‘Okay, okay. No problemo,’ the junkie slurred. ‘Not a problem, big man. No worries. What about you then?’
‘What?’
‘You want a game? Play you for a pint, like.’
Danny chuckled despite himself.
‘Naw. Now fuck off.’
‘Aye, aye. No problemo, big man. No problemo. Asta la vista.’
With that, the junkie threw his weight to one side, spun on one leg and did a neat volte-face until he lurched back towards the pool table, where he held his arms out wide to his mate. ‘Naebody wants to play me. It’s ’cos ah’m like the Ronnie O’Sullivan of this pool table. Top dog.’
‘Aye, you are that, Spanner, no come on. Hit the baws, eh?’
Danny sipped at his beer and shook his head in mild dis belief at the departing junkie. Harmless enough as long as you weigh more than a bag of tatties and didn’t try to get between him and a strawberry tart or a score of smack. He was just about to share some tales of junkie-baiting in days of yore when the front door opened and a broad figure walked in.
It was the long, black leather coat that caught Winter’s eye first. In an instant, he was back in Mansionhouse Drive, seeing the world through his camera’s timed exposure: the crowd behind the two severed hands; the tallish guy, clad in black hide — the same figure that had just walked through the door of Munn’s.
Danny saw him too and even if they hadn’t both studied Winter’s photograph, it was likely they’d have known their quarry for who he was as soon as he came through the door. There was an air of confidence about Dunbar that translated easily into menace. His eyes immediately scanned the bar to see if anyone was going to challenge him but none was forthcoming. Indeed, there was a noticeable scattering of bodies and the two wasters who had been inhabiting the pool table were suddenly gone as if they’d been picked up by a gust of wind. Dunbar pulled up a bar stool and perched on it, his leather coat almost skirting the floor like a vampire’s cape.
‘Usual?’ he was asked from behind the bar.
‘Aye.’
The barman held a glass under a vodka optic and deposited a double in it before adding a shot of cola and setting it down in front of Dunbar. He shoved a fiver at the barman and waved away the offer of change.
Winter and Danny had made sure they hadn’t looked over at Dunbar. They sipped on their pints and chatted quietly until Danny nudged Winter and nodded his head in the direction of the now vacant pool table. Both men got off their bar stools, made their way to the table and dropped coins in the slot to set up the game. Danny made sure he was noisily enthusiastic about the pots he made and encouraged Winter to do the same. They laughed a lot and jeered each other, successfully managing to sound like a pair of clowns. When Winter won the frame, Danny made a clumsy attempt to hide the fact that he was handing over a tenner, making it very obvious in the process.
They were on their second frame when Dunbar approached them. He stood quietly for a few minutes, weighing up the standard of their play and sipping on his vodka and Coke. Clearly he wasn’t too impressed by what he saw because he put coins down on the rim of the table to signal that he wanted to play the winner. Danny, in the process of potting the six ball, glanced up at him but contrived to look indifferent about the prospect of someone else joining their game. Neither he nor Winter looked at Dunbar throughout the rest of the frame, just concentrating on each other and the game until Winter knocked in the black ball to snatch another victory.
As soon as the black dropped, Dunbar stepped forward, slipped his coins into the slot and the pool balls clattered into the tray. Without saying a word or looking at Winter, he arranged the balls in the triangle, placing the ‘big balls’ and ‘wee balls’ to suit him. Only when he was satisfied did he stand up straight and look over.
‘Play you for twenty quid.’
Winter looked at Danny, who simply shrugged. Now able to look at Dunbar properly without raising suspicion in him, they could both clearly see a glassy look in his dark eyes that had been fuelled by something other than vodka.
‘Aye, okay,’ Winter agreed. ‘Why not?’
Dunbar, still wearing his leather coat, broke off and immediately left Winter with an opening he took advantage of, pocketing three balls before missing. Dunbar grinned at the miss and chalked his cue before knocking in four balls of his own and looked good to win the frame quickly before a ball rattled in the jaws of the pocket and stayed out. Winter stepped back in, potting two more, then snookering Dunbar behind the black.
The younger man didn’t look at all impressed and arched his eyebrows disapprovingly at Winter as if he regarded it as unsporting. Winter merely shrugged in return, indicating that he should just suck it up and get on with it, immediately remembering the nature of the man he was winding up and regretting it. Dunbar got low over his shot and tried to come off the side cushion but failed to hit anything, leaving Winter with two shots. He knocked a ball over a pocket before potting it, then another before clipping the black into the middle bag to win the frame.
He stood up from the table and looked over at Dunbar, who wore a scowl but was fishing in his pockets for money. He produced a twenty and dropped it contemptuously on the table for Winter to pick up. ‘Another frame,’ he demanded.
Winter picked the cash up from the table and pocketed it. ‘If you’re sure.’
Dunbar’s answer was to drop coins in the slot and send the balls crashing back into play. As he busily racked them up on the baize, another punter wandered over to the table to place a coin on the table so he could play the winner. Without looking up from the table, Dunbar reached for the coin and threw it across the room.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ the other guy protested.
Dunbar didn’t look at him but continued to rearrange the balls in the triangle.
‘I said what the fu—’
Dunbar turned, looking up to stare into the eyes of the slightly taller man who confronted him. Maybe the guy recognised Dunbar or maybe he just recognised the look in his eyes because he took a step back immediately. Dunbar followed him with a step of his own and the other guy retreated two yards, then another, albeit with an outstretched arm and mutterings of discontent. Within seconds he was safely back at the other side of the bar, his dignity almost intact.
‘Your break,’ Dunbar told Winter.
Swallowing hard and wondering just what they were getting themselves into, Winter broke off, scattering the balls across the table. Dunbar, his large voddie freshly restored, moved in to the table and swiftly potted four balls before finally missing. Winter knocked in three of his own before leaving the cue ball tight on the bottom cushion. The safety shot forced Dunbar to let Winter in again and he potted another two balls, an attempt at a third coming back from the knuckles of the middle pocket. When Dunbar moved in again, it was with the merest hint of a stagger and both Winter and Danny thought the vacant look in his eyes had increased. Sure enough, he potted just one ball and Winter stepped in to win the frame.
The twenty-pound note lay crumpled on the table almost as soon as the black hit the back of the pocket. Dunbar stood and stared at Winter, anger and frustration pouring out of him.
‘A hundred,’ he grunted.
‘What?’
‘A hundred quid for the next frame.’
Winter again looked over to Danny, who responded with a wary shrug of his shoulders.
‘Okay, but it’s the last frame,’ Winter replied.
‘Sure. Let’s see the colour of your money first. The big guy here can hold the stakes. He’s not going to run anywhere. Sure you’re not, big man?’
‘Not me, son,’ Danny agreed with him. ‘I’ve never run in my life.’
The two men produced one hundred pounds apiece and handed them over for safe-keeping. Danny and Winter sought each other’s eyes over Dunbar’s head, anxiously seeking the reassurance that they both knew what the other was up to.