Shadows of Sounds by Alex Gray

himself.
    All at once the doors opened and Flynn found himself facing a tall man with white hair and a moustache.
    ‘Jimmy Greer?’ Flynn stepped forward, cautiously.
    ‘Aye. And who are you, son?’ The journalist was looking at him intently and Flynn felt himself wilt under the man’s stare.
    ‘Can we talk? I’ve information about George Millar. Stuff your people don’t seem to have a hold of.’ Flynn’s words rushed out as he sensed his imminent departure.
    The journalist’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait here till I get my jacket.’ Flynn watched Greer disappear beyond a phalanx of grey partitions that separated the news desks. Eventually the man reappeared, fastening his padded jacket as he strode towards Flynn.
    ‘We’ll have a wee coffee while we chat, eh?’ Greer suggested. Flynn nodded, suddenly feeling unsure of himself as the man pressed the lift button and gave the boy a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
    They walked in silence to the coffee bar in the pedestrian precinct, Flynn half a step behind Greer who loped along as if he was deliberately trying to put a distance between the boy and himself.
    ‘Two espressos, doll,’ Greer demanded, slapping down a pile of coins on the glass topped counter. The girl didn’t even look up as she relayed the order to another server.
    The reporter took the two cups over to a table by the window and Flynn quickly slipped into the seat facing into the coffee bar. It wouldn’t do to be recognised, especially as they were so close to the Concert Hall.
    ‘Right, pal, what’s all this about?’ asked Greer, emptying three long packets of brown sugar into his espresso. ‘Better not be a waste of my time,’ he added. The phrase ‘or else’ hung unspoken between them. Flynn gave a weak smile.
    ‘Well, I’m not really George Millar’s son,’ he began.
    ‘Never thought it for a moment,’ Greer came back, hisvoice laden with sarcasm.
    ‘But I can tell you about his personal life better’n any son could,’ Flynn assured him.
    ‘Aye, go on then,’ Greer answered. He was trying to play it cool but Flynn could see a spark of interest in the man’s eyes.
    ‘He wasn’t just your regular straight bloke, like? Old George was one of the boys, know what I mean?’ Flynn tried to make his remark sound as salacious as he dared just to see which way the reporter would jump.
    ‘And how would a wee scruff like you know that, eh?’ Greer was leaning forward, his face so close that Flynn could smell the nicotine on his breath. He made himself sit still though he couldn’t help bunching his fists unseen below the table.
    ‘How d’you think?’ he leered.
    ‘You’re not telling me that a member of the City of Glasgow Orchestra got his kit off with the likes of you?’ Greer scoffed. ‘Now that I just don’t buy, pal.’
    ‘Naw, naw, no me. Ah’m no’ that way inclined anyway,’ Flynn hastened to assure him. ‘Ma pitch is up at the Concert Hall. Ah’ve done him a few wee favours, like. put him in touch with some good gear, know what I mean?’ Flynn lowered his voice as he spoke.
    Jimmy Greer nodded, never taking his eyes off the boy for a minute.
    ‘There’s a story in this for you an’ all,’ Flynn hesitated. It wouldn’t do to give it all away too soon. It was worth a hell of a lot more than a lousy cup of espresso.
    ‘Aye. Maybe there is and maybe there isnae,’ Greer spoke softly, an expression of greed flitting across his face.
    ‘Well, what’s in it for me? Information’s no’ cheap, man,’ Flynn came back at him swiftly, sensing the other man’s interest.
    ‘Fifty if it’s any good,’ Greer said immediately.
    Flynn hesitated. ‘Naw, I’m no sure. Ah think it’s worth a lot more’n that.’
    Greer drained his coffee. ‘Waste of my time then, son,’ he said and made to stand up.
    ‘No,’ Flynn protested, his hand raised suddenly as if to prevent the journalist from leaving. ‘All right then, fifty,’ he said desperately, cursing