The Last Days of Disco Read Online Free Page A

on, at about four. Ask fur Hobnail. He’ll sort ye oot.’
Click.
The phone flatlined, with a constant droning sound.
    Bobby stared at it for a few seconds.
Hobnail? Was that a fucking
code word?
Along with all those words that sprang to mind when thinking of Fat Franny Duncan came another two: ‘mobile’ and ‘DJ’.It was a big risk, but at least Franny Duncan would know where to get equipment, and might even have some for hire. Bobby Cassidy had taken one wee step back from the edge.

2
MEN MAKE PLANS AND GOD SMILES
2 ND FEBRUARY 1982: 2:26PM
    Fat Franny Duncan loved the
Godfather
movies, but he did not belong to this new band of theorists who reckoned
II
was better than
I
. For Fat Franny, original was most certainly best, although, given the success of the films and the timelessness of the story, he was staggered that there hadn’t been a
III
, like there had been with Rocky. He also couldn’t comprehend why there had been no book spin-off, although, even if there had, he would certainly not be wasting his time reading it. He knew the dialogue from both films pretty much by heart, and used their most famous quotes as a design for life. Particularly the lines of Don Corleone, who Fat Franny felt certain he would resemble later in his life. He was, after all, fat. There was no denying this. Bulk for Brando’s most famous character helped afford him gravitas and – as a consequence – respect; a level of respect that Fat Franny felt was within his grasp. Michael was a skinny
Tally
bastard and, although he undoubtedly commanded reverence, it was driven by fear.
    Fat Franny was intent on pursuing a line of legitimacy with his business that would bring him universal veneration. The burgeoning entertainment venture was the vehicle for this. It had started reasonably well. The mobile DJ-ing had begun slowly, butover the last year and a half had branched into more lucrative gigs such as weddings and anniversary parties. There was money to be made in
functions
, of that there was no doubt. As a consequence, Fat Franny had assembled a
roster
: a collection of acts for every eventuality. From kids’ parties, to coming-of-age celebrations right up to charity do’s – Fat Franny Duncan had it all covered. So, as he surveyed his
talent
– sat at the kitchen table for their twice-weekly meeting in his expansive ex-council house – why did he feel like he wanted to stab a butcher’s knife through each of their hands?
    ‘Franny.’ A sheepish Bert Bole broke the silence that had engulfed all present for the last fifteen minutes.
    Everyone at the table eyed their black-clad leader nervously. He ran chubby fingers through the thinning, greying hair on the top of his head and then tugged at the black hairband that was holding the rest of it in a tight ponytail. Finally, he teased at the slim moustache with his forefinger and thumb. To Bert Bole, it looked like a ritual before a slaughter.
    ‘
Franny
! Boss …?’ Bert had raised the level of his voice – but only slightly – in an attempt to get a reaction from the fat man with the faraway look in his eyes at the end of the table. Fat Franny often thought of the Don at times like this – and there had been a few too many lately. Surrounded by his subordinates, he imagined what Corleone would have said to Bob Dale – Fat Franny’s
Luca Brasi
– if these morons had told
him
what they’d just announced at the meeting.
    Bob Dale responded, barley audible.
    ‘He hearths ye. He just disthnae
belief
ye!’ Bob Dale didn’t speak often. A hair-lip and ill-fitting teeth gave his speech a very pronounced lisp, which had been ridiculed mercilessly at school. As a consequence, Bob had found it more productive to retaliate with his fists than with his broken voice. His stature grew, along with a reputation that he was
not to be messed with.
But by that time the lasting damage was done. The legacy of those early brutal dayswas a nickname – Hobnail, which was the sound he made