Gross Domestic Product: 9

Chapter Nine.

Tommy Bryce sat at one end of a large conference table and shook his head. He was not in the best of moods. For weeks his lads had been fighting with boys from Kenny Waterson’s Cathcart Mob, which was ridiculous, they were ostensibly on the same side. They both had the same boss after all. He got the feeling Waterson was taking the piss. They’d set up to meet, hash it over, sort it out before things got out of control and bodies started piling up. Bryce wanted to cut Waterson’s head off and nail it to the prick’s front door but he knew that would blow up in his face. Morton would not be pleased with that and Morton called the shots.

So Bryce had arranged a meeting. Even decided to put on a spread, as if he and Waterson were business partners, like this was a professional consideration. The idea was good but the caterer was not. The arseholes had turned up with bridies and scotch pies, all of which looked like they’d been left over from the previous days lunch at the City Bakeries. Bryce had expected good quality, top end nosh, not that sort of crap. The caterer got shown the door with hee-haw for his trouble. His protestations were met with threats and a light sprinkling of demonstrative violence. That sorted the wee prick out. He’d then handed two grand to Docherty and told him to get some seriously good food in here as soon as possible. Docherty had not returned and it was only ten minutes before Waterson and his boys turned up.

If that wasn’t bad enough, that annoying little arsehole Prince had phoned him with an urgent matter. Bryce had tried to dismiss his concerns but Prince told him that one of the punters had won nearly two million quid. That little nugget was squirming around in his stomach, as indigestible as the grotty pastries he’d not long cleared from the table. That wasn’t the sort of news you needed before a meeting with a rival. It undermined him, that was the word for it, undermined. Prince would pay for that.

Bryce checked his watch. Five minutes. Docherty better get a fucking move on if this wasn’t going to turn into amateur hour. The truth was, he was nervous. Bryce didn’t like sorting out problems with discussion, he liked action, he liked leaving people in no doubt of his intentions and where they stood. He was out his comfort zone with this. A couple of pints in a pub and brass tacks that might have worked just as well. He regretted coming up with this whole stupid affair. It felt forced, as if he was performing from a script rather than being himself.

Docherty barged in to the room with Gourlay, both had brown cardboard boxes in their hands. “A bit of luck boss,” Gourlay said. “We got the staff at Bella Genoa to cook up some quality scran. Unfortunately...”

‘Oh Christ’ Bryce thought, he knew what was coming. There he was, peeking his meek little head round the door. Patrick Prince. “Mr Bryce, I’m sorry to be so insistent but we really need to settle this matter as soon as possible.”

Bryce gave Prince a look that could have cut glass. He thought for a moment then bared his teeth and hissed. “Help the fuckin’ boys get this food out ya chancin’ cunt. I’ve got some important guests comin’ any minute.”

Prince nodded, he seemed relieved that Bryce had not staved his head in. “Of course. Look I know this is not the way to do things but well, the girl, she made me vomit cockroaches.”

“Fuck sake Prince, ya arsehole,” Docherty said. He towered over Prince, like a wiry dog might over a slicked back black rat. “We’re aboot tae eat lunch here, ye fancy no tryin’ tae scunner us?”

Prince practically ignored him, placing plastic cutlery out next to the paper plates, “Sorry, it’s true though. There is something very wrong, something supernatural about this whole thing.” Prince pleaded.

Bryce had hardly been listening, he was too busy smelling the pork meatballs and thinking about how this might all work after all. His attention was drawn to the word “supernatural” though. That was a word he did not expect to here, nor did he like hearing it.

“Whit did you jist say?” He demanded of Prince.

“Well,” Prince said, pointing to the pink oval blotch on his jawline. “See that burn? She did that with her thumb. I swear to you I am out of my depth here.”

“Supernatural.” Bryce repeated, to no one in particular. He’d been given many orders by Morton over the years but there was the one thing that Morton had always insisted on. Bryce remembered him saying it as clear as day. It had been in the mid-seventies, after Morton had taken over the whole of the south east of the city. Swanson and Hopper had gotten out of line and like most of those who displeased Morton vanished off the face of the earth, likely in pieces. Morton had handed Cathcart over to Bryce. Gave him the usual ‘fuck with me and you’ll pay stuff’ but that was all a vague memory. What stuck in Bryce’s mind was the one thing he’d found unusual.

“If you ever get involved in any weird shit, by which I mean stuff that you canny explain, supernatural stuff, bring it tae me, no matter how trivial it might seem, cos if it is supernatural, you cunts are right oot yer depth.” Morton had said.

Bryce walked over to Bryce and checked the burn. “That does look like a thumb print,” he agreed. “Right, I’ll deal wae this efter. Fur noo sit yer arse doon an’ keep yer fuckin’ trap shut. Not a fuckin’ word out of you until this meetin’ is finished, got it?”

Prince was sweating and nodded apprehensively. “Not a word,” he said before sitting down.

Docherty and Gourlay placed the food out in a hasty but respectable spread. Gourlay, a large slab of meat with thin curly fair hair, cocked his head to the door. “I’ll go doonstairs an wait fur Waterson, knowin’ that cunt he’ll be deliberately late, then moan aboot traffic.”

Bryce nodded. “Aye, fine,” he said and turned to Docherty. “Raymie, huv a seat, if he’s no here in ten minutes we can at least make a start on aw this stuff before it goes cauld.”

“Suits me boss,” Docherty said, rubbing his huge hands in delight. His fingers seemed to have weightlifter muscles. He glared at the food like a hungry bird of prey. Bryce sat at the end of the table again and ran his hand through his cropped ginger curls and sighed.

“I fuckin’ hate wai...” he began but stopped as the door opened. In walked Waterson, all five foot three of him, swishing about in a tidy looking crombie raincoat. He was older than most of the other gangsters in the area, probably about the same age as Morton and his pals.

He smiled sarcastically. “You stuffin’ yer face again, Tommy?”

“Aye,” Bryce said giving a little chuckle. “Come in, join us, some good scran here.”

Waterson took a seat. Bryce noticed he’d come alone, no security. That was a good thing, he was obviously looking to keep the peace but was also showing Bryce that he wasn’t afraid of him. Bryce admired that but also felt somewhat insulted. As Waterson sat down he spotted Prince and stared at him with a frown. “Who’s this?”

“Patrick Prince. A business associate, he’s here about a different matter, just ignore him.” Bryce said. Prince didn’t look up, just kept staring at his food. Waterson sighed and grabbed a plate. He took a whiff of it and said “This smells no bad.”

“Aye? This is fae Prince’s restaurant. Dig in.”

Waterson glanced over at Prince and nodded. Prince gave him a nervous smile which disappeared when Gourlay sat next to him. Both men waited until Waterson and Bryce began eating before they started to tuck in. There was a tension, the ice needed broken. Bryce chewed on a small bit of battered chicken, swallowed it and then said “So, what’s all the fuss about?”

Waterson looked up from his pasta and meatballs and said. “Whit I heard wis your boy Donny McAllister was bein’ a mouthy cunt in Neeson’s. Wee Jimmy Broon an’ Frankie Bishop tried tae calm him doon but he was jist lookin’ fur trouble an.. well wan thing led tae another.”

Bryce nodded, but knew that Waterson was downplaying it. This was going to be like haggling for peace between them, a bit of give and take. Left to his own devices he’d have just murdered Waterson there and then, but there were other considerations. “Aye, that’s whit I heard anaw. That disnae explain why Cotter and a few others knocked the fuck out of Rab Dempsey.”

Waterson frowned and shook his head. “Naw, naw it disnae. I think the boys jist got a bit cocky. You know whit the young yins are like.” Waterson replied, sighing.

“Disnae excuse it, Kenny, we’re meant tae be responsible. Dae I need tae remind you whit Morton did when it kicked aff between McGregor’s Boys fae Drumoyne and the Elderpark Crew, a couple of years back?” Bryce said.

“Naw, there’s nae need tae remind me of that. Marty McGregor wis ma cousin.” Waterson said. “If it makes any difference, I took those three lads out of circulation. You want me tae throw Dempsey a couple of grand?”

“Aye, I think that gesture would make aw the difference tae be honest.” Bryce said, feeling as if he’d won something. Best to be magnanimous in victory, so he’d been told.

“So you’ll deal wae McAllister then?” Waterson said.

That took Bryce by surprise. McAllister had ended up in hospital, intensive care. They’d done a right number on the poor sod. Waterson was taking the piss. “Sounds to me like your lads dealt wae him.”

“Come on Tommy, it’s a matter of respect, aboot the fucker knowin’ his place, don’t make this difficult.”

Bryce had to give him that. McAllister had been out of order. Sure he’d been taught a lesson, but unless it came from Bryce, the lads would be expecting revenge. He nodded and raised his hand “Okay point taken. I’m make sure he behaves.”

“You should’ve done that in the first place, eh?” Waterson said before slurping up some spaghetti.

It was a snide comment, a dig at Bryce. Bryce felt his ire rise, like a hot wave rippling up the back of his neck. He had to hold it in but there was no way he was going to let Waterson get away with that, not in his territory. “Aye, well, you know whit some of these stupid fuckers are like, eh Kenny? Nae appreciation fur other’s domains an’ nae fuckin’ manners when they’re in it. It’s nae wunner smart arse cunts end up deid, know whit I mean?”

The threat was implicit, dripped off every word. There was no way Waterson didn’t get his meaning. Instead Waterson just swallowed another meatball and chewed, never taking his eyes off of Bryce’s.

Gourlay looked over at Docherty and gave a quick gesture with his eyes which was returned by an almost imperceptible shake of the head from Docherty. Such subtle silent communication.

(“Does the boss want us to do this cunt, Doc?”

“No yit, mate, chill.”)

Waterson swallowed the meatball. The look on his face was that of a man who knew he’d pushed too far and was trying to find a way back from it. At least that was what Bryce read on it. “We’re as wan mind oan that, Tommy. I always knew you were a smart lad.”

“Aye, cheers.” Bryce said, annoyed at the compliment, it was Waterson’s way of dodging an apology.

“I mean, I don’t want tae sound like a wank, but it’s like the movie, the Godfaither, if there’s nae respect, then the whole fuckin’ thing turns intae a bloodbath.” Waterson said.

“Hated that movie.” Bryce said. “Never seen it aw tae tell ye the truth, bored me tae tears?”

“Yer jokin’?” Waterson asked.

“Nah, prefer Goodfellas, noo that’s a gangster movie.” Bryce said.

Waterson considered and nodded. “Brilliant movie, I’ll gie you that, but it’s no a patch on the Godfaither. Copola’s masterpiece.”

“Shite man,” Bryce laughed, “Apocalypse Now is much better.”

“Another brilliant movie, that wan, I...”

A phone started ringing from inside Prince’s jacket, interrupting the conversation. Without thinking Prince plucked the big plastic slab out and pulled up the aerial. “Speak,” he said.

Bryce lost his temper. Not only was Waterson looking at Bryce with a ‘well?” but the conversation about movies had relieved the tension, made Bryce feel like he and Waterson were getting somewhere, almost friendly. “Whit the FUCK did I tell you?”

Before Prince could apologise, Bryce was already on his feet. He snatched the phone and began whipping Prince with the long metal aerial across his face, several long red swipes appeared on his face before Bryce then grabbed the aerial and clouted the phone off Prince’s face, just to add injury to injury. One he was satisfied, when Prince was on the floor covering his bleeding face with his hands, he threw the large moulded plastic lump against the wall, where it shattered. He turned to Waterson. “Sorry aboot that.”

Waterson gave Bryce a satisfied smirk. “”see, that’s whit I wis talkin’ aboot. Respect, chain of command. I think you an’ me should dae a lot mere business Tommy.”

“Whit aboot Alec?” Bryce said cautiously. This was good. An alliance between him and Waterson might put the others on edge, but if they could get more on board then it meant more money and less trouble.

“Morton disnae gie a fuck as long as the money keeps rollin’ in. Ye should come roon tae the hoose wan night, we’ll discuss it,” He stood up. “I need tae split, thanks fur the grub and the entertainment. Glad we could get this sorted.” Waterson plopped a card down on the table. “Ma home number, call me soon.”

“Will do Kenny, you sure you’ll no stay fur a drink?” Bryce said, calming down.

“Nah, we’ll catch up soon.” Waterson said. “Catch you later.”

Gourlay was up like a shot and opened the door for Waterson. “Let me show you out Mr Waterson.”

Bryce noted that, Gourlay had been listening, he’d be getting a bung for that. Waterson turned and gave him a wink. “See you soon, Tommy.”

Waterson left and Bryce looked down at the whimpering bleeding lump on the floor. “Right, Patrick, tell me about this spooky bird you owe two million quid.”