by JR Carroll
‘The business,’ Keith said, clapping his hands. ‘That’s the part I like.’
‘Big business,’ Sigmund said. ‘And the purest shit that’s ever hit these shores, according to my everlovin’ supplier. You might care to warn your dealers, Keith. We don’t want regular customers dropping off like flies.’
‘I’ll warn them,’ Keith said. Fuck it. Stiff luck. Plenty more where they came from. He had crossed his legs again, and his foot was vibrating like a rattler’s tail once more. He seemed to have no control over it. He got up and replenished everyone’s drink.
‘What about the decoy thing?’ Keith said.
Sigmund turned to Victor with a flourish, and Victor smiled.
‘Everything is in order,’ he said, swirling the Scotch. ‘A highly suspicious batch of artworks from Peru will arrive at Port Melbourne soon, possibly on the same day as the Mercedes. That will keep the watchdogs well and truly occupied. They’ll think it’s Christmas time, until they rip it all apart and find – nothing.’
‘They’ll be left looking rather … flat-footed, and foolish,’ Sigmund said.
‘They’ll just have to fuckin’ wear it,’ Keith said. He stood up, his attention taken by a sound outside: an approaching motor.
‘Victor will arrange for someone suitable to receive the consignment. A non-player.’
‘Good,’ Keith said. He had parted the curtains enough to peer through the telescope at the dazzling headlights cruising towards the house.
‘Are you expecting someone else?’ Sigmund said.
‘I am, yes. Can’t tell at the moment … Think it’s him.’
‘The filth,’ Sigmund said.
‘That’s the one. Just wait here, gentlemen. I’ll let him in.’
Keith rushed down the steel staircase. Victor looked at Sigmund, one eyebrow raised.
‘Guess we help ourselves to this very fine Macallan, old stick,’ he said.
‘Guess so,’ Sigmund said. ‘Fucking beautiful stuff, isn’t it? Bit wasted on our Keith, I have to say. Just pour me a wee cuntful, there’s a good lad.’
Heavy footsteps and murmuring voices ascended the stairs. When the door opened Keith came in laughing at whatever had been said. Keith had a loud, spontaneous laugh, which stemmed more from his nerves than his acute sense of humour – he was a habitual laugher. Following him, filling the doorframe with his immense bulk, came a big man in a cheap and rather rumpled work suit.
‘The filth, as I suspected,’ Sigmund said, rising and extending his hand. ‘Good to see you, Alex.’
Alex Grimke shook, at the same time loosening his tie. ‘Likewise, I’m sure. Victor.’
‘Alex.’
Behind him, black tote bag slung over his shoulder, came Gerald Kamp, wearing a black turtleneck pullover and army camouflage pants.
‘Ah, Mr Kenny,’ Sigmund said, sizing him up. ‘Parachuting behind the lines tonight, are we?’
‘Get fucked,’ Gerald said, grinning. ‘Next time I jump out of a fuckin’ plane it’ll have to be on fuckin’ fire. How’s it goin’, Victor old son?’
‘Gangbusters, as they say,’ Victor said.
‘Gangbusters. Sounds like Eliot fuckin’ Ness,’ Gerald said. ‘Jesus, Keith, are you fuckin’ paralysed? I been here fully two minutes and you haven’t even offered me a fuckin’ drink.’
‘Since you put it so nicely,’ Keith said. ‘You, too, Alex?’
‘Fuckin’ A,’ Alex said, sitting down. ‘Christ. I am absolutely rooted.’
‘How so?’ Sigmund said.
‘Looking for this cunt,’ Alex said, accepting a drink from Keith and nodding towards the still-grinning Gerald. ‘Your mate Wolfgang will not take a break. You must’ve really given him the shits big time, Gerald.’
‘Fuck him,’ Gerald said, shrugging.
‘We’ve got this slight problem,’ Alex was saying. They were getting towards the bottom of the Macallan bottle, mainly through the agency of Gerald, who was upending the stuff like the cowboys in a western movie. ‘There’s this kid who saw Gerald and Keith putting the frighteners on Donna Pritchard in the casino the night before she went west. And he saw Gerald near her flat when she disappeared. He’s taking it to homicide, or has done already. I’m not sure. Once they get the camera footage they’ll be able to identify the two of them. Well, Keith, anyway, since they don’t know who Lewis Kenny is. Yet.’
‘What kid?’ Sigmund said.
‘It’s young Danny. Danny Gold,’ Gerald said. ‘I saw him stickin’ his beak in that night. Thought I warned him off, the little cunt. I didn’t know he spotted me in Prahran.’
‘Danny Gold?’ Sigmund said. ‘The gambler? My Danny Gold?’
‘That’s the one,’ Gerald said. ‘Slimy oriental bastard. Thinks he’s cock o’ the hill, but he’s jack shit.’
‘He’s doing a job for me,’ Sigmund said.
‘I know. Cleaning your funds at the tables. Victor said. But he’s creaming, did you know that?’
‘Well, I assume he’s creaming. Why wouldn’t he?’
‘Yeah, but do you know how much he’s fuckin’ creaming. I been watching him. I guarantee he’s keeping at least half again of what he gives you. He’s laughing at you, Sigmund.’
‘Going to homicide, did you say?’ Keith said to Alex. He didn’t care about Sigmund’s money being creamed. In his mind he could see his own and Kamp’s face showing up on casino security cameras, then some detectives knocking on his door …
‘That’s what I said,’ Alex said.
‘Why would he do something as stupid as that?’ Keith said.
‘Because he is fucking stupid, that’s why,’ Gerald said, then knocked off another shot of the Macallan. ‘Don’t worry, boys, I’ll fix the little weasel. I’ll fuckin’ vaporise him.’
‘That’s what you’re good at,’ Keith said. ‘That’s what caused the problem in the first place.’
‘Now, now, Keith,’ Gerald said, helping himself to the rest of the spirit. ‘Keep your skirts on. Any more where this came from?’
‘I think you’d better,’ Sigmund said.
‘What?’ Gerald said.
‘Vaporise him, as you put it. Matters are at a delicate stage. We can’t have the filth on Keith’s back just at the moment …’
‘Or any fuckin’ time, excuse me,’ Keith said. His foot was twitching like mad.
‘Hm. Shame. He’s a nice boy.’
‘We’ll have to get him on his own somehow. He lives in the fuckin’ casino,’ Gerald said.
‘Well, he’s got to go,’ Sigmund said. ‘Does anyone disagree on that point?’
No-one spoke.
‘Do you have a problem with that, Alex?’ Sigmund said. ‘I mean … from a filth point of view.’
‘I wasn’t here, and I didn’t hear a thing,’ Alex said. It’s just another crime statistic.’
‘I have a plan,’ Victor said, bright-eyed with single malt spirit. ‘Which I think might work.’
Keith fetched another bottle of the Macallan and set about filling glasses while Victor explained his idea …
19
When Robert heard the first wake-up noises coming from the bedroom it was nearly nine, and he was half-stung. Florence emerged with hair all over her face. She was wearing a whitish terry-towel bathrobe that she had not bothered doing up, giving him a free peep show.
She registered that he was drinking beer and that he’d obviously been up for hours, and said, ‘Wassa time?’
‘Time? I don’t know. I know of no time, Flo Jo, not as such. We are in a time warp here. But there will be time, time for a hundred decisions and revisions, which a minute will reverse; time for this and time for that, time to get pissed, time for all kinds of crazy shit, before the taking of cakes and tea. Cheers, my lovely.’ He raised his stubby and polished off the remains. Around his chair were half-a-dozen empties and the squeezed-out silver skin of the wine cask.
‘Couldn’t you sleep, Robert?’ she said. When she came closer she could s
ee he’d been on a crying binge, and placed a hand on his unruly, greying mat of curly hair.
‘Afraid not,’ he said. ‘Par for the course, Flo Jo. N’importe.’
She was standing alongside him, patiently brushing his hair with her hand. Robert tilted his head back and shut his eyes, making purring sounds.
‘More, please,’ he murmured. He turned his eyes towards her face, which wore a defeated sort of smile, then put his arm inside the bathrobe and around her waist, feeling her warm curves.
‘You are just the loveliest creature, d’you know that?’ he said, and kissed her navel. ‘How did you happen into my life, anyway?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s all a blur to me.’
He was nuzzling her stomach, smelling the downy skin and the stringent vapours rising from her intimate parts.
‘Blur. It’s a fine word, blur, isn’t it? It just sounds right: blur. Very … what’s that word? My God. Onomatopoeic, that’s it. I’d say the last ten or twelve years have been a bit of a blur for me, which is just as well, really. A la recherche du temps perdu and all that stuff is best left to the likes of Monsieur Proust, doncha think, Flo Jo?’
‘I’d say you’re absolutely right, Robert,’ she said, utterly perplexed.
‘I’m sorry, love. I’m not taking the piss. Not out of you, anyway.’ He kissed her soft skin some more, then she bent over so her tits touched his face, and he gave them a fondle and a tender kiss each. ‘What fine jugs you have,’ he said, cupping them delicately, as if they were eggshells that might break if he squeezed too hard. ‘I sure wish I could give you the proper business, Florence.’
‘Maybe you can,’ she said. Her tits were still resting loosely in his hands; she was rocking slightly from side to side, creating some friction for herself, at least. The bathrobe somehow dropped to the floor; Robert put his arm around her buns and pulled her close so that his face was buried, hidden, in her stomach.
Later in the morning, before going out for the daily essentials, he took time to wash the sheets in the bath and hang them on the communal clothesline. There were layers of deeply ingrained yellow stains in them which he pretended not to notice when one of the ladies from the flats turned up with her basket of washing and said hello to him. He had already searched around in the bottom of the wardrobe for a clean pair of pants, which turned out to be the rumpled trousers of an old Armani suit, the jacket and vest from which had disappeared somewhere along the track.
The day was still and sunny and after purchasing supplies at the supermarket Robert and Florence strolled along drinking from chilled cans of VB. Robert was in a dreamily euphoric frame of mind, in which he could happily have slashed his wrists without a moment’s hesitation, just to go off on a high note. Later would come blackness, depression, after the late-afternoon crash, from which he would wake feeling nothing but emptiness and hatred of himself. At least now he had Florence to temper his moods, and that was both good and bad. Although she gave him comfort and was just plain nice to have around, he had no desire to drag her into the mire with him. If he had any will-power or moral sense he would tell her to move out for her own sake, but Robert was starting to become too attached to her, even without the fucking. They had rapidly become a team.
They sat on a park bench for a while, enjoying the sun on their backs and finishing their cans before cracking another. That was the beauty about being with other piss-heads: no-one ever tried to hold you back. Robert felt like really tying one on today, getting fully shitfaced and then falling into bed with Florence in his arms. Her glossy hair, which was not tied back today, flashed with wine-coloured streaks in the sunlight. He put his arm around her and she came easily to him, with her face resting on his chest and a hand on his thigh, rather close to his crotch. They didn’t say much to each other, just sat there in the sun drinking cold beer and making the most of a pleasant interlude. She was so shameless: once when Robert kissed the top of her head she slid her hand up a little higher and gave his set a friendly – and perhaps hopeful – squeeze, right there in broad daylight, with people walking by.
For the rest of the trip home they walked hand-in-hand, as naturally as any two long-standing lovers. Robert could feel his heart going out to this girl. He was tripping on her. While crossing a minor road he suddenly stopped, put down the shopping bag, wrapped his arms around her and gave her a long, loving, full-body hug, of the kind for which he and Patti were famous all those years ago. Cars skirted around them, sounding horns, but they took no notice. She lifted her face and Robert kissed her lips with a depth of feeling that made his heart sing. Florence kissed back with force and passion, thrusting in her tongue and driving her lower body into his. She seemed to be doing everything she could to fire him up right there in the street. Robert grasped and squeezed her tightened buttocks, pushing his hands all over and between them. How long it was before they finally, reluctantly came apart and continued on their way arm-in-arm he could not have said, but one thing he did know, sadly: her best efforts had been for nothing, again. No hard-on, not a cracker, not so much as a blip on the screen. Zilch.
*
Over the following week they became a familiar local sight, an unlikely and usually inebriated pair heading off in the mornings and returning a lot drunker and more amorous than they’d started out. In the flat Florence tried many times to arouse him – at a certain point in their drinking, the alcohol unfailingly made her crave sex – but despite her best efforts she had to be content with alternative forms of penetration. She was usually so spun out Robert couldn’t tell if she was coming, but it didn’t seem to matter. One of her many party tricks was to dip her tits in wine and have him suck them. It was her habit to cavort nude during these times with a drink in her hand, sipping and spilling wine on herself while she sat squirming on Robert’s face. When drunk Florence had a child’s way about her with clothes, changing her outfit or discarding various garments for no apparent reason and leaving them lying on the floor. She might change from a dress into jeans, then into a nightie, then into a different dress, then she would have nothing on except socks, and so it would go.
They would usually hit the sheets around five or six, stumblingly pissed, sleep for a few hours and then wake up parched and stuffed, with no choice but to keep on boozing and smoking until there was nothing left. At some unholy hour they would finish up back in bed, locked in each other’s arms. Florence would be asleep instantly while Robert, nuzzling into her tits, thought about things until he started the crying trip. Then he would lie there nestled into Florence with his tears streaming down her breasts, weeping silently and wiping his face with the sheet. In the dark he would gaze at the ceiling with the warm, comforting liquid repeatedly filling his eyes and running down the sides of his face, until dawn finally broke the spell and ended his wallow.
*
It had been some time since he’d had a heroin hit, and he hadn’t seemed to miss it – he put this down to Florence’s presence – but inevitably the jackals circled ever closer and started their gnawing, gnawing right into his vital organs until he had a dose of the cold sweats and was shaking all over again. He’d always thought he could quit it, just go cold turkey, but when this happened he knew it wasn’t possible. The problem was he had no money for a cap, and even if he had could not face the long journey on foot into town. There wasn’t much he could do except suffer, but Florence, unable to watch and listen any longer, finally volunteered to go and get the shit for him. She scraped together barely enough for a cap and off she went.
She arrived at the spot in Russell Street where she’d been with Robert the other time, but there was no sign of a dealer. No junkies hanging around, either. Florence wasn’t to know that the police had clamped down on this precinct, sending the dealers elsewhere, so she wandered about for a while with the forty bucks in a small side pocket of her yellow cotton dress, vaguely looking for a suitable bar to have a drink or two in. Soon she was meandering down Chinatown, but all the bars there seemed to be a bit smart fo
r her. Like most drunks, Florence instinctively sensed which establishments wouldn’t let her in, even though she was young, female and pretty. Bar staff knew a juicer when they saw one, especially since she didn’t have a handbag, which was too big to be carting around all this way on foot. A woman without a handbag was a dead giveaway.
While she was walking, Florence’s thoughts were diverted and her attention taken by a fracas occurring down one of the narrow lanes that ran north off Little Bourke Street. This was about half past twelve. Stopping, she noticed three men pushing and shoving another man around and abusing him. They pushed him from one to the other before throwing him hard against a blue skip. Then one of the attackers appeared to hit the victim numerous times in the chest and stomach in a series of rapid blows. He sank to his knees, and just by the way he went down and then rolled onto his back Florence knew they had done more than just hit him. While he lay on the ground they jerked his clothes and kicked him, again and again. Then the main attacker said something harsh to the prostrate victim, kicked him once more, then looked towards Little Bourke Street and saw this young female in a yellow dress staring at them. She’d obviously witnessed the incident. She heard him say, ‘Come on, he’s fucked. Let’s fuck off.’ One of the other men, who seemed to be rummaging through the victim’s pockets, glanced up and saw her, just twenty metres away, then the three of them bolted around a corner and vanished between buildings. The victim was writhing and twisting on the ground, mostly hidden by the skip. Florence could only see his feet and part of his legs.
She hesitated, glancing nervously around her for someone whose help she might enlist. A truck went past, nearly running her down, then a couple of sleek cars. Groups of dark-suited businessmen hurried by. Two well-dressed women in high heels flounced self-importantly past, one of them speaking on a mobile phone. Florence realised that she was far too lowly and intimidated to approach any of these individuals, who would think she was a beggar or a drunk and treat her like dirt. She was on her own. With considerable trepidation she moved slowly into the lane, seeing the man’s legs twisting behind the skip, and as she came closer she could hear his groans. Afraid, she looked behind her, back towards Little Bourke Street, but no person was taking any notice of her: they were all too busy going places. The victim was writhing and twisting. Florence reached the skip, and the stink of rotten fish wafting from it overwhelmed her. The man beside it was making awful noises. Looking down at him, she could see he was young, probably about her own age. There was blood all over his chest area and rips in his shirt, indicating to her that he had been stabbed many times. The blood was spreading beneath him and making its way towards the valley in the centre of the lane; when it reached that, it began moving at a gradual speed down the slight slope towards Little Bourke. Florence bent over him; she had no idea what to do in a situation like this. The blood was so thick and dark, like treacle, and there was so much of it. It was just horrible, but here she was, drawn to the scene, as if guided there by the powers that be, for whatever purpose.
