On the hour-long long stretch from Ouyen to Mildura, the sun hammers down on the roof of the Pitbull. The spring breeze outside is fresh; the inside of the car heats up fast. Another minus for the Pitbull, but it’s collecting so many minuses now I’m starting to lose track. It doesn’t matter anyway – I’ve named the car. Once you name a car, you’re pretty much stuck with it.
During the drive I think about what I’m getting ready to do.
The outskirts of the city will be the battle line. Once I arrive I’ll be in it, and there’ll be no retreat. In the rear-view, my forehead’s creased and my expression’s grim. Most people moving to a new place, with the prospect of a potentially lucrative job, look happy. I’ve gotta practise relaxing my face.
My crap is all packed into the duffel bag sitting on the passenger seat beside me. I left a note propped up on Mark West’s kitchen table. Pretty soon everyone in the district will know I’ve thrown over a good situation to hook up with the seedy element. If they think I’ve gone bad it won’t actually be too far removed from what they think of me already. In terms of my cover, it’s probably better if Westie just thinks I’m an arsehole.
Even if he knew the whole story, Mark’d only try to talk me out of it. But it’s too late for that. I’ve made a decision. It was based on a gut feeling, sure. But I reckon gut feelings are more accurate than people think. Your reptile brain gets all the same information your conscious brain gets. It rolls the information around and comes to its own conclusions. You end up with a feeling, an instinct. It might not be logical or reasoned, you might not even realise it’s happened. It’s not a conscious process. But that doesn’t mean it’s not accurate.
I have a gut feeling about this.
It doesn’t make me less nervous.
The road from Ouyen is just yellowing miles of wheat with the occasional silo or power line. It’s like driving through the desert. Then I look up and suddenly I’ve arrived at this oasis. The irrigation has kicked in and houses have sprouted up like brick-and-weatherboard mushrooms, grapevines growing behind them in long orderly rows.
Mildura is weird. Like a giant market garden with suburban housing and warehouse shopping malls sprinkled over the top of it. There’s fucking palm trees and roses in people’s front yards, for god’s sake.
I clench my fingers on the steering wheel. Salted through my anxiety are flashes of Amie’s face. The way her eyes widened when I volunteered to narc. The way she stood up for me and, before that, stood beside me, when we were shoulder-to-shoulder looking at the photos on the wall of her room.
I had no idea she was a photographer. Her shots are incredible, heaps better than those pictures she’s clipped out of National Geographic. Each of her photos forces you to have a closer look at something you’ve taken for granted, like she’s peeled back the layers of ordinary so you can see the beauty underneath.
My face relaxes thinking about Amie. Her scent, away from the antiseptic smell of the hospital. Her black hair falling loose over her shoulders, the kinks from her plait like the ripples on a sand dune. Her eyes are rich brown, shot through with a lighter gold near her irises. Long eyelashes. Cheeks that flush pink when she’s angry or embarrassed. Lips the same dusky pink…
Okay, hold it. No thinking about Amie’s eyes, or Amie’s lips, or Amie’s anything. Head in the game, Harris. Right.
Snowie flashes his lights at me from where he’s parked beside the Red Cliffs Hotel. I pull the car over, give him a chance to swing around so he can lead me through the outer suburbs. The main drag into town is dead straight: four lanes with sky-scraping streetlamps down a wide centre island. I can already see how this place must be heaven for the Friday night car jockeys.
I follow Snowie’s silver Celica past the hotel-motel strip. We’re driving away from Coles supermarket and through a series of turns. The houses around us start to get smaller, lower to the ground. Then, seedier. More neglected.
Snowie’s car turns into a suburban court and down a bit before easing to the curb. The gardens here still have roses, but they’re tangled and dry, paired with ugly weathered shrubs. I slide the Pitbull in behind the Celica, clamber out of the driver’s seat with my cane, lock the car. Better to lock it around here, I reckon. All my shit’s inside it and I’m not in Ouyen anymore. The sign behind us reads Amblin Court. I don’t know if I could find my way back here without help.
‘Harris! Mate!’ Snowie walks over from his car to meet me, gives me a slap on the back. ‘You made it. Good on ya.’
‘Yep, I made it.’ My jeans are sticking to the backs of my legs from the sweaty drive. ‘Thanks for meeting me. Bloody maze, this town, yeah?’
‘You’ll figure it out.’ Snowie grins. ‘Right, here you go. Come on in.’
Snowie nods his chin to show we’re crossing the road, waves a hand at the cracked concrete path in invitation. The house itself doesn’t look all that inviting. A flat-walled brick box in the classic commission style, plonked in a dry patch of weedy lawn. There’s an old caravan in the driveway. Shit-loads of garbage – broken furniture, bin-bags of rubbish, mouldy blankets – is mounded between the end of the caravan and the side of the house. The front screen door wheezes on its hinges.
‘You said someplace cheap, right?’ Snowie holds the door open as I enter.
‘Cheap is good.’
‘This is the place, then.’ Snowie grins broadly as he ushers me into the living room. ‘Gotta warn you, though, it doesn’t quite have a woman’s touch.’
No shit. The living room is large and butt-ugly: brick walls, pub carpet. A moth-eaten brown velour sofa is dumped in the centre of the floor. The rest of the living room furniture comprises a standing lamp with a bare bulb, two green plastic chairs and a milk crate. The whole house smells like bong water.
Yesterday morning I was in Mark West’s homey cluttered unit. Then at Amie’s, seeing the jewelled cave of her bedroom, the clean cosiness of the kitchen. Normal houses, with people living normal lives. The contrast here is jarring.
The living room is deeply shaded by a batik sheet hung over the window. You wouldn’t know it was a nice spring day outside. The sofa is currently occupied by a skinny guy, pale as milk, in a blue tank and trackie pants. His hair is tied in a top-knot, tangled dread ends leaking out sideways, and he’s smoking a joint while he watches cartoons on a giant flat-screen to my right. His socked feet are up on a wooden coffee table decorated with cigarette burns, an over-sized ashtray, and a crinkled chip packet.
‘Hey, Snowie.’ He raises the hand with the joint in salute, gives me the eyeball.
‘Kev,’ Snowie says. ‘Brought you a new housemate. Harris, this is Kevin.’
I nod, Kev nods, ‘heys’ are exchanged all round. I see Kevin checking out my cane. The sound of the cartoons is all over-bright voices and zaniness.
‘You fellas can get to know each other later, eh?’ Snowie nudges me, points with his chin to a white laminex room extending beyond on the left. ‘Kitchen. Oven doesn’t work.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Come on through, I’ll show you which room’s yours.’
We cut in front of Kev’s view of the TV as we turn into a dingy hallway where someone has tagged the whole of one wall in red spray paint. There’s two bedroom doors on the left, and on the right, a white door with bubbled glass panels, half ajar. I see a white shower cubicle, a toilet, and a small hand basin, jaundiced with rust below the faucet line.
‘Bathroom,’ Snowie says unnecessarily. ‘Ah, here we go.’
He moves one padlocked room further and pushes open a wood veneer door to show me the place I’ll be living in for god-knows how long. A window, that’s nice. No curtain to keep out the sun, though. It’s like being inside a mirror ball in here – I have to squint. On the upside, everything’s clearly visible. No bullshit. I can see what I’m getting myself in for.
A stained single mattress, flat on the floor in the corner. Another milk crate, with an old swollen copy of the Sunraysia Daily lining the bottom. Light fixture in the ceiling hasn’t got a bulb. Someone’s punched a hole in the plasterboard beside the mattress – I can tell it’s a punch, because it’s fist-sized. What fucking desperado lived here before me? I don’t know. I don’t wanna know.
‘Right, here you go.’ Snowie scuffs the corner of the mattress with the toe of his boot. ‘You can see why the rent’s cheap, yeah?’
‘Um, yep.’ I glance at him. ‘You don’t live here, then?’
‘Me and Ando got a two-bedroom place closer to the main drag,’ Snowie admits. ‘Don’t worry about the décor, mate. It’s just a place to crash.’
‘For sure.’ I try to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. ‘So there’s a few other blokes around?’
‘Well, it’s a mixed bag. Kevin, you just met – he’s a bit of a hippie. Barry’s at work, you’ll meet him later. Steph’s probably asleep. She works nights.’ He flashes me his teeth, so I have an idea what kind of nightwork Steph’s doing. ‘Coupla folks crash here sometimes – Jules, Reggie…’
‘Mildura Motel, is it?’ I say it with the right amount of dry humour.
‘For now.’ Snowie nods. ‘This is just temporary, mate. Coupla weeks, you’ll get some pay in your pocket and then we’ll find you someplace decent, mark my words.’
‘Yeah, all right.’ Just temporary. I look around the ratty bedroom, careful not to sigh.
‘Come on back out, you can get your gear.’
My first thought is, I don’t know if I wanna leave my stuff in this house. Might be safer in my car. But my second thought is, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got nothing of value, nothing but my clothes and my phone, and that I’ll be carrying around with me.
When I return from the Pitbull with my duffel, Kevin gives me a cursory wave. He’s friendly. I dump my bag on the mattress in the bedroom. As far as belongings goes, this is the easiest move ever. I wander back out. Snowie’s in the kitchen, rooting around in the fridge.
‘Ah, here we go.’ He pulls out two coldies, passes one to me. ‘You must be parched after the drive from Ouyen.’
‘Yeah, cheers.’ I wonder if there’s anything in the fridge but beer. Something to investigate later.
‘Have any trouble getting away?’
‘Nah.’ I don’t elaborate on my previous living arrangements. Better not to mention Mark West’s name. ‘Dad knows I’ve shifted. He’s happy if I’m sending him a few bucks from wherever.’
‘Here’s to being free of the dads, then, eh?’ Snowie says.
‘I’ll drink to that.’ We chink bottles, and it’s the first time I’ve given him a genuine grin since I arrived.
The beer goes down nicely, very smooth and cold. I’ve already sunk about half of mine when a kid walks into the kitchen. His jeans hang off his hips in the accepted style, and he’s wearing runners that are almost as old and taped-together as mine, plus a green hoodie that looks like it’s seen better days. Dark shaggy hair with a plaited rat’s tail at the back, brown skin. He’s rangy: it’s hard to tell if that’s just his build, but I think he’s probably missed a few meals – I know the look. He goes directly to the fridge and rummages inside as if he owns the place.
‘Reggie, m’lad,’ Snowie says.
‘Hey.’ The kid pulls a half-full bottle of orange Gatorade out of the fridge, thumps the door shut: the bottle has a piece of yellow electrical tape around it, with Reggie written in black Sharpie.
When the kid turns around I see he’s not as young as I thought, probably closer to thirteen. His rat’s tail is tied with a red lacka band.
He lifts his chin at Snowie. ‘What’s up? You feeding the same line of shit to this bloke that you tried with the last newie?’
Snowie smiles with shark’s teeth. ‘This is Reggie. He lives on the other side of the highway, but we put up with him when he comes over.’ He noogies the kid with a free hand.
‘Fuck off, Snow,’ Reggie says good-naturedly, pushing Snowie away. He glances at me. ‘You from outta town?’
‘Near Ouyen.’
‘You got a smoke?’
I open out my hands in apology. ‘Not a one.’
‘Shit.’
‘Harris is gonna be staying for a bit,’ Snowie says. ‘Here in this lovely residence.’
‘Right,’ Reggie says. ‘The lovely residence.’ He glances at me. ‘You got the loveliest room, then, did ya?’
‘Yeah, for sure.’ My lips quirk up. ‘Bit of gaffer tape oughta cover that hole in the wall, I reckon.’
Reggie grins at me.
‘Okay,’ Snowie says, glancing between us before fixing on me. ‘Looks like you’re sorted. I’ll leave you to get settled in. Meet up at the club later, about nine? I’ll introduce you to the guys.’
He passes me something: it’s a business card from a place called The Flamingos. The address is written on it. Snowie sculls the rest of his beer and fishes his keys out of his pocket.
‘Cheers, then. See you at the club.’ He winks at Reggie. ‘Catch ya later, Reg.’
‘Yep, see ya, Snow.’
Once he’s gone, me and Reggie exchange looks.
‘So,’ Reggie says. ‘You’re gonna get settled in.’
‘I dumped my clothes on the mattress,’ I say. ‘Dunno if there’s much more to settle.’
Reggie makes this expression, where half his mouth lifts up in a lopsided smile and the opposite eyebrow raises at the same time. ‘Well, that’s probably more than the last guy brought with him. This house is a pit. You need stuff? You got a pillow?’
I confess that no, I don’t have a pillow. Or sheets, for that matter, or a whole lot of anything else.
‘You need to go to the op shop on Langtree Avenue.’ Reggie swigs from his Gatorade as I take a pull of my beer. ‘You can get sheets and stuff there for a few bucks. Don’t even smell like piss – they wash everything before they flog it. You play footy?’
‘Ah. Not at present.’ I lift my cane in the air, try not to grimace.
‘What happened to your leg?’
‘I got shot.’
‘Ouch.’ Reggie’s eyebrows shrug briefly, settle again, as if he’s heard worse. ‘Kinda crap, yeah, if you can’t play footy?’
‘No kidding.’
‘If you weren’t disabled we coulda gone to the ground up the road, had a kick.’
‘You got a footy?’ My voice sounds wistful, I’m embarrassed to note.
‘Yep. Gotta play, yeah? Nothing else to do here but walk around, watch telly, and wank.’
‘Not all at the same time, though.’
Reggie laughs, gives me a slap on the shoulder. ‘You’re all right, mate. What’s your name again?’
‘Harris.’ I hold out my hand. ‘Harris Derwent.’
He shakes with faux solemnity. ‘Reggie McCloud. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ Then he caps his Gatorade and pulls the fridge open to toss the bottle back in. ‘Gotta bounce. Stuff to do. Might catch you later at the club.’
Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. ‘They let you in?’
‘Snowie’ll vouch for me. Anyway, club or not, if you’re living here I’ll see you round.’
He gives me that lopsided smile again, lopes off to exchange small talk with Kevin in the lounge room. I hear the front door open and shut. The walls in here are Kleenex-thin: I won’t be calling Amie from my bedroom to give updates. We’ll have to text each other to arrange meet ups, or handle emergencies.
I take the last swallows of my beer, look around the kitchen. The benches are peeling white laminex. The cupboards look like they were installed in the seventies. The table I’m sitting at wobbles: someone’s shoved a folded TallyHo packet under the foot of one leg to steady it, but the packet has worked its way free. I lean over and push it back. The wobble lingers.
So this is it.
The decision to come to Mildura, to do this, seemed really clear-cut – exciting, even – when I was sitting at another kitchen table in Amie and Derrin Blunt’s house. I’d thought I was stuck, that all my options were bad ones, but then I’d been given a third path. Amie offering to be my contact cemented the deal. It felt as if I was making a good choice. It felt right.
But now I’m in it, and this is no joke. Snowie, Ando, Kev, the kid Reggie I just met… These are real people I’m dealing with. Like an actor sunk in a role, I’ve gotta be switched on twenty-four-seven – I’m living it. And I can’t afford to fuck up.
It’s weird that Sarge Blunt and Amie are the only ones who really know what I’m doing here. But knowing they know makes me feel less alone.
I get up, dump my empty in the sink and make my way out. Give Kevin a polite nod, move through to the bathroom. Close the door and survey the grotty tiles and brown grouting landscape before splashing some water on my face at the sink.
I check myself in the mirror. I’m okay. There’s nothing in my face that betrays how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking. I can fit in here. This is what I came to do. Settle in, sink deep. Pretend to be something I’m not.
I rake back my hair, put my game face on. Leave the flimsy privacy of the bathroom and go out to meet what’s coming.
*
‘Harris!’ Snowie waves me over, a shit-eating grin on his face. ‘Mate, good to see ya. Find the place okay?’
‘Yeah, the big neon sign and the punters lining the pavement out front kinda gave it away.’
Flamingos is a pretty happening joint. Black and silver panels on the street facade, lots of patrons queuing. Mentioning Snowie’s name got me the nod from the neckless Italian stallion on the door.
Inside, the club sinks down into the ground in three terraced rows, like an amphitheatre, with the dance floor laid out at the bottom. I’ve been in places like this before. Obligatory disco lights, dry-ice smoke, black vinyl couches, cheap tables. My own reflection bounces back at me a dozen times from mirror walls. People stand in clumps, move up and down the levels, laughing and knocking back beers, making enough noise to compete with the DJ. Through the speakers, Lana del Ray sounds like she’s gargling acid in time to the beat.
I’m wearing my jeans and a clean T-shirt, with a black hoodie I got from the op shop where I bought my pillow and blankets this afternoon. I slide into the round-table booth. Ando slouches beside Snowie. His expression is approving as he pushes a beer across the table for me. ‘There you go. First of many. Nice to see you could make it.’
Signing on, making the move here to Mildura, has obviously lifted me in Ando’s opinion. But I’m not interested in his approval.
‘Cheers.’ I meet his eyes, hold them as I raise my beer. Ando knows I can take a punch, but the day will come when he’ll find out I can throw one, too.
‘Harris, this is Barry.’ Snowie nods towards the guy sitting between us. ‘You’ll be seeing him around Amblin Court. Barry’s our man on the ground. Talks to all our little friends. Barry likes to talk.’
The guy beside him guffaws. He’s a bit older, with a dark flat-top haircut, a paunchy face, and below his rolled-up shirtsleeves, the hairiest arms of any bloke I’ve ever met.
He slaps Snowie’s shoulder, turns to shake my hand with the enthusiasm of a Labrador. ‘Harris, is it? Nice to meet ya, good stuff. Be cool to have a runner around.’
I raise my beer and grin. ‘I gotta be the only ‘runner’ in town with a walking cane, I reckon.’
Barry yuck-yucks again, hunches over the table. ‘Not gonna get homesick, are ya? You’ll be right in Mildy, for sure, mate. Few more days, you’ll feel like a local.’
‘You bet.’ I make a show of looking around the room. ‘Nice joint. You live here or something, Snow? Or is it ‘Free Mates’ every night?’
‘This is Leon’s club.’ Snowie gestures at the mirror walls, the punters dancing and shifting in the space of the club. ‘Not bad business, eh? You’ll meet Leon soon. He’s the man. Giving the people what they want. And we’re helping him out.’
For a nice tidy profit – right. So this Leon bloke is the general, and Snowie’s one of his lieutenants. Ando’s the heavy, Barry’s the street dealer liaison…and I’m the runner. I drink on that for a moment.
We sit and bullshit together for a while. I can keep up this stuff all night: sinking piss and talking about nothing much, checking out the chicks in the club. I can’t help comparing the ladies’ dress code here – smoothed hair, skin-tight jeans or short skirts, high heels, shitloads of makeup – with Amie’s homespun style.
I’m at the bar, buying the next round on Snowie’s tab, when I see a familiar face in the mirror. Reggie McCloud is behind me, dodging patrons to slide in closer.
‘Harris. My new friend.’ He smiles, and all his teeth glow in the blacklight above the spirits shelf. ‘Gemme a beer?’
I squint at him. He’s just a kid. But when in Rome…
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘But I’m gonna tax you for it – carry these ones to the table for me. I can’t hold five beers in one hand.’
He helps me gather the bottles. ‘You’re pretty matey with Snowie, yeah?’
I shrug. ‘Another Five Mile boy. I’ve known him since we were kids. How about you?’
He shrugs back. ‘Wouldn’t call it besties. I deal more with Barry.’
So now I know where Reggie fits in: he’s a street dealer. Snowie must have Barry currying up a little team to distribute to customers. This is a real operation. And I’ve just scratched the surface.
‘Reggie!’ Snowie looks pleased to see the kid, although admittedly he’s half-tanked. ‘My man!’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m your man,’ Reggie says, dumping the bottles on the table. He nods at Ando. ‘Hey, Ando, how’s it going? Keepin’ your pecker up?’
Ando makes a nasty grin. ‘Why? You looking to make a few bucks?’
Reggie strikes his chest dramatically with one hand. ‘Ando, I’m cut. You’re so gorgeous, mate, you know you’d never need to pay me.’ He snorts at Ando’s expression, makes a royal wave. ‘Anyway, guys, nice to see ya, but Leon’s asking for Harris, here.’
Barry nods. ‘Ah, if Leon’s asking, then…’
‘Harris, you’re on,’ Snowie gives me the thumbs-up.
My spine straightens. Meeting the big boss on the first night wasn’t exactly part of my game plan. ‘So…what do I do? Just introduce myself?’
‘He likes to vet the people he’s working with.’ Snowie grins, like he’s trying to be reassuring. ‘Go on, mate, he won’t bite. Catch you when you get back.’
I paste on my smile, keep it there.
Reggie tugs on my sleeve to get me to keep up as we weave down the levels to a matte black door near the DJ’s booth. I press hard on my cane. ‘Any words of advice before I meet His Highness?’
‘Don’t call him Highness,’ Reggie shoots back. ‘He’s just Leon. That’s it. Keep the trash talk down, he’s a serious man. Apart from that… I got nothin’. I don’t hardly see him. Ignore Mick the Leb. He’s Leon’s minder, and he’s a meathead. Just keep your eyes on Leon and try not to look like an idiot, that’d be my best advice.’
We push through the door into a rabbit warren of grotty dark-painted halls decorated with peeling band posters. We pass the toilets, move further. All this black paint is off-putting. I feel like I’m entering some sort of basement dungeon from a torture-porn horror flick. This Leon bloke must run the joint from his manager’s cave: sorting out booze supplies, setting up bands, hiring and firing employees…and, apparently, strategising for the distribution of crystal meth in his patch.
Reggie leads me until I’m standing in front of another black door. He knocks, gives me an encouraging slap on the back. ‘Have fun.’
I roll my eyes, Reggie scarpers, then a voice sounds from behind the wood veneer – ‘Come!’ – and I’m pushing through the door to meet Leon.
He’s in his early fifties, I guess, and he’s swarthy. Thin crop of salt-and-pepper hair, small eyes, face like melted cheese. Leon sits in an office chair, his body swelling over the sides, white business shirt straining at the seams. A cigarette sends up jet-stream from his right hand as he talks on the phone in his left.
Behind the door, a stocky guy – black hair, black monobrow, black leather jacket – sits on a wooden chair reading a girlie mag, one ankle crossed over his other knee. I’m assuming this is the minder, Mick the Leb. Everything is gloomily lit by a tall standing lamp in the corner of the tiny room.
Leon’s leaning on a metal desk. The desk is normal-sized; Leon makes it look like a kiddie toy. But it seems to go with him. It’s completely covered in crap, as if someone nicked a wheelie bin from behind Officeworks and upended the contents onto the metal surface. I dunno how he finds anything in there. Maybe he has a system. The Fucking Mess System.
At the moment, he’s putting out orders for his bookie. I stand in front of the desk while he makes the call so I get the whole thing in stereo.
‘Yeah, number four in the tenth. Fair Warning, it’s called. Fair Warning. Yes. Yeah. No, mate. Fuck, mate, I dunno, I just back ’em.’ He glances up at me and snaps his fingers, changes the snap into a writing gesture.
I find him a pen under the clutter on his desk, hand it to him. He makes a short scribbled note on a scrap of paper, pockets it. At least it won’t get lost in the blizzard on his desk.
He disconnects, barely glancing at me. ‘Harris, is it?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’m Leon.’ He stubs out his smoke, makes another call. ‘Yeah, mate, he’s here.’ Leon finally looks at me, standing in front of him with one hand on my cane and one in the pocket of my hoodie. ‘Seems all right. I dunno, mate. You’re the one vouching for him. You tell me.’
I straighten a little, keep my hands tight. I’m being sized up in this moment. Plenty of times I’ve been sized up. I’ve been eyeballed by the cops, slouched before potential employers. Fronted barneys at the pub, staring down bigger guys who think they can take me. They probably could take me now. It’d be easy.
I’m supposed to be projecting. I need this job. I need the money. None of that is bullshit. I’ve got thirty bucks left in my wallet, which is barely enough to tank up the Pitbull for the drive back to Ouyen.
I ignore the prickle of tension from having my back to the minder guy, keep my eyes on the wall behind Leon’s head. Try not to look desperate. Try to look casual instead. The wall is black, and there’s an aluminium-framed window with the blinds down. Thin venetian blinds, the kind that give you a paper cut if you try to wipe them clean. These ones need a clean. Nicotine-brown stains line their edges, from dust, and years of passively absorbing exhaled smoke.
This place is a shithole. I try not to make value judgements, as a rule, but seriously. What am I doing here?
‘Yep. Yep. Good on ya. Right, mate, cheers.’ Leon finishes his call, thumbs off and tosses the phone on top of a half-buried ledger.
He appraises me as I bring my eyes back to where they’re supposed to be. I’m supposed to look attentive, eager. Not too eager.
‘Right.’ Leon pulls another smoke out of a pack of Longbeach, lights it fast. He has thick stubby fingers but he moves quick. ‘Snowie says you’re an okay bloke. Sound about right?’
I slip out of my skin and into someone else’s. Someone more cold and confident than I am. ‘Guess so. If Snowie says.’
‘He does say.’ Leon’s eyes are bright, beady, amongst the lizard rolls of fat on his face. He might be smarter than initial impressions suggest. ‘So I’m gonna give you a go, all right? Nothing major. Just a little errand to run. You reckon you can do a little errand without fucking it up?’
I don’t bristle. I don’t. ‘Sure.’
‘Good.’
Leon exhales smoke, takes the ciggie out of his mouth with his left hand, grabs down for the handle of his desk drawer with his right. Again I’m struck by how he resembles a reptile – still for long seconds, then bam, he’s moving. Shifty.
Now he tosses a parcel onto the ledger. It’s a gold A4 envelope, folded in half. ‘Here you go, then. Delivery job. Nothing fancy, like I said. Just take it to the place, drop it off. Handle that, you reckon?’
‘Yep.’ I don’t say Easy or No worries. Don’t wanna look cocksure. He wants to know if I’ll fuck it up. Better to come over as efficient. A simple yes will do.
‘Right. You take it to the pizza place on Pitt Street. Go round the back to the kitchen, deliveries door. Ask for Melon.’
‘Melon. Okay.’
‘Give it to him. Straight to him, okay? Don’t leave it with someone to pass on, none of that shit. Melon’s not there, you bring it back, go again later. No probs?’
‘No probs.’
‘Off you go, then.’
I reach for the gold envelope. Leon snags me as I’m picking it up.
His eyes are like black marbles, unblinking. ‘You do this, come straight back here, I’ll give you a nice tip. We’ll talk about more work. You take it, fuck off back to Ouyen with it, I’ve got blokes I can pay to get it back. You understand me?’
Sweat freezes in the small of my back. Do I understand him? Uh, yeah, I think I do. He’s got blokes he can pay to get it back – the way he drops it so casually into the conversation, as if it’s not a direct threat. As if one of those blokes isn’t sitting right behind me. As if Mick the Leb wouldn’t come to my house, put a gun to my head, gaffer-tape my feet down on the coffee table before he smashed my knees in with a piece of two-by-four –
Suddenly I feel very…breakable. Now I know what Reggie was talking about when he said Leon’s a serious man.
I wet my lips. ‘I understand. Delivery for Melon at the back of the Pitt Street pizza shop. I won’t screw it up.’
‘Good boy.’
I slip the envelope into the front of my hoodie, zip up. Wonder what I’m supposed to say next. Nothing, as it turns out.
‘Right.’ Leon butts out his smoke on a black plastic ashtray with burn marks on the rim. ‘Fuck off, then.’
I turn and limp out, close the office door behind me. Stand there for a second, clutching the handle of my cane. The carpet in the hallway is stiff with years of spilled drinks and ground-in cigarette ash. A pearl of sweat melts off the ice-block in the small of my back, dribbles down into the waistband of my jeans.
This is some crazy shit I’m doing. What did Derrin Blunt say? If it gets scary, you can back out. I scoffed at him when he said that because I thought being scared meant you were weak.
The envelope crinkles, warming against my body. Delivery for Melon at the Pitt Street pizza shop. Who the fuck calls himself Melon? I keep my mind focused on that as I go out through the jarring loud front-of-house, wave to Snowie in passing, step into the harsh fluoro light on the street.