Silk Chaser

by Peter Klein

  She jumped out of bed, talking to me as she dashed for the shower. Che let out a screech; she must have trodden on him in the hallway.

  ‘Oh, you stupid cat! You shouldn’t be there. Yes, it’s your fault. I’ve got be at a racing barbeque Winning Way is sponsoring. You should have woken me hours ago.’

  So much for the long, lingering breakfast. After her shower, Maxine dashed about with a towel wrapped around her trying to locate various items of clothing discarded from the night before.

  ‘Have you seen my shoes? Oh, why do they always hide on me when I need them most?’

  ‘Try underneath the couch in the lounge room.’

  ‘I didn’t think we got that far.’

  ‘Trust me, we did.’

  ‘Can you call me a cab?’

  I called up a Silver Top and told the operator that yes, the passenger was ready to go right now.

  ‘Have some toast before it gets cold.’

  Maxine took a mouthful of coffee and a snatched bite of toast before running back to the bedroom to get dressed. A pitter-patter of hurried footsteps on my wooden floorboards signified she’d found her high heels. They reverberated around my apartment along with a steady stream of curses about how late she was going to be.

  ‘Are you mad at me?’ she said, fiddling with an earring.

  ‘It’s just that I thought we were going to spend –’

  She cut me off. ‘I’m sorry, sweetie, forgot to tell you about this work do thingy. You can come with me if you want.’

  I must have looked less than impressed.

  ‘No, I didn’t think so. I’m sorry. You’d probably be bored. How about we do dinner tonight instead? Just us, I promise.’

  When the cab tooted outside she pecked me on the cheek and apologised again for having to rush off. She hurried down the stairs, flung open the taxi’s door and dived inside. Then she wound down the window as it drove off, gave me a frantic wave and a final parting goodbye that all of Hawthorn must have heard. ‘Hey, Punter, you were great last night!’

  Che joined me on the doorstep as I watched the taxi di sappear up Glenferrie Road, a don’t-ever-invite-her-back-again expression on his face.

  A little later my mobile rang. It was Billy.

  ‘Punter, it’s me. Some bad news, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ That’d be unusual for me this morning. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s Gino’s. Somebody smashed in the front window.’

  I swore.

  ‘Yep, they got us and the milk bar three doors down.’

  ‘Them too?’

  ‘Made a right bloody mess. Glass everywhere. I’ve called a security company and they’ll be out soon to put up some shutters.’

  ‘What about the window, when can they fix that?’

  ‘Dunno. I’m goin’ through the phonebook now tryin’ to find a glazier who works on a Sunday.’

  ‘Any other damage, anything stolen?’

  ‘Nothin’ I can see. Little bastards want a good dose of national service,’ said Billy, starting up on his favourite theme. ‘Six months of marchin’ up and down sand dunes in the outback. That’d fix ’em, guaranteed. They’d learn a bit of respect for other’s people’s property, I can tell you.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘Nah. I heard it, though. And then a moment later another crash of glass. Must have been the milk bar’s window, the second one. By the time I rushed downstairs they were gone.’

  ‘Can we still open up for business tonight?’

  ‘I think we’ll be okay. It won’t look the best, but it’ll be safe enough once we sweep up all the glass and the security shutters go up. We’ll just have to cope, that’s all. Listen, I gotta go, the cops are here.’

  ‘Do what you can, Billy. I’ll drop by later and have a look at the damage myself.’

  About the only good news I could salvage from Gino’s broken window was that I hadn’t yet dropped off the poster that Billco had painted. If it had been put up in the window, it may have been damaged. Billy rang off, leaving me out on the verandah with Che. He sensed things weren’t going well for me and gave me one of his commiserating you’re-not-happy-I’m-not-happy chirps. I picked him up and took him back inside.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said, stroking him. ‘Girlfriend’s bailed. Window’s smashed. Not a great way to start the day. Things can only get better.’

  6

  Things didn’t get better, nor did I see Maxine on Sunday night. She sent me a text saying she was caught up with work. A text, for Christ sake. I didn’t hear from her on Monday either, and I was damned if I was going to call. I read through all the papers instead. Gloomy news for the start of a week; yet another impassioned plea by some poor teenager’s mother for police to clean up the violence surrounding the nightclub precinct. Seems the kid had got himself kicked half to death and his life hung by a thread. Been a lot of bashings happening around King Street lately. Even Tiny had commented that it was getting out of hand, and he should know, he bounces there four nights a week.

  My mobile sat silent until late afternoon, when it rang while I was in my study. I snatched at it, half expecting Maxine to call to apologise. Well, she ought to, shouldn’t she? Running out on me and cancelling yet another date.

  It was Billy, wanting to know if we were still on for our regular weekly catch-up.

  ‘Sure Billy, I’ll drop by around half past four,’ I said.

  I looked at my messages again. Fourth time today. You never know, I may have missed a call. Not from Maxine, that’s for sure. I pulled up her text from last night and re-read it. Che came in and rubbed against my leg.

  ‘That’s right, buddy. I’m officially back in sulk mode. If she wants to make contact then she can call me. There’s no way I’m gonna make the first move.’

  Che gave me a supportive little chirp.

  ‘Too right. After all, a man’s gotta have some pride, right?’

  I grabbed my keys, a jacket and my mobile, ready to go to Gino’s.

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll just send her a text. A little one. Let her know I don’t really care one way or the other.’

  Che didn’t think it was a good idea. But I spent the best part of half an hour composing a non-committal response to Maxine’s text from yesterday. I must have drafted a dozen different answers before settling on a reply.

  Got your message. Shame about work getting in the way. Let’s catch up later in the week when you’re free. XXX Punter.

  Pathetic, really. I sent it anyway.

  Half an hour later, I stood outside Gino’s and surveyed the damage from the weekend. The glazier still hadn’t got around to putting in a new window and the ugly steel shutters which had been there since midday on Sunday were still in place. Billy had told me he’d gone with a larger company, supposedly a twenty-four/seven service. They must have had more work than they could handle. I walked down a couple of shops to the milk bar. An identical story. Front window smashed in and awaiting a new one. Their shopfront looked even worse than mine, with the security shutters sticking out as if it were an old abandoned building. I walked back to Gino’s and rang the bell for Billy to let me in.

  ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’ I said.

  Billy nodded his head in agreement. He had his hands around a chunk of garlic bread and was chewing a mouthful as I spoke. When he finished, I half expected another diatribe about the little misfits who were probably to blame. Instead he told me about a strange call he’d got earlier that afternoon.

  ‘The guy rang me out of the blue. I didn’t know what he was on about. Talking about Glenhuntly not being a safe neighbourhood anymore. That you couldn’t expect to watch your business every minute of the day. He told me there was an easier way and said there were a few businesses in the street using his services now.’

  I cut Billy short; wasn’t quite sure if I was hearing him right.

  ‘Hang on, Billy, what was the guy selling?’

  ‘Well he was just offering to, y
ou know, keep an eye on the shop for us.’

  ‘Keep an eye on it. How?’

  ‘He reckons for a small monthly fee he can look after us. Make sure Gino’s doesn’t get trashed.’

  ‘Is that right? And how much is this small monthly fee going to cost?’

  ‘That’s the good part!’ said Billy. He was at his enthusiastic best and must have sensed I was warming to the proposal. ‘He only wants a spot a month.’

  ‘Only a spot. How much you reckon the window’s going to set us back, two grand?’

  ‘More.’ Billy had the quote in his back pocket and pulled it out. ‘Twenty-three hundred plus GST.’

  ‘Well there you go, we’re already ahead. A spot a month is twelve hundred a year. The window’s twenty-three hundred. We’d be eleven hundred up, if he saves us a window a year.’

  Billy positively beamed like he was the teacher’s pet. ‘So I can give him the go-ahead, then?’

  I looked fondly at Billy. He was like a younger brother to me in some ways and I could certainly trust him like he was my own blood. But sometimes that trust was a little misguided.

  ‘No, Billy, we’re not going to avail ourselves of his services.’

  ‘We’re not?’

  ‘No. If he rings up again, you’re to tell him to piss off. We’re not interested in dealing with him.’

  Billy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head in genuine surprise. He couldn’t follow my logic. ‘But . . . why would you wanna do that?’

  ‘Because I’d lay long odds on that he’s the one who smashed our window and everyone else’s in the street too. This guy’s running a protection racket.’

  It took a moment for it to sink in and then when it finally dawned on him, Billy was appalled. ‘Shit, he can’t go round doin’ things like that. We should tell the cops.’

  ‘Billy, the police aren’t going to put a twenty-four-hour guard up to watch our windows. Sure, they’ll listen to our suspicions about this guy offering his dubious security services and go through the motions of an investigation, but he’s too clever to get caught kicking in our window with a divvy van parked across the street. Let’s call his bluff. See what happens. Hey, come out to the van with me, I’ve got something for you.’

  Outside, I reached into the back of the van and passed him the rolled-up poster that Billco had painted.

  ‘What’s that?”

  ‘A little Christmas surprise for Gino’s. God knows it needs some cheering up.’

  On Tuesday I’d still not heard from Maxine.

  I went out to Sandown in the afternoon. Watched a few races, stayed to see how one of my father’s two-year-olds performed and then left early without even having a bet. George was still manning the gates with his plastic Salvation Army collections bucket when I walked out. I put some loose coins in as I passed.

  ‘Thanks, Punter. You calling it quits already?’

  ‘A slow day, George.’

  ‘Sometimes a feast, other times a famine, huh?’

  ‘How they fall, so shall they go.’

  ‘That’s poetic.’

  I shrugged. ‘No sense betting on bad races, George.’

  On the way out Billy called me on the mobile.

  ‘Punter, that bloke called.’

  ‘Which bloke?’

  ‘The one you said to tell to piss off.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Fuckin’ oath I did.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said I shouldn’t be too hasty. That Glenhuntly’s shopping strip had got a bad name for vandalism and you never knew when to expect trouble. He reckoned he’d touch base again in case I changed my mind.’

  ‘I’ll bet he will.’

  ‘Punter, did I handle him good?’ asked Billy, a touch apprehensively.

  ‘You did good, Billy, real good.’

  ‘Oh by the way, the window’s all fixed now. Good as new. And I gotta tell you, that poster is unbelievable! I’ve put it up on the new window with a few ribbons and streamers. It’s the best Christmas display in Glenhuntly Road by a mile. I’ve even had people come in and ask who did it. You can tell your artist mate I’ve passed out a heap of his cards.’

  In the evening I met up with the boys for our regular snooker game at the Red Triangle. There were only three of us; myself, Tiny and David. David’s news was all about Carmen’s murder, but I knew more about her death than anyone from what Beering had told me at the races on the weekend. Tiny reckoned he’d still like to get his hands on Mad Charlie anyway, despite his being released from custody and having all charges against him dropped. I mentioned to Tiny about the teenager who had been bashed outside the nightclub. He reckoned the whole area was going to the dogs.

  ‘Some of the things I’ve seen . . . fair dinkum, you wouldn’t get it happening ten years ago.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ David asked. ‘Kids’d get up to the same trouble a generation ago, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Uh-uh. It’s different now. You’d always get punters comin’ into pubs and clubs getting pissed and wanting to fight. Now they’re off their faces scoffing pills like smarties. Throwing down ecstasy and Christ knows what other shit. I threw a kid out the other day, must have been half my size, but I’m not kidding, he fought like he was possessed. Fuckin’ head full of amphetamines and it’s like he’s got the strength of five men. And we got hundreds of these amped-up idiots all coming out of the clubs at the same time, in the same area. Jesus, used to be you could count on one hand the number of clubs in the city. Now, there must be thirty or more clubs in the King and Queens street block alone.’

  There didn’t seem to be a lot of spark from any of us that night. None of the friendly banter and swipes at one another we usually engaged in. There were no jibes about ‘Miss Troubles’, for which I was glad. In any case, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for conversation about Maxine. Maybe it was the talk of nightclub violence or the unresolved deaths of Carmen Leek and Julie Summers that had put a dampener on things. Whatever, none of us seemed to be really enjoying ourselves and we called it a night around ten and went our separate ways.

  The following morning Maxine called. About time. I was spoiling to have it out with her, show her who was boss.

  ‘Hi Punter.’

  ‘Hi stranger. What’s news?’

  ‘I’ve been so busy with work you wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Let me guess, Winning Way Syndications?’

  ‘My favourite client. Not. Anyway, I was thinking, you wanna catch up?’

  ‘What, tonight?’

  ‘Can’t, I’m booked solid till the end of the week. How’s Friday?’

  ‘Sure. Sounds good.’

  ‘Hey, have you missed me?’

  One of the deadly trick questions females can throw in at any time. Better get it right.

  ‘Of course I have. Been thinking about you nonstop, actually.’

  Brought a giggled response from her. God, I missed hearing that.

  ‘You’re fibbing.’

  ‘I’m not. I’ve been thinking especially about last Saturday night.’ Correct answer.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to rush off like that.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about.’ Spoken like a smitten teenager.

  ‘I’ll make it up to you on Friday, I promise.’

  When we rang off, I was glad we were back on the same page again. All is forgiven, so forth. As I put down the phone, Che looked condescendingly at me from atop the kitchen bench where he was perched.

  ‘You’ve been eavesdropping again, haven’t you?’

  Didn’t deny it.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  Che’s face suggested that I hadn’t exactly ‘had it out with her’ as I’d threatened to.

  ‘I handled the situation perfectly,’ I said defensively. ‘Besides, it’s absolutely none of your business.’

  The rest of the week zoomed by. Perhaps it was because I was ‘back in town’ with Maxine. Crazy girl. Crazy
relationship. Up and down like a yo-yo. You think you know where you stand and then all of a sudden the goalposts move. In the zone one day, on the outer the next. Bloody thing was like a roller-coaster ride.

  When Friday morning rolled around, I got stuck into Saturday’s form with gusto. I’d logged onto my online form service. I had my racing publications spread out on my desk: Winning Post, Sportsman and Best Bets. Plus the daily newspapers. I like to read through the racing stories first and pick up any late news that might sway my selections before I do any serious form analysis. The papers only had a light sprinkling of racing gossip which was hardly going to change my mind about what I’d be betting on. Down at Cranbourne the trainers were at loggerheads amongst themselves. Half of them wanted an all-weather synthetic track installed at their training centre and the opposing trainers couldn’t decide if they wanted to retain the existing grass track. The authorities had given them a month’s deadline to sort it out, but you just knew it would drag on for years before anyone made a decision. There was some news on the recovery of a battling jockey who’d been injured in a particularly nasty fall. He’d only just come back from a fall three months ago, poor bastard. You tend to forget about the country riders trying to earn a quid on the bush circuit. They’re not good enough to match it in the city against the top hoops like Oliver and Dunn and company, but they take the same risks and earn a lot less money. The Herald Sun had a short piece about a strapper’s prize being awarded at tomorrow’s meeting:

  Tomorrow’s main race at Caulfield carries a strapper’s prize of $250 and a plaque for the best turned out horse. Gary Hogan, principal of Laskers Insurance, said it was fitting that strappers were given some recognition for the important job they do in racing and his company was proud to sponsor such an award. A winner will be selected each week up until New Year’s Day, culminating in the final day’s winner receiving $1000 and a trophy.

  That was good news for strappers. Too often they were the forgotten soldiers of racing, earning a pittance and working longer hours than any trainer or jockey did. Speaking of strappers, there was no further news of Carmen Leek or Julie Summers that I could see. Last week’s headlines are today’s fish and chips wrapping, I suppose. I put the papers aside and started in earnest on the form. Winners to find and a living to make.