Steelie 3

Brodie said, ‘Well, I’ll be off.’

His American accent no longer bugged Steelie. He warmed to it as he warmed to the troubled man. ‘I’ll no keep yae.’

The big man snorted and his face crinkled into something approaching a smile.

Steelie chanced his arm. ‘Don’t suppose you can get us another round afore you go?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m sure you’ve got enough to be going on with, Sir.’

‘Don’t call me “Sir”, or I’ll confuse myself wae somebody else that’s no a stupid cunt. Then both of us will be confused.’ He held a finger up. ‘But if you sit doon a minute. We’ll play a wee game. And I’ll show you something.’    

‘I don’t play games Mr Steele.’

An oversized, black hooded top bounced through the door. It was attached to the kind of swagger and Balenciaga runners that never done any running. He was mouthing something to his subordinate in a puffer jacket, while also holding a conversation on his iPhone. Both came to an abrupt end when he walked into Brodie and bounced backwards. His phone falling to the floor and the screen cracking.

‘Whit you daeing, ya stupid cunt.’

He shoved at Brodie’s chest. The citrus of his cologne was more powerful than arms and splayed fingers. His large blue eyes had particularly long, girly eyelashes.     

Brodie stepped forward rather than flying backwards. His heel crushing the screen of the iPhone. ‘Oop,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’ He kicked the broken phone towards the feet of the boy in the puffer jacket.

His tousled brown hair dropped onto his chest as he stared at the phone and then towards Brodie. He reached for a blade from an inside pocket. But it was over before it started.

Brodie rabbit-punched his thrapple. Reached behind his head and grabbed a fistful of hair and brought his knee up to his nose.

The crack of bone meeting bone and the splatter of blood had even Steelie wincing. He was on nodding terms with both lads. Spider scarpered. Leaving his mate, Burnsie groaning on the floor.

Sharon emerged from behind the bar, shouting the odds about, ‘Needing tae call the Police’.

A gory cocktail poured out of his broken nose. Nobody paid her much attention. She knew the script.

Brodie helped the tousled-haired lad sit up and onto to his feet. He put an arm around his waist and escorted him outside. They might have been two old mates going home after a heavy session.

Steelie feigned surprise when Brodie returned to the pub. Squeezed in beside him and threw back a whisky without the liquid seeming to touch the inside of his mouth.

‘Hi,’ Steelie poked at his thigh with his forefinger. ‘That was mine.’

He bounced up and his eyes had a warm coppery glow as the empty glasses clinked together. He took them up to the bar. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you another.’

Sharon had put aside her phone. When he left the empties beside the lager taps, she pushed herself forward meeting his gaze. ‘You shouldnae have done that.’ Her lips curled up slowly before blooming into a smile that contained a laugh. ‘I used tae go out wae Spider, but he’s such an annoying wanker. Naebody likes him. No even his mother.’

He nodded towards Cockeyed Bill. ‘Could you get that gentleman there a double? And one for me too?’  

‘Aye, I can.’ She was quick with the shorts under the MacKays’ measure, but quicker with her tongue. ‘But I don’t think you should have wan. You don’t seem tae understand. He’ll be back, team- handed.’

She held out her hand for payment. ‘He’s well connected for a total toss pot.’ Her hand brushed his when he paid her and she held on a fraction too long. ‘And he’s shite in bed.’ There was a challenge in her voice.

‘Keep the change,’ he said, brightly.

She pushed a tray towards him. ‘For the drinks.’ She was already looking over his shoulder as a few regulars ambled in and towards the bar.

Steelie took a mouthful of lager before he spoke. ‘I guess our Sharon has already filled you in on the gory details. And what to expect?’

Brodie sipped at his lager too, but a jerk of his elbow and threw back another double.

‘I don’t think it’ll bother you that much. You’ll have seen more and seen worse. You were, no doubt, at the moron’s moron’s inauguration. It would be hard to find a more spiteful nasty bunch of bastards in one place.’

‘No, I wasn’t there. I was working, elsewhere.’

  ‘Me tae.’ Steelie took a drink before correcting himself. ‘I don’t mean the moron’s moron. I meant Hitler. Hindenberg and von Pappen thought they could sort him. His convenient lie that they hadn’t lost the Great War but been betrayed, played to the mob. And Hitler had his own private army, which they thought might be useful, when facing down the Communists. The Brownshirts and the SS. Herman Goering was an in-joke. A Minister Without Portfolio. Then there was Frick. Minister of the Interior and ardent Nazi. But who gave a fuck about that?’

Brodie watched the growing clamour around the bar. A few of the seats near the bar were occupied by an elderly couple. Men were playing dominoes and snapping they down with snarls and jibes to each other. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Cause you’ll need tae get rid of the gun?’

‘How do you know I’ve got a gun?’

‘Cause I watched High Noon and the man wearing a white hat always has a gun.’ Steelie sniggered. ‘You’re fucking American. Is there no some kind of law that from kindergarten onward, you need to be armed at all times or you’ll be deported tae England?’

‘But we’re in England and it’s against the law to carry a gun.’

‘It’s no fucking England,’ growled Steelie. ‘It’s Scotland. Cut the shite. You’ll get five years if you get caught wae a gun. And deported back tae America as an undesirable, where aw the undesirables run the place. Cause you’re no on their side, they’re no gonnae like that.’

Steelie pushed a drink towards him. ‘You’re best bet is jist tae fuck off.’

He drunk it with a flick of his wrist. ‘I don’t like being pushed around by deadbeats.’

‘Fuck. Who does?  Imagine this then. Millions of ordinary German men and women cheering when Hitler seized power. Baby-faced boys marching in their brown uniform—Hitlerjugend—marching with the Brownshirts and SS in a torchlight victory parade. That symbol from the East, the Hakenkruz, or swastika on their arm. On their caps. On their chest. Everywhere. Posters, flags, banners. The Minister without Portfolio screeching over the radio— subservience to their Fuhrer, who would make Germany great again.’   

‘I’m not running,’ Brodie turned to look at him. ‘And leaving you.’

‘I can take care of myself.’ He held a hand up. ‘Let me show you something, but first gie me the gun and I’ll hide it for a wee while. Don’t worry, I’ll gie you it back, when you leave.’ He put his hand on his chest. ‘Scouts honour.’  

Brodie’s hand hovered over his inside pocket. He watched two older guys set up the pool balls and break. He spoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘Where would you hide it, hypothetically?’

‘Hypothetically, I’d slip it tae Cockeyed Bill. He’s absolutely minging. Nae police would want tae search him. I’m no sure your gun would work the same after it’s been doon his nether regions, but I’m sure it’ll still manage a little rat-a-tat-tat when you need it to shoot rats.’