by Zane Lovitt
PRAISE FOR ZANE LOVITT AND THE MIDNIGHT PROMISE
WINNER, NED KELLY AWARD FOR BEST FIRST FICTION, 2013
SYDNEY MORNING HERALD BEST YOUNG AUSTRALIAN NOVELISTS, 2013
LONGLISTED, COMMONWEALTH BOOK PRIZE FOR BEST FIRST BOOK, 2013
‘Beautifully written, elegantly crafted tales that not only demonstrate a command of the short story as a form, but also dark humour and biting wit…There’s poetry in the formal structure of its various moves, as well as a precise attention to the rhythm of the prose. There’s also a striking rendition of people and place…The Midnight Promise is a superb debut and may just be the best Australian crime fiction of last year.’ Sue Turnbull, Sydney Morning Herald
‘What makes Dorn such a compelling narrator is that for all his decrepitude he has a reflective spirit and an insightful eye…An often brutal, yet brutally reflective, examination of the human condition.’ Australian
‘Crashes straight into Temple, Corris and Chandler territory… You can recommend The Midnight Promise by the back cover—Text has it nailed.’ Australian Bookseller & Publisher
‘Stylistically reminiscent of Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction or Kill Bill…The writing is sharp, the scenarios are well conceived, suitably violent, stupid or pointless and very funny…The Midnight Promise is an exciting and original debut.’ The Hoopla
‘Flat-out one of the most enjoyable crime books out there. Australian noir with a nod to Raymond Carver…You’ll put the book down wishing for more.’ Readings Monthly
‘Lovitt’s on-the-brink-of-self-destruction antihero, acute talent for low-life scenarios and convincing desperado dialogue has him treading Temple turf. A writer on the rise.’ Qantas Magazine
‘If you like hard-edged fiction, then The Midnight Promise is for you…A fine book. Read it with the light on and the lock on the door.’ Weekly Times
‘A notable, confident first novel. Intelligent, never ponderous, The Midnight Promise wears the battered fedora of the crime genre with stylish ease and moves at a brisk pace.’ Australian Book Review
‘Whip-smart…Delivered in short, snappy chapters, each detailing a different case, and the ending is so good it will feel like a lesson in breakneck speed reading. An extraordinary debut.’ Mx
Zane Lovitt lives in Melbourne. Black Teeth is his second book.
textpublishing.com.au
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © 2016 by Zane Lovitt
The moral right of Zane Lovitt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published in 2016 by The Text Publishing Company
Cover design by W. H. Chong
Page design by Jessica Horrocks
Typeset in Bembo 11.3/15 by J & M Typesetting
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Creator: Lovitt, Zane, author.
Title: Black teeth / by Zane Lovitt.
ISBN: 9781925355147 (paperback)
9781922253736 (ebook)
Dewey Number: A823.4
For Tunko
1
The doorbell. It ground out a weak metallic chime but it was loud enough. A raw breeze cut against his neck, alien weeds slithered beneath his feet. They grew across the porch unchallenged, up from the cracks in the tiles but mostly from a small yard that hadn’t felt the love for a decade, a cartoon of neglect. Beyond the iron paling ran a footpath hemmed with itchy-bomb trees; further beyond ran the afternoon traffic that didn’t judge the now-woeful state of a once-resplendent two-storey terrace. He tugged his tie with a gloved hand, glanced again at the precariousness of his footing, flinched at a sound from within: a creak, maybe a footfall. The man straightened, on parade.
The door fell back just inches to reveal a tiny, dispassionate eye. An unseen mouth said nothing.
‘Hello. Mister Alamein? Rudy Alamein?’
No response. Just the eye.
‘Mister Alamein, I’m with Fortunate Insurance. My name is Anthony Halloway.’
Still nothing. It was not clear that the man inside had heard. The eye merely blinked. Beyond it was darkness.
‘I believe you contacted our office this morning for a quote on our Prime Life cover. I’ve brought you a copy of the policy and I’m here to answer any questions you may have.’
Anthony Halloway sucked his lips and raised his eyebrows: his politest method of demanding a response. The tiny eye blinked more, blinked faster. Then the door opened.
Rudy Alamein was perhaps the same age as Anthony Halloway, perhaps in his later twenties. He wore a woollen jumper too short in the sleeves and tracksuit pants too big at the waist, held them up with a fist on his hip and they were stained with something purple, maybe beetroot. A few tufts of red hair sprouted from a smooth, enormous cranium. The tiny eyes in there continued to blink against the daylight.
Anthony smiled with relief. ‘Good afternoon.’
‘I already spoke to…somebody called me.’
Rudy’s voice was weak, like that of a much smaller man sitting inside his mouth.
‘Somebody called you today?’
‘Like…before.’
‘And if I may ask, what was the upshot of that conversation?’
‘Ummm…’
‘Did you purchase a policy with us?’
‘I said I’d think. Think about it.’
Anthony performed a pantomime face of disappointment and a short bow.
‘In that case, Mister Alamein, I seem to be wasting your time. Unless you have any further questions?’
The big head shook, but with a confusion, as if Rudy didn’t quite know why it was shaking.
‘Well, thank you,’ Anthony said. ‘And we hope to be hearing from you soon.’ He turned to assess the return journey to the sidewalk. Whatever path had once existed could no longer be seen through the wooden tangle of foliage. He’d taken three long steps in retreat before he heard again that high voice, just barely above the urban ambience.
‘Ummm…’
He stopped, rotated awkwardly.
Rudy said, ‘Did you say…have you got it with you?’
Anthony raised his right hand. It held a briefcase. ‘Sure do. Would you like to read it over?’
‘Is it long?’
The honest answer was, ‘Yes.’ He said: ‘It’s our standard contract.’
Rudy snorted and murmured something, then beckoned with a flap of his hand. Anthony made the return strides to the porch, overcame his gracelessness with a brush of his lapels and smiled his way inside.
The door closed, engulfing them in black. He was about to holler in protest or even panic but the lights came on: only Rudy and a swarm of old furniture scattered mindlessly around a reception room, what had once been a formal dining room. The bay windows hid behind heavy brown curtains and the air was thick with dust you could taste. Rudy led the way along the hall, holding up his pants.
‘There’s one thing that you need to be aware of,’ Anthony said as he passed an armoire, a credenza; other European words. ‘The benefit is capped at one-point-five million. While your premium will continue to rise with inflation, the benefit will not. That needs to be clear.’
No response from Rudy. They passed a set of carpeted stairs that steeply climbed the south wall then curved out of sight. Anthony’
s gaze lingered but there was nothing more to see.
The kitchen plumed with the scent of decay, vaguely rancid, plainly organic. Anthony’s stomach sent up a distress signal and he poked at it, stifled a belch, while Rudy continued wordlessly past a large benchtop above which grey saucepans hung from a cast iron gallery. The grey colouring wasn’t by design, was a dust veneer undisturbed for an age.
A heating duct in the corner administered no heat; the insurance man gave thanks for his gloves and jacket.
Rudy sat into a cane chair over a circular table where a half-eaten bowl of cereal awaited him. Tripping on a loose floor tile, Anthony regained his balance with a nervous laugh, checked the room for further hazards.
‘What I want to know…’ said Rudy, swallowing and bringing to his lips another spoonload, ‘…is how soon it will come to…like, be enactive.’
‘Let’s take a look at the contract, shall we?’
Anthony lowered his briefcase onto the tablecloth. Strewn across the dull blue cotton were tiny shavings like crumbs of parmesan cheese and it took a moment to determine that they were in fact nail clippings, hundreds of them, chewed off and left to mingle. Some had already attached themselves to Anthony’s jacket but he thought better of openly brushing them away.
The contract was a colourful document of at least nine pages, more like a brochure, bejewelled with yellow sign here stickers and labelled in block letters: Product Disclosure. Followed by: Fortunate Insurance—There Is More to Life. It appeared to intimidate Rudy, who cowered to his bowl, tipped it forwards and dug into the remains of his meal.
‘Now,’ said Anthony. ‘Has anyone explained to you the difference between a level and a stepped premium?’
Rudy ducked further.
‘I don’t care about any of that.’
‘I know this sort of thing can be tedious, Mister Alamein. But you’ve requested the maximum possible cover, so it’s important you understand the—’
‘What about suicide?’
Anthony felt his neck go rigid.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Like, if I commit suicide, is that…is there, like…’
The insurance man allowed himself to appear thoughtful. He turned his head.
The end of the kitchen was the end of the house. Through eight or nine cobwebbed windowpanes, three of which constituted a door, he could see out to an overgrown courtyard, festooned with upturned plastic furniture into which an ambitious, strangling vine had laced itself. At the far end of the ‘garden’ was a freestanding two-storey structure, a studio or granny flat. Unlike the front yard there was a trampled pathway and visible brickwork beneath the creeping greenery that was otherwise rampant on the fences, on the trellises, on all of the space out there.
It was a cloudy grey day, deep in a Melbourne winter, but even on the sunniest First Day of Spring, Anthony thought, this house would still feel doomed.
He spoke slowly.
‘You’re asking if the payment will be made in circumstances where you take your own life?’
‘Yeah.’
He flicked through the contract, frowning, then read aloud:
‘No benefit is payable where the claim arises out of or in connection with any deliberately self-inflicted injury for the initial thirteen months of cover.’
‘Right…’ said Rudy, struggling. ‘So…I’d have to wait…after thirteen months?’
‘In theory, yes. But…may I sit down?’
Rudy nodded, scraped out his bowl.
‘Mister Alamein…’ Anthony lowered himself into a cane chair. ‘If it is your intention to apply for cover in an effort to profit your beneficiary in the immediate future—’
‘It’s not the immediate future. It’s thirteen months. You said it.’ His mouth was full.
‘Yes, but if your plan is to take your own life, I would have to recommend against Fortunate Insurance accepting your application.’
Rudy licked his spoon and flung it into the empty bowl.
‘Why? It’s the rules. I’m following the rules. You said it.’
‘Yeah, no…’ Anthony shifted in his seat, felt the nail clippings prickle his buttocks through his trousers. ‘Not really. The purpose of life insurance is protection against…the hand of fate, as it were. Not to profit, or for your beneficiary to profit, from any given technicality.’
‘But…’ Rudy said, and had nothing to go on with. His eyes shut tight, hard at thought.
‘So, I think the best thing for us to do is if I recommend for you another provider, or better yet an insurance broker, and you—’
It was a long moment before Rudy opened his eyes. When he did he saw Anthony’s, fixed into a face of astonishment.
He knew what the salesman was staring at. It was in his voice when he said, ‘What?’
‘On your hand,’ Anthony’s voice quavered. ‘What is that?’
Rudy lowered his right hand to consider the marking there, on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Tattoo.’
The intensity of Anthony’s reaction must have appeared to Rudy as mere curiosity. He explained without a skerrick of humiliation.
‘They give it to people sometimes in…at the Severington prison. Branded like horses get. It means, like, you’re someone’s…you belong to them. And they can do whatever they want.’ He held it out to better contemplate it.
‘It’s meant to be teeth.’ His mouth bent into a sick sneer. ‘But I kind of reckon it looks like a crown. Like, a dodgy crown.’
He cradled the marking in his lap.
‘You were in Severington?’ Anthony asked, his throat sounding dry.
‘I wasn’t. My father was. He died there.’
‘Your father had that?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why do you?’
‘Because I’m his son,’ Rudy spat. ‘Why do you think?’
His indignation was hot in his eyes and in his breath. He crushed his right hand against his thigh and glared at the wall past his guest, who picked at the fingers of his glove.
‘I get it,’ Anthony said. ‘Like a sympathy tattoo.’
‘I don’t know.’ A big shrug. ‘It’s just—’
Now it was Rudy who went abruptly silent.
Anthony’s glove had come away. He’d turned his wrist to display the same mark in the same place on his right hand.
Rudy grabbed at it in a sudden lurch, knocked the spoon from his bowl and wailed a half-word. Anthony yanked his arm out of reach and pulled the glove quickly back into place.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t like to be ogled.’
‘Sorry sorry,’ Rudy’s eyes bulged. ‘I’m just…never met anyone else who had it before.’
He settled back in his chair, shot glances at Anthony’s hand.
‘What was the…like, what did you do?’
‘To get sent up?’
‘I mean, why did they put you in jail?’
‘Fucking parking tickets, mate.’
Rudy cocked his head, one eye shut tight. ‘You went to Severington…because…with parking tickets?’
‘Yeah. Well, because I didn’t pay them. Cops made an example of me.’
He looked into Rudy’s boggle-eyes and said, ‘That’s why I hate cops.’
Rudy only gazed back.
Anthony said, ‘You’re the first bloke on the outside I’ve seen with the teeth, too.’
With a meaningless hum, Rudy’s attention switched back to his own hand. He stared down at it. Down into it. Anthony shook off the drama and raised his tone.
‘As I was saying, I can put you in touch with a broker and they can take it from there, okay? But you may want to think about exactly what you tell them up front.’
There was no indication that Rudy had heard. Dreamily he was somewhere else, punching his thigh with a vacant agitation.
‘Oh wait,’ cried Anthony, boggle-eyed himself. ‘Shit, was your father Piers Alamein?’
Those tiny eyes snapped to meet his. The
response was breathless. ‘Yeah.’
‘I knew Piers. On the sixth floor.’
Rudy nodded, urgent, gripped the tablecloth. Anthony laughed.
‘I was on the sixth floor!’ He clapped his hands. ‘In D-Wing. He and I always used to talk. He was a jeweller!’
‘Yes!’ Rudy cackled in awe. He clapped too.
‘He talked about you. Only child. You slept in a bungalow at the back of the house!’ Anthony fingered out the window to the red-brick studio.
‘Yeah!’
‘He was a great bloke. A really good guy. I remember he told me about the underwriting for the shop. He had a shop in the city, right?’
Rudy didn’t answer now, just leaned slightly as if to check that Anthony was three-dimensional.
‘Dude, I’ve seen some big policies. But those numbers had so many zeroes, I didn’t know how to pronounce them!’
Anthony guffawed and so did Rudy. Their rowdy laughter fed on each other’s, peaking and receding, shaking the copper saucepans hung from the gallery.
‘I remember the day they put this on me.’ Anthony flexed his glove. The leather squeaked. ‘Two of them held me down in the rec room and then that Russian arsehole fired up the needle and…I mean, I couldn’t stop it. Piers was in his bunk when I came back. He gave me his toilet paper because I was bleeding so much, all down my wrist. In Severington, that’s like giving someone a kidney.’
Something glistened in Rudy’s eye. He absently tugged on the tablecloth, setting nail clippings to dance like gnats.
Anthony’s voice was grave: ‘Did you say he died?’
‘Just, like, a month ago.’
‘How?’
‘They said he bled out.’ Rudy blinked up at the roof. ‘He did it to himself.’
‘Shit. I’m sorry, mate. I only did two years and I almost went batshit. It’s taken all this time for me to get my head right. He was tough. He lasted ten.’
‘Eleven years.’ Rudy looked at him now, eyes bloody. ‘Almost eleven and a third.’
He jerked to his feet, gripped his pants in place and whirled away from the table with his cereal bowl. It clattered into the kitchen sink. A modern sculpture of used cereal bowls teetered there, probably the source of the incredible odour. Rudy sidled out of view, behind a pillar that held up the second floor.
