The Tale of Mr. Mac
Part One.
“Funny fing, Life, when you fink abaht it…”
“Yeah. Bloody hilarious.”
“Bloody awful.”
“Well, you got to laugh, ‘ey?”
“It makes you fink, dunnit?”
“Well, this is it, innit?”
“Yeah…”
It was a brief conversation conducted by three distinct voices. However, they were the kind of voices associated with unpleasant people; the kind of people who did unspeakable things in rain-washed, dimly-lit alleyways at dead of night. It was the dead of night. It was raining, and the darkness emanated from an alley so gloomy it seemed to suck what light there was right out of the night. They were alien voices, out of place here, for they evoked the less savoury and more overtly criminal, environs of London’s East End. But this was Glasgow. If encountered by a numerically superior group of locals, the owners of such voices would not have been made welcome. One could tell that something nasty was going to happen to somebody.
Quite soon.
Probably.
The only sound was the gentle hiss of the falling rain against the cobbles mixed with the gurgle of an overflowing drain, as its contents ran down the gutter in a noisome rivulet. After a while there was a rustling and a little rattle. A match flared, briefly illuminating a fragment of unsympathetic countenance from behind the silhouette of a cupped hand. The light died as suddenly as it was struck, to be replaced by the lurid, orange, glow of a burning cigarette end in the darkness.
“You didn’t ought to’ve done that, ’Arry…”
“We’ve a couple of minutes yet.”
“Have we?”
“Yeah.”
After a while, a tiny, glowing star fell four feet and vanished with a sizzle. A sodden dog-end, carried by a surge from the spontaneous breaching of a dam of detritus in the gutter, swept out of the alley, and was deposited at the corner of the pavement.
Some way up the main street a man emerged from a doorway. He paused on the step to pull up the collar of his raincoat and pull the brim of his hat a little lower over his eyes. He stepped down onto the pavement, turned to his left, and at an easy pace, strolled in the direction of the alley. Deep within its gloomy maw, an observer, possessed of enhanced or supernatural senses, might have detected a heightening of expectation, a suggestion of movement. As the man drew level with the entrance, his progress was checked abruptly, by the sudden and disconcerting emergence of its denizens. Swiftly and professionally, they contrived to surround him in a triumvirate of near infinite menace. Understandably taken aback, the man attempted to take a half step backwards whilst his right hand instinctively reached inside his raincoat. However, a disquieting sensation of sharpness in the region of his kidneys demanded an urgent rethink of his available options.
Motionless, the man regarded his primary assailant through narrowed eyes. The object of his scrutiny casually closed the distance between them. He looked up into the steely gaze and smiled, revealing the rotting stumps of what might once have been teeth.
“Evening,” he said, “You’ll be Mister Mac, I’m thinkin’.”
“Who’s he?” said the man.
“He’s him as could be so much more…” The reply came with unwelcome intimacy from behind his ear on a gust of fetid breath.
“He’s him as could be so much more than just another man’s right hand…”, the third assailant’s voice was squeaky, betraying less than a hint of sanity and more than a touch of madness.
“’E’s ’im as could be the brain behind the ’and, says I,” purred the first.
“Him as should be the brain behind the hand,” whispered the second.
“Him as will be the brain behind the hand,” wheezed the third through a bubbling, phlegmy, snigger.
“So is you ’im or not? C’mon now, we ain’t got all night.” said the man with rotten teeth.
“All right, I is, I mean I am,” said Mr. Mac. “So who are you and what do you want?”
“Well now, as for ’oo we is, you might call us your fairy godfavers,” said bad teeth, with a repellent grin.
“And as for what we want, well, we wants to ‘elp you,” said bad breath from a position entirely too close for comfort.
“But first,” wheezed the third, “You’ve got to cross our palms with silver, see. It’s part of the arrangement.”
“No ’Arry, not silver. Silver ain’t no good no more, I can’t bite it see, on account of me teef.”
“Paper’s fine…” said bad breath.
“We likes to hear it rustle,” wheezed Harry.
“So if you’d be so good as to reach carefully into your wallet and extract a generous gratuity, we can get on wiv business and you can get on wiv hearin’ somefin’ to your advantage. Savvy?”
Intrigued, Mr Mac reached into his coat and extracted his wallet, from which he removed a wad of cash. He handed it to the man in front of him.
“Corr!” said bad breath. Harry hissed appreciatively.
“Very generous, very generous indeed,” said bad teeth, as he squirreled the bounty away about his person.
“So, what good, exactly, has my generosity done me, gentlemen?” asked Mr. Mac.
“Gentlemen, ’e calls us. D’you ’ear that ’Arry? Gentlemen! Didn’t I say? Generous and courteous is Mr. Mac. A man to be reckoned wiv. A man as we can do business wiv. A man, I says, ’oo deserves of our best. Oh yes. Well now, Mr. Mac, me finks I am a prophet new inspired, so to speak. It seems as ’ow you might be expectin’ a visitor tonight. A Man, as you might say, to be reckoned wiv, much like your good self. A Man as knows ’ow to run fings, if you get my drift. A man ’oo might be celebratin’ ’is good fortune, fanks, in no small part, to the doin’s of a Man like your good self on ’is be’alf.
‘Such a Man as this First man, might feel so secure in the company of this Second man, that ’e might let down ’is guard. ’E might let down ’is guard to such an extent that the Second man might find hisself in a position to take advantage. This Second man might then contrive, by whatever means ’e might fink fit, to so look after the First man, that the First man need never have no concerns about nuffin’, ever again.
‘Then, as it might be, that Second man, a good man, a man such as might be yourself, might find that ’e became the First man. So when, as it might happen, Mr. Dunnykin calls around for dinner tonight, Mr Mac might consider his options… Know what I mean?
‘Now I can’t say no more, but if, as it might be, you didn’t feel as though fings as I’ve described them, might seem a good idea, then I will just suggest that when you gets ’ome tonight, you might consider runnin’ the idea past your wife. See what she finks, as it were. Now, I and my companions ’as done, what we might call, our duty by you. We feel, as what might be, a desire to be elsewhere. You know ’ow it is… People to see, places to go… So we’ll be takin’ our leave of you, for now, as it were.”
The three men slipped into the alley and were swallowed by the gloom. A voice echoed out of the darkness accompanied by a hideous bubbling snigger.
“Good night, Sweet prince…”
Mr. Mac, alone once more in the darkness, stared into the empty blackness of the alley. Foolish as it might have seemed to remain in such a place at such a time, he nevertheless felt himself unwilling, or unable to move. He replayed the encounter in his head and pondered on what he had been told. Perhaps unwisely for a man in his position and line of work, he began to have ideas about the future course of his life. Ambition, a dangerous indulgence for an employee of Mr. Dunnykin’s, stirred in a hitherto unused corner of his mind.
The trouble was planning.
Ambition required lots of planning. It was not something he was good at. Up to now he’d left all the planning to Mr. Dunnykin. Mr. Dunnykin was good at planning. He’d made it his business to be good at it. Mr. Mac, on the other hand, was good at doing what he was told. Mr. Dunnykin told him where to go, when to go there and who to whack. Whacking people was not a problem for Mr Mac. It was what he was good at. He enjoyed it. It didn’t require much imagination. So, with Mr. Dunnykin to hand, Mr. Mac had no moral scruples about taking advantage of the situation and whacking him. The problem was getting away with it. It all came back to the planning.
And then there was the problem of Mr. Banquet.
Mr. Banquet was his friend. He was in the slot below Mr. Mac. The trouble was that Mr. Banquet was not stupid. If Mr. Banquet got wind of what was going on he would expect a slice of the pie. Mr. Banquet would want the No. 2 slot if Mr. Mac moved up to No. 1. With Mr. Banquet in the No. 2 slot, and, not being stupid, knew how easy it was to take the No. 1 slot… Well: Even with the limited imagination at his disposal, Mr. Mac could recognise a pattern when he saw one. Mr. Banquet was definitely a problem.
Perhaps the parting advice of the weird brethren was worth a shot. When he got home he would run the conundrum past his wife. She was smart. She didn’t say much, but when she did it was always on the money. Mr. Mac smiled to himself, and with renewed purpose, resumed his homeward journey in the dark.
Mrs. Mac was in the dining room pouring her self a scotch when she heard her husband’s key in the door. She poured another and turned to greet him as he came in from the hall.
“D’you do the malchy on Gordon?” she asked, handing him his drink. He took it and nodded.
“No worries on that score, Hen.” He sipped his drink.
“So how’d it go?”
“Oh, fine, fine. No’a problem.”
Mrs. Mac was not convinced by this reply. She gave her husband an appraising stare and saw that he had something on his mind. “So what’s botherin’ you man? Ye’ve the look about you of a man who canna do his sums.”
“That’s no surprisin’, woman, for it does’ne add up.”
“Then ye’d best trust te a little o’ my accountancy, big man. See if I canna clear ye’re heed.”
He nodded and settled down in his favourite chair. His wife perched herself on the arm and listened attentively as Mr. Mac related his strange tale. When he had finished Mrs. Mac subjected her husband to a hard and unfriendly stare.
“If this is just some tall tale te try te explain te me why ye allowed ye’sen te be rolled by a wee prile o’ gnarley-men, it’ll go hard wi ye, big man. I’ll kill ye ma’sen! And Sassenachs… Oh, the shame o’ it!”
“I swear te ye, hen, they were wierdin’ men wi’ the sight, be they Sassenachs or no,” protested her husband.
“We’ll know soon enough. If the Man comes tonight, I’ll ken what te do!”
It was then that the telephone rang. They both stared at it stupidly for a moment whilst it continued to ring. Mrs. Mac was the first to recover.
“Are ye goin’ te answer that?”
With a quick glance at his wife he picked up the receiver.
“Mac,” he said.
“Is that yourself, big man?” said the voice on the phone. “You’ll know who this is, I’m thinkin’.”
‘It’s Him’, Mr. Mac pantomimed to his wife.
“I’m very pleased with the way you handled the Gordon situation,” continued the man on the phone. “It doesn’t pay to let things slide. I’ve a mind to pay you a visit, so as we can talk. I was thinking tonight would be fine.”
“It would, Mr. D. It’d be an Honour.”
“You’re a smart man, Mac. A man on his way up. I’ll see you at ten.” He hung up.
Mr. Mac stared at the phone and then stared at his wife while the buzz of the empty line sang a descant to his racing thoughts. Carefully, he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
“He’ll be here at ten,” he said.
“He’ll no be alone. Who’ll be wi’m?”
“He never goes anywhere wi’out the twins: Banquet’ll come, just for the leavin’s. Then there’ll be Wee Duffy, me’be two or three gofers an’ a heavy.”
“Then I’d better do fe twelve - I’ve seen Banquet eat.”
“Aye, Hen, Banquet by name an’ nature both. The man’s a taste for greed.”
“It’ll be his undoin’. But that’s for later. Tonight we’ve bigger fish te fry. This is what ye’ll do…”
The mantle clock was just striking ten as a sleek, black limousine drew up outside the imposing portico Mr. Mac’s suburban villa, ‘Dunsinnin’. Mr. Dunnykin’s well-drilled bodyguards were the first to emerge. Alert, eyes scanning the street, they covered the walk to Mr. Mac’s front door. On the other side of the car, a pair of enormous heavies covered the blind side. As the front door opened, Mr. Dunnykin, escorted by the twins and trailed by Banquet, came forth and processed unhurriedly into the welcoming hall. Mr. Mac greeted his guests and led them into his parlour. The escorts followed.
“Will you have a dram, gentlemen?” Enquired Mr. Mac of the assembly. Every eye of the entourage swivelled to take their lead from Mr. Dunnykin. The man’s hardened countenance was slowly softened by a reptilian smile.
“Why not? After all, we’re celebrating, aren’t we gentlemen?”
With these words everyone visibly relaxed, for Mr. Dunnykin was notoriously cagey and mercurial of temper. The entire assembly might just as easily have been descending on their host to slaughter him and his entire household as to have dinner. It also had to have been on their minds that Mr. Mac was the kind of man who was particularly gifted in the arts of destruction. Having been Mr. Dunnykin’s primary instrument of retribution for many years, he would almost certainly have resisted any attempt at liquidation with considerable vigour. If things had been going to get nasty, they would have got very nasty indeed. Instead, it looked as though they were going to have a good time.
Gold splashed in crystal, generously poured and eagerly consumed by cheerful men who grew more cheerful with every sip.
Mr. Dunnykin savoured his scotch and fixed his host with a steely eye. “So, Mac, where’s that carlin wench you married, eh? She should be here to share the moment.”
Mr. Mac had to shout above the rising din of drinking Scotsmen for his reply to be audible.
“She’s away in the kitchen preparing a board fit for a king!” This announcement was greeted with a general roar of approval from the assembly. “She’ll no be long though. She’s but to set the table and we can eat.”
There was another appreciative roar.
“That’s good Mac. Then I’ll save what I have to say for the feast.”
Mrs. Mac could not have chosen her moment better. Flinging open the connecting doors, she stood, framed between them, before a table groaning under the weight of food, drink, crystal and silver. The room was bathed in candlelight while a roaring fire in the grate painted shadows with a flickering orange glow. Her gown sparkled with every movement of the delicious curves beneath. The room fell silent and as one man, they gasped.
“Are ye hungry, gentlemen?” She asked.
“Aye!” chorused every man present.
“Then take a seat and have your fill.” She stood aside as the cheering mob rushed the door and descended on the food.
The meal was nearly over, its scattered remnants littering the table. Mr. Mac sat in his place at its head, an empty chair at his side marking his wife’s temporary departure to the kitchen. Facing him, Mr. Dunnykin sat hunched at the far end, complacent with indulgence, the drink making his hooded eyes and lizard smile more reptilian than ever. Only Banquet continued to indulge in solids. Having cleared his own plate twice over, he now importuned those fellow diners within range for their left-overs. Everyone else, with the exception of Mr. Mac (following the strict instructions of his wife) and Mr Dunnykin who was struggling against his nature in an effort to remain coherent until he had said what he had come to say, was engaged in the serious process of emptying and refilling their glasses. The brief intervals between the draining and recharging of the cup were punctuated with snatches of song, loud cheers and intimate, maundering reflections upon the state of life, the world and business between old friends.
The Twins, white hair in disarray, colourless albino eyes dim with alcohol and unfocused memory, chuckled together as they companionably shared the blurred reminiscences of old murders. Mr. Mac watched them over the brim of his glass with narrowed eyes and reflected that he had never liked them much. They had always given him the creeps. He smiled and his eyes flicked over the crowd. There was Wee Duffy glassy-eyed and smiling. Doubtless he was thinking about his wife and son, the soppy sod. He’d have to be careful there, the man had a small but loyal following. The heavies and the gofers were nothing; just helots to do as they were told, they didn’t care where the orders came from. No. the only ones he needed to worry about were Wee Duffy and Banquet. ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself,’ he thought as he caught Mr. Dunnykin’s eye. ‘I’m no’ The Man yet.’
Mrs. Mac returned to the dining-room to the rousing accompaniment of cheers and wolf-whistles, carrying a laden tray of spirituous liquor. She distributed the bottles and then resumed her place at her husband’s side. Mr. Dunnykin gathered his energies and slapped on the table-top until the noise subsided. With an effort he hauled himself to his feet and contrived to wedge himself upright by leaning against the table. For a moment, this heroic endeavour seemed to have exhausted him and he wobbled, silently regarding the expectant, upturned, sweaty faces of the diners as he marshalled the thoughts in his drink-befuddled brain. At last he spoke.
“Gen’lemen… I’m sure I speak for all o’ us when I thank our host an’ his lady for their gen’rous hospital’ty this evening:-” The room erupted with a roar of approval from the parliament of crooks accompanied by the pounding of hands upon the table. Eventually Mr. Dunnykin succeeded in waving them into silence. He continued.
“We all know the sterling service Mr. Mac has put in on behalf of Dunnykin’s Dunkin’ Doughnuts over the years…” There was another chorus of assent from the assembly.
“And we all know that he’s been a’ the sharp end o’ the cut an’ thrust of competitive bakin’ in this town fo’ as long as any o’ us can remember…” This time there was laughter.
“An’ probably it’s only the people in this room that’re left to know jes how competitive an’ how sharp that business has been!”
More laughter.
“An’ so, Mac, it’s all thanks to you that now there’s no more competition!” More cheers and laughter, “Poor Gordon!” The banging and stamping gradually subsided. “Setch loyalty, Gen’lemen, setch devotion to me an’ mine, is deserving of recognition!” There were general cries of ‘Hear, hear!’
Mr. Mac waved a deprecating hand in the face of the general acclaim. “No, no, Mr. D… I’m jes’ one o’ your boys, one man in the team.”
“Nonsense, Man… Ye may be a team player, but you’re my star centre- forward! My best Striker! My swift sword o’ retribution. So how can I show my appreciation of all that you mean to us? You’ve a fine house, a fine wife, you’ve all that a man might want! How do I thank the man who has everything, eh…?”
The hoods were all chanting, “How?, How? How?”
“I’m giving you Gordon’s turf, Big Man!” Mr. Dunnykin stuffed his cigar between his teeth and grinning at his host, slowly toppled back into his chair. He gazed at Mr. Mac with lazy, indulgent eyes while the men chanted, “Mac! Mac! Mac!”
“Speech, Speech!” sprayed Banquet through a mouthful of food. The cry was taken up by the others until, urged by his wife, Mr. Mac got to his feet.
“Mr. D… My old friend, Mr. Banquet…, Wee Duffy…. The Twins, there... Friends and colleagues all… What can I say? It’s an honour to have you as my guests, to share this moment and partake of my wife’s fine cookin’ in such august and convivial company!”
“Hear, Hear!”
“You all know me. I’m no’ an ambitious man. I’ve never sought preferment over wiser, more talented men. I’m just a craftsman who sought to find a place where those skills I have would be needed and appreciated. That need and appreciation is reward enough for a man like me.”
Mr. Dunnykin narrowed his eyes and the smile on his face hardened a little as he regarded the speaker, while around him, the men’s hands drummed on the table.
“But I’m no’ an ungrateful man,” continued Mr. Mac with an ingenuous smile. “Who would be so churlish as to reject an honest token of appreciation offered by so wise and generous a man as Mr. Dunnykin and I thank him fo’it with all due and proper humility, and I hope to continue to serve him, and you other gentlemen, long into the future. Your heath Mr. D... Slange!” He raised his glass and then sat down.
Mr. Dunnykin’s countenance softened and he nodded to himself at the due and proper response, while around him the table erupted into cheering.
Mrs. Mac stood up and resting one hand on her husband’s shoulder picked up a spoon with the other and tapped a glass. After a while the crowd became aware of it and calmed down.
“Gentlemen!” she said, “ It’s late an’ it’s been a long night wi’ much good cheer enjoyed by all. Now me and my man’ve a mind te retire…”
At this there was a collective murmur and a burst of lecherous laughter from the table.
“…but we’d no expect ye all te have te make off as ye are. So we’ve prepared rooms fo’ ye here. Ye can all sleep it off in comfort. Now, If Mr. Dunnykin an’ The Twins would com wi’ me I’ll see you settled. Mac’ll show the rest o’ ye to your rooms.”
The Twins got unsteadily to their feet and helped Mr. Dunnykin to his. Amid expressions of thanks and good wishes for the night’s repose the party broke up and the company were shown to their beds.
It was four o’ clock in the morning and Dunsinnin’ reverberated to the drunken snores of ten slumbering Scotsmen. The eleventh was not asleep, but stood, eyes bright in the darkness, outside a door. Behind it, Mr. Dunnykin and The Twins lay insensate in their beds. His trembling hand reached out and grasped the doorknob. Slowly he turned it and opened the door a crack and paused, putting first his ear and then his eye to the gap. Neither seeing nor hearing any untoward movement, he pushed the door open and slipped into the musty darkness, closing the door behind him. Mr. Mac took a moment to reorient himself in the gloom, then he silently made his way to the bed where The Twins were snoring. The house was full of murderers, but Mr. Mac was an artist. The two men asleep on the bed in front of him were butchers. They liked to kill messily, with bayonets. They always carried them, no matter where they were. Mr. Mac Knelt and groped around the floor by the bed until his hand closed on cold steel. Quietly, he padded around the bed and repeated the exercise. When he stood up he held a bayonet in each hand.
Mr. Mac was roused from bloody dreams by a household in uproar. Banquet burst into his room wild eyed and shouting with Duffy hard on his heels.
“Mac! Mac! They’ve done the Malcy on Dunnykin! He’s away in his room all bloody in his bed…”
“Whisht Man! Hold your noise,” Mr. Mac exclaimed, grabbing his gun from beneath the pillow as he hastily untangled himself from the bedclothes. “Is the man in his senses, Duffy, or did he leave his wits in a bottle?” he asked as he pulled on his dressing-gown.
“I canna speak for the whereabouts o’is wits but it’s true what he says. Mr. D’s murthered and it would seem to be The Twin’s doin’. The boys are holdin’ ’em”
Mrs. Mac, roused by the initial furore, lay propped on her elbow veiling her modesty with a sheet and watching the scene with guarded eyes.
“I canna believe it, man! It makes no sense,” said Mr. Mac.
“You’d best see for your sen, man, then see what you believe,” said Banquet.
“Show me,” said Mr. Mac.
“I’m comin’ too,” said Mrs. Mac.
“No dressed like that you’re not!” said her husband. “Dress ye’ sen and follow if you must, but we’ll no wait for you. Take me to ’em, Duffy, you too Banquet, an’ we’ll see what’s to be done.
The room was a shambles. Torn and bloody, the body of the late Mr. Dunnykin, undisputed king of the Dunkin’ Doughnut trade in Glasgow, lay sprawled on his bed. His gaping wounds were a gory testament to the transience of his countenance. All trace of his menace and power were now gone from him in the carnage of his terrible end. Cold and clotting, his life’s blood stained the walls in great, splattering arcs. It collected in pools beneath his livid flesh and formed sticky puddles on the floor. It coated The Twins, who stood, under guard, trembling in their underwear, like a second skin. On the floor in front of them lay their weapons, eloquent, ruddy testaments to their crime.
Mr. Mac looked upon the dreadful handiwork and with a hideous cry, raised his gun and shot each Twin in the centre of the face with terrible precision. They fell to the floor, their brains decorating the wall and their blood mingling with that of the late Mr. Dunnykin. He emerged, smoke curling from the barrel of his automatic, followed by the now redundant guards. Banquet and Wee Duffy stood back from the doorway and watched him as he walked stiffly back to his room, passing his wife without a word as she came running towards the sound of gunfire. She halted abruptly on the threshold momentarily speechless as she surveyed the horror within. Then she let out a terrible wail.
“Oh my carpets! Oh My curtains! Will ye look at the mess! Who’d ‘ve thought the bastards could have so much blood in ’em! And the smell! Och, it’s awful!”
“Should I call the police, Mrs. M?” asked Wee Duffy.
“Or an ambulance?” asked Banquet.
“Don’t be daft, ye pair o’ glimmerin’ ninnies that ye are! They’re beyond the services o’ any save a resurrectionist, an’ we hardly want te attract the attention o’ the police. Away wi’ ye and get some o’ the heavies to bag ’em up an’ throw ’em in the Clyde were they belong. Then strip the room, sluice it down, burn everything, an’ get me a decorator!” Muttering to herself, she spun on her heel, marched back along the landing and followed her husband into their bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Wee Duffy and Banquet watched her retreating back in thoughtful silence, then turned to regard each other with cautious appraisal.
“Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” asked Duffey.
“That would depend on what you’re thinkin’, I’m thinkin’”
“I’m thinkin’ that the board has a vacancy in the chair…”
“You’d also be thinkin’ that it’s likely Mr. Mac’ll park his arse on it, I’m thinkin’.”
“I’m thinkin’ that the way things are at the moment, the board wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Mmmm,” said Banquet. They both mutely contemplated there own thoughts.
“I’m thinkin’ the killin’ had The Twin’s mark on it, right enough…” said Banquet after a moment.
“Oh, for sure, for sure…” said Wee Duffey
“And no one would blame Mac for what he did, given how The Man had favoured him…”
“No, no. Not at all. They went way back…”
“So what else is there to think about?”
“You’re right. There’s no’ else to think about.”
“Well all right then. Let’s be gettin’ on wi’it.” said Banquet.
Despite their cagey exchange both men had definite suspicions about the event and its likely consequences. But whereas Wee Duffy regarded Mr. Mac’s rise to prominence as potentially dangerous to himself, Banquet, very much as Mr. Mac had himself foreseen, saw it as an opportunity to further his own ends. He felt richer already. Wee Duffy, on the other hand, determined to get himself South of the border at the earliest opportunity.
In their bedroom Mrs. Mac was berating her husband.
“Jesus, Mac, did ye have te make such a meal o’it.”
“Dinne fash y’sel, Hen, it was your idea!”
“Jesus!, Mac, I did na say te make the place a slaughterhouse!”
“Make it look like The Twins’ doin’, you said.”
“Jesus!”
“Look, Woman, No one who’d ever seen their handiwork would ever believe it was them unless it was messy!”
“Well! We’ve no worries on that score then, Big Man! So tell me, did you have to off the bastards in there too.”
“Aye, Hen, I did. It had to be quick. It had to be decisive. It had to be believable, and anyway, with the mess in there already it did ne seem to matter.”
“Och, I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Mac grudgingly admitted, “But Jesus, Mac…”
“Aye, Hen. It’s tough in the dog-eat-dog world of Dunkin’ Doughnuts.”
“Thank Christ were no mixed up in the deep-fried, battered, Mars Bar trade then! That’d be really hard.”
“Did I tell you I was thinkin’ about branching out into the Ice-cream business?”
“Don’t you dare!”
As the last rays of the setting sun wrought plates of flashing gold in the windows of the Glasgow tenements, Mr. Mac sat alone in sombre contemplation at his desk. Its lamp painted a dim island of light amid the lengthening shadows, isolating him from the tenebrous ambience of his study. He looked up at a tentative knocking on the door. It opened a crack and Banquet’s head peered in.
“Can I have a word, Mac?”
“Aye, Man, come in.”
Banquet sidled into the room and approached the desk, where he stood, awkwardly shuffling his feet under Mr. Mac’s dead-eyed gaze. He was considering the most appropriate way to begin.
“Have a seat,” said Mr. Mac.
Banquet pulled a chair up to the desk opposite Mr. Mac and sat down. Mr. Mac continued to subject him to an unblinking stare which he found un-nerving. He picked up a date stamp and played with it nervously, keeping his eyes low to avoid meeting the glassy eyes of his employer.
“So what’s on your mind?” asked Mr. Mac, after a while.
“Well, it’s a bit awkward, Mac. I know how close you were to Mr. D, so I was wantin’ to offer my condolences. But at the same time, the board’s made you The Man in his place so I wanted to offer my congratulations, but I didn’a want to seem insensitive or forward - if you know what I mean…?”
“Aye, man, I know what you mean.”
“It was a terrible thing, though, right enough. A terrible way to die…Terrible.”
“Oh, it was, it was.”
“And The Twin’s… Who’d o’ thought it o’ em?”
“Who indeed?”
“Especially with them being so close to Mr. D. an’ all. They were like his bairns, always following him around, watchin’ his back…”
“Aye, but there’s more than one reason to watch a man’s back. You could harvest a lot o’ knives from dead men’s backs that were put there by men who watched and bided their time, if you’d a mind to.”
“That’s true, Mac, very true. And of course, they’d a powerful lot o’ drink in ’em.”
“Aye, aye… Strong drink can do more wicked things to a man than jes’ robbing him o’ his wits.”
“Oh, that’s so true, Mac, so true… Still, it’s an ill wind, eh? After all, when there’s a few vacancies appear in an organisation like ours, it’s only natural that folk look to move up and fill their shoes…”
“Oh, for sure… Only natural.”
“And a man as busy as yourself, Mac… He’s going to need a strong, reliable right hand, someone to take care of the little things that a busy man does’na want te be bothered with…”
At last, Mr. Mac blinked. With glacial slowness a smile cracked his stony visage. “Dougie,” he said, “We go way back now, don’t we?”
“Aye, Mac, we do, way back…”
“And aren’t you my oldest friend?”
“That I am, Mac.”
“You know I’ve always liked the way you do things.”
“Have you, Mac?”
“Oh I have, I have…”
“It’s good of you to say so, Mac.”
“You’re a sensible man who does what he has to wi’out drawing undue attention to him self.”
“Oh I do, I do…”
“So I’ve a mind to give you Gordon’s turf as I’m going to be too busy to manage it ma sen, what wi unexpectedly havin’ so much else on my plate, the now.”
“Now that’s generous, Mac, very generous indeed. You’ll no regret it,” simpered Banquet.
“It’s no more than your due, Dougie, no more than your due. If you’ll wait just a minute I’ll gi’ ye a letter of authority for ‘The Baker’ that’ll make it official…” Mr. Mac took a sheet of paper and quickly scribbled a note and sealed it in an envelope which he handed to Banquet, who became even more oily and ingratiating than ever.
“Och, you’re a true friend, Mac, a real pal.”
“D’inna fash yersel’, Dougie, I always reckon to take care o’ my friends. You’ve no cause to fear you’ll not get what’s comin’ to ye. Mr. Mac stood up, indicating that the interview was over, and Banquet rose and shook his hand.
“Now you run along an’ give that to the man and it’ll all be official,” continued Mr. Mac, escorting him to the door. “After you’ve seen him, you come to dinner tomorrow night with me an’ Moragh. We’ll celebrate!”
“That’d be grand, Mac. I’m looking forward to it already.”
“I’ll see you tonight then. Goodbye, Dougie,” said Mr. Mac closing the door. He was still smiling when he sat back down at his desk. After a moment he started to laugh.
Banquet was in high spirits as he walked along the high street with Mr. Mac’s letter tucked securely in the inside pocket of his jacket. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and now he had his own turf. It was a prospect that offered the opportunity to become very rich. Now he was in charge of a key element within the organisation, a position which would enable him to establish his own power base. With a little backing, who knew how high he might rise? He drew level with the glass display window of the bakery where he stopped and admired the rows of freshly baked produce inside. His mouth watered in anticipation as he contemplated the possibilities and the food. He smiled, and using his reflection in the plate glass, took a moment to assess his appearance. He straightened his tie, and satisfied, stepped up to the door and walked in. The cheerful little shop bell heralded his arrival.
A slim, spotty youth with a prominent Adam’s apple and greasy hair, barely concealed by the greying paper cap perched on his head, looked up in surly acknowledgement of his existence.
“Can I help ye?” asked the boy, in a manner which conveyed the impression that he’d rather not.
Banquet had been going to ask for a pie but his gaze had been magnetically attracted to a ripe boil on the boy’s nose and he discovered that, incredibly, he had lost his appetite.
“Go an’ fetch me The Baker lad, an’ be quick about it,” he said, having managed to drag his mind away from the hypnotic fascination of the spot.
“He’s no’ in,” said the boy with automatic insolence.
“You’ve no’ been here long, have ye, boy,” said Banquet with ominous patience, “Now my name’s Banquet, that’s Mr. Banquet to you, an’ I know full well that he is. Now you run along an’ tell’m I’m here, an’ be quick about it or you’ll be feelin’ the back o’ my hand, so you will.”
Impressed only by the threat of imminent violence, the youth ducked through a bead curtain to the back of the shop. With his departure, Banquet discovered that his appetite had returned. He helped himself to a pie, but before he could take a bite, a large figure in chef’s whites appeared through the curtain.
“Oh, it’s you, Dougie. What’s up?”
“I’ve a letter for ye from Mac, big man.”
“Is that so? well then, you’d best come through.” The Baker beckoned to him and called over his shoulder. “Hamish! Watch the shop!”
The spotty youth returned and flicked a venomous sidelong glance at Banquet as he ducked past him in the doorway. The two men retreated behind the curtain.
Walking through the busy industrial kitchen behind the shop, they passed, via a side door, into The Baker’s spacious, private office.
“Will you have a seat, Dougie? How about a dram?” asked the Baker as he shut the door behind them.
“Thanks. I don’t mind if I do.”
The Baker poured a couple of drinks, and after handing one to Banquet, sat down at his desk. “So what’s up?” he asked.
“I’ve a letter for ye from Mac. Ye see, things are startin’ to happen for me. The letter explains everythin’. You can offer me your congratulations after you’ve read it.” He reached into his pocket and proffered the letter.
“Is that so, big man?” replied The Baker, taking it. While he tore open the envelope and studied the contents, Banquet examined his pie, sniffing it and savouring the aroma.
The Baker read the note with a half smile and raised an eyebrow. Then he read it again. “Is this on the level?” he asked.
“Aye, it is. He gave it te me himsel’” said Banquet, proudly.
“Did he now?” said the Baker, reaching into a draw. “Well in that case…” His hand came up holding a gun and he shot Banquet between the eyes. “Congratulations!”
Banquet’s chair tipped backwards and his eyes, still smiling, gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. The untasted pie, dropped from his nerveless fingers, rolled unheeded on the carpet.
The Baker put down the gun and picked up a recipe book. He flicked through the pages until he came to the one he was looking for. “Ah, yes,” he said. The recipe was entitled, ‘Gourmet Banquet Pies’.