Page 92 of Playing By Ear

Jamie couldn’t envision a universe where that would happen. But refusing to pass on the message could stir up trouble within the alliance. “Okay,” he said, careful not to delineate when and with whom he would share it.

“Good lad.” He extracted Mr Beast and handed it over the rack to the passing record seller, along with a fifty-pound note. “He’ll have this.”

“Wait,” Jamie said. “I don’t⁠—”

But the man was already slipping away into the mass of Sunday shoppers. Jamie did an anxious scan for Perry, who was approaching the till at the antiques stall. Ferret Face was moving in the opposite direction.

The music vendor held out a paper carrier bag. Jamie reached for the album, then pulled his hand back. “I don’t want it.”

She sighed. “Firstly, you’re lying. I saw you lusting after it. Secondly, I can’t keep it or it’ll unbalance the books and my boss’ll think I screwed up.”

Jamie’s thoughts tangled. It didn’t feel right, taking a gift from a gangster. But the sooner he was back by Perry’s side, the better. He grabbed the album and hurried across the walkway.

He joined Perry at the till, where he was handing a statue of what looked like a falcon to the vendor. “Hiya,” he said before brushing his fingertips over Perry’s arm. “That’s lovely.”

“I think it’s meant to go in a garden to scare off pests.”

“Well, it won’t scare me off, so that’s your money wasted.”

While the seller wrapped the statue, Jamie scanned the vintage toys on the shelves beneath the till, his mind still whirring over the Coyle encounter. He had to guard his voice for the next wee while, or Perry would know something was wrong.

The top row was stuffed with plush Blues from Blue’s Clues. The middle row held toys from children’s shows he didn’t recognize because they were before or after his time. In the center of this row sat a single bird with a puffy pale-green chest and rainbow wings.

Jamie drew in a hard gasp. It felt like he’d swallowed an icicle.

“See something you want?” Perry asked. “I owe you a gift for helping with my books.”

“It’s…” Jamie picked up the plush bird, though every cell in his body told him not to. The tiny thing fit in the palm of his hand. “What is this?”

“Och, Davey Doo!” the shopkeeper exclaimed. “My weans adored that program, so they did.”

“Davey Doo?” Perry’s voice rippled with excitement. “Let me see.”

Jamie handed it off to Perry, whose face lit up like it had when he’d held the book about peregrines. But this time, there was no trace of wistfulness, only joy.

“I used to watch this every day after school.” He looked at Jamie. “Do you remember? Davey was a dove who lived in a Glasgow doocot. Every morning he’d be set free with his friends and they’d fly all over the west of Scotland. He’d have adventures and help people in need.”

“Mind the song?” the merchant asked, then started singing.

Davey Doo,

Where are you?

Perry joined in.

Where are you,

Oh, Davey Doo?

The two of them laughed, as Jamie wondered how much the songwriter got paid for that masterpiece. Perhaps he was in the wrong sector of the music industry.

“And he never stopped blethering,” the shopkeeper added with a hoot. “That bird could talk the ears off a dozen donkeys.”

“You don’t remember Davey Doo?” Perry asked Jamie. “Wait, I was nine when the show was canceled, so you would’ve been three.”

“And they never broadcast replays,” the shopkeeper said, “or sold tapes, neither. Apparently a show about a Glaswegian bird was too ‘niche’ for wider consumption. Luckily I recorded them on our VCR so my youngest could watch.”

“I remember...” Jamie stared hard at the toy in Perry’s hand. “How could I remember, though?”