Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [10]
"Yep."
"Your dollar."
Tommy almost corrected him. Instead, he said, "That's right."
A pause. "How long we going to sit here?"
"I don't know."
Another pause. "Mind if I put on a CD, then?"
"Be my guest."
Flecks of rain streaked the passenger window, showering the sticky guts of a dead insect. Tommy looked up into the greying sky and watched a submarine-shaped raincloud drift along.
Smith had given him a residential address in the west of the city, not far from Murrayfield, and all Tommy could do for now was wait for his phone to ring.
He felt relaxed for the first time all evening. Then Shweerski started to sing along with Michael Bolton.
Seven long minutes later, the call finally came.
Smith said, "Pay the driver and get out. I'll ring back in a while," and hung up.
Tommy did as he was told.
The taxi drove away, Shweerski muttering to himself, no doubt pissed off he hadn't got a tip.
Tommy stared at his mobile. How long was 'a while'? He wiped a couple of raindrops off the display with the fleshy part of his palm, his fist still curled around the locker key. His palm was hot and sticky, the back of his hand cold.
He thought about calling Phil, see how things were going back at the bus station, but it'd be just his luck if Smith phoned whilst he was on the other call. Anyway, Phil wouldn't have anything to report yet cause Smith didn't have the key.
Tommy pulled up his collar. The clouds didn't look too fierce. Just a light shower, hopefully. He'd survive.
By the time Smith called, the rain had stopped and pale sunlight was squeezing through gaps in a much gentler sky. Smith went straight into his spiel: "Follow the road up the hill. At the top, take a left. Halfway along, you'll find a hotel. Go into the bar. The lounge bar. Buy a pint, then go to the toilet. It's a single cubicle. Lift the top off the cistern, and drop the key into it. Then go back out into the bar. Stay there until I tell you to leave. If you leave early, or go back to the bus station, I'll know. Be smart and do what you're told."
***
TOMMY WAS THE third customer in the pub.
The other two were a morose-looking pair seated at opposite ends of the bar. One wore glasses, or rather, he didn't, cause he'd taken them off and was playing with the leg, trying to tighten the screw with his thumbnail. The other guy wore a suit, breathed through his nose, made a whistling sound while he did so.
Tommy took up a position between them, and they all stared into their drinks, ignoring one another.
After a few sips, Tommy slid off his stool and went to the gents. It was exactly as Smith had described. Tommy lifted the cistern lid. It was heavy and very cold. He dropped the key into the water inside.
He replaced the lid and sat down for a bit. He'd just put fifty grand in a locker and was giving away the key. To some imbecile called Smith.
Then he remembered Eric McCracken.
And wondered if he was doing the right thing in trying to outsmart Smith. Maybe he should call Phil, tell him to get out of there. But, shit, what harm could come of Phil watching the locker? And Phil could handle himself. Unless he'd drunk himself into a stupor.
Tommy dug out his mobile. Couple of rings, then Phil picked up. "Anything happening?" Tommy said.
Phil burped. "Sitting here freezing my balls off. Wouldn't think it was almost April."
"Maybe you shouldn't be drinking."
"It's cold, Tommy. Whether I'm knocking back a few or not."
"Move away from the door, then."
"Can't. Everywhere you go, there are doors."
"Only on one side, though."
"Yeah. Where the seats are."
"So stand up."
"Thought I was supposed to be inconspicuous."
"Well, you would be."
"Nope. I need to sit down. Even if it's colder than Granny's baps."
"Granny's dead."
"Exactly."
"I'll call you later."
Tommy went back to the bar to wait for the next phone call from Smith. The two customers from earlier were still there. The barman busied himself washing glasses, running a cloth over the counter, dusting the telephone. Quiet night. Probably always a quiet