by Peter Klein
By mid-afternoon I’d worked through all the Caulfield races and done the Sydney form, too. The Caulfield meeting looked okay; three playable races and one of them a standout bet. In Sydney they were racing at Randwick and I thought if I stuck with a horse of Gai’s in the mile race, I’d probably be okay. At three o’clock I made myself a cup of tea and stretched out on the couch. Che jumped up immediately and joined me, like I knew he would.
‘Nap time is it, little fellow?’
He gave a little chirp and snuggled up next to me. No choice, was there? I couldn’t possibly disturb His Royal Highness now. I dozed off for maybe an hour or so and when I woke Che was still stretched out alongside me. They say a cat can sleep for up to eighteen hours a day. Che would just about be pushing the limit some days. I marvelled at how he could fall asleep anywhere, any time. I stood up gently, trying carefully not to interrupt his slumber, but he half opened his eyes and looked at me sleepily before snuggling back down again.
At seven thirty sharp my taxi arrived and drove me into town. I’d thought about driving in to meet Maxine, but I wanted to enjoy a couple of drinks without having to worry about getting breathalysed. She’d rung me earlier to tell me where to meet up: some new seafood restaurant called Snapper Reef at the Docklands end of town. We got caught up in traffic at the west end of Collins Street, but I didn’t mind. I quite enjoyed watching the city sights as a passenger, which I didn’t get to do too often. Since my last trip into town a couple of weeks back, the shops seemed to be displaying even more Christmas decorations. Every window seemed ablaze with fairy lights and ribbons draped around some likely looking gift. Signage screamed ‘Buy now, don’t be late! The perfect Xmas gift . . .’ I looked at the date on my watch; still over a week to think about shopping yet.
There were lots of bars at this end of town and they were all full of people who spilled outside onto the footpath tables and laneways. They were mostly office workers, some still wearing Santa hats from their office parties. Laughter and conversation; lots of it. Forget about budgets and sales and the P&L. Today was Friday and Christmas was on the doorstep.
I wondered how I would get on working the nine to five. Except it was more like eight to six these days from all accounts. I tried to picture myself sitting at a desk, doing something vaguely useful with a computer. I’d probably get bored, log onto my online form service and start playing the races. There would probably be staff meetings to attend. I’d have to take notes, look interested, contribute as part of the team. I’d have to learn a new language; Going forward. The bottom line. Strategically speaking. Corpy talk, I called it. A load of bullshit, wasn’t it? No, I didn’t think I’d be suited to the corporate lifestyle. I couldn’t play with my cat. I couldn’t take a nap during the afternoon. I certainly couldn’t go for a surf when I felt like it. It would only end in tears. I pictured the entire staff of an open-plan office watching me being escorted to the door by security, after being sacked for reading the formguide during work hours. ‘Not a good cultural fit,’ explained the manager. Ridiculous daydream.
The cab pulled up outside the restaurant precinct at the quay and I palmed the driver a note. It didn’t take me long to find the place, a twenty-table restaurant which was already about three-quarters full, right beside the docks along with a dozen other bars and cafés. Maxine was waiting for me at the table. She was talking on her mobile and scribbling down notes in her diary. She had a half-empty glass of white wine in front of her and a dish of cashews. She mouthed ‘Won’t be long’ at me as I sat down. Obviously been here for some time.
‘Okay, I’m done with work for tonight,’ she said as she ended the call. ‘See, the mobile is now switched off.’
‘Just you and me?’
She smiled. Flashed her black-studded moon eyes. ‘Just you and me, Punter.’
‘No clients, no functions you’ve got to dash off to?’
‘Scout’s honour,’ she said, holding up her hand in a salute. ‘And, because I’ve had a good week, this is going to be my treat tonight.’
A waiter came around and took our drink orders. I opened with a Beck’s. Maxine threw down the rest of her white and ordered the same again. I asked her about her week.
‘Sensational,’ she said. ‘Got a heap of extra functions confirmed from Winning Way, which should see me through till next Easter. Plus, one of Dad’s radio clients wants some PR work done for a residential housing development coming up. Isn’t that just the best!’
I told her how pleased I was for her and let her rattle on excitedly for a solid half hour about her PR work in general. Seeing and listening to her now, I could understand that her business would always come ahead of everything else in her life. She lived, breathed and ate it; was passionate about it. So rushing off and leaving me last Sunday for a work function wouldn’t have even been a consideration for her. She’d just go, because she was driven by her work. It was clear she had a totally different set of ground rules from those I lived by. That was okay, I could live with that, but tonight was the first time that I truly understood where she was coming from.
A waiter hovered nearby and I caught his eye, grateful to break the one-way conversation.
‘We should order,’ I said. ‘What are you having?’
‘You wanna share a seafood basket with me? I saw one brought out before, chock full of absolutely yummy fishy things.’
‘I’m there,’ I said.
She turned to the waiter, ‘One yummy fish basket thingummy.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And bring over a bottle of whatever I’m drinking here,’ she said, holding up her glass. ‘Punter, same for you?’
The bottle was actually a boutique Yarra Ranges chardonnay, very expensive and very good. We made some serious inroads into it before the fisherman’s basket had even arrived at our table.
Maxine said, ‘Do you think we should go another?’
‘Don’t see why not. It’s a top drop.’
‘It’s a damn top drop,’ she said, licking her lips.
For the next forty minutes we battled our way through an impossibly large seafood basket. Calamari rings, fresh prawns and crayfish, crumbed scallops, grilled whiting fillets. You name it, they had it piled up and served on our platter, along with lashings of salad, dips of mayonnaise and tartare sauce and wedges of lemon.
‘I can’t eat anymore,’ I protested.
‘Either can I. More wine?’ She didn’t wait for a reply and splashed a top-up into my glass. Spilt a bit onto the tablecloth too, although she didn’t seem to notice.
‘What about dessert, can you find room for that?’
I’d seen a lemon sorbet on the menu earlier. Funny how you can always fit a sweet in. I nodded a yes, and when the waiter took our order, Maxine asked for a couple of Drambuies as well.
‘Jesus, Maxine, I’ll be slipping under the table soon.’
‘Nonsense, it’ll clear your palate. Besides,’ she said, teasing a foot against my leg, ‘any talk of slipping under the table is premature.’
‘It is?’
‘Uh-huh. You’re gonna take me dancing first.’
‘Dancing?’
‘That’s right. You’re gonna take me to a club, spin me around, then take me home and fuck me senseless.’
‘Can we skip the middle bit?’
I knew there was a catch somewhere. Dancing. For Christ sake. I was bloody hopeless at the caper, detested it. And nightclubs, they should be banned. Can’t hear anyone speak, can’t even hear yourself talk. Full of young kids or tragic-looking middle-aged men on the make. And they made you queue, just like we had to when we made it to the club Maxine wanted to go to, a place called The Vault. Ridiculous name. Ridiculous place. We could hear the music thumping through the door as two security guards, a guy and a woman, opened it up every now and then to let someone in or out. Pity it wasn’t Tiny manning the door; at least he’d have let us jump the queue. Already, drunks were getting the heave-ho and it wasn’t even midnight yet. W
e watched as a couple of young blokes were escorted out, arms tightly held by three beefy security guys. When they got outside, they were led away from the doorway up to the adjacent laneway and shoved unceremoniously to the ground. One of them gave some lip, looked like he was going to make something of it, but had the sense to back off at the last moment. Smart decision, kid. We shuffled another couple of metres up the line. Maxine was getting impatient and noisy.
‘Why can’t they let us in? They just keep you here so that passing traffic will see you waiting and think it’s a hot venue.’
Agreed it was a bullshit ploy.
‘Hey!’ she yelled out to the bouncer, ‘there’s plenty of room inside, how about speeding things up a bit?’
Others waiting in the queue thought it was good idea and egged Maxine on. ‘You tell ’em!’ they urged.
She didn’t need any of their encouragement and singled out the woman security guard. ‘Hey! I’m talking to you. Did you hear me? How about lettin’ us in? We’ve been here forever.’
This time her request wasn’t ignored and the security guards looked back down the line to where the disturbance was coming from. They talked briefly to one another and then walked down to where Maxine and I were standing.
The woman spoke to us both. She was good, made lots of eye contact and used all the right body language. Obviously an experienced crowd controller.
‘It shouldn’t be long now, guys, but I’m going to have to ask you to keep it down, okay?’
I gave her a smile and a reassuring nod. Gave the super-sized Maori towering behind her one as well. Not so Maxine. The drink was kicking in and she’d taken an instant dislike to the woman.
‘When?’ she demanded petulantly. ‘When are you gonna let us in?’
‘As soon as we can.’
‘There’s heaps of room inside and you keep us out here like we don’t know. You think we’re idiots, do you?’
She was starting to get loud and abusive. The security couple looked at each other and nodded; not a good sign. Then they turned around to face us again.
‘Look,’ said the woman guard, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re obviously not happy waiting to get in and you’re causing a disturbance.’
Maxine wasn’t used to being shown the door. ‘What, you’re throwing me out? I haven’t even put a foot inside your pissy little club yet.’
‘Come on,’ I said to Maxine. ‘Let’s go.’ I grabbed her by the arm, went to walk her away.
‘Fuckin’ door bitch thinks she’s God, she does.’
‘Right, you two are out of here now!’
We got bundled professionally out of the queue. The woman had done a bit of Aikido or something; she expertly grabbed hold of Maxine’s arm and twisted it up her back. Marched her up to the laneway. The Maori bouncer didn’t look like he was going to use as much finesse with me. He closed both his huge fists and took a step forward.
‘It’s okay mate, we’re just leaving,’ I said, back-pedalling.
I quickly joined Maxine at the corner of the alley. She was seething, looking to go on with it. ‘That fucking bitch. I wouldn’t go into her club if you paid me! Fuck her. Fuck you!’ she yelled back at them. This was getting embarrassing. She wasn’t too steady on her feet and lurched against me for support. I was seeing a side to Maxine tonight that I wasn’t altogether comfortable with. Hitting the drink; we all do at times, but it doesn’t mean we have to get smashed. Or abusive. Giving grief to bouncers isn’t what I call clever and I was starting to wonder how many more nights there’d be in our relationship where I’d be hauling her arse out of trouble.
‘C’mon, let’s get out of here,’ I said, putting an arm around her and leading her away. ‘I’m taking you home.’
Getting home from King Street at that hour is easier said than done. First, you’ve got to find a taxi that’ll take you. The nightclub precinct is a no-go zone for cabbies after eleven. They don’t mind dropping punters off before then, but picking up clubbers spilling out afterwards, amped up on drink and drugs, was strictly for the brave or foolish. We took off up King Street and I suggested we walk up to a cab rank I knew in Collins Street.
‘Can’t we just hail one?’ said Maxine. ‘Look, there’s one coming now.’ She broke away from me and tottered dangerously into the path of one driving towards her, waving her hands. It swerved to miss her. ‘It didn’t stop . . . it had a light on, they’re not supposed to refuse a fare.’
I don’t know that I’d pick us up either if I was a cabby. We looked like trouble.
We headed up Collins towards Queens, past seedy bars and clubs and fluorescent-lit doorways offering the promise of a good time. Groups of young men and women marauded menacingly about us; you could almost smell the aggression and violence in the air. Up ahead, a bunch of guys were spread-eagled over the entire footpath yelling and swearing. One of them deliberately bumped into me, hoping to provoke a fight. I ignored the little prick and guided Maxine across to the other side of the road. More revellers spilled out onto the roadway. One young guy attempted cartwheels at the traffic lights just as the lights turned green. Lucky he wasn’t mowed down, the stupid git. I felt uneasy; didn’t like our situation one bit. Gone midnight, stuck in the badlands, couldn’t get a cab for love or money. Maxine’s drunken behaviour wasn’t exactly helping. I should never have allowed her to drag me here in the first place.
We walked two blocks up to the cab rank on Williams Street. There were three taxis when we started crossing at the lights, but by the time we got there only one remained.
Luckily we were next in line and Maxine opened the back door for us. As she did, a bunch of three guys and a couple of women pushed past her and jumped into the cab.
‘Thanks, luv,’ mouthed one of the guys at Maxine, as if she were a concierge.
‘Hey!’ she yelled indignantly. ‘That’s ours, we were here first.’
The cheeky bastards had claimed it, and possession’s nine-tenths of the law.
‘I don’t think so. We booked this one.’
‘Bullshit. This is a rank. It’s whoever’s first in line.’ Maxine still had a hand on the door, and wasn’t going to let it go.
‘It’s ours, you stupid bitch. Now piss off!’ The guy on the back seat passenger side rammed the door open on her. It hit her hard in the stomach and she staggered back into my arms. I couldn’t believe it; nor the total over-reaction that followed. He got out of the car and let fly with a big-fisted haymaker, and if I hadn’t stepped in and blocked it, he would have knocked Maxine for a six. I gave him a couple of quick punches to the head, but he was a solid brute, or maybe too drunk to feel them. I grabbed the car door and slammed it back on his knee. Bastard felt that all right. He doubled over in pain and I shoved a foot into his side, which bundled him back in with his mates. Then I quickly swung the door shut and yelled at the driver to take off. He should have. Just driven away to avoid any hassles. But the cretin sat there waiting like he didn’t know what to do, the engine running and the passengers spilling out of the doors: three angry young men and a couple of tarts intent on giving it to us.
The first one came at me again, but he was vulnerable, coming at me from the very side I’d kicked him back in from before. He howled like a child as I slammed the door shut on his hand. The other two guys came at me with a rush from the driver’s side. One of them was so keen to get at me that he half tripped and stumbled over his mate. He lurched towards me, throwing a wild fist which didn’t connect with anything. His face did, though. I rammed a knee into it as he spilled forwards, and followed up with another to his groin as the third guy fronted up.
‘You want some of that? You wanna go a round?’ I yelled at him. We circled each other. One on one he wasn’t so sure, especially with his mates groaning about on all fours. As I jockeyed around him, I caught sight of Maxine punching on with one of the women. I didn’t know where the other had got to for the moment, until I saw her come running up behind Maxine with a beer bottle clu
tched in her hand.
‘Maxine! Behind you!’ I yelled, and sprinted over to lend a hand. Maxine spun around just as the bottle smashed into her, sending shards of amber glass all over the pavement. She fell heavily, her head hitting the gutter like a dropped watermelon.
7
The Alfred Hospital emergency department was not a pleasant place to be early on a Saturday morning. It was full of paler-than-zombie druggies who’d overdosed and drunken youths with blood-caked faces and ripped shirts caused by mindless, alcohol-fuelled fighting. In the waiting room, bewildered friends and partners, some crying, wondered how loved ones had ended up there; how a night had gone so horribly wrong. I was one of those left wondering; had been thinking about it for three hours, while trying to extract some comfort from the stiff plastic chair that I’d been slouching on.
Fortunately for Maxine, they’d taken her straight into the ops room. Unlike half the mob in here, groaning and bleeding all over the floor waiting to see a medic, the ambulance officers who’d brought her in had insisted on immediate attention. I didn’t yet know what the extent of her injuries was, only that she was in a coma. I’d left a message for her father at his radio station. I didn’t know who else to call. Since then, I’d received little information on her condition, so like everyone else I sat and waited.
We’d been lucky that a police patrol had been close by when Maxine had been hit. They’d come roaring up, lights ablaze, and called an ambulance. The taxi driver had panicked and driven off; I can’t say I blamed him. And the guys and the girls who had attacked us had disappeared as quickly as they’d come. Just another Friday night in clubland.
I went up and fed a coin into the machine for yet another cup of hot chocolate. It was preferable to the dishwater slop they passed off as instant coffee. I sat back and sipped it, trying to think through what had happened. She’d been pissed, I knew that; was well on her way at the restaurant. I hadn’t seen Maxine like that before. I mean, I knew she drank, but this was different. I should never have gone out from there, should have taken her straight home. It hadn’t helped that she’d been loud and aggressive. She didn’t exactly help her case. I mean, you don’t give lip to bouncers, it’s just not on. And fighting over that frigging taxi, for Christ sake. Maybe I could have done something more to help her. If I’d been closer to her when she’d reached the taxi, perhaps I could have made her walk away before that guy slammed the door into her. He was brave, wasn’t he? A drunken idiot with the build of a footballer and he tries to punch a woman half his size over a cab ride he pinched off her. And what about those stupid women joining in? The ambulance guy had told me that was the norm for this part of town. ‘As far as glassing goes,’ he’d said, ‘any girl hanging around here on a weekend could get a job as a glazier.’
