Fat, Fifty & F<li><li><li>ed!

by Geoffrey McGeachin

  And now, to cap it all, he had to piss. Urgently. The butt of Colin’s police-issue Glock had been sticking into his right kidney for the past three hours, which was probably part of the problem. How did cops manage to drive with a gun on their hip? No wonder they always seemed grumpy.

  Climbing down from the vehicle, Martin walked behind the eucalypt, keeping a wary eye out for snakes. He glanced around before unzipping his trousers. Pissing in public was always a problem for him. Well, not exactly in public, but in public toilets. If he couldn’t hold on for more than three hours, how was he going to manage ten years in prison? Did toilet blocks in maximum security feature individual stalls with locks? he wondered.

  A deep groan of pleasure accompanied the easing of the pressure in his bladder, and he played the stream of liquid back and forth across the base of the tree. Glancing up, Martin looked directly into the rheumy yellow eyes of a huge goanna sprawled out along a branch. No need to worry about snakes around here, he decided. The big monitor lizard would have made a meal of any tigers or king browns or red-bellied blacks within a couple of kilometres of his treetop residence. The goanna blinked lazily and flicked its long forked tongue, sampling the air. Martin looked down and quickly zipped up. He backed away from the tree warily. Best not to tempt fate. A hungry goanna might take any opportunity for a quick lunch. Or a light snack, if a man was to be brutally honest.

  Martin’s stomach rumbled at the thought of food. No breakfast, no lunch and a bout of armed robbery could really build an appetite. If he gave himself up, at least he’d probably get lunch. Or maybe he could call the police from a roadhouse. He could have a hamburger while he waited for them to come and pick him up. Breakfast would most definitely be off by now. And who would pay for the hamburger? If the police paid, would they tip enough? He wouldn’t want to look cheap in front of the waitress. This life-of-crime business was turning out to be very complex. Martin’s hands were shaking. He couldn’t think straight, and suddenly he realised that thinking straight was very, very important.

  A quick search revealed nothing edible in the Land Cruiser. Colin usually got his lunch at the milkbar in Burrinjuruk, Martin remembered, or at that damned burger joint out on the highway. Martin started the engine and pulled back onto the road. He would get some food, settle down somewhere quiet and try to figure things out. The highway was a better bet for food than the dirt roads he had favoured so far, even if it was a bit riskier. They would have discovered the robbery by now, and perhaps a police patrol would save him the trouble of making a decision about what to do next.

  *

  The battered roadside sign read: DONUTS WITH JIM. 2K’S AHEAD. Martin glanced down at his police uniform. Shouldn’t look too out of place at a donut stand, he decided. And right now, a coffee and some donuts with a bloke named Jim had a very desirable air of normality about it.

  It was closer to six kilometres before a dilapidated caravan appeared in a dusty rest area just off the roadway. It was propped up on piles of crumbling bricks and old railway sleepers. Weeds grew up through the perished tyres, and several battered LP gas cylinders rested against one end. A very old and shabby Chrysler ute was parked under the only tree. From the few remaining patches of paint among the rust, Martin guessed that it had once been blue.

  He rolled the Land Cruiser into the parking area, switched off the engine and climbed out. There was silence except for the occasional raucous squawking of sulphur-crested cockatoos and the throb of a small motor somewhere in the distance. Electricity generator for the caravan, he guessed, and then he saw the heavy-duty yellow extension cable running through the long grass. And something else, round and white. A satellite dish? Out here? Was he hallucinating on an adrenalin overdose from the robbery? Maybe some food would neutralise it. God, he hoped so.

  A sign on the van’s roof announced: HOT COFFEE – PIES – DONUTS WITH JIM, and the serving window was open. Martin looked carefully at the sign. There was a logo in the form of a smiling donut. The donut was wearing a very snappy bow tie.

  In front of the caravan a skinny man in his late twenties was sitting in a folding aluminium chair, a thin silver laptop resting on his knees. Apart from the laptop and a pair of wraparound sunglasses, he was totally naked.

  That’s that then, Martin decided, I am definitely out of my mind. The thought that he really was crazy somehow had a calming effect. He would just have some lunch and a cold drink and then wait to see what happened next. He no longer had to worry about making decisions. He hoped that the food in this hallucination was going to be good.

  He smiled pleasantly at the naked man. ‘G’day,’ he said. ‘Nice tan.’

  The man nodded but didn’t speak.

  ‘Sign back there said two k’s but it’s well over five,’ Martin continued.

  The man nodded again and looked Martin up and down. ‘Odometer’s packed up in the ute,’ he said finally, ‘so I just guess at the k’s when I put the signs out. You gunna arrest me for falsifying distances, officer?’

  ‘Not unless you’ve done anything else I should know about,’ Martin said.

  The man considered this. ‘I sometimes wave at passing traffic,’ he offered.

  ‘No crime in that as far as I know.’ Martin hoped he sounded like a real police officer.

  ‘Guess that would depend on what I wave,’ said the naked man evenly.

  Martin laughed out loud. He was beginning to enjoy this hallucination. ‘You must be Jim then.’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Jim about?’ Martin asked.

  ‘There ain’t no Jim. Jim doesn’t exist. Jim is just a cunning marketing ploy.’

  Martin looked at him blankly.

  ‘Sign on the highway used to say Donuts with Jam,’ the man explained, ‘and business was dying in the bum. One day last year, this old chook pulled in looking for Jim. She was half blind, cataracts probably, shouldn’t really have been driving. Misread the sign. Decided it was some friendly, country-style offer, so she stopped in for lunch with Jim.’

  ‘Sounds fair enough,’ Martin said.

  ‘She could sure pack it away. Had seconds on the chicken and chips and bought a dozen donuts to go. So I thought, Bugger it, why not? and changed the signs from Jam to Jim.’

  Martin looked around the empty rest stop. ‘Paid off big time, I see. I had trouble finding somewhere to park.’

  ‘We get pretty busy after the opera lets out.’ The man put his laptop down and stood up. ‘So what can I do ya for, ossifer?’

  ‘You get many goannas around here?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ the man said. ‘Guess so. Why?’

  ‘Forget it. Can I get something to eat?’

  ‘Sure, you bet. Name your poison,’ he said. ‘Just a figure of speech of course,’ he added.

  Martin looked at the blackboard menu. ‘What do you recommend for lunch?’

  The man scratched his chin. ‘Well, if it was up to me I’d say try Paul Bocuse’s joint in Lyon. You can do it in three hours from Paris on the TGV. Truffle soup is always spectacular, followed by a Bresse chicken roasted over the fire in the main dining room. And there’s a cheese selection that would make you bloody weep.’

  Martin patted his shirt pocket. ‘Bugger,’ he said, ‘I forgot my passport.’

  ‘You’re over twenty-one and you’ve got a pistol, so you should be able to give a couple of my pies a run for their money. They’re probably still warmish. I can nuke ’em if you’re game.’

  ‘Sounds okay,’ Martin said.

  ‘It’s your alimentary canal,’ replied the man as he walked to the caravan.

  Martin called after him as he climbed the three steps to the door. ‘Hey, you got a name?’

  The man turned. ‘Yep,’ he said.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Can I get some chips with the pies?’ Martin asked finally.

  ‘Pommes frites? Bien sûr. Anything else? A cheeky yet elegant, cool-climate pinot noir, perhaps? Lightly chilled?’


  ‘Just tomato sauce, thanks, and a Coke if you’ve got one cold. I’m driving.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ said the man, disappearing into the caravan. Martin reached for his wallet but his back pocket was empty. ‘Damn,’ he muttered. Colin’s trousers! His wallet was back on the desk at the bank.

  The man leaned out the serving window. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Left my wallet back at the office, er, station,’ Martin explained.

  The man shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s cool.’

  Martin glanced over at the Land Cruiser. ‘I’ve got some cash in my truck,’ he said.

  ‘Nah, really, it’s okay. We usually give free lunches to cops in uniform.’

  ‘Just like McDonald’s,’ Martin said.

  The man considered this. ‘I guess you could say we’re very like McDonald’s in many respects. Apart from the international-franchise aspect, the consistent food quality, and the customer-focused service. Plus that whole business-success side of things.’

  ‘And the uniforms,’ Martin suggested.

  ‘Touché,’ said the man, stepping out of the van. He was wearing a frilly pink plastic apron. ‘Couple of minutes for the nosh,’ he said.

  ‘Nice.’ Martin indicated the apron.

  ‘Thanks. I’ve found it pays to wear the approved workplace safety gear when standing over a deep-fryer. You always been a cop then?’ the man asked, tossing Martin a can of soft drink.

  Martin shook his head as he tugged at the ring-pull. ‘It’s a fairly recent thing. Why?’

  ‘Well, that’s a pretty crap uniform you got there. Just thought someone your age would have gold braid and medals and shit.’

  ‘Late starter. What about you? Always been a …?’ Martin searched for the word.

  ‘Donut dolly?’ suggested the man. He laughed and shook his head. ‘Telecommunications and security software’s really my line. Started my own company in my bedroom when I was still in high school. First car was a Ferrari. One day my accountant told me if I sold all my shares right then I’d have 290 million Yankee dollars to play with.’

  ‘What happened?’ Martin asked, looking around the dusty parking lot.

  ‘Didn’t sell them, did I? I took off to a schmick resort in Bali with no CNN and a blonde with big knockers to celebrate my youthful success. Tech stocks went tits up while I was head down and somewhat incommunicado.’

  ‘Whoops,’ Martin said.

  ‘You got that right,’ the man said. ‘So I reviewed my life choices and went with option two.’

  ‘Which was?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Go with the flow, live simply for a while and see where life takes you,’ the man explained.

  ‘Better than a long drive off a short pier in a fast car, I guess.’

  The man seemed perplexed. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  Martin backtracked. ‘I just thought, in that kind of situation, doing all your dough – no pun intended – option one would be bailing out, suicide.’

  ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ snorted the man. ‘I’ve still got bulk cash offshore in the Cook Islands and the Bahamas. I’m not stupid, pal. Never put all your eggs in one basket, even if you own the basket. Option one was doing a runner – maybe to Brazil like Ronnie Biggs, or to Majorca à la Skasey, but I like it here. It’s home.’

  ‘So all that time you were making millions, your fallback position was to be a donut dolly on a dirt road west of Woop Woop?’ Martin asked.

  ‘It got a wee bit tricky,’ the man said slowly. ‘A lot of rich and powerful people got burned when we went under. Some pretty scary people too. And the tax office is a bit dark on me as well. Missed a few payments, rather big ones as it happened. I’m just doing my penance out here till they all forget about me.’

  ‘Not really the kind of stuff you should be telling a cop, is it?’

  The man looked Martin up and down and laughed. ‘Yeah, right.’

  There was a ping from the caravan. ‘Luncheon is served,’ the man announced. And, after a theatrical pause: ‘Officer.’

  Martin took a long swig from the can. The soft drink was icy and tingling. He felt that he could taste every individual bubble on his tongue. Maybe he wasn’t actually hallucinating. Maybe the adrenalin overload was just sharpening his senses.

  Lunch was on the van counter on a plastic plate. The shoestring chips were golden and the meat pies looked and smelled delicious.

  ‘Homemade?’ Martin asked.

  The man nodded. ‘Sure are, if your home’s in a giant industrial bakery outside Gosford.’

  When Martin bit into the first pie a fat globule of gravy spurted out onto his shirt front. The man shook his head and handed him a paper napkin.

  ‘Forgot your wallet and now this,’ he said. ‘Not really working out to be your day, is it?’

  Martin dabbed at the spill. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘you don’t know the half of it.’

  six

  Slowly and cautiously Martin worked the Land Cruiser up the steep gravel track. A sheer cliff fell away on the left, and it was a very long way to the bottom. One thing about living in a country town for five years, he mused, was you learned the proper way to handle a four-wheel drive off-road. To his right was a dense mountain-gum forest, and tangled underbrush rubbed and scratched against the driver’s door. Martin was trying his best to keep as far away from the cliff edge as possible. If I go over that I’ll die a rich man, he thought, glancing in the rear-view mirror at the canvas sacks in the back. He inched the vehicle carefully over the next crest and then stopped.

  Further down the track, a black motorcycle with a sidecar was parked in a tiny clearing off to one side. There was no sign of the rider. Martin pulled hard on the handbrake before switching off the engine in the Land Cruiser. Climbing out of the cabin, he glanced about and then walked slowly over to the motorcycle. Martin didn’t know much about motorcycles but this looked to be a vintage model, nothing like those fancy touring bikes that sometimes cruised through Burrinjuruk. The leather seat was big and flat, like something you’d see on an old tractor, and the handlebars were long, arching back along either side of the teardrop-shaped petrol tank. A crudely airbrushed illustration featuring several naked women of Aryan appearance and very exaggerated proportions in the chest region covered the top of the petrol tank. The machine also had some kind of stick-shift gear lever, like a sports car, which Martin found a bit odd.

  Two helmets and a battered leather jacket lay on the seat of the long, boat-shaped sidecar. One of the helmets was a black, World War II German army-style coalscuttle with a swastika on the side. It was surprisingly light when Martin picked it up – he guessed it was a fibreglass reproduction. A smaller and newer-looking leather jacket was lying on the ground a couple of metres from the bike. Martin looked around warily. The jacket on the ground wasn’t a good sign. There was something here giving him a very bad feeling. That something was telling him to get right back in the Land Cruiser and drive on. He told himself not to be silly, but he nevertheless reached down to the holster and unsnapped the restraining band looped over the butt of Colin’s pistol. You should just drive on, he told himself, what’s happening here is none of your business.

  There was a sound of scuffling in the bushes to his right, and a man and woman suddenly staggered out into the sunlight. The woman was tall and slim, blonde, maybe forty, he thought, wearing leather pants and motorcycle boots. She was very attractive, Martin decided. No, she was actually bloody gorgeous, he concluded. Her plaid shirt was torn at the front and he could see part of a lacy white bra. A fat and rather nasty-looking bikie was holding her by the hair with one hand. In the other he had a shortened pool cue. The man was about the same age as himself, Martin guessed. He had a shaved head and his jeans, denim shirt and sleeveless denim jacket were filthy. Blood was running from several scratches on his face and he didn’t appear to be very happy to have company.

  ‘Nothin’ to worry about here, officer,’ the bikie said. ‘Me and the missu
s are just havin’ a bit of a domestic.’

  Martin didn’t know a lot about bikies’ molls but he was pretty sure this woman didn’t fit the bill.

  ‘Nothin’ he needs to get involved in, eh luv?’ The bikie jerked on the woman’s hair and she winced, and gave Martin a look. Her eyes were dark brown. Dark brown eyes with blonde hair – a nice combination, Martin thought. What wasn’t so nice was the look in her eyes. Part desperation and part cold fury.

  So he was right about something bad happening here. Too late to walk away now, he realised.

  Suddenly the woman broke free and Martin saw the man raise the pool cue and heard him snarl, ‘Bitch.’ He was almost surprised to find Colin’s pistol in his hand, the weapon pointing directly at the bikie. He wondered if he should say something commanding and authoritative, but nothing came to mind. The gun was enough, though, and the bikie stepped away from the woman, dropped the pool cue and slowly raised his hands.

  ‘It’s cool,’ he said, smiling at Martin and showing a jagged row of mossy, decaying teeth.

  ‘Sit on the sidecar and don’t do anything stupid,’ Martin ordered, motioning with the pistol in the direction of the motorcycle. He looked towards the woman, who was rearranging her clothes. ‘You okay?’ he asked her.

  She nodded. ‘You have excellent timing, officer,’ she said.

  Martin was taken with the husky warmth of her voice. He was hoping she would say something else when there was a gentle whistle from the direction of the motorcycle. The woman’s eyes flicked towards the bikie and she froze. ‘Oh, shit,’ she said softly.

  Martin spun around and stared straight into the double barrels of a sawn-off shotgun. ‘Told you not to get involved,’ the bikie grinned.

  Martin raised his pistol. The bikie shook his head. ‘No way, copper. You might get lucky and hit me with that peashooter, but I’ll bloody definitely get you with this, so why don’t you just put it fuckin’ down, eh?’

  Martin was trying to remember if the pistol’s safety catch was off. And where exactly was it on a Glock? Did a Glock have a safety catch? He really didn’t want to look down at this particular moment. ‘We could talk about this,’ he suggested. ‘Negotiate something. I’ve got money.’