The Drop

deniable who couldn’t drop me in the shit if it went tits up. I’d use cut-outs, make sure he didn’t even know who’d hired him.’
    ‘You’d use someone from another city wouldn’t you?’
    ‘Yeah, I would.’ Like me, he was wondering if the Gladwells had gotten sloppy, sending a man from their own city down to ours to stir up some trouble.
    When I showed Bobby the name and last known address of Weasel-face, aka Andrew Stone, he said, ‘right, well this needs sorting and sharpish. We’re going up to Glasgow; you, me, Finney and Jerry. We are going to see the Gladwells.’
    ‘What kind of visit is this one?’ I asked him.
    ‘Unannounced.’
    We took the train to Edinburgh and changed for the Glasgow service. Our journey up there was uneventful, there wasn’t much conversation. I was pretty sure we were all reflecting on the seriousness of calling on Arthur Gladwell, Glasgow’s Top Boy, uninvited. Although I understood Bobby’s reasons, it was a prospect I wasn’t exactly relishing.
    I stared out of the train window, looking down at the cliffs that overlooked the North Sea, which, as always, was frighteningly choppy and looked freezing cold. You wouldn’t last five minutes in it. Then I realised Bobby was looking at me.
    ‘That was a nice watch you got our Sarah for her birthday,’ he said uncertainly, as if I’d bought her some crotch-less knickers and a dildo, ‘she keeps going on about it,’ he added, ‘and you. My little girl seems to think you are the doggy’s bollocks these days.’ Something about the way he called her my-little-girl set alarm bells ringing.
    ‘Bless her,’ I said, as if I was talking about a nine-year-old, ‘well, you know me, I got a great deal on that watch, just don’t tell her eh.’
    He was still looking right at me which was making me nervous, but I was determined to hide it. I faked a yawn like we were having the most innocent conversation imaginable, ‘I had to get the boss’ daughter something nice for her 21 st didn’t I?’ I told him, ‘she’s a good kid, you should be proud of her.’
    ‘I am proud of her,’ he said quietly, leaving me none-the-wiser as to what he was actually thinking.
    We’d enquired about Arthur Gladwell and knew it was his wife’s 60 th birthday. He was taking her for dinner at Roganos, which was very classy, for him. I half expected a private table at a Berni Inn, steak and chips all round with a fried egg on top. He’d never lost the common touch, Arthur, because he had no idea there was any other way to go about things. Lord knows who told him about a place like Roganos.
    We got word they were having their pre-dinner drinks in a nearby pub. Arthur was standing there with his missus and their four sons, all stocky like their father but slightly shorter versions of his towering frame, as if they hadn’t yet earned the right to see the world from a higher perspective than him. Their other halves were there too and, if they could be classed as beautiful, it was in a heavily made-up, perma-tanned way that my late mother would have described as ‘all fur coat and no knickers’.
    Arthur looked surprised to see us but he hid it well. He quietly instructed his eldest boy Tommy’s wife to look after the ladies at the bar while he walked over to greet us by the door, followed by his boys. They were frowning, our very presence on their patch was a massive affront to them.
    There were five of them and four of us but I wasn’t in the same league as Bobby, Finney and Jerry Lemon. I was praying they wouldn’t want to start anything in a pub, even a dog-rough one with ancient wallpaper, and woodchip walls like this one. I sized up Arthur’s lads so I could pick the softest one to lamp if it did kick off, but they were all built like steroidal bouncers. Each of them looked like he’d grown up fighting every day, encouraged by his dad, and I didn’t like the odds. The eldest, Tommy, was sporting the remnants of a black eye and there was something about the way he carried himself, a little warily, that made me wonder if he might have been given it by his father.
    ‘Arthur,’ said Bobby.
    ‘Bobby,’ Arthur Gladwell nodded, ‘what brings you here? I’m not aware of a meeting. It’s my wife’s birthday.’
    ‘I know that,’ said Bobby, ‘this won’t take long.’
    ‘Fair enough.’
    Bobby handed Arthur the rolled up picture of Andrew Stone. The big man unfurled it and looked at it, while we watched him for a trace of