The Amulet (5 page)

He cackled again.

"It's only three grand," he said. "Working for Artie Dunlop, you should be getting that much a day."

I dropped the book in my lap, and I think my jaw fell as well. Jimmy saw my surprise.

"You didn't know who she was?" he asked, and there was genuine astonishment in his eyes. "I spotted her right off, and gave her a body-swerve. I don't want to be getting involved with the likes of him."

I had been blinded, by her, by the money, by the case. Now I'd somehow got embroiled with one of the shadiest, most feared, members of the Glasgow underworld. I took a long gulp of the beer, wishing it were something stronger, and shakily lit a cigarette.

"Aye," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "That Dunlop. Dodgy Art and Antiques a specialty, along with disappearing enemies whose bodies are never found. I hope she's worth it-you always did think more with your balls than your brain."

Artie Dunlop was something of a legend in Glasgow. The police had never pinned anything on him; he had no other known associates, no 'gang'. But somehow, anybody who ever crossed him disappeared, permanently. Artwork and antique thefts of very high value were attributed to him, but there were never any clues linking him to crime scenes. He was feared by even the hardest men in this hard town.

"Christ," I said, and managed a hollow laugh. "I only asked her for two-fifty a day."

Jimmy laughed so long and hard that he brought on a coughing fit.

"Oh boy," he said when he'd finally recovered. "I knew you were naive, but I didn't think you were stupid as well. What's she got you doing?"

"Looking for one of the dodgy antiques," I said, sheepishly. "Somebody else was stupid, and burgled the Dunlop's house. They've lost a trinket. A million pound trinket."

I took the picture from my pocket and showed it to him. He held it for all of two seconds before giving it back to me.

"I'd want it to stay missing. Ugly looking thing, isn't it?"

I agreed.

"No cops?" Jimmy said, and answered it for himself. "No. Dunlop keeps away from them. And you came to see if anybody tried to offload it on me?"

I nodded.

"No," he said. "Way out of my league."

He answered my next question before I asked it.

"I'd try Tommy McIntyre out at Anniesland Cross, or one of the big antique dealers in town. Macey and Johnsons, or Durban and Lamberts. One of them will probably have been approached by now. Unless it was a 'to-order' job. In that case, you've got almost no chance, it'll be in a collectors hands already."

"Aye. I know that," I said. "But I'm getting paid to try."

"Good luck." he said. "But I'll bet you a grand that it has gone already."

"You've got a deal," I said. "I might only be on two-fifty a day, but the chance to take a grand off you can't be turned down."

I chugged the last of my beer and put my cigarette in an ashtray that would have cost a couple of days of my current fee.

"If you hear anything, you'll let me know?" I asked.

"Only if you get me a picture of Mrs. Dunlop in her birthday suit," he said, and cackled again.

"You'll have to get in the queue for that one," I said, and when he laughed, I joined him.

I gave him back the Chandler.

"Can you hold this for me? I might be able to afford it in a couple of years."

He shook his head.

"I've got somebody in mind for it," he said, and gave me a sly smile. "Now away you go and earn your fee. Maybe, if you find what you're looking for, she'll give you a bonus."

"Aye, right," I said. "And maybe I'll get that picture of Mrs. Dunlop for you. The chances are about the same."

As I left I heard his deadbolts and locks fall into place behind me.

"Don't lock yourself in, old man," I shouted.

"Don't worry about me," a muffled voice shouted. "I've got five crates of whisky in the cellar."

His high cackle followed me back down the road.

* * *

"Hey, mister," a voice said to my left. "Have you got any spare change?"

I'd stopped just outside the football ground. It was training day for the team and a handful of youngsters hung around, waiting to see the players enter.

"Come on, mister. Give us a pound."

I'd been trying to ignore them, but three kids, none older than twelve, now stood in front of me, trying to look menacing.

"And what do you want the money for?" I asked.

"Fags," one of them said.

"A bottle of cider," another said.

"How about you?" I said to the third one. He was all of four feet tall, but he already had the swagger and cock-sure manner of someone much older.

"I'm going to go down the docks and get a blow job," he said.

He'd made me laugh; I'll give him that. I gave him a pound.

"Here," I said. "But don't forget to ask for your change."

They were already arguing how to split the money as they turned away from me.

* * *

I decided to take Jimmy's advice and headed for the town center. There were several antique dealers besides the two he'd mentioned, and I could rattle a few cages by showing the photo around.

It looked like it might rain again soon, so I caught the bus. I sat upstairs where I could sneak another cigarette. It was just my luck that I got the "nutter". I seemed to attract them.

"Hey. Give us a fag," a voice said. I looked up into a face that hadn't been washed for at least a week.

"Come on, man," he said. "Just one tab. And a light. That'll do. Oh, and maybe a couple of quid for a wee drink if you can spare it."

He sat down beside me, forcing me up against the window. Apart from not shaving, he smelled like washing was just a distant memory.

I let out a big sigh and gave him a cigarette. He took it and put it behind his ear.

"That one's for later. Can I have one for now?" he said. He smiled, and there were more gaps than there were teeth.

"You've got a brass neck, I'll give you that," I said, giving him another. We smoked in silence for a bit before he replied.

"Aye. Pity it's not a brass todger, eh? Sorry missus," he said as a woman two seats in front turned and tutted.

Suddenly he burst into song, a pitch-perfect rendering of 'A Wandering Minstrel, I' from the
Mikado
. He was impressed that I could fill in the bass harmonies. The woman two seats in front tutted at both of us, but I gave her my evil-twin grin and she turned away.

"Ye ken Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan?" he said.

"Aye, But only the Mikado, really. I was in the bass line in a production at school," I said. "And I was only there because o' the lassies in the soprano section."

He launched into 'The Lord High Executioner' before I could stop him.

"That's a fine singing voice you've got there," I said when he'd finished.

"Thank you, sir. I wiz trained well. Now about that fiver you promised me?"

I laughed again.

"As I said, a brass neck."

I reached into my jacket to get my wallet and give him some money, and the picture fell out. Before I could stop him he had bent and lifted it.

He took one look at it, and started singing, a strange, discordant hum that sounded almost mechanical. People started to leave the bus, and I would have joined them if he didn't have me boxed in. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he seemed to be straining. It looked like he was trying to stop himself singing. His right hand moved slowly over his left wrist, and before I could stop him, he burned himself with his cigarette. Slowly, deliberately, he ground the red-hot tip into his flesh until the singing faltered and stopped.

He turned the photograph face down and handed it back to me carefully. There was no sign of pain on his face.

"Does Mr. Dunlop know you've got that?" he said.

My world suddenly lurched.

"You know what it is?"

"Oh, aye," he said. "I've seen the original."

"And where would that be?" I asked, but he backed away.

"Mr. Dunlop was good tae me," he said. "And I dinnae ken you. Thanks for the smokes."

He was down the stairs and off the bus before I could stop him. When I looked out, I saw him hustling a bus queue.

I wondered how a derelict came to be acquainted with Dunlop, but couldn't see the connection. I put it away to think about later, got off the bus, and hit the streets.

* * *

Macey and Johnsons was my first port of call-an antique dealers on West Regent Street. I remember walking past it many time in my student years-there was a second-hand bookshop two doors down where I had bought most of my textbooks-and sold them again when I dropped out. I'd never been inside though-it always looked too rich for my tastes.

A small frontage opened out once you were inside to a large room lined in gilded mirrors and imposing oil paintings. Small pieces of dark furniture were strategically placed around, and expensive-sounding clocks ticked away in the background.

I wasn't given any time to browse-maybe my jeans and trainers marked me as too poor. A sharp-suited salesman was onto me before I had gone five yards.

He was young, younger than me, anyway, and everything about him looked too tight, from his shoes to his small, mean mouth.

"Can I help you, sir?" he said. The way he said 'sir' made me dislike him immediately.

"Which one are you?" I said.

He looked at me blankly.

"Sir?"

"Macey or Johnson?"

"I'm Edward Macey," he said. "But the name above the door belongs to my father."

"Good for him," I said.

This time, when he spoke, he was less officious, more confrontational.

"Can I help you?" he said again.

"I hope so," I said. "I recently won the lottery, and, having bought my new house, I need to furnish it."

He immediately became more attentive. I could see him working out his most expensive items to sell me, and how much commission he would make. I let him dream for a long second, then let him down, hard.

"Unfortunately for you, I've already got all the furniture and paintings. But I am looking for some knickknacks to leave lying around."

His face went purple.

"We don't sell 'knickknacks' sir. We are dealers in quality furnishings."

"Aye," I said, "I can see that. They're nearly as good as the ones I've got already."

By now he was nearly apoplectic.

"If you're not going to buy anything, I'd like you to leave," he said and began to usher me towards the entrance.

"Hold on a minute," I said. "I am in the market for a piece. A 'quality' piece."

He stopped pushing me, but I could see that he was just waiting for the next wind-up. His eyes widened when I showed him the picture.

"This is what I'm after," I said.

He laughed at me.

"Sir is joking again," he said. "It's been a long time missing. And if I had The Johnson Amulet, I would be telling my father where to stuff his job and retiring, not standing here in a too-tight pair of shoes listening to wastrels like you."

He was telling the truth, I saw it in his eyes, and this time when he ushered me towards the door I let him do it.

"So, you're not going to sell me anything, then?" I said.

"I don't think that would be worthwhile. I doubt if you could afford anything in the shop. I doubt if you could even afford my shoes."

"They wouldn't fit me," I said, but he'd already forced me out the door and shut it behind me.

I had a similar response at four more dealers. If any of them had been offered the amulet, they were too good at lying for me to tell. At least I had spread the word that someone was looking for it, but I felt in a foul mood by the time I turned up at Durban and Lamberts.

Theirs was a new shop, in the regenerated Merchant City to the east of the town center. When I was a student, this area had been a soot-blackened warren of crumbling tenements and public houses that only little old men with lost faces ever frequented. Now it was young, bright and thrusting, full of wine bars, Italian clothes shops and places that would sell you a sandwich if you could afford to take out a mortgage. I preferred it when it had a soul.

I'd heard of the antique dealers, of course. It was
the
store where rock stars and footballers bought the things that defined their lifestyle. They had scored a coup last year when they shipped a Byzantine necklace over to California for the Oscars, and got the latest skinny starlet to wear it. I had never been inside this one, either. It wasn't that it was too rich for me-I just couldn't see myself ever wanting anything that they sold.

It was like walking into a 1970's sci-fi movie. I almost wished I'd brought some sunglasses. The walls were white, a brilliant, scintillating white. There were maybe ten items on display, all on cubical white pedestals, all encased in a pale blue glass that looked like it cost more than the antiques themselves. I stopped and looked at the first one.

It had once been a piece of crystal, almost a foot cubed, glowing in silver, purple and black. An artist, someone with exceptional talent, had carved it into a cathedral, one with its roof open to the skies. Tiny robed figures worshipped around an altar. There was a figure above the altar, something that didn't look quite human, but as I bent for a closer look, I felt a hand on my shoulder pulling me back.

"Fourteenth century, Italian," a deep voice said, "And way too expensive for you."

I turned to face the voice, and had to look up. He was at least six-four, and big with it. There were wrinkles around his eyes, and he was nearly bald. I had him pegged for at least sixty but his eyes were pale blue and clear, and his grip was strong on my collarbone.

He wore a thick gray tweed suit, the kind I always associated with old colonels, heavy brogues, monocles and gun dogs. His shirt was white and pressed to a smooth sheen, and the pin in the center of his Italian silk tie held a stone as big as my little fingernail. I caught a whiff of expensive cologne as I peeled his hand away, having to fight to do it. I knew who this was; I'd seen him on television at the Oscar ceremony.

"Mr. Durban, I presume," I said.

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.