Gutted by Tony Black Page A

Why’s he still here?’
    ‘Can’t just chuck him on the scrapheap, Gus . . . Where’s your heart?’
    I knew exactly where it was. ‘Pretty fucking well buried.’
    Mac knelt, started to ruffle the dog’s ears, clapped his back. ‘Bollocks! I know you, you’ll come round to this wee one. Be bezzie mates, so you will.’
    I saw the dog had kept his bandage on. ‘When did you say his stitches come out?’
    ‘At least a week. Vet said it’s a deep wound. Might take longer.’
    ‘Well, in the meantime, who do you have to kill to get a drink around here?’
    ‘ Och . . . bad word choice, pal. No’ the subject for humour right now.’
    I let that slide. Stating the obvious wasn’t my thing.
    As I sat at the bar, the dog settled at my feet.
    ‘What can I get you?’
    ‘Usual.’
    The dog looked up, put his chops on my foot.
    Mac spoke: ‘So, the nick . . . what happened?’
    ‘Can I get a pint down me first?’
    Mac thinned his eyes. It was enough. ‘Better we get it sorted right off, Gus. You know they had me in as well.’
    I shuffled on my bar stool. The dog jumped up as I lurched across to grab a fresh pack of Bensons. Said, ‘Yeah, they mentioned it.’
    ‘Aye, yon Jonny ponce has your card marked . . . Fuck knows what he thought he was gonna get out of me.’
    ‘There’s fifty Gs missing of Rab Hart’s and he thinks I took it.’
    ‘Shitballs.’ Mac laid down a pint of Guinness. It looked just like I’d imagined it in the cell, moist jewels glistening on the glass. I picked it up, quaffed through to the halfway line in a oner.
    I nodded, said, ‘Man, that tastes good.’
    ‘Gus.’ He didn’t need to say any more than that. It was a prompt: his tone told me there was a pressing need to crack on and solve this case, to get my knackers out the vice.
    ‘I know. Believe me, Mac, I’m on to it . . . soon as I get this down me.’
    I took the wrapping off my smokes, sparked up. Said, ‘What about you? When they hoicked you in.’
    He laid an ashtray in front of me, said, ‘Was a heavy session.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘And what?’ His tone changed. ‘What you asking me?’
    I flicked ash off my cigarette, said, ‘Did they ask about my state of mind? I know that’s been a big concern of yours lately.’
    ‘If you think I would shit on you with the filth then we can’t be the friends I thought we were.’
    ‘Mac,’ I shut him down, ‘I’m not saying that. Get that straight. Okay?’
    A nod. Shoulders pulled back. Hard man on the defensive. ‘It just sounded like, y’know . . .’
    ‘Cool the beans . . . I just need to know what they asked you.’
    He turned, hit the optics for a hefty tequila, put a glaze of water on it, said, ‘I told them . . . well, er, I did mention we were in some financial strife here at the pub.’
    Great.
    ‘Did they put a threat on you?’
    He screwed up his face. ‘Gus, this is the filth . . . Of course they dug up some dirt, threatened this, that.’
    I crushed the cellophane from the fag packet in my hand, said, ‘Y’know, they have nothing . . . but they’re gonna go digging for more dirt.’
    Another shrug. ‘So what?’
    ‘This Jonny fucker’s all over me like a cheap suit . . . That suggestion you gave me earlier about splitting, might be a wise move for yourself now if you know what I mean.’
    He grabbed the cellophane from me, binned it. Mac put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Gus, pal . . . I’m going nowhere! You understand? I’m sticking with you on this. You’ll beat this.’
    I removed his hands, stood up. ‘I know what you think you’re doing but what you have to understand is this: myself, I couldn’t give two fucks about; dragging you down with me is a whole other ball game.’
    Mac lit a tab, cupped it in his hand prison-yard style and blew on the tip. We’d been through some scrapes, but none like this. He moved across the floor, went to sit at a table. ‘Can’t expect them to be pleased with you down the nick after that last