“Me neither.” Mungo shrugged. “How much do you need?”
“As much as I can get. I’m starting at the hairdressing college next week. I wanted to buy some new scissors and that.”
Mungo’s eyes scanned the window again, he thought he had seen a pair of electric hair clippers somewhere. For a while they both peered into the pawnshop and watched the workie haggle with Jocky. The labourer was moving animatedly, as though he was recounting some yarn about the pedigree of the saxophone, but through it all Jocky’s face remained an impassive mask.
“My mother was never a big fan of pawnshops.” The man said it in such a way that he seemed to be talking to himself. “She found them quite a low place, dead common. A necessary evil, she said.”
“Why don’t ye ask her how they work?”
The young man’s eyes flickered to meet Mungo’s gaze and then they fled again. “Well. I can’t.”
The workie came banging out of the shop. He had a thin wad of notes in his grasp, “Ye’re a parasitic little pirate. Conning guid, hard-working folks out of their fuckin’ treasures. Ye should be ashamed of yersel.” He slammed the door with such force that the window shutters rattled in their casings. The workie turned to Mungo. “Listen pal, do yersel a favour. Whatever ye’ve got to pawn, take it elsewhere. Nothin’ but a robbin’ aul’ basturt in there. He’d have the teeth out of your granny’s heid.”
Mungo was at a loss for words. He felt winded. The labourer had thick, dark lashes and eyes of such a pale shade of blue that Mungo couldn’t help but stare. He had been unprepared for the rare beauty of this man. The man’s lips were generous against a powerful jawline, and even in his anger he was smirking, his eyes twinkling. “Can ye no talk, mucker?” Something in the knowing way the young man was smiling back at Mungo said that he was used to having this effect on people. “Is it a séance I’ll be needin’ to reach ye?”
Mungo recovered himself too late. He willed his eye muscles not to betray him. “Aye, I can talk. I heard what you said.”
The worried young man with the black hair stepped forward then. “Mister. If I shouldn’t pawn my stuff in there, would you know of a place I could take these?” He tilted the bag towards the workie, the man seemed unimpressed as he peered inside.
“Are ye robbin’ yer mammy’s good china to buy yersel some smack?”
The young hairdresser bristled. “No. Of course not.”
The man smiled. Mungo had to look away to stop staring. He would dream about this man later, he would think about how his thick fingers crammed into the pockets of his jeans, how there was chafing on his muscular neck where the coarse wool of his jacket irritated his stubble. The man laughed. “What is it wi’ you two? Is it yer first night on earth?” He looked inside the duffel bag again. “Auld Jocky is better for shanking blades and the odd oboe. Ah’d take these out to the West End, look along the Byres Road. They’ve got fancy houses and antique shops out there. There are actual pedlars of other people’s old shite, if ye can fuckin’ believe it.” With that the workie put his money in his breast pocket. He strode across the pavement and got back into his van, the engine came to life with a great rattling shudder.
He leaned out the window and said to the hairdresser, “Haw, you wi’ the trinkets. If ye want a lift ah’m heading out yon Finnieston way. If ye don’t mind a wee walk I can drop ye close enough to the West End?”
The young man nodded and walked around to the passenger side. The workie was watching Mungo. He leaned out of his window and tapped his hand on the door as though Mungo should come closer. Mungo crossed over to him, and the workie said, “Here, how old are you?”
Mungo hesitated a moment. “Nearly sixteen.”
The man smiled and Mungo felt his pulse quicken. The workie pointed at the side of the van. “Can ye read that sign?”
Mungo gazed at where the man was pointing. Davey MacNeil. Plumbing, Bathroom and Kitchen Fitting. Fair price – fast work. Duke Street. Tel: 554 6799. Mungo nodded, he was confused. “Aye, I can read it.”
“Can ye remember it?”
Mungo glanced at it again. “Aye. So?”
“Guid. Ah’m Davey. See when you turn twenty-one, can I take you for a drink? Will ye gie us a wee phone?” The workie winked at Mungo, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Mungo must have nodded, but he wasn’t aware of it. Davey released the handbrake and the van trundled off. Mungo watched it join the evening traffic.
A new voice cut into his thoughts. “Haw. Whit’s yer game, pal?”
Mungo turned on his heel. Jocky was standing in the doorway of the pawnshop, he had a claw hammer in his hand. “Ah’ve seen you every day this week, just watchin’ the place. You one of the young Tongs? Think ye can fuckin’ rob us?”
Mungo shook his head. “Naw. I’m no from the Calton. Are you Jocky?”
“Whit if ah um?”
“I’m looking for Maureen Buchanan. I’m Mungo. I’m her boy.”
Mungo wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he had a feeling that the man would have been annoyed at his sudden appearance. Mo-Maw had given him the impression that Jocky didn’t like the messy bits of her life, that he and his siblings were like the used plates that she kicked under her bed and hid beneath the bed skirt. Jocky surprised him when he lowered the hammer and said, “Right, Will ye be wanting a cup of tea?”
The inside of the pawnshop was more cluttered than the windows. There was a battalion of upright hoovers along one wall, and behind the security glass were the cases of rings that the signwriting promised. Mungo peered at them, he knew nothing about the fashions of ladies’ jewellery but all the women he knew had quick, busy hands and these rings seemed heavy and impractical. Jocky locked the door, he led Mungo behind the counter and into the storeroom at the back. He rinsed two tea mugs and filled the electric kettle. There was a rail of wedding dresses gathering dust.
“Do you sell everything?”
“Aye. Every manner of thing if there’s money in it.” Jocky shovelled heaped spoonfuls of powdered milk into the mug. “But it’s no really about sellin’。 It’s about haudin’。 Sugar?”
Mungo nodded. “I’ve never been in a pawnshop.”
“Och, there’s nothing to it. It’s just a big storage shed. Money lending, int it?” Jocky offered Mungo a biscuit, and when he took one, Jocky pushed another on him. He pointed at a low stool for Mungo to sit on. “That fella ye were talking tae. He brings his trumpet in here every so often. Every time he pretends like ah came up the Clyde in a banana boat. But ah gie him a couple of poun’ for it, and then when wages day comes, he buys it back for a wee bit more than ah gave him.”
Mungo chewed the soft biscuit. “So, how much do you want for my mother then?”
Mungo had meant it as a joke, but Jocky handed the boy a cup of tea and carried on as though he hadn’t heard him. “There used tae be guid money in it. Decent families needing a wee bit o’ cash to tide them over tae Friday. But now it’s aw junkies rippin’ electronics out of their mammies’ flats and puntin’ it fur skag.” Jocky nodded at a stack of record players. “And who wants tae buy used stuff anymair? It’s aw new, new, new wi’ people these days. It breaks: they bin it. It doesnae go wi’ the wife’s latest haircut: they bin it.”