Manuel doesn’t say anything about his drinking. He looks at Watt, neither kindly nor unkindly, and mouths one word. Money.
Watt looks at Manuel’s drink, he flicks a finger, go on, drink that. Manuel leaves a pause, looking around the bar, making it clear that he isn’t drinking because he’s been told to by Watt. He could take it or leave it. He is choosing to drink. He picks up his beer and just before he takes a drink he glances at Watt’s empty double-glass and says, ‘Take a bucket, don’t ye?’
Manuel has seen that he has a weakness for the drink. Watt feels uneasy now. He starts to sweat. His brain tells him to blurt something.
‘There? Where we parked. Outside?’S the Trades Hall.’
Manuel is still drinking but Watt has finished his drink. He looks forlornly at the glass. He desperately wants to order another but Manuel will judge him. He wishes he was drinking alone. He gibbers on.
‘Trade guilds of Glasgow. Trade unions of the Middle Ages. Ancient. Beautiful. A lot of money.’
Manuel is listening. His beer is two-thirds full. His hand rests on his glass and Watt sees him look at his fingernails. They are broken and dirty. Hard physical work. Manuel curls the face of his nails in to face the glass.
Quite suddenly Watt understands. Manuel isn’t judging Watt’s drinking. Manuel is snarling because he is intimidated by the bar and the suited people in it. He is intimidated by the Trades Hall, or doesn’t know anything about it. Because, of course, Peter Manuel is a workingman and a Catholic, they’re not welcome. He won’t even have heard of such things. The Trades Hall, the Merchants’ Guild, they keep their heads down.
‘You ever heard of the Merchants’ Guild?’
Manuel shrugs vaguely and drinks to cover his face. Watt leans down to keep his voice low. ‘They own Glasgow. Have seats on the Corporation. Between them they own all of the land Glasgow’s built on. Power.’
Manuel is determined not to be impressed by anything Watt says.
‘They own George Square, Hutchesontown, Tradeston, all of the banks of the Kelvin River. They take in two million sterling in feu duties every year.’
‘Much?’
‘Two million. Every year.’
Now he has Manuel’s attention. Watt sees his eyes widen and narrow. Two. Million. Sterling. He sees Manuel smile, imagining sacks of cash. Sacks of money he can rob and take away. But it all goes through the books in cheques and bank drafts, paid through lawyers and suchlike. You can’t rob that sort of money. It would take an elaborate swindle and Manuel doesn’t have that in him. Still, Manuel is so distracted by the thought Watt feels he can order a drink now. He looks up but, disappointingly, the barman is muttering into the telephone, a hand over his mouth.
Manuel turns to Watt with a stiff neck. ‘Who did you say gets this money?’
Watt smiles, sees that Manuel’s weakness is money, robbing it, getting it, knowing where it is. The barman has hung up. Watt catches his eye and nods for another round.
Manuel looks at Watt, his eyes widened with avarice. He thinks maybe Watt has seen the bags of cash. It makes Watt chuckle.
‘Do they keep it across the road?’ Manuel sounds casual. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Their accounts are made public at the end of every tax year.’
‘You a member in it, then?’
The barman brings the salving drink just in time because Watt isn’t a member of the Merchants’ Guild and it’s a bit of a sore point.
‘Not yet. But I will be. One day.’ He lifts his Scotch and drinks. He looks at Manuel, whose fingernails are chipped, who didn’t even know the Merchants’ Guild or the Trades Hall existed until Watt told him a minute ago. Watt suddenly realises how much better he is than Manuel. This buoys him. ‘I’ll be President of the Merchants’ Guild one day, you mark my words. Know what that means?’
Manuel shakes his head, still smiling about the money.
‘The President is the “Second Citizen of Glasgow”. After the Provost. And that’ll be me. Third Citizen is the Deacon Convener of the Trades Hall.’
‘So, how come you’re not a member now? Is it too dear?’
Watt laughs joylessly. ‘“Too dear”? No. Well, it is expensive, but I can easily–’ He rolls his fat hands away before remembering that he shouldn’t make a big thing of having money. He stops. ‘Hm. No. Technical… To be a member you have to be nominated by other members and so on and so forth.’
‘Ha! They won’t have you.’
They are standing close.
‘Yes. They will. They will.’ Watt taps his nose. ‘Ways and means.’
They drink thoughtfully.
‘I’m a writer.’
Watt almost looks around to see who said that. Manuel is looking into his beer. He looks worried.
‘I write stories. Haven’t had any published yet but…’
Watt is blown away. ‘Really?’
A little coy, Manuel nods. ‘Aye.’
Watt blinks hard. ‘Have you written many stories?’
Manuel shrugs. ‘Nine.’
‘Nine!’
Manuel is pleased by this reaction, ‘Yeah. Nine full stories. Sent them off. I’m starting a novel soon.’ Manuel lies all the time but he’s telling the truth about this. He has never told anyone before, apart from his sister.
‘Good Lord! An author ? That’s absolutely amazing!’ Watt is impressed. He can’t imagine sitting down to do that, or wanting to. ‘I had no idea!’
‘Well, I haven’t had anything published yet.’
‘I believe persistence is a virtue in that game, isn’t it?’ Watt knows nothing at all about this. ‘I’m quite sure you will be published. Quite sure.’
Manuel drinks and feels kindly towards Watt. They’re both excluded from things they shouldn’t be. It bonds them. Standing so close in an empty public bar makes them feel that they are together, that they are close. Watt furnishes each of them with cigarettes.
A draught from the street hits Watt and Manuel at the same time. The barman startles and slides behind the gantry. They turn to look at the door.
Shifty Thomson skulks into the lounge.
Shifty’s wide-leg grey slacks hang precariously from his bony hips. His jacket is a loud blue check, his shoes brown and beige. Shifty always looks as if he stole the clothes he is wearing. Nothing fits or suits him.
He’s looking back at the windows to the street but heads straight for Watt and Manuel. He doesn’t need to look for them. He knows exactly where they’re standing. Shifty works for Dandy McKay and Watt suddenly realises that the barman called the Gordon Club to say they were in here. Watt looks at the barman who is hiding behind the gantry and watching. This is strange. Watt rarely drinks in here. Either the barman got lucky or Dandy has the whole city looking for them. The barman doesn’t seem like a man who ever gets lucky.
Shifty Thomson is now standing in the tight huddle of them. He looks away and rubs his nose.