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.His hands shook in his lap.When he raised one to take the key from the ignition, the keychain trembled between his fingers.He was all pulses and jerky movements.Colin, Colin, where did you lose the way? How did that happen?He opened the door and almost slid on the pavement as he stepped out of the car.He was ungainly, like a man made legless by drink.He faced the house.The windows were black slashes interrupted here and there by moons the streetlamps created.It wasn’t a house that winked and smiled and said, Come in, draw up a chair, heat yourself by the fire.I must move from here, seek a new home in a brighter part of the city, he thought.But where would that be – some unremarkable semi in Langside? A flat in a leafy part of the West End, near the BBC, say? Or, heaven help him, a loft in Merchant City?A small dog might be company too.He’d walk it every night, regular as a chapel bell.A Scottie.Or a wirehair terrier.Something small, low-maintenance.He’d meet other dog-owners in parks and they’d talk about vets, or brands of dog food, or canine ailments.He might meet some good-looking widow walking her Labrador.He’d get used to the routine of it all.Easy.He fumbled in coat-pockets for his door key.Every time he wanted to let himself in, he had to go through this same klutzy process, this ransacking of his pockets.Why couldn’t he keep the key in one place? For the same reason your life is untidy, Detective.You’re a creature of sprawl and clutter.The pile of fag-ends in an ashtray that so annoys some, you don’t even notice.The collection of old newspapers, in stacks that teeter, might be an unsightly fire-hazard to certain people, but to you it’s just something that has grown organically.The key, finally.He stuck it in the lock, twisted it.He thought: I can call Scullion, ask him to take me off the case.I want to step aside.And he’d ask why, and I’d say personal reasons, Sandy.No way Sandy would buy that particular pokey-hat.He pushed the door and stepped inside, flipped on the lobby light, and as he raised a leg to kick the door shut behind him, he heard somebody move.Somebody, something.He turned his face: shit.‘She isn’t here,’ he said.Moon Riley said, ‘I’m not looking for Sadie, Perlman.’‘So what the fuck are you doing on my doorstep?’‘This isn’t a personal matter,’ Riley said.‘Well, fine, call me at the office,’ and Perlman moved to shut the door in Riley’s face, but an intrusive foot blocked the attempt.‘This is professional, Perlman.’‘Professional like how?’‘Business, Lou.Plain and simple.’ Riley pushed the door hard and Perlman didn’t have the strength needed to fend him off.Riley was a tough well-muscled wee shite.He had the brute eyes of an enraged stallion.His red leather jacket made noises similar to old door-hinges opening and closing.He wore his hair shaven close to his scalp, so that it looked like a thin film of charcoal.‘What business would that be, Moon?’‘I’m here on a mission, Jewboy.’‘Sounds very serious,’ Perlman said, trying to make it light, but he was troubled by what he saw in Riley’s eyes and the way his voice was flat and purposeful.Physically, he knew he was no match for this hard young Riley, if it came to that kind of encounter.And he sensed that was where this locomotive was headed, and there was no emergency handle he could pull to brake the forward motion of events.‘A sword, they said.Wrong.’ From under his jacket Riley produced an implement with a hooked blade more than a foot long.‘I haven’t heard them mention a machete, Lou.Lovely piece of work.’Perlman imagined it slashing recalcitrant fronds in a jungle or hacking away gnarled branches.It would go through ancient knotted fibre like a blunt knife through soft margarine.What was it Colin had said? I had help now and again.He thought about the criminal interstices of the city, the spaces and intersections where lawless men colluded and plotted, and unlikely associates entered into murderous agreements out of convenience and profit.He wondered if Riley had been involved in helping Colin drag the body of Joe Lindsay along the railway line and hanging him from Central Station Bridge.If he’d been instrumental in killing Bannerjee, maybe restraining him in an armlock while Colin drove the screwdriver into the ear.Or had it been the other way round? Had he swung the machete through the cords of Wexler’s plump neck, or had that been Colin?Perlman backed off a couple of steps and Riley grinned at him.He had very sharp little teeth, those of a gnawing animal.A beaver, or some kind of rodent.He lived in damp tunnels and earthen lairs and he came out only at night to kill.‘This is not an ideal situation for me,’ Perlman said.‘Suits me down to the ground, Lou.’‘Aye, well, you have the advantage over me.’‘Isn’t life just fucking terrific?’‘For some,’ Perlman said.He glanced at the mezuzah, which was hardly visible under the old paint.Usually he touched it for luck when he entered the house.Tonight, he’d been interrupted.Hence, no good fortune.He stared at the machete and found himself thinking of its curved blade severing his neck.‘Your brother’s some guy,’ Moon Riley said.‘Lotsa fun to work with, eh?’‘Strong for his age, have to say.Impressed the hell out of me [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]