Glasgow Simile
by Chris Deal

“Baring extensive reconstructive surgery,” the doctor, his white jacket clean and white, positively glowing through the medicative fog, he says this with his head down, portraying a sympathetic character, quite the good actor.  “I'm afraid your wounds will scar.”

He hands me a small mirror, but I had no need.    

“Mr. Doyle, the police are here.  They would like to speak with you, ask you some questions.  I told them you should rest, considering the blood loss, but they are insistent.  Are you okay with that?”

Pressing my head back into the hospital bed pillow, until the muscles pulled taut and burned where the blade had entered, I made a practiced, noncommittal answer.  The doctor nodded and was replaced by two plainclothes, something out of a primetime procedural, one short and disheveled, like Colombo, save the missing eye, the other tall and tailored, with slicked back hair plugs.  Colombo, he was Detective Maynard, and hair plugs was Detective Mathers.

“You're one ugly motherfucker, Doyle,” Mathers said as he took the chair beside the bed, leaving Maynard to stand.

“Used to be so pretty.”  My eyes watered from the white-hot sliver talking shot through me.

“Now, who would do such a thing?”

“I didn't see his face.”

“Someone I don't quite believe that.”  Maynard was quiet, letting Mathers take control.

“Color me surprised.”

“You're not going to tell me who cut you, I know you're not.”

“Well, good talk.”  Maynard, I saw from the periphery, shook his head.

“Detective Maynard, could you get me a coffee?”  Though the senior officer, the man just mumbled something and left.  “I say it would be wise to keep that sort of attitude in regards to this matter.  A mugging, something random.  We'll take down the report, but you'll be damn stupid if you say anything about this to my partner, or anyone else.”

“That the way it is?”

“That's the way it is.”

“Well, good talk.  Now, if you wouldn't mind, I could use a sponge bath.  Start downstairs, and go slowly.”   Mathers smiled, and gave me a soft pat on the cheek with a clean, manicured hand, bringing me a nice taste of iron and the strong impulse to scream, both of which were choked down.

“Remember what I said. It'll keep you smiling, Doyle.”

*     *     *         

As soon as they let me sign the discharge papers later that evening, I made my call and was standing in the halogen halo of the streetlight, smoke from the cigarette mixing in with the falling flakes, stained jacket pulled tight, still in the afterglow, intrigued by the pain that came with each inhalation, a warmth that went like a fine wine with the thoughts running through my head.

“They really think you ought to stick around,” Maynard said, breaking into the reverie from the shadows.  “Amount of blood you lost, you're bound to be weak.”

“I'll be fine.”

“I'm sure.  You always are.  Somehow, you always manage to come out unscathed.”

“Obviously, not this time.”

“Obviously.  I have an idea as to what Mathers told you.  Keep your mouth shut, keep a name out of the investigation.  You keep quiet, and he can keep on with an investigation sure to put a certain someone in jail, at the very least for your assault, if not something much better.  Too, though, this person may walk with the things he knows, things people like me would love to know.  You know what I want.”

“Of course, but I don't know what you want to know.”

“You don't.”

“No.  Never knew his first name, they never said it.  He was always just Colombo to me.  You look a lot like him, you know.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”  He pulled out a pack of Dunhills, normally above someone like his pay grade, but he was a frugal man, and he was in no ones pocket, so he could splurge.  “I know you won't commit the sin of ignorance, that you won't think me a fool.”

“That is the very last thing I think of in regards to you.”

“You're not exactly subtle with your activities, but you're white-collar, harmless.  You've no one to roll on, so I'm willing to cut you some slack.  I don't like to turn a blind eye, so do not make me regret this decision. “

“People think I'm smart.  Could have gone to college, could have finished.  I don't think I would have made the grade, but I know what I know and what I don't.  I know I will never take you for a ride, Detective.  I will always be honest in my intentions with you.”

“But you will not tell me what I want to know.”

“At least I'm honest in my duplicity.  You and I both know who did this to me.  There is only one man who would.  Many who could, but only one who would.  This man, he has a particularly important status out on the street, and in the eyes of certain officers in your precinct.  There are those who want to protect him and those who want to use him in certain investigations.  You think I have a reason, now, to turn him in, and with that, you will spin his words of self-protection into gold.  That's not good enough for me.”

“You can see the problem I have with your intentions.”

“I can.”

“Okay, say I give you some leeway in your activities from here on out, and say I make sure knowledge of this leeway spreads amongst my colleagues.  We both know there are rules of succession out there.  Say I ensure things are made to pass as they are apt to do.  Say I let you be.  When left to your devices, you're harmless, you and your boys.  Unless you do something bold, out of character, you and yours will be untouched.”

Pulling into the hospital parking lot, the Towncar is clean save for the night's worth of slush on the roads, my men inside it and here for me.  I catch a glimpse of my face in the window as it pulls to a stop before me.  I do not flinch.

“Things will happen the way they are meant to, Detective.  A domino in a row can only do as those before it has done.”

“We'll see, I guess,” he said as I opened the back passenger-side door and got in.  He stood there and watched as the car drove off, into the cold.

“Man, I'm sorry,” Montgomery, a friend, like all of them since we were shitting in our diapers, said from the driver's seat as he drove.

“It's alright.  Head towards the city,” I said, and he turned to make for the highway, pointed south.

“We let you down,” Diego said from beside me.  It was Montgomery, Diego and Jacob, my business partners.

“This is no one's fault but Oswald's and mine.”

“So, it was him,” Jacob said from in front of me.

“Him and his thugs,” I said, leaning my head, the bandages on my check against the cool glass.

“He was bragging about it at the Page.”

“Is he thinking that's his territory now?”

“That's the way it looks.”  I pulled out the pack of smokes from my jacket, an excuse to crack the window.  My face was burning, and as the wind blew over me I felt the last touch of the drugs fade away.  The world was real and I was real and these cuts were real.  I lit up with Diego's Zippo, and as I exhaled, the pain steadily increasing, I ran my fingers over the gauze on the right, then the left side of my face, and gritting, I tore them off and tossed them from the car.

Watching me through the rear view mirror, “Jesus,” is all Montgomery can say.  All anyone can.

*     *     *

The phone rang once and then was answered by silence save the background noise.  “I want to speak with Rollins,” I said.

“He's busy.”

“This is Doyle.”

“One minute.”  The phone was quiet as I was put on hold, but in just a moment it came alive again.

“Doyle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I heard what happened.  You have my apologies.”

“Thank you.  I would like a meeting.”

“Of course.  I'm having my evening meal.  When can I expect you?”

“Two minutes.”

“Oh, good.  You're a fan of scotch, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

I ended the call and handed the phone back to Diego.  “Sure about this,” he asked?

“Yeah.  You guys coming in?”

“Figure I could use a drink,” Montgomery replied.  The other two agreed.  We stepped out of the car and walked through the parking lot towards Young's Tavern, where Rollins always took his evening meals.  In the heart of the city, Young's was a place where the average schmuck off the street couldn't get a reservation.  Only the big boys, lawyers or judges or cats who could afford to mix with the high and mighty, that was the clientele of Young's.  Rollins owned the place.

Before we entered, I stopped and looked to my men.  “Any objections?”

“Can't say that I do,” Jacob said before crushing a butt beneath his shoe.

“Nope,” from Montgomery.  Diego nodded his acquiescence.

“Good,” I said.  “Thank you.”

Inside, the maître d' pointed them to the bar while a large man in a very nice suit led me through the tables, to the largest booth occupied by only one man.  Rollins.  Motioning for me to be seated, I noticed the man's hand was freshly manicured.  Even the bodyguards didn't get their hands dirty.

A glass of scotch was across from Rollins, and I sat behind it.  The old man, early sixties and with proudly gray hair and in the finest suit you could ever see, he was cutting up a steak that cost more than most made in a week, pink in the middle.  Taking a sip, I could tell he ordered me a Blue, and it was pleasant, despite the normally enjoyable burn, but I did not flinch.  “Would you like anything to eat,” he asked?

“No.  Thank you, sir.”  With a motion he sent the large man away.

“One of Oswald's men told me what he did.  To say I had expected the reality of the situation would be a lie.  Again, I apologize.”

“Your man is out of control,” I said, forgoing the normally required politeness.

“He is.  Something will be done about him.”

“What, may I ask?”

“His role in the hierarchy will be reduced, severely.”  He took a bite of his steak, and cut it into the last pieces.

“I had a visitor in the hospital today.  Detective Maynard.”

“He's a good man.  An honest cop.  I respect the need for honest cops, in light of the concept of the social contract, but in consideration of my enterprise, they are of no use to me.  So, what did he have to say?”

“He says Oswald told him what he did to me while laughing.”

“Oswald told him.”  He placed the last of his steak between his teeth.

“He said this to me, as a sort of threat.  Said that though my attack would be investigated, there were other cases that would take precedence.  Perhaps, he mentioned, I did not manage a look at my assailant.”

“Other investigations.”  A waiter brought him a glass, his after dinner brandy, and departed with his finished plate.  From his coat pocket he removed a leather cigar case, selected a precut stick, and replaced the container.  He had a predilection for Cohiba, the originals.

“I thought it important to tell you.”

“I admit this to be interesting news,” he said as he lit the cigar with the swipe of a match.  “A lieutenant, conversing with an honest cop.  Of course, you can understand some initial disbelief.”

“Of course, and I can understand why.  The last time we met, we were in this very restaurant, in these very seats.  You made me an offer, and I declined.  Another man took that offer, the man we are discussing, the man who did this to my face.”

“Many women, and some men, would compare it to taking a razor to the Mona Lisa.”

There was a complete ban on smoking indoors in the city.  “The victim of such an assault, conversing with the employer of his enemy, the man who insulted him so.   Telling of things that can not possibly be so.  Unless, perhaps this enemy is prideful, thinking himself as the future, looking forward to the day when his better is in a box, be it penitary or a mortal, he himself sitting where his better once sat, laughing at the memory of how he put the man where he is, this box we are discussing.”     “I'm not a man to be confined to any sort of box.”

“You made me an offer, once.”

“Many have tried to put me there in the past.”

“When you gave Oswald his position in your hierarchy, you made an entreaty to me.”

“Those who stood in my way are themselves in this box we have discussed.”    

“If that offer still stands, I have two terms.”

“And I have one myself.   A man, whether or not what news you have is true, whether or not he speaks to whom you say, a man stands in my way at this juncture, opposed to my intentions, my interests.  This man, even before his present actions, fiction or non, has cost more than he has earned.  If you stand where he does, I will end you.”

“My men will stay my men.”

“You will have to prove yourself in more ways than my employees are apt to do.”

“And I will be responsible for Oswald.”

“If you, and your men, prove yourselves to me, you will be sovereign.  Your territory will remain yours.  I will require but a token tribute, a look at your books.  You will need to help influence the way in the rest of my kingdom.  You will be sovereign, but I am hegemon.  If I ask anything of you, it will be done, but don't think I am not nor will be grateful.”

“Give me Oswald and it will be.”

“So it is.”

*     *     *

I made a call, and then we stalked into the Page like predators.  Lenny, the owner, saw us from behind the bar as we entered, and he motioned for me to meet him at the end of the bar.  “He's sitting at your table,” he said while sliding a shot of bourbon across the bar.  “Said you were dead, wouldn't mind.”

“Of course he did.”  I downed the shot and the burn was lovely.  He was in the corner like a great, bald lump, hands on the thigh of a blond waitress, keeping her at the table, losing her tips.  She smiled but it was practiced, forced.

Interestingly enough, two tables away, Mathers and Maynard were having a pint and watching the Cub lose and me lose money.  Mathers lifted his to me, the lager dripping over the side of the glass, onto his plaid tie while Maynard rolled an unlit cigar between the fingers of his gun hand, watching me, his eye glancing quickly to Oswald oblivious.

“Your back room empty?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Keep it that way.  Boys, have some drinks on me.”

“Doyle,” Montgomery started, his hand on my elbow, “let us help.”

“This is on me.”  They nodded, and I departed for my table.

Oswald looked up from the waitress, his hand just under her schoolgirl skirt, and his slug of a tongue hung out of his lips, his eyes glossy from drink.  I heard somewhere once that it takes more muscles to frown than to smile, so I did, the cuts from each corner of my lips tearing from ear to ear, and he went pale, the waitress slipping away.  I sat across from him and it felt like the whole bar went quiet.

“Look, man, I'm sorry,” he said, stumbling over words

“You're sorry.”

“Yeah, I was a little out of control last night.”

“Yeah, you were.”

“Brother, I'm sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“I know.”

“Our grandfather, you remember what he used to say, about why he left Glasgow?”

“No, no.”

“He would say that Glasgow, was like the sun, and would burn you to your soul.”

“Granddaddy said that?”

“Yeah, he did.  Thing about it is, this city, right here, it'll burn your very soul away, and you, brother, that's what's happened to you.”

“I'm sorry, Doyle.”

“You turned on me because I wouldn't give you what you wanted.”

“Rollins gave me this territory, and you working here, that's taking money from my pocket, from me, your own brother.”

“I rejected the position that he gave to you, but not before he gave me sovereignty, which you violated.”

I stood and looked down on him.  I felt something on my cheek, placed my fingers there and came away with blood.  I smiled, and flicked on his face, then began weaving between tables and drinkers, past the bar, through the kitchen and into Lenny's back room,  there for storage.  Closing the door, I stood directly to the left, two feet back, and I just wait, the straight razor Jacob slipped me open.     The door cracked open, a hand holding a pistol creeping, and my hand goes down, finger behind the trigger, the blade goes to the throat, a hair away from the jugular of Detective Mathers.  “Come on in,” I tell him.  He lets go of the pistol and I take it, switching it and the razor.  Oswald was behind him, and he doesn't want to come in, but he's pushed in by Maynard, himself holding a piece.

“Company, nice.”

“For Christ sakes, Doyle.  This is enough for a dime in Division 10,” Mathers spat.

“Maynard, we got a deal?” I asked.

“The fuck is going on?” Oswald cried.

“Maynard, shoot him,” Mathers ordered.

“Yeah, we got a deal.  IAD's already got an eye on him.  This won't be unexpected,” Detective Maynard said.

Maynard pulled his trigger, and I pulled mine.  Considering the noise from the bar, no one would have heard the shots.  I leaned down, wiping the gun down and placing it in Oswald's hand, then aiming no where made it so he pulled the trigger as he bled out.

“So what now?” Maynard ask.

“Give me some time, and I give you Mayor Rollins. This city, sometimes it burns. He ought to know that.”

BIO: Chris Deal writes from Huntersville, NC.  He is the fiction editor for Red Fez, and he writes on literature for Creative Loafing in Charlotte.