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pen with a clink on the red terra-cotta tiles and bent to pick it up.
"Money, lad. Why d'ye think?"
I returned from under the table, holding my pen.
"Anyway, it's all changed now." He paused, drawing on his cigarette and staring into space.
"What has?" I managed after a few seconds of silence.
"Everything. D'you know why I gave you this exclusive? Did you wonder that on the plane over here? A wee lad like you, not one of the big shots at the Record or the Mail? Or Scotland on Sunday, maybe?"
"Actually, I did rather wonder. Yes."
"'Cos they're all a bunch of pricks." He stared at me through a haze of smoke. I think I must look like someone who is easily shocked. People are always saying rude or outrageous things just to see my reaction. It's actually not a bad thing, when you're a reporter. Gets you some great quotes. "And I'd rather you got a nice little trip to Spain, than one of those bastards."
"You have a great house here."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Drink your beer."
"What's changed, Mr. McKean?"
"Well, son, here's your exclusive. I'm resigning as manager of Rangers."
I tried to look surprised. The fact was that I was disappointed. After a season like this one, this could hardly be called sensational news. The best I could manage was, "I see."
"And I only have a couple of weeks to live."
I looked up from my pad. McKean was famous for his unusual sense of humour. His eyes met mine directly with no trace of mischief. I reached for the can of Tennent's.
"What is it? I mean, what...."
"Let's not make this a medical story, son. You're a sports reporter, aren't you?" I nodded. "Well, let's just stick to the sport. I want to tell you what the hell I've been up to this last year or so. And it's a bloody good story. This could make you, lad. Wipe the smiles off the faces of those smart-arses at the big papers" He leaned forward across the table. "Well, you might at least look grateful!"
"Sorry. Thanks." A powerful mixture of whisky and smoke crawled on his breath.
"What do you think I've been up to?"
"Honestly?"
"Of course, honestly."
"Being a really crap manager."
He slammed his glass down on the table. I worried that I had misplayed the situation, choosing honest straight-shooting reporter over the more reliable sycophantic worm. Then he pushed back his chair with a screech on the tiles and roared with laughter, dissolving after a few seconds into a coughing fit. When he recovered, still red in the face, he spluttered, "A really crap manager. You wee bugger!" He stubbed out his cigarette and picked up the pack of Marlboro from the table. "You're right of course. Well partly, but there's more to it than that. Now I'm goin' for a piss."
When he was gone, I got up and strolled over to the window. The sun was setting over the scraggly hills that were strung out along the bay. I toyed with the obvious sunset metaphors and discarded them. No need for that kind of drivel with a story like this. Of course, I didn't really know what the story was yet. I fingered a copper saucepan that hung from a wooden beam. It didn't look like it had ever been used for cooking. The beam didn't look like it had ever been used to hold up a roof either. The toilet flushed and McKean returned, lighting a cigarette. He came over to where I stood, shaking his head and chuckling, "Crap manager!" Together we looked out the window. After a moment, he said, "You could always use some sort
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