The Lay Low period is officially over.
‘You did good,’ Leon says, and I know what he means by it. Good means keeping your mouth shut. Good means taking one for the team.
‘Well, it was a dumb bust, yeah?’ I shift on my feet, eyeing off the package he’s got on the desk. Bullshit small-talk makes me impatient. I don’t need a pat on the head. Get on with it already.
Leon notices, snorts. ‘This here – another delivery for Red Cliffs. Go round the back this time.’ The gold envelope he hands me feels weighty.
I leave the office, but something makes me hesitate in the hall. The impatience I felt a second ago, in the office, has been replaced with this treacle-y lethargy. It scares me, for some reason.
I walk down the hall, turn left into the men’s toilet, go into a stall, close it. Sit on the lid of the toilet. Take the envelope out of the front of my hoodie, unfold it. The flap isn’t stuck down, makes it nice and easy to check inside.
The money in the envelope is stiff, clean, fresh. Fifty dollar notes, the polymer shining. This is a decent chunk of money. It sits nicely in my hand, this chunk. I don’t like to make value judgements, but if I had to take a guess, I’d say there’s about five grand here. Another matching chunk, its twin, still sitting in the envelope.
Ten grand, here in my lap.
Just looking at this much money makes me dizzy.
I lift my head. The toilet stall is painted black. There’s silver tagging and old playbills on the inside. The doorknob is falling out as the chipboard disintegrates; the door is actually kept shut by a slide bolt that goes into a drilled hole in the jamb. The slide bolt is new. It’s still shiny.
Ten grand. My breath comes out shaky. Ten thousand dollars.
For the space of two breaths, I think crazy thoughts.
All my debts repaid. Dad’s bills sorted. The monkey off my back. I could go to Melbourne – no. Further. I’d need to go further than that. Brisbane, maybe. Or overseas – hell, I could live overseas for a long time on ten thousand dollars –
I catch myself before I start to spin loose from my moorings.
Getting involved with this narc business is high risk. I’ve never had any illusions about that. But the reality of it is sinking in: ten grand in a gold envelope, toilet doors with the knobs falling out, the smell of urinal cake. These things feel very real right now. I bet if Leon told Ando to knock me, that would feel pretty real, too.
I put the money back in the envelope the way I found it, fold the flap down, tuck it back in my hoodie. Then further, into the waistband of my jeans. I feel nauseous. I need to talk about this. Just to get it off my chest. Because the alternative is a heart attack or something.
I consider pulling out my phone right now and calling Amie. Explaining that I’m sitting in a black-painted toilet stall in a skanky club in Mildura, with ten large pressed up against my skin.
But I can’t call her now. That would be fucking suicide. I stand up, press the flush button and get out of the stall, wash my hands at the little pitted sink, dry them on my jeans. Look at my face in the rust-spotted mirror above the black and white checkerboard tiles.
I still look okay. My lips are a bit white, I’m a bit thinner in the face, but I’m still me. I lick my lips, press them together. Don’t overthink it, Harris.
I get the hell out.
*
After my panic attack in the dunnies at Flamingos, the delivery turned out to be very simple.
Without that wad of money under my shirt, I feel calmer, less cloudy, even though the weather has turned to drizzling crap. I stop off home to change clothes – ‘always change clothes after a delivery’ was one of Snowie’s tips – and walk into the house to find Reggie watching TV.
‘Hey, Reggie.’ I shake rain out of my hair. ‘What’s happening, mate?’
Reggie leans over the back of the couch, his plaited rat’s tail flopping loose. ‘Yeah, just watching the game, eh? Watching Carlton lose.’
I check the teams on the telly screen. ‘Shame they’re not losing to Essendon.’
Reggie shrugs. ‘I don’t mind, I’ll take it. I just like seeing those snobby bastards eat it.’ He drags his eyes away. ‘Whatcha up to?’
‘Got an appointment.’ When he raises his eyebrows at me, I shrug. ‘The girl at the tatt place said I’ve gotta come in for touch-ups, to finish off me back. Come for a ride if you’re bored.’
He makes a face. ‘Can’t. Waiting for Kev, hey.’
I change my shirt and hoodie in my bedroom, head back out to the Pitbull. Eighth Street is only a five minute drive away, and the tattoo parlour is deserted on a Saturday afternoon.
Leela is sitting sideways on the dentist’s chair, blowing smoke at the ceiling and swinging her legs. She’s wearing navy three-quarter pants with a big black jumper. ‘Didn’t think you were gonna make it.’
It reminds me of what Nick said when I went to buy the car. Why do people always assume I’m gonna be a no-show? ‘No point getting it done if it’s not done right.’
Leela grins. ‘I like your attitude, boy.’
She hops down, dabs her smoke into an ashtray on the counter, waves me over. The air in the tattoo parlour is freezing. When I pull off my top layers, I get goosebumps.
‘Baby,’ Leela says, pouting. She sits me backwards on the cold dentist’s chair, prods the skin of my back with a gloved finger. ‘This is looking all right. Been taking care of it, have you?’
‘I’m kind of used to the medical stuff.’ I nod towards my leg.
She lifts an eyebrow. ‘Gonna tell me that story one day?’
‘Yeah, one day,’ I say, which is nice and vague. ‘You gonna tell me how you ended up working in a tattoo parlour in the Mallee?’
‘Oh, that’s a long boring tale of woe.’ Leela uncaps the little black and brown bottles, lays a white hand towel over her knee. ‘So you’re happy with the ink?’
‘Yeah, I’m rapt. Thank you.’ I grin at her in the big mirror we’re both facing. ‘I mean, I can’t see it most of the time, but I reckon it’s good.’
Leela gives me a wink. ‘The beauty of back tatts – you can’t see ’em, so you don’t get sick of ’em.’ She hooks up the needle to the wires. ‘And how about Leon, you happy with him too? He’s treating you all right?’
I go still. It’s only when the buzz starts and the needle comes down that I flinch. ‘Well, I dunno who you’re –’
‘Oh, save it.’ Leela waves the hand she’s not using on my back. ‘You think I don’t know what’s going on? I’ve worked here for six years, inked more local scrotes and bully boys and skaters than you can count. Heard all the horror stories, the sob stories. And I don’t truck with the cops.’ She gives me a significant look in the mirror. ‘That’s why I do good business. It’s not my milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard, y’know what I’m saying?’
‘I guess.’
‘So what’s your arrangement?’ she asks casually. ‘You deal?’
I try to ignore the feeling like there’s a white-hot poker inching its way down my back, think about what to say. Snowie and the boys wouldn’t come here if they thought there was a danger.
I decide to just be honest. ‘I run.’
Leela makes a dry laugh. ‘Not fast enough, apparently, if you’re still mixed up in this shit. D’you use?’
‘Nah. I’m clean.’
‘That’s how they all start out,’ she says quietly. In the mirror I see her shrug. ‘Well, it’s a good preliminary survival strategy, anyway. How’d you end up here in Mildura?’
‘Ah. That’s a long boring tale of woe.’
‘Okey doke.’ She doesn’t seem bothered I’m withholding info, tilts her head in the mirror. ‘You want some advice from an old hand? Someone who’s acquainted with the industry but not involved in it?’
‘Sure.’ Considering I feel like I’m making it up as I go along most of the time, any advice is welcome.
‘It’s just you seem like a reasonably intelligent guy…’
‘Tell me whatever you think’ll be useful,’ I say, leaving things open.
‘All right. Here’s some distilled wisdom for you.’ She cleans the tip of the needle, loads more ink and starts a new area on my back. ‘Three pieces of advice. Number one, don’t mix your loyalties. You’re part of Leon’s crew, so don’t forget it. There’s two other crews in town, under Little Toni or Mazerati, but if you start turning tricks for the other bosses you’ll have a very short shelf life. Got it?’
‘Sounds legit.’
‘Okay. Number two, don’t get on the gear.’
I roll my eyes. ‘That seems pretty obvious.’
‘You’d think so, right?’ She swipes down my back with a sterile wipe. It stings. ‘Well, that’s the advice I give everybody, but they never listen.’
I wince against the pain, control the urge to jerk when the needle dips in again. ‘And what’s the third piece of wisdom?’
‘Don’t get sucked in by the money. Get out before this business kills you.’ Leela concentrates on her work. ‘Nobody takes that advice either. They’re always, like, “Oh, I need to do one more job”, or “I’ve just gotta pay off the blah blah”. Forget the blah blah. Get in, make whatever money you can, get out. If you can do those things, in that order, then you might be the last man standing when the shit goes down.’
Suddenly the dizziness I got this morning holding that money rises up inside me like bile. Is this chick psychic? How did she know? Then I realise: she doesn’t know. She’s just seen my story play out dozens of times before. Other boys, other lives, same tale of woe.
I take a big breath and let it out. ‘How d’you know it’s gonna go down?’
There’s a moment’s silence and all I hear is the buzz of the equipment. When I look up, Leela is staring at me in the mirror. Her perfectly-made-up mouth twists into a sad smile. ‘Oh, honey. Haven’t you figured it out yet? In your industry, there’s nowhere to go but down.’
Half an hour later I leave the shop, my skin still smarting, a new bandage on my back. The work’s all done now and it won’t take as long to heal this time, Leela said.
But I’m thinking more about all the other things she said. I’m just another anonymous cog in this machine. It’d make me feel low if I didn’t have an ace up my sleeve. This isn’t all of me. Amie and the sarge know what’s going on. I’m doing something here, something important, and when this job is done I’ll walk away, light and clean as Teflon, just like I said to Reggie. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
I push through the door and walk into the lounge room, still thinking about it. Then I see something that stops me dead.
The lounge room is dim and muggy, like always. Kevin and Reggie are sitting on the sagging couch, lit by the jaundiced glow of the TV. They’re watching the shopping channel. Kevin is in a trackie jacket, with a sarong wrapped around his skinny waist, smoking a cigarette and gesturing at the screen, saying, ‘But why would you wanna cook without fat, eh? Fat makes it taste nice.’
And Reggie is having a pipe.
I dunno if he’s seen me. He’s sucking on the glass teat, using the lighter off the coffee table to keep a flame under the bowl. The bowl turns white as the smoke swirls inside it.
My brain turns white as well. Something inside my chest breaks, and I feel an ache. Leela’s words punch me again: Honey, in your industry there’s nowhere to go but down.
In your industry. Your industry.
Kevin looks up and sees me. ‘Yo, Hazza! You’re back, mate.’
‘Um, yeah.’ I have to ignore my chest, ignore the ache. Play it cool. Act normal. ‘Tools-down time.’
Reggie makes a little cough. The white smoke trails around his face as he raises a hand. ‘Hey, dude.’
‘Hey.’ I nod on automatic.
Kevin gives Reggie a pat on the back. ‘Don’t cough, mate, you’ll waste it.’
‘Shut up.’ Reggie’s grinning. He clicks the lighter again, raises the pipe.
I lick my lips. ‘Right. Leave you to it then.’ I walk off down the hall.
Once I’m in my room I let myself exhale. Let the ache out. Leela is right. Every other little shit-bird crank peddler in town is using their own product; I don’t know why I imagined Reggie would be any different. But I did imagine it. And I was wrong.
My view of the world has suddenly been flipped on its arse.
Reggie is using.
I’m living in a house full of drug dealers. I’m surrounded by the business of shards, baggies, pipes and skaters. It shouldn’t be a big deal. But seeing that kid – he’s just a kid! – suck up a hit of ice was like listening to a song played in a minor chord.
Shit, when I was his age I was well on my way: stealing booze and smoking weed and getting hammered every chance I could get. It’s not the same, though. Ice fucks you up. Turns your skin inside out. Gouges holes in your brain. Rots your teeth. Destroys sleep. Makes you feel like the king of the universe, while it eats you alive.
I dunno what to do, what to think. Reggie’s using, and it’s normal for him, and it’s everywhere here, and I have to act cool about it, like I’m okay with it. And I’m not okay with it. And I’m part of the bloody system that’s delivering it to him.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I have never hated this job, this whole fucking industry, as much as I do right now.