cold and wet to put up the collar on his Ted Baker shirt.
‘Aren’t you freezing?’ said Amy.
‘Hell no. I’ve a second skin, see…’ Hod played peekaboo with his shirt buttons, Sean Connery chest hair made a bid for freedom.
‘That’s gross!’ said Amy. ‘Get to a chemist, you get creams for that.’
‘Pray there isn’t a dance floor in this joint, he’ll have the medallion on show,’ I said. ‘Tony Manero doesn’t get a look in.’
Hod undid a few buttons.
‘Oh, no — put it away,’ said Amy.
Hod laughed. ‘That’s not what the last one said!’ He launched into some sick-making dance moves, finger shooting in the air, hips jutting, the whole nine yards.
We turned away, but got drawn back in.
‘Night fever… night fe-v-er… we know how to do it…’
He danced and made a show of himself until the taxi arrived.
In the back of the cab I tried to rein Hod in, reminded him what we’d set out to do. He got the message, seemed to settle. Locked his jaw and looked mean.
Amy looked more pensive, fingers worrying at the rim of her boots.
‘You okay?’ I said.
‘Yeah, oh yeah.’
‘You sure?’
‘I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you, Gus.’
Hod cut in: ‘We both do, we know the score.’
Yeah right. Christ, I didn’t even know the score. I cursed myself again for not taking Mac’s shooter, then remembered the words of John Lennon: ‘Don’t need a gun to blow your mind.’
We got out the cab at the wrong end of George Street, Edinburgh roadworks playing mischief with my plans. As we walked a succession of pimped-up cars roared past the road-closed signs, beat boys who a few years ago were fitting Spokey Dokeys to their BMXs.
‘Twats,’ said Hod. ‘Don’t know what’s worse, them or students!’
‘I’m a student,’ said Amy.
‘Definitely them,’ said Hod, then changing the subject sharply, ‘Here we are!’
Benny the Bullfrog’s casino stood inside one of the New Town’s old Georgian buildings. At one stage it had been a town house. These days, you needed to be multinational to get the keys to a place like this.
Hod stuck his chest out and frowned at the ape on the doors. A classic pintdown man, he frowned back. Good to know they treat you like shit if you’re well-off too.
Inside a scrawny-necked Victoria Beckhamalike, bling a go go, greeted us with an elaborate smile and handshake onslaught. Hod got air kisses. It looked to be histrionics, a job to rival Rada’s finest.
‘Party of three, absolutely delighted to welcome you, and if I may ask the guests to sign in.’
In the slot for name and address, I opted for Mr and Mrs Smith. Amy smiled, gripped my arm tightly. I saw she still harboured fantasies of us re-enacting the potter’s wheel scene from Ghost.
‘Right, let’s hit the bar,’ said Hod.
‘You’ll get no arguments from me.’
My craving for gin had passed. Went for a J amp;B over ice.
‘So what do you do now?’ I asked Hod.
‘What the big wheel does — circulate.’
He moved to the tables, shoulders set hard, poker face on. A look that said, ‘I’ve worked fucking hard to deserve my place here, have you?’
I wished I could say the same thing. The words fish and water sprang to mind. The casino was a league or two above my own.
I’d heard the late Australian billionaire Kerry Packer had been in a casino once when some Texan oilman started mouthing off about his millions.
‘So, how much are you worth?’ asked Packer.
‘Oh, about a hundred million,’ said the oilman.
‘Really?’ said Packer. ‘I’ll toss you for it!’
Beat that for a fuck you.
I felt a tug on my arm, turned to see Amy at my side.
‘I’m going to look about,’ she said.
‘Ah, no. Don’t think so.’
She stuck her head to the side, rolled her eyes at me. ‘I’m a big girl.’
Thought, ‘Who’s gonna argue with that?’
‘Well, be good.’
‘And if I can’t be good?’
‘Just be good.’
I returned to the bar, ordered another J amp;B. I tried to get a handle on the place. It looked plush, first time I’d seen walls carpeted. And the punters certainly had plenty of poppy. A mixture of old Edinburgh and parvenu trash. A lot of green and tweeds clashing with the Prada set. Champagne in full flow all around, raised voices. I eavesdropped.
‘Another bottle of Bolly, darling?’
‘Yaw-yaw…’
‘Oh moy Gawd… Oh moy Gawd!’
‘What is it, darling?’
‘Kitten heels with culottes, darling.’
‘Oh, that’s so last season!’
Felt my brain softening, more than it had already. Phone suddenly went off. Saved by the bell.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, I’m sorry to call so late, but-’
I didn’t recognise her voice. ‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, of course, my name’s McClair. I’m with social services.’
‘Uh-huh, and who are you looking for?’
‘Ehm, is that Mr Dury?’
‘Yeah, that’s me. Is there some kind of problem?’
Silence on the line, then: ‘It’s about the remains of, Mr Milo Whittle.’
To hear his name again thumped at my heart. ‘Milo, yes… God, yes — his remains.’
‘Mr Dury, you seem to be the only contact we have. Are you family of some sort?’
‘No, I’m not family. I’m, eh, all he had though.’
‘In that case, will you be claiming the remains, Mr Dury?’
I felt my heart freeze over, my mouth fell open. The sight of that heap of ashes would stay with me to my dying day.
‘Mr Dury, are you still there?’
‘Eh, yeah… yes, I’m still here.’
‘It’s, well, the remains have been released now. There will have to be arrangements made.’
I felt my mind slowly clicking over. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘We can take care of the funeral expenses, if needs be.’
That terrible expression ‘pauper’s grave’ entered my thoughts.
‘Eh, no.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ll take care of it. The funeral and so on.’
‘That’s very generous, Mr Dury. Are you fully aware of the costs?’
‘Fuck the costs. I’m sorry, I mean, I’ll manage.’
‘Well, we’ll be taking him to the crematorium soon, so…’
‘That’s fine, I’ll get down there now.’
‘I think tomorrow would be better.’
‘Yes, look, tomorrow it is then.’
‘Okay, Mr Dury. Goodbye.’
My legs buckled, standing became difficult. I summoned the courage to order another whisky. I threw it over, sensed right away I’d reached the magic number.
My blood thumped in my veins as I headed for the cashier.
I threw down all the money Col had given me, said, ‘Change that.’
‘How would you like it, sir?’
‘What?’
‘Hundreds, twenties, tens.’
‘Fuck do I care?’
As I headed for the roulette wheel Bobby Darin sang ‘Moon River’. God, my mother used to play that. The past seemed like happier days to me now.
Put a pile of chips on black.
Croupier spun the wheel. ‘No more bets, please.’
As I watched the ball jump Bobby Darin changed his tune, started on ‘Call Me Irresponsible’.
Like I needed that.