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

by Geoffrey McGeachin

  ‘Hey, keep it down, Faith,’ Martin said, looking around uncomfortably.

  ‘Why, Martin, did I embarrass you again?’ she laughed.

  He frowned. ‘No, but there’s a time and a place –’

  ‘C’mon,’ she said, ‘this is a shopping-centre car park. It’ll be full of shaggin’ wagons as soon as the sun goes down. All squeaking down hard on their axles.’

  He relaxed. ‘You’re right, I guess. But if Giles is a crook name, Martin isn’t much better.’ He glanced around furtively and lowered his voice. ‘You’re so hard, Martin. Slam it into me, Martin. Throw me onto the four-poster and roger me rigid, Martin – doesn’t really work either.’

  Faith touched his arm gently and looked into his eyes. ‘If it really worries you, we can always get you a nickname.’

  Martin stopped breathing, suddenly aware of his heart pounding savagely in his chest. It felt like it was going to explode.

  Faith glanced at her watch. ‘I don’t know if these cops are ever going to leave,’ she said, looking towards the entrance. ‘I’m going to risk it. You just hang here and I’ll get us some lunch.’ She inspected Martin’s face. ‘And a bottle of sun screen. You’re getting quite red.’

  Martin suddenly remembered to breathe.

  She stood up. ‘With three carloads of cops here, there won’t be a Chiko Roll, dim sim or donut left in the place. Just as well too, you could really do with losing some of that gut, Marty boy.’

  Martin’s heart stopped pounding.

  *

  After fifteen minutes, he began to be concerned. Then a group of uniformed police walked out of the mall entrance and gathered around one of the patrol cars. Ten minutes later, Faith came out carrying several large shopping bags. She walked in the direction of the police and then suddenly stopped, glancing around as if looking for someone. What the hell is she doing? Martin thought anxiously. After a minute or two, Faith made her way back to the motorcycle via a wide circle through the parked cars.

  ‘Sorry about the wait,’ she said as she put the bags on the ground, ‘but I followed some of the cops around the mall to see if you were getting a mention.’

  ‘Find out anything?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just that they’d all like to do it to the girl behind the counter in the jeweller’s.’

  ‘I nearly had a heart attack when you walked up to those policemen,’ Martin said.

  ‘Sorry, but they were listening to the radio, so I thought I’d see if you featured on any all-points bulletins.’

  ‘And did I?’ Martin asked nervously.

  ‘Who knows? They were listening to the cricket. The West Indies just declared at six for 480.’

  He laughed with relief. ‘They’re good.’

  ‘And in theory you’re really bad, Mr Carter,’ Faith said, ‘but no-one seems terribly interested. I can’t figure out what’s going on.’

  They found a small park with picnic tables, shade, and a view over a dry creekbed. Lunch was crusty bread and a variety of cold meats, cheeses and salads. There was fresh fruit for dessert.

  ‘This looks great, Faith,’ he said, opening the bottle of mineral water she handed him.

  ‘Hang about.’ She rummaged in another bag and took out a complex-looking camera. After quickly checking the settings, she took a shot of him across the picnic table. ‘They had a really great camera store in that mall,’ she said. ‘That’s another reason it took me so long. I’ve got a thing about taking photographs.’

  She took three more shots in rapid succession, changing her angle slightly each time. The camera’s shutter clicked and the motordrive whirred with each frame. ‘All great journeys should be documented, and what’s life if it isn’t a great journey?’

  ‘It’s too complicated for me,’ he said.

  ‘What, life?’

  ‘No, that camera. But now you mention it, life is pretty damn complicated too.’

  Faith handed him the camera. ‘Take one of me.’

  ‘Is it idiot-proof?’ Martin asked, examining the settings.

  ‘That all depends on the idiot,’ she said. ‘It’s in auto mode, so it’ll make all the decisions for you.’

  ‘Fine by me.’ Martin looked through the viewfinder. Everything was blurry.

  ‘Just touch the shutter button lightly and it’ll focus itself,’ she said.

  He did as she instructed but the camera fired.

  ‘What happened? It went off before I was ready.’

  ‘Life’s like that sometimes,’ Faith grinned. ‘Try again.’

  Martin gently touched the shutter button and Faith came into focus. ‘Is it digital?’ he asked.

  Faith rolled her eyes. ‘Of course not. I’m into preserving moments and emotions through the wondrous action of light on the silver halide crystal.’

  ‘And that’s not digital then?’ Martin asked, looking over the top of the camera at her.

  ‘Hell, no. Digital’s just an unemotional recording of binary information.’

  ‘Your old dad was a bit of a photo buff, right?’

  She grinned. ‘It shows, eh? We had a darkroom in an old shed where we used to hide out from Mum and make black and white prints and talk motorbikes. It was great.’

  ‘Have you always had such strong opinions about every damn thing?’ Martin wanted to know.

  ‘Always had them. Only recently learned to voice them. I’m just making up for a lot of wasted years.’

  The camera clicked and whirred.

  ‘Got it,’ Martin said.

  ‘Great. Now, pass me a pickle.’

  eleven

  Even with his scarf and sunglasses Martin found it hard to pinpoint the joys of sidecar touring. The wind dried his eyes, forcing him to blink constantly, and he wondered if the steady hammering of the motorcycle engine in his right ear would make him deaf. The view was good, however, he had to admit. Cruising down the highway at ground level, without doors and windows, gave him quite a different perspective of the country they travelled through. Wide brown land was right, he mused. Even the green of the trees and the patches of pasture they encountered as they neared the coast was muted. It was as if everything was covered with a thin layer of dull ochre dust.

  It was late afternoon when they finally reached Woodville. Faith suggested stopping for a drink before searching out the nursing home. They wheeled up to a pub on the main street where some three dozen motorcycles were lined up neatly outside. Several bikies lounging on the verandah watched as Faith dismounted, while Martin extricated himself awkwardly from the cramped sidecar. He was wary about leaving the money, but as Faith pointed out, the alternative was walking into a bikie pub with three garbage bags full of cash. She had a point. He tossed his leather jacket into the sidecar, hoping to partially cover the bags.

  Faith looked down the line of bikes and whistled. ‘Well, our little Chief should feel right at home among this lot. Quite a few Indians, and a couple of very nice ones too.’

  Martin studied the parked motorcycles. She was right about Indians, he decided. The shiny, low-slung bikes with the Indian-head logo on their fuel tanks stood out as the most sleek and elegant.

  The bikies on the verandah ignored them as they walked up the steps and into the saloon bar. It was noisy and smoky, predominantly male and almost exclusively bikie. A big-screen TV near the pool tables was showing a news bulletin. The sound was off, but Martin nudged Faith when a still of a red motorcycle appeared, followed by a photograph of her, looking very thin, with close-cropped hair and dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘Thank goodness my ex is such a dill,’ she said. ‘Trust him to give them a photo of me at my very worst.’

  The image cut back to a presenter, and the words ‘Missing Persons Hotline’ and a phone number appeared across the bottom of the screen.

  ‘Well, it’s official,’ she said. ‘I’m missing. Just as well Dad doesn’t watch the news any more.’

  ‘His eyesight?’

  ‘Gave up after the waterfront
lock-out. His blood pressure went through the roof.’

  They worked their way through the crowd to the bar. It was a riot of denim, leather, tattoos, beards, bald heads, and rotting or missing teeth. The majority of the men were wearing jackets or vests emblazoned with gang colours.

  ‘Well, you certainly blend right in here, Martin,’ said Faith, looking around.

  A huge, bearded bikie came in at that moment and a small group discussion ensued. Someone pointed in their direction and the bikie walked purposefully over. Conversation stopped and all eyes followed him. A fat finger was pushed into Martin’s chest.

  ‘Are youse riding the Indian with the sidecar?’ the bikie growled.

  ‘No, actually I am,’ said Faith pleasantly. ‘What’s it to you, dick breath?’

  The bar was suddenly quiet, apart from the click of balls on the pool tables. The big bikie leaned down slowly and pulled a thin-bladed knife from his boot.

  ‘You got a wicked mouth there, lady,’ he said. ‘You need a lesson in manners, I reckon.’

  It felt somehow to Martin that everything was suddenly happening in slow motion.

  ‘I want to talk to the president,’ Faith said casually.

  The atmosphere relaxed a little. Several bikies stepped away from the bar, leaving a gap between the pair and a fortyish man in faded colours. He had a full head of hair and also appeared to have a full set of teeth. Martin noticed that his jeans were held up by a beaded belt colourfully proclaiming: ELVIS LIVES.

  ‘The name’s Headjob,’ the man said. ‘I’m the president of this little band of merry men. How can I help?’

  Faith held out a hand. ‘Should I call you Head, or Mr Job?’

  The president didn’t take her hand. ‘Let’s not push it, lady,’ he said coldly. ‘You seem to know how the system works, but nobody likes a smart-arse.’

  Faith shrugged. ‘Your tubby mate seems to have a problem with my bike.’

  The president shook his head. ‘Actually, it’s our bike,’ he said. ‘Bear recognised it, even with that crap spray job. It got stolen a couple of months back. Arsehole dog named Raymond took it after we turfed him out. Had a bad habit of taking things that didn’t belong to him, which was what got him the elbow. How did you come by it, lady?’

  ‘Raymond left it to me in his will,’ she smiled.

  ‘That’s nice to hear,’ the president said. ‘How’d the prick die? Nothing too painless, I hope.’

  ‘He fell over.’

  ‘Fell over what?’

  Faith looked him straight in the eye. ‘A cliff.’

  A chuckle rippled through the crowd.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the president. ‘As long as it’s permanent.’

  The atmosphere in the bar returned to normal. The president whistled to the barmaid. ‘Three schooners, love. He’s paying.’ He indicated Martin and leaned over conspiratorially. ‘Bear had a butcher’s in the sidecar,’ he said. ‘He reckons you can afford to shout.’

  Martin’s beer was icy and delicious. Faith and the president downed theirs swallow for swallow. She tapped her empty glass on the bar and nodded to the barmaid. The president looked her up and down.

  ‘So what brings you happy campers to Shangri La by the sea?’ he asked.

  ‘Family reunion,’ Faith said. ‘My old man’s stuck in some rathole retirement village around here. Ocean View. You know it?’

  ‘It’s the only rathole for miles. Just out of town. What’s the old coot’s name?’ the president asked.

  ‘It’s Walter. Walter Chance. For some reason he decided to hang around the joint after my mother died there last year. I just want to check up on him, make sure he’s not too miserable.’

  ‘Sounds fair enough,’ said the president. ‘We’d better find out then.’ He yelled to a group at the pool table. ‘Hey Wal, you old prick, you feeling miserable?’

  One of the players turned from the table. He was wearing the regulation faded jeans, boots, plaid shirt and sleeveless denim jacket. Thick glasses, a suntanned, wrinkled face, and a short grey ponytail completed the picture. A woman of about sixty put her arm around his waist.

  ‘I’m doing okay, Pres,’ the old man yelled back, ‘but if you wanna buy me an’ Doreen another coupl’a beers, I’ll be doing even better.’

  The president leaned back on the bar and smiled. ‘There’s some sheila here to see you,’ he said. ‘Bit younger than your usual. You can save your pension money, her bloke’ll get you a beer. He’s bloody loaded.’

  The old man walked slowly to the bar and squinted. ‘Well, g’day, Faith,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘Hello, Dad, just thought I’d check up on you.’

  They hugged. The president looked at Martin and winked. ‘This is a very touching moment,’ he said. ‘I think it calls for another beer or seven. Your shout again, I’m afraid. Club rules. Rich bastards pay.’

  Martin signalled to the barmaid. ‘And another round of whatever the old bloke and his lady by the pool table are drinking,’ he said.

  ‘So you got a name there, Mr Rockefeller?’ asked the president.

  ‘Martin,’ he answered, and they shook hands.

  ‘You around when Raymond fell over then, Martin?’

  Martin swallowed. ‘I have to admit to some slight peripheral involvement.’

  ‘Definitely permanent, was it?’ the president asked.

  ‘And then some,’ Martin replied.

  The president sipped his beer thoughtfully and looked at Faith, who was still hugging her father. ‘She’s a bit lippy but that’s a pretty nice arse,’ he commented.

  ‘Got to go along with you there,’ Martin agreed.

  ‘Looks like old Raymundo got way out of his depth with that one. She really a librarian like the old man reckons?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Martin said.

  The president looked him up and down and shook his head sadly. ‘Geez, mate, you’re really going to have to lift your game.’

  Martin finished his beer in a long swallow. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said.

  *

  The residents of the Ocean View Retirement Village and its associated full-care nursing home were obviously used to the thunderous arrival of some thirty-plus motorcycles. Nobody blinked an eye at the noisy cavalcade which now included the Indian and sidecar. Wal was riding pillion on the president’s bike.

  As he entered the foyer, Martin wondered if the lack of reaction was because the residents couldn’t hear the bikes over the blaring sound system reverberating through the corridors. It was the Rolling Stones doing ‘Street Fighting Man’ at eardrum-jarring volume. Carrying the garbage bags, Martin followed the president into an office marked ‘Jesse James, Manager’.

  The president pointed to a corner. ‘Just chuck your pocket money over there,’ he said, ‘it’ll be safe. Wanna beer?’ He took two cans from a bar fridge without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Won’t the manager mind?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Shit no,’ laughed the president, tossing him a can, ‘I am the manager. Also the CEO. The club owns the joint through a shelf company. Cheers! You can call me Jesse,’ he said, taking a swig of his beer. ‘Usually only the boys call me Headjob. It’s very touching and shows the high regard in which I’m held.’

  ‘Jesse James?’ Martin asked. ‘Is that your real name?’

  ‘It’s Peter on my birth certificate, but when you run an outlaw motorcycle gang …’ He shrugged.

  Looking through the window, Martin saw a bearded, shaven-headed bikie in colours pushing an elderly lady across the lawn in a wheelchair. ‘I’m not sure Faith was expecting anything like this,’ he said. ‘I certainly wasn’t.’

  Jesse finished his beer, belched, crushed the can and tossed it overhand into a bin behind the desk. ‘I’ll give you a tour while your sheila catches up with her dad. That old bugger’s amazing. A real root-rat. Puts us youngsters to shame.’

  As they walked, Jesse explained the set-up. When his mother had developed d
ementia five years before, he had been horrified at the level of nursing-home care on offer. He’d noticed a FOR SALE sign on Ocean View on a weekend run up the coast, and the club had purchased it.

  ‘We were very liquid at the time, due to the success of some of our, er, other activities,’ Jesse explained. ‘The plan was to make a few improvements and let the place continue running itself, but it was as bad as all the others, so we fired the staff and took over.’

  ‘Your mum still here?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Nope, she carked it a couple of years back. But we were all having such a good time we just kept the place going in her memory. Anyway, most of the members have oldies who are getting on a bit. Guess that goes for the members themselves.’

  ‘Must have been a bit of a change for you?’ Martin suggested.

  Jesse guffawed. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘we’re a motorcycle gang. Cleaning up piss and shit and vomit’s nothing new. And at least we know in a few years’ time we’re all gonna end up in a place that understands us.’

  A tall blonde nurse walked past carrying a tray of medication. She nodded to Jesse. Martin was goggle-eyed. She was beautiful, with a fantastic figure straining against her tight white uniform. From what he could see, which was quite a lot, she wasn’t wearing much in the way of underwear.

  Jesse saw him looking. ‘What a stunner, eh? Got an arse on her that would make a saint get a stiff one. Bit of a waste, really.’

  ‘She married?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Worse,’ Jesse said. ‘She’s a girls’ girl.’

  ‘Oh,’ Martin said.

  ‘We get all sorts working here,’ Jesse explained. ‘Gay, straight, pretzel-shaped. The ones that don’t fit in most other places seem to drift our way. All we care about is they’ve got the right credentials and the right attitude. She held me old mum’s hand while she died. I love her to death.’ He turned and yelled after her, ‘Hey Doris, Bear picked up that DVD for after dinner.’

  ‘Not Biker Molls from Hell again, I hope?’ she answered.