— I did already. The Hunter Strikes, mind?
— Yeah, man, pity about that movie. I had real problems with the accent. But you’ve been doing great work, and I want an original Jim Francis!
— Shut up, I hear Franco say, as I look at the crucifixion painting, — I like these sort ay commissions to be confidential.
— You got it, bro. How do I get in touch?
— Give me your digits and I’ll get in touch with you, Franco goes. I’m looking at Cameron’s greetin baw pus. It’s pretty good, as is Miliband, hapless and nerdy, but that looks fuck all like Clegg.
— Sure thing, pal, Ponce beams, reciting his number as Franco keys it into his phone. — You ain’t still sore at me, huh, dude?
— No. Not in the slightest, Franco replies.
Ponce play-punches him on the shoulder. — Cool. Get in touch, bro! Name your price. I gotta have one while I can still afford you!
As the grinning Chuck leaves, heading back to his crew, tracked aw the wey by Franco, I slip back ower to the artist’s side. — So you’re big mates with Hollywood idols and rock stars?
— Naw, he says, looking at me soberly, — they urnae your friends.
Vicky returns from the restroom – I hate myself for calling the lavy that – but is intercepted by Melanie and they start talking to two other women. I take my chance, delving into my bag and thrusting an envelope at Franco. — Here it is, buddy.
— Naw… naw… yir awright, mate. He pushes it away like I’m trying to gie him dog shit.
— It’s yours, bud. The money at today’s value. It comes tae fifteen thousand four hundred and twenty quid sterling. We can quibble on the method ay calculation –
— I dinnae need it. He shakes his head. — You have tae let go ay the past.
— This is me doing that right now, Franco. I hold out the envelope — Take it, please.
Suddenly this guy wi black-framed glasses, whom I’m assuming is his agent, rushes across tae us. He’s obviously excited and says to Franco, — Sam DeLita has just bought a piece for two hundred thousand dollars! The Oliver Harbison head!
— Tidy, Begbie says, completely unmoved, as he scans the crowd. — Axl Rose no here?
— I’m not sure, the guy says, puzzled at the crushing anticlimax, — I’ll check. Rumours abound, and he looks at me. Franco reluctantly introduces us. — This is my agent, Martin. This is Mark, a pal from the old country.
— Pleased to meet you, Mark. Martin shakes my hand firmly. — I’ll catch you guys later. There’s a room that needs worked!
As Martin heads off, Franco says, — See? I’ve got everything I want, mate. There’s nothing you can dae for me. So keep yir money.
— But you’d be helping me oot if ye took it. You could do something for me.
Franco’s head turns slowly in the negative. He looks across the room, nods and smiles at some people. — Listen, you ripped me off and I forgive you, he says, his voice low. He waves at a swankily dressed couple, and the guy salutes back. It’s another actor cunt that was in a film I saw recently on a plane, but I cannae think ay the boy’s name or the movie. — The bad choices I made would have happened anyway, that was just where I was at that point in ma life. He gives me a wee smile. — But I’ve let go ay the past.
— Aye, and I want tae n aw, I tell him, fighting doon ma exasperation.
— Delighted for you, he says, not that sardonically, — but you have to find your own way, ma auld buddy. The last time you tried to dae that ah was a fucking vehicle for ye. He pauses, and the old coldness fuses intae his eyes.
It sears my insides. — Franco, I’m sorry, man, I –
— I’m no gaun there again. This time it has tae be a solo gig, and suddenly eh smiles and punches me softly on the airm, almost in a parody ay the auld Begbie. It hits ays: this cunt is taking the pish.
— Fuck sake… this is perverse! I’m offering ye money here, Frank! Money that’s yours!
— It’s no mine, it came fae a drug deal, he says, poker-faced. Then his hand is on my elbow, guiding me ower tae a painting ay Jimmy Savile, unknown in America, lying battered tae a pulp outside the Alhambra Bar. Savile’s eyes have been torn out and blood from his genitals stains his white tracksuit groin like dark red piss. Underneath it bears the title:
THIS IS HOW WE DEAL WITH NONCES IN LEITH (2014, oil on canvas)
He points tae a rid dot on it, indicating that a sale has been made. — This is mine. I used tae fuck up people’s faces and get jailed. Now I dae it and get paid.
I’m looking aroond, scanning the portraits and cast heids that he’s produced. I have tae say it, even though ah confess that ah don’t know much about art: this is the biggest pile ay shite I’ve seen in ma fuckin life. He’s totally gaming those thick, spoiled rich fuckers, whae probably think it’s cool tae collect the works ay this savage jailbird. Fair play tae the cunt, but fuck sake, casting somebody’s face and then mutilating it: that’s no fucking art. Ah observe the occupants ay the gallery, shuffling fae one exhibit tae the next, eyes screwed up, pointing, discussing. Tanned men and women with bodies honed in gyms, decorated wi nice clathes, impeccably groomed, stinking ay top cologne, perfume and wealth. — Do you know where their money comes fae? Drug trafficking? Human trafficking, for fuck sake! A few people in a proximate group turn roond in response tae ma raised voice. Fae the corner ay ma eye, a security guard cranes his neck. — You must have a charity you like, something ah can gie it tae?
— Quiet, bud. Franco now looks like he’s really enjoying this. — You’re embarrassing yourself.
I feel incredulity warp my face. — Now I’ve been told by you tae stop making a cunt ay masel in public: game, set and match! Now gies ays the name ay your favourite charity, Franco, for fuck sake!
— I dinnae believe in charity, Mark. And call me Jim, please.
— What do you believe in? So I have to gie fifteen and a bit grand tae Hibs?
— I believe in looking after my ain, mate. He nods at his postcard Californian blonde wife, as the speakers suddenly rumble and Martin the agent guy gets tae the front ay the house.
Vicky rejoins me. — All good? she asks. — What’s that? She points to the envelope in my hand.
I put it back in the bag and zip it up. — Trying to give Frank something I owe him, but he won’t take it.
— Well, I must say, it all looks very exciting cloak-and-dagger stuff. Does it come from an illicit drug deal?
Franco turns and I cannae look the cunt in the eye because I suspect neither ay us would be able tae keep a straight face. — We only deal in Provi cheques in Leith, I tell her.
As I glance back at Franco, there’s a sound ay fingers hitting the mike, causing a static crackle, hushing the crowd intae silence. Martin the agent clears his throat. — Thank you for coming along. Now I’d like to introduce the director of this gallery and great patron of the arts of the City of Los Angeles, Sebastian Villiers.
A white-heided, rid-couponed, country-club cunt, whae looks like every American politician I’ve ever seen, gets up and starts talking utter shite aboot Begbie. About how his ‘work’ is the best thing since sliced breid. I cannae listen tae this pish! All I can think ay is getting Vicky home. I thought I was saturated with sex after this afternoon. No fucking way. I look at her, and her raunchy smile tells me she’s thinking the same. As we slope away, a DJ starts playing funk, and Franco and Melanie are dancing smoothly tae that Peter Brown track ‘Do You Wanna Get Funky with Me’.