Mac looked bored. There were no punters in. ‘Why are you still here, Hod?’ I said. A spin on the stool, eyes flared. ‘I’m, er, at a loose end.’ I spotted Mac. He scratched his palm nervously. ‘This better not be what I think it is.’ Mac let out a sigh, fiddled with the little stud earring in his left ear, said, ‘And what would that be?’ ‘Minding . . . I don’t need looking after!’ I pointed to the pump beside Mac’s elbow. ‘Usual.’ The dog came running up to meet me, put claws up. I swear that dog smiled. I looked down at him. He barked. Turned his head to one side, then the other. An ear sat up. ‘Gimme a Grouse whilst you’re there.’ Mac poured the whisky, placed it down. I fired it, said, ‘Another like it.’ Looks passed between the pair of them. ‘Yes?’ In unison: ‘Nothing. Nothing.’ ‘Make it a double. Fuck it, treble.’ I smiled. ‘. . . As well hung for a sheep as a lamb.’ I sparked up a smoke, inhaled deep, said, ‘So spill.’ Hod bridled, tweaked the hair on the back of his knuckles.
