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Oil this, oil that, and if it isny oil it’s cattle, and who knows how many million head and how many million acres. He’d give him the hat outside if there was inclement weather, the only time Stoker reluctantly acquiesced to covering his thick white blow-dried hair, his pride. One claimed Stoker’s hat and coat and helped him into it. Simultaneously, two young men who’d been standing at the bar all evening left their drinks unfinished and followed Stoker to the cloakroom.
‘Aye, adios.’ Jimmy Stoker moved away from the table. He shook Tosh’s left hand, knowing the right was otherwise engaged. ‘Treat him well, lassie.’ Her perfume was so overwhelming he suspected prolonged exposure to it would collapse his lungs. Jimmy Stoker inclined his body toward the girl, and whispered in her ear. His head went up and down like a man dooking for apples, and his mouth opened and his shoulders shook, but no sound emerged. ‘Place like this, gal like this, a guy’d have to be a goddam Baptist not to enjoy.’ Rick Tosh had a silent laugh. ‘We’ll talk business in the morning,’ Stoker said. He planned to reach the inner thigh as soon as Stoker had split. He had one liver-spotted paw on Patsie’s compliant knee under the table. ‘Jeez, it’s only what, ten o’clock?’ Rick Tosh, a leathery man with a neck so gnarled the cords were like stretched brown rubber bands, protested mildly. Enjoy.’ He made an expansive gesture, indicating that he was bestowing on them not only the finest of meals and the best wines, but also any pleasures the rest of the evening held. He finished his brandy and rose from the table and looked at his guests, a Texan called Rick Tosh and a local girl, Patsie, who’d been brought along for the American’s amusement. He’d eaten curried bream, and the taste kept coming back at him. His ulcer, that wicked wee cunt in his gut, was acting up. Jimmy ‘Bram’ Stoker sat in his usual private dining room at the Corinthian, a restaurant and club in an ornate Victorian building that was once the Glasgow Sheriff’s Court. Reuben Chuck took his mobile phone from his pocket and punched in a number and said, ‘Start movin.’ So much buzz, so many lights, so many pockets of darkness. He heard the roaring motorway ferry cars and trucks to Anderston and the Broomielaw, and then across the narrow water of the Clyde to Kingston and Kinning Par k, Govan and Pollok, and beyond. Beating his gloved hands together, he surveyed the city spread beneath him – the intricate splendour of St George’s Mansions lit by red floodlights, the towers of Trinity, the electric clusters of Maryhill, the dark pool that was Kelvingrove Park.
#DID BUZZ ALDRIN WEAR MIT BRASS RAT ON MOON FULL#
He wore a full length camel-coloured cashmere overcoat against the cold October night. He stepped out of his Jaguar at the top of Hill Street. He was forty-five and primed for advancement and he’d waited years for his moment.
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He’d seen fragile allegiances forged only to disintegrate in squalls of treachery and violence. He’d watched bosses rise and fall and others emerge to take their places. “A wonderful puzzle that keeps us guessing right to the end.” -Publishers Weekly on Mazurka “A full throttle adventure thriller.” -The Guardian on Mambo “Armstrong has outdone both Frederick Forsyth and Ken Follett.” -James Patterson on Jig “A consummate psychological thriller … Without doubt, Armstrong is now in the front rank of thriller writers.” -Books on Heat “Subtle and marvelous … This is a dazzling book.” -The Daily Telegraph on Agents of Darkness “Armstrong’s skill is not just an eye for a criminally good tale but a passion for the people that will populate it.” -The Scotsman “While touching on suspense with a skill to please hard-core thriller addicts, he manages to please people who … warm to readable novels of substance.” -Daily Mail “Armstrong is among the most intriguing of blockbuster writers … near to unputdownable.” -GQ “Campbell Armstrong is thriller writing’s best-kept secret.” -The Sunday Times PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF CAMPBELL ARMSTRONG