‘I’ll keep looking,’ I said, pausing to pick a couple of tobacco strands from my tongue. ‘I know you don’t want the police involved, but would you mind if I spoke to a couple of police contacts. Strictly on the Q.T. and off the record.’
‘What if they get suspicious?’
‘The kind of cops I’m talking about don’t get suspicious, they just get expensive. Leave it to me.’
We talked for another half hour. I asked if she could remember anything more about the people her brother had been hanging around with, particularly the girl, Claire. I also asked her to think again about the name Largo. I drew a double blank. I asked if there had been any places with which Sammy had a particular attachment: anywhere he may have sought sanctuary in. She tried. She really tried, the poor kid, but she couldn’t think of anywhere, anything or anyone that might bring me closer to finding her missing brother.
I left her to her desperately methodical housework. As I was leaving, I said that at least Sammy would be coming back to the place all nice.
The truth was that we both suspected she was simply dressing a grave.
It was on the Thursday night that I got a break. Such as it was. I had been doing the rounds of clubs and bars. Most knew Paul Costello only as Jimmy Costello’s son. And the few that had heard of Sammy Pollock/Gainsborough again made the link only through Sheila Gainsborough. I struggled to find any musicians or singers who had heard of them, far less been approached with offers of representation. I worked my way from the few hep joints Glasgow had, like the Swing Den and the Manhattan, to the rougher workingmen’s clubs that abounded across the city.
The Caesar Club was one of the latter category. It combined industrial drinking with performers so bad that you had to drink industrially to tolerate them. I arrived about nine-thirty.
The Caesar Club was well named. It was the kind of place that left no turn un-stoned, and the acts who took to the stage weren’t so much performers as gladiators. I half expected to see Nero in a dickie-bow sitting at the front table giving each turn the thumbs-down. When I walked in there was a comedian on the stage. He had succeeded in warming up the audience in much the same way as Boris Karloff had warmed up an angry peasant mob with torches in Frankenstein.
The audience was on the cusp of verbal violence turning physical and, despite the fixed grin above the oversized bow tie, I could see the comic’s eyes glittering as they darted desperately around the crowd. I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to find just one person laughing or trying to gauge from where the first missile would be launched. I wondered why anyone would choose to be a comedian in Glasgow when there were so many less hazardous career options like bomb disposal, bullfighting or sword-swallowing. I started to feel a deep, real sympathy for the comedian.
Then I heard a couple of his jokes and decided he had it coming.
I knew the manager of the Caesar Club and he pushed an unbidden and unwanted pint of warm stout in my hand and conducted me through backstage.
‘This is who I told you about, Lennox,’ he said, as he led me along a narrow corridor and shoved open a cupboard door in the hall. I could still hear the audience responding to the comic’s act and for the first time understood what baying for blood sounded like.
The cupboard turned out to be the smallest dressing room I’d ever seen; and in my colourful career, I’d seen a lot of dressing rooms. This one, however, was not occupied by a chorus girl but by a small man of about fifty with large brown eyes and no hair to speak of on his egg-shaped head. There was no shade on the bulb that hung from the ceiling and its butter gleam on his pale skin added to the Humpty-Dumpty look. He was dressed in a cheap dinner suit and bow tie. A gleaming trumpet sat on his lap, its case lying open on the shelf that passed as a dressing table. He smiled when I came in.
‘You’re the gent looking for young Sammy, I believe?’
‘That I am. You know where he is?’
‘No. I haven’t seen him in two weeks. But that’s what I thought I’d tell you about. Two weeks ago, outside the Pacific Club… you know, Mr Cohen’s place… well, two weeks ago I was playing there. Friday night. Anyway, I had finished my stint and was getting the bus home. I was halfway along the street when I heard this commotion, like. Sammy was having some kind of trouble with two men. Youngish fellows, I’d say. Anyway, there was a fair bit of pushing and shoving, that kind of thing. But not a fight, not a square-go, anyway. Not with two against one. Anyway, this other fellow came out of the club. Calmed the whole thing down, like.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About nine. I was on early.’
‘Did you recognize any of them?’
‘Not the two troublemakers. I recognized Sammy, of course. The bloke who stopped the tussle looked to me like Paul Costello. You know, Jimmy Costello’s boy. They’re always hanging around the clubs together. Costello and Sammy, I mean.’
‘Did they go back into the Pacific?’
‘No. They all got into a car and drove off. They was next to the car when they was arguing. I wouldn’t have paid much notice, it’s just that it was an odd thing.’
I nodded. A street scuffle in Glasgow was nothing out of the usual. You saw it every Friday or Saturday night. ‘What made it odd?’
‘I dunno. It was just odd. They wasn’t pished, or anything like that. It was more like…’ He frowned his pale, eggshell brow. Then it hit him. ‘It was like they was all agitated, rather than spoiling for a fight. Sammy in particular. It was like the other two had done something wrong.’
‘What kind of car did they get into?’
‘A big one. White. A Ford, I think.’
‘A Ford Zephyr Six?’
‘Could be. Yeah, could be. You know who I’m talking about?’
‘I’ve run into them, I think. How well do you know Sammy Pollock?’
‘Sammy Pollock?’
‘Sheila Gainsborough’s brother,’ I said, and he looked enlightened. It was becoming pretty clear that all around town Sammy had been trading hard on his sister’s name.
‘Not that well. I used to see him around. In the clubs, mainly.’
‘Did he ever say anything to you about representing you or any other musicians?’
‘What do you mean, represent?’
‘Did he ever talk about becoming an agent? Or setting up a talent agency with Paul Costello?’
The small man with the glabrous head laughed. ‘What would they know about the music game? No, he never said anything to me, or anyone I know.’
‘Fair enough.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Listen, do you have any idea of where I might find someone who knows where he is.’
‘There’s that lass he hangs around with.’
‘Claire?’
‘Oh, you know her already?’
‘No. Know of her. I’d very much like to talk to her. Do you know where I might be able to find her?’
‘Aye, I do. She’s a singer. Not bad, either. Claire Skinner. She sings at the Pacific Club some nights. I think she lives out in Shettleston.’
I took a couple of quid from my wallet and handed it to the trumpeter. From the sounds coming from the main club hall, I would maybe have been better giving him the pocket Webley I’d taken from Skelly.
‘Thanks, that’s been a help. Good luck out there,’ I said and left, wondering how long it would take all the king’s men and horses to get there.
I ’phoned Jonny Cohen at home. He said he knew the girl Claire who sang at the Pacific but he didn’t know if her surname was Skinner. Nor had he connected her to Sammy Pollock in any way.
‘Are you sure it’s the right girl?’ he asked.
‘That’s what my source tells me, but who knows? Can you give me an address for her?’
‘I can’t, but Larry who manages the Pacific for me maybe has one. Or at least he can tell you who he gets in touch with to book her. Call by the club tomorrow night and I’ll tell him to give it to you.’
‘Thanks, Jonny. I owe you.’
‘Yes, Lennox, you do. And Lennox?’