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  Jonesy stared into his pint, smiled, swilled the last mouthful and belched. 'If there's grass on the pitch — let's play!'

  Bandy Rab coughed into his fist, spoke with a head-shake, 'That's what I'm saying though — maybe there's no'!'

  The bold Jones didn't seem to register his friend's intoning. His mind was fixed on hot-pants, high-heels, an exposed midriff and a rack he could only describe as like two puppies fighting in a sack ... Great Dane puppies, likely.

  'Fuck it, ah'm gaun in!' he said.

  Rab recoiled, 'Well yer on your own, mate ... no' remember Errol Flynn?'

  'Oh aye,' said Jonesy, 'Ye goat a match?'

  'Eh?' went Rab, scoobied.

  'No' since Errol Flynn died!' Jonesy laughed up his own joke. 'Ye goat a match? ... No' since Errol Flynn died! Eh, get it?'

  He was still laughing as he strode off, hitching up his belt buckle, sucking in his gut.

  As he crossed the pub floor Jonesy put the eye on the young girl in question. Her St Tropez tan was more orangey the closer he got — looked like a tandoori chicken, but that was okay; lassies were just like tandoori chicken, he thought, the best bits were the white bits.

  Jonesy was still smiling as he reached the girl's table, 'Hello there,' he said, 'what you drinking, love?'

  She looked up, she had eyes like a cow — all lashes and dark mascara, too much maybe, like a schoolie playing with her mam's make-up box. She stalled, seemed to hold her breath for a second or two whilst she eyed Jonesy, up and down. Her answer could be heard on the other side of the pub: 'FUCK OFF, YA PAEDO!'

  Jonesy eased off the table, sharply, stepped back.

  He sensed the error of his approach now — and he could hear Bandy Rab's laughter behind him, all the way across the pub floor.

  Paedo! Fuck me, he thought. She was young right enough, but maybe he could use that, maybe he could still turn this around. He felt a mighty brainwave erupting on his boozy breath. 'So would ye mibbe like a sook on a lollypop instead, darlin'?'

  ###

  KILLING TIME IN VEGAS

  The City of Sin plays host to a performance-enhanced bodybuilder who loses control with bloody consequences in Killing Time in Vegas and an attempt to kidnap a billionaire's daughter goes badly wrong in The Long Drop in this second collection of original short stories by Irvine Welsh's 'favourite British crime writer', Tony Black.

  Find out how a victim of high school date rape takes the ultimate revenge and explore the grisly aftermath of a bank job with a crew who suspects one of their number has tipped off the cops.

  These American-set stories are collected here for the first time in a 15,000-word anthology. Killing Time in Vegas originally appeared in The Baddest of the Bad whilst the rest of the collection featured in The Mammoth Book of British Mysteries, True Brit Grit, Plots With Guns and Thuglit.

  Killing Time in Vegas

  KILLING TIME IN VEGAS

  THE LONG DROP

  DADDY'S GIRL

  ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT ALREADY

  TOO CLOSE TO CALL

  EAT SHIT

  I WANT CANDY

  Killing Time in Vegas

  Man, I was itching. The temp' was up at 90-plus, but Christ, the humidity was the killer. Collar and tie weather it wasn't. Shit, you carry about a 55-inch chest in this — I was bench-pressing 500lbs and upping the reps daily — comfortable you ain't.

  My suit was linen. Navy blue, bought from Hugo Boss back in New York. Not by me, uh-uh. This was a thrift store job. Time I can buy Hugo Boss off the rack I ain't coming back home to Vegas for work.

  'Can I help you, sir?' Blonde with diddy eyes and the whitest top row of teeth I'd ever seen. Bottom row lagging behind, must've been waiting for the top's payment plan to finish.

  'Francis Jarman,' I told her, 'I'm here for the instructor's job.'

  'Excuse me?' She looked vacant. Like the chick on the Minute Maid ads, minus the smile.

  'The, eh, fitness instructor ... for the gym.'

  She still didn't get it, pointed me sit with a long red fingernail. When she picked up the phone I heard her get my name wrong, called me 'Farnham'. I shook my head but I only got a look, one that said, 'Purleeze, like I give a shit'.

  I sat back down and saw her cross her legs away from me, tug her skirt over her knees. Always makes me smile when chicks do this around me. They see the muscles bulging out all over and think I'm a real player. But I ain't; chicks don't pop my trunk.

  'Stay seated, Mr Farnham,' she said slamming down the phone, 'there'll be someone to see you presently.'

  'Presently!' I said too soon, then realized I'd put the heavy-hitting intonation in there. I'd been blurting a lot lately.

  She dipped her head, looked at me over long lashes, 'That's right away,' she spat.

  I smiled one of my widest, Jonny calls it my stage school smirk, 'Thank you so much, mam.'

  I could hardly wait to meet my interviewer; just a joy to be dragging ass across state for this kinda shit.

  ****

  Five'll get you ten this guy's a homophobe, I thought. Had queer-hater written all over him as he came in: Brooks Brothers' shirt open at the collar, Gap khakis and sweet loafers: Timberland or Sebago, something like that, way outta my price range.

  He blanked me big time as he popped an iPad on the desk. A good ten minutes of office chat passed between Mr Big Shot and Blondie as he tried to tell her to fish out something from the mail he wanted 'upstairs on my desk by five'. She smiled and giggled. That ain't all he was getting upstairs on his desk later, I thought.

  I was ready to bail when he finally turned to me, dropped eyes on a clip-board and said, 'Mr ... Jarman?'

  'That's right.' I stood up, tried to keep my size outta the picture, but I dwarfed him into shadows. ''Pleased to meet you.'

  'Would you walk this way, please.'

  I was thinking if I could walk that way I'd be buying size 32 khakis off the rack too, as my thighs chafed together on every step.

  'Take a seat,' he told me. I still didn't know the motherfucker's name. Shit! Bad manners, that's always been a hatred of mine. I don't allow myself prejudices, but bad-mannered people I just hate right out. I needed the job, though, so I battened it down fast.

  'That's some heat you got today,' I said, going for the small talk angle.

  'This is Vegas,' he said, shooting a look that told me he wanted to end the sentence with 'fuck-head'.

  He handed me over a form to fill out. On grey paper, real thick too. I fired through; when I handed it back it looked like I'd been mopping up by the sweat marks all over.

  'Sorry, I'm real hot,' I said, spluttering, 'I mean, the heat, y'know it's hard being in the heat when you're used to New York.'

  I was screwing up. I knew it. Could see the signs, but I'd have been way off the mark if I had to pick his next question. I didn't see it coming in a month of Sundays.

  'Mr Jarman ...' he paused, leaned over the desk and locked his fingers together in a tent, 'are you a ... homosexual?'

  I felt my breath stop. I suddenly went from hot as hell, to ice. I wanted to say, 'Can you even ask me that? Is it legal?' But some defence mechanism kicked in, an old one, probably learned in the schoolyard. I said: 'No. Shu-u ... no way!'

  I wanted to spit after saying the words. Could see Jonny's face and there was shame in his eyes as he looked at me.

  He raised his eyebrows: 'Interesting. Your resume doesn't say if you're credentialed.'

  'Credentialed ...' Shit. 'I thought you said ... I mean, I misunderstood.'

  Big Shot rose. He leaned over the desk and collected up his pencils and papers, shuffled about a bit, then, 'I think we're done here.'

  'That it?'

  'Excuse me?'

  'I mean, I came all the way from New York ... it seems hardly like five minutes since I got in here.'

  His hand went in the pocket of his Gap khakis, there was a dip in his brows, hard to spot, but definitely there, 'We're very specific about what we look for in suitable c
andidates.'

  Suitable candidates? I heard that and was ready to snap his neck like a breadstick, but there was still a chance; I couldn't jeopardize it.

  'Well, I hope I'm a good fit,' I said.

  'Thanks for dropping by. We'll let you know.'

  I grabbed his hand, I knew I was holding it too tight. But I let that grip linger for a little longer, just long enough for his brows to lift back up his damp forehead.

  ****

  I took a motel just off the Strip. I dropped my bags and swapped the Hugo Boss for a set of beach shorts and a black T-shirt. With my wraparound shades I looked like I could ride point for a biker gang.

  I sent a text to Jonny about the interview — lied and tried to sound hopeful. I switched off my cell after that to avoid the retread he'd take me through. I was sore as hell and I knew it'd only mean a beat-down for me on getting home if I kicked off again. I couldn't hurt him either, he'd been through enough when I lost my job and we started going behind on the rent. The guilt smacked me again like acid bile rising in my gut.

  I hit the casino bar with brass-knuckles. I was cooling down nicely, on my second bottle of Bud, when some torn-assed old butt-surfer started hitting on me.

  'That's a work-out paying off, I'm thinking,' he told me.

  'Yeah, well ... nothing for nothing, huh.' I tried to be polite, wanted to tell him to ditch the shit and leave but he was way older than me and looked lonely.

  'What you bench-press?'

  'I dunno ... 500lbs or so.'

  'Man that's a work-out!'

  'I guess.'

  He looked me up and down, watched me every time I raised the neck of the bottle to my lips.

  'Want another?'

  'Look, I ...'

  'Hey, it's just a beer ... no harm in a man buying a stranger a beer is there?'

  I nodded okay, said, 'I guess not.'

  Soon enough he was buying me margaritas and slapping my back. We laughed away and were getting on just fine, but then I felt his hand linger a mite too long on my thigh.

  'Take it away, pal ...' I warned him.

  'Wha-a-at ... this here,' he rubbed his hand harder into my muscles, grabbed the flesh beneath my shorts, 'There's no harm in that, surely.'

  In a flash I'd grabbed his fingers and crushed them in my hand. I knew he hadn't done anything that wrong, but outta nowhere I was a race car in the red, I'd been on a slow boil since the interview ... since a lot longer than that.

  'Arg-g-g ... you son-of-a-bitch!' he yelled, 'you son-of-a-Goddamn-bitch!'

  I saw the barman getting edgy, the old hom' was making a scene. I stood up and grabbed my keys off the bar.

  'Look at you, standing there like an ape! I knew the second I saw you you was a jackass ...' he yelled at me, 'whenever someone bulks up like you, it's because they're building over something!'

  He was still hollering as I walked out of the bar, into the casino lobby, and a whole other world of shit.

  ****

  Outside the elevator a fresh ruckus was underway. A busboy was taking heaps from some corporate-type who'd tied a few on. The jerk was swaying and holding onto a bottle of pink champagne, pockets stuffed with chips, another victim of the Vegas flesh-pots who should've stayed home.

  It was late and I knew better than to intervene but I was being pushed, call it whatever, I didn't want to see anyone else take any grief.

  'Okay, sir, you've made your point, now leave the kid be,' I said, as I put myself between the busboy and the second big shot of the day I'd had cause to tussle with.

  'Fuck you!' he spat.

  At first, I thought nothing of it. Hell, I'd worked doors, this was 'fries with that?' to me. But there was something about the voice that came with a knife-edge. Then I saw it, staring me in the face, the name on the swipe-card attached to his lapel: Mike Clarkson.

  'I'm going to ask you to re-evaluate that response ...' I said.

  'What?' He looked up, but he didn't remember pushing me around in high school, he'd no memory of the way he and his Jock buddies used to ride me, bitch-slapping and calling me Hom'-Boy and such.

  'You have no idea have you ... really, no idea!' I could feel the alcohol racing in my veins, mixing with the adrenaline and one hell of a sore mood. 'I'm Francis Jarman.'

  It took him a while but the slow-blink on his face turned to register the information.

  'Francis ...oh yeah, I remember you.'

  'You bet your sweet ass you do.' I put a heavy finger point into his shoulder. In New York it would have been enough to get you put inside — just contemplating it would be — but I was past caring here. Call it an out of town thing. I'd lost the Vegas vibe.

  'You've, er, changed some,' he slurred.

  'Oh, yeah ...' I was enjoying riding his fear. It was a classic turn of the tables. Would take a few revolutions more to get even with this bastard little queer-hater, though. 'Why don't I just walk you to your hotel, huh?'

  'Eh, no, no ... I'm, er, staying here, at the casino,' he said waving the bottle. 'I've got a room just upstairs, that won't be necessary.'

  I wanted just one shot. One clean crack at his face to remind him, to let him know how it felt to be bullied by someone stronger than he was. Man, this rage was lapping in me. But I chilled. I grabbed his shoulders and spun him towards the elevator. 'Word to the wise, Mike ... lay off the busboy!' As I stepped back from the elevator I could tell he'd learned nothing in the time since we'd last clapped eyes on each other.

  'I'll bear that in mind ... FAG-SIS!' he yelled out to the whole place.

  I was at the doors, fists at the ready.

  As the doors pipped me to a close, he stood laughing, waving that Goddamn pink-champagne bottle at me like it was his dick.

  ****

  The red button wouldn't open up the elevator again. I gave it a few good shots but it wouldn't shift.

  I hit the stairs.

  I moved fast; despite my size I was still agile. I'd kept up the cardio' too. There was only one floor, but shit, this was Vegas, everything was fast, the elevator beat me to the punch, dislodging Mike before I could grab hold and tear him a new asshole.

  The down light was already on when I got there, just in time to see him staggering off to his room, bottle still in hand. At the door a couple of hookers were hanging out, butt naked, save a long white feather-boa they shared between them.

  If there was a time to settle down, think about doing the right thing, this was it. I gathered myself and slumped on the wall, my sweat-soaked back sliding me all the way to the floor.

  My cell phone fell out and I switched it on. I'd missed a call from Jonny, I cursed inwardly and played the voicemail message:

  'I saw through your text message, Francis. Look, this is about as much as I can take. I'm going back West so don't expect me to be around when you get home. I can't live hand-to-mouth with you anymore, I put a box with your hormone shit and needles and whatever in the stairwell by the dumpster, if you're so desperate for it, it'll still be there in a couple days.'

  The message went quiet but the little clock still ticked off the seconds; he started again:

  'No, scrub that last bit ... I'm putting it out with the trash! You know, you'd still have a job if you didn't take that shit! It's fucked with your mind, I mean what did Mr Hernandez say to make you fly at him like that! He was your boss, you can't go round hitting your boss and keep your job. Oh, Christ, like you care, go screw yourself, Francis ... go fucking screw yourself!'

  I threw the cell at the wall and it bounced right back, smacking me upside the head. It hurt like a bitch and I jumped right up and stamped it into the floor.

  My heart was pumping black blood to my head. I was past the break-point now. Adrenaline raced in my veins so much that I could see red tinges in the corner of my vision. I couldn't hold myself back anymore — I turned to the nearest target.

  The carpet to the door of Mike's room felt thick under my sandals and made a swish-swish noise that annoyed the fuck out of me. I
ripped the sandals off and tore them apart in my bare hands as I strode, steps like explosions, all the way to the end of the line.

  I thought about knocking, but the door looked flimsy enough to need only a couple of shoulder barges. I was wrong; it took only one.

  The hookers screamed as I ran in. I grabbed one by the wrist and yelled at her, 'Get the fuck out of here, now!' The other raised her hands to her face and screamed louder, I slapped her and she dropped like a stone. Her buddy wasted no time on help though, turned tail and shot out that door like a scalded cat.

  Mike lay naked on the bed, save a white towel round his waist, the bottle of pink champagne still in his hand. His mouth was a wide `O' but there was not a sound coming from him as I grabbed his hair and turned him over on his front.

  'What was that you called me?' I yelled at him.

  'What?' his voice was a pathetic whimper.

  'What was that you called out to me?'

  'I-I-I don't ...'

  'Yes, you Goddamn do! Think, what was that shit you said?'

  'I-I-I-' Every time he spoke I felt my rage pitch up a notch. He was riding me. Just like he always had.

  'You fucking well know what you said, you fucking well know ... say it, say it, you fuck, say what you said to me.'

  'I didn't say ... when?'

  'When? When? ... Eighth Grade you motherfucker!'

  I reached down for the towel around his waist and pulled it clear of his butt-cheeks.

  'You know what it is with guys like you, don't you?'

  He twisted his head to see what I planned to do He was crying now, full on tears like a baby. 'What are you going to do to me? What are you going to do to me?'

  'I said, do you know what they say about guys like you ... always attacking us, calling us queer! You know what they say?'

  'No. No,' he yelled out, 'I don't know, please, please I have a family.'

  'They say you're the queers! It's suppressed in you ...'

  'No, please, please,' he whimpered.

  I pushed his face into the pillow and grabbed up the phallic looking pink champagne bottle.