The widening of her eyes, and her open mouth … I can only describe the look on her little face as priceless.
“You have a magic bum?” she asks quietly.
“Shhh, don’t tell anyone.”
She tries her very hardest to wink back. “Okay, Lolo,” she whispers.
“Come on, I’ll tuck you back into bed.”
After more cuddles and kisses good night, I return to the lounge room. The lights are on, the mats are rolled up, and Gabs and Jane are drinking what I presume to be cups of tea.
“Can I get you a tea, Willow?” Jane asks, rising from her seat.
I hold up my hand to stop her. “No thanks. I should get going. Thanks Jane, this was just what I needed.”
“It wasn’t exactly the kind of session I had planned, but good to see you ladies enjoy yourselves.”
Gabs walks me out to my car.
“I really enjoyed tonight,” she says, pulling me into a hug.
“Yeah, me too. You sure know how to clear a room, huh?”
“Ha ha, very funny. You know, I think a girl’s night is in order.”
Even though I usually avoid going out, I think it’s time.
“How about we finish up early tomorrow? We’ll put a note up on the front door, give everyone plenty of notice,” she suggests.
I nod. “Ryan is working late tomorrow night anyway. I was probably just going to sit around and watch Sweet Home Alabama again. Let’s do it.”
“Hold the freaking phone. You mean, you’re actually gonna come out? Oh, lady. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it.”
Gabs pulls a phone out of her pocket and dials.
“Who you calling?” I ask.
She places her finger over my lips.
“Sarah!” Gabs says excitedly. “Putting you on notice. Girl’s night tomorrow night … uh-huh … Yeah, I know, right? We’re getting ready at Willow’s … you bring the champers, I’ll bring my bag of MAC.”
I chuckle to myself, knowing full well that the bag she’s referring to is more like a backpack. There are enough goodies in there to keep every woman in this town made-up and looking fabulous for months.
I’ve got nothing to wear, I mouth to her.
“Bring some extra dresses of yours too,” Gabs adds. “Hoo-wee, this is gonna be fun … Bye lovey.” She slips her phone in her pocket.
“I guess that’s settled then,” I say. I get into the driver’s seat and wind down the window.
“Yup. See you in the morning.”
“Oh, and I forgot to mention that there’s a young uni student that might be coming in to trial in the next few weeks.”
“Girl or guy?”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes, as if I should know this tid-bit of information.
“He’s a friend of a friend of Sarah’s. His name is Zac; he’s supposedly very cute, a bit on the shy side, but apparently he knows his way around a coffee machine.”
Interesting.
“Okay, well I look forward to meeting him.” It’ll certainly help take the pressure off me. Standing at that machine, day in, day out, is draining. I love it, but I wouldn’t mind mixing up my hours a bit. I could spend some more time in the kitchen, and toy with some new recipe ideas.
Gabs mumbles something about ‘what to wear’ and ‘maybe pink’ as she wanders back inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RYAN
“I haven’t seen any familiar faces yet, but it’s early,” Mick says, as he subtly scans the pub. He picks up another potato wedge and dips it in chilli sauce before shoving it in his mouth.
“I just feel like I’m sitting here wasting time, you know?” I need to rein in my impatience, because it’s not gonna help this job move along any quicker. All day spent at the docks and cruising out on the boat felt like a massive waste of time. Nothing happened. The joys of surveillance.
“Just relax. You’ve been in this game long enough to know that everything takes time. We need to invest the hours, but I’ve gotta say, this is a hell of a lot better than camping out on the docks, listening to seagulls squawk and cleaning bait off the boat.”
“Yeah. I guess a session at the pub isn’t bad for an afternoon’s work.”
“Now you’re acting more like a decky.” He chuckles and moves in closer, giving me a waft of his soapy aftershave.
“Well, at least you smell better,” I add.
“Stink just comes with the job.”
“Yeah,” I say through a chuckle. “Guess it does. Anyway, it’s your shout, Mick.” I slap him hard on the back. He chokes on his mouthful of beer and rocks on his timber barstool.
“Righto, settle down, hotshot. I’ll get us another.”
The cover band kicks into gear, starting off with a Bon Jovi song, the name of it not coming to mind. I suspect we’re in for a night of eighties music. The dance floor in the corner is bare, but there’s a group of young girls skirting close by who look as if they’re about to bust some moves.
Mick gets the attention of the barman and orders another round. He nudges my arm.
“Don’t look now, but our man’s at the pool table,” he whispers.
“I’m gonna take a piss.” In other words, I’ll check out our POI.
I plod over towards the toilets, taking my time.
Bones. Yes, the fucker is skin and bones. Leaning against the billiard table, he’s wearing faded black skinny jeans that on any other bloke would be tight. On him, they hang on his narrow hips like regular jeans. His tight, ripped black T-shirt shows just how concave his chest is. Is there any muscle on this prick at all?
As I approach, I get a closer look at his tatts. All in black, a freaky clown face is weaved into a Celtic pattern, with a pistol and dead roses. Further up his forearm is a woman’s face, half of it a skeleton. Bones. He must have been whacked off his head when he got these done.
I take a piss and settle back in at the bar with Mick.
Once Bones and his friend are well into their game of pool, I walk over and put some gold coins on the edge of the table to let them know we’re next in line.
When they are down to just a few balls, Mick and I move to the high table with stools closest to the action.
Bones sinks the black ball, winning the game. “Fuckin’ take that,” he shrieks out loud, slapping on the back a well-built guy with dirty-blond hair pulled into a ponytail. He has the biggest sideburns I’ve ever seen. I haven’t seen this bloke around before; certainly not at the docks. He could potentially be another lead.
The bloke with the ponytail lifts his chin in my direction. “You playin’?” he grunts.
“Yeah, man,” I say with a mirrored chin movement.
“You can’t be any fuckin’ worse than Chops,” Bones says. Chops? He follows it up with a snide chuckle.
“Shut up, arse-wipe,” Chops says, as he inserts the coins. The table kicks and the sunken balls roll to the end of the table for collection.
I grab the pool balls out from underneath and assemble them in the plastic triangle on the end of the green felt, sorting bigs and smalls so they’re distributed evenly amongst the bundle.
“What’s ya name?” Bones asks, sizing me up as he approaches.
“Palmer,” I say and extend my hand. His handshake is weak as piss. It figures.
“I’m Bones. Who’s ya mate?” he asks, lifting his chin in Mick’s direction.
“Mick the Dick,” I joke.
Bones laughs like a hyena. Mick shakes his head as he walks over and shakes Bones’ and then Chops’ hands.
What, is this some kind of fucking BBQ gang?
Suddenly, I’m hungry. A good spicy pork rib or some chicken, how Blondie makes it, would be spectacular right about now. Give me all the protein.
“Your break?” Bones says, and scratches his scalp ferociously. He probably has head lice or some shit. It’s most likely been a good week or more since he brushed that mop.
“Sure.” I take the cue and
do a half-arsed job at hitting the triangle grouping of balls. I don’t sink a single one. As planned.
****
Mick and I lose the first round, on purpose, of course. We bet them a round of drinks and fifty bucks that we win the next game.
The scum agree to keep playing. It’s not hard to keep these critters around.
As we play the second round, the big night stories start coming out. With each shot we play, we all try and outdo each other. Of course, I started this game.
The conversation grows more comfortable as we talk more as a group, rather than with our partners.
“Chops ate that many fuckin’ cookies, greened out and spewed all over me new fuckin’ carpet. Nothing would wake the bastard for a good twenty-four hours. I thought the cunt was dead,” Bones gloats, elbowing his partner’s upper arm.
“Stop bitchin’ about your carpet, ya big girl. Had you told me they were hash cookies I would’ve fuckin’ stopped at one, wouldn’t I? You know I love chocolate. I still need to get you back for that, too. Arsehole.” Chops grins as he leans over to take his shot. It’s a plaque-filled grin, with one eye-tooth missing. The tooth behind it is a shade of grey. The man needs to meet Colgate. Like twenty years ago.
“Well, the last time I was on a bender,” I offer, “after two days of partying straight, I woke up in a random hotel room wearing a pair of chick’s underwear, had two phone numbers scrawled on my arm and got stung for five hundred dollars’ worth of room service. I reckon that little party stung me about three grand.” By the time I finish my ‘story’, Chops’ jaw is hanging loose. I dare say, with his acne-scarred face, and hair and sideburns which were in fashion forty years ago, he’s not fighting off chicks with the nearest stick-like weapon.
“Fuck yeah, that’s the way you fuckin’ party!” Bones cheers, with a congratulatory slap on my back. He even slaps like a pussy.
With the black and white ball the only remaining two on the table, I take a shot at the black and skilfully sink the white, losing us the game.
“Shit!” I growl.
“You suck at pool though,” Bones adds. I threw the game in, you arsehole.
I shrug, and lean the pool cue against the table. “As I was sayin’, I crashed hard for three days after, and the boss got the shits because I never showed up, never rang. Fired my arse.” I scull the last few mouthfuls of my beer.
“That blows,” Chops chips into the conversation.
“Yeah, but now I get to work on a boat with Mick the Dick.”
“Why don’t you stop talking, hotshot, and get us some more drinks?” Mick says.
“Righto, I’ll just take a piss first.” I hand the pool cue to Mick and walk into the toilets.
As I stand at the urinal and unzip, the door opens and shuts behind me. Staring at the wall ahead, as the liquid tinkles down the stainless steel urinal, out of the corner of my eye I see the tattooed arm. He unzips and starts pissing beside me.
Here’s my chance.
“You fuckin’ crack me up, Palmer. I appreciate a man who knows how to wreck himself. I’m doin’ my best at perfecting the art.”
And your wiry, malnourished body is testament to it.
I chuckle. “Yeah, I’ve got a problem though. I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I don’t have my normal contacts to rely on, you know? Partying’s a bit of a problem right now.”
I shake, zip back up and flush. He does the same soon after.
“I could sort shit if you need it,” he says, stuffing both hands in his pockets.
I rub underneath my nose with the side of my index finger. “You got Charlie?”
He nods and his thin lips pull into a smirk.
“Well, fuck. This night just got a whole lot better.”
“Lemme make a quick call. How ’bout I meet ya in the laneway in half an hour? How many Gs you want?”
“I’m not greedy. Just a taste to start. I’m fussy when it comes to things like this.”
I hope to fuck I don’t have to test it in front of him. If I have to I will, but it could affect my credibility as a witness if I have to testify.
“You won’t have any complaints, my friend. This is top grade shit.”
Finally, some fucking progress.
“Good. So what are you blokes drinking?” The rowdiness of the patrons increases decibels as I open the door.
“Bourbon and coke.”
Only cockheads drink bourbon. I should’ve known by the look of them.
“No worries, man.”
I walk through to the bar, nodding for Mick to follow me. I order the prick a couple of bourbons, and beer for Mick and I.
He moves in beside me, leaning his elbows on the wooden bar. “We’re on. Thirty in the laneway,” I mutter loud enough for only him to hear.
“Nice,” he says.
The band kicks into another song. “Locked Out Of Heaven”, by Bruno Mars.
If I weren’t here on the job, it’d be the kind of pub I’d happily come to. It’s a shame the dealers are trying to stake their claim here. They’re ruining what could be the best pub in town.
I take the drinks over to Chops, who’s solo, and hand him the glasses.
“Cheers,” he says, and places them down on two ratty beer coasters.
“I might give the pool up tonight, man, otherwise I won’t have any money left,” I say, and hand him a fifty-dollar note. “Save my money for other things.”
“Wise move,” he says and places the money in his pocket.
I lift my chin towards him. “Catcha ’round.”
I walk back to the bar, and take a few gulps of the pale ale.
“Well, that seemed to work out well,” Mick says.
I nod, and look back over at the table, and there’s no sight of the BBQ Brigade. Good.
Laughter bursts through the front door in the form of a curvy purple/red-haired woman, in an old-fashioned style hot-pink dress, which has a full skirt. Gabby. Her purple lips are on display as she smiles brightly, her arm around the slim shoulders of Sarah, who I recognise from the café.
Good on them for getting out. Gabby certainly needs a break.
Then, I see her. My heart kicks out of time in my chest.
I’ve seen my share of good looking women, but Willow is the epitome of beauty. She doesn’t even have to try.
Her hair falls in loose waves, a pale pink sundress clinging to her body, flowing mid-way down her thigh. When I spy her trademark white sneakers, I chuckle to myself. Hates the heels. She hiccups—trademark Willow—and then falls in line with the girls at the opposite corner of the bar.
As happy as I am to see her, now I have to justify why I’m here, when I told her I was working late. Which isn’t a lie. I fucking hate having to make excuses. The bigger fucking problem here is that shit could get complicated.
Why didn’t she tell me she was coming out?
“Something funny, Palmer?” Mick asks, elbowing me in the ribs.
Huh? Oh, right.
“We’ve got some beauties at one o’clock,” I mutter. He’ll be happy to see Gabby in all her glory, but I’m sure he’ll be as pleased as I am about the timing.
He looks in their direction. The stupid-arsed grin on his face grows wider and more pathetic by the second.
“Don’t get too excited. This isn’t necessarily a good thing.”
His smile curls back. “Yeah,” he says and frowns.
“Cheers, girls!” Gabby screeches. All three of them slam back a pink drink in a shot glass. Willow’s shoulders shudder afterwards, and she giggles as she wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
It’s beautiful to see her out, letting her hair down. Little does she know, I’m watching her like a hungry hawk.
“We’ve got about twenty-five minutes,” Mick says.
I gulp a few mouthfuls of beer, and rub my hand over my chin. “Yeah. I guess we should say hi to the girls, and then you can cover me when it’s time.”
“Like how?” he asks.
“I don’t give a shit. Dance on the bar for all I care?”
The twangy guitar kicks off a very familiar song: “Sweet Home Alabama”. The girls squeal their little hearts out and rush to the dance floor.
“You dance, don’t you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at his unsteady gaze.
“Been a long time, though,” he says and strokes his goatie. For me too.
“Well, I’d say it’s time to saddle up, because I’m sayin’ hello to my girl.”
Mick growls something under his breath, and follows me out to the dance floor.
Gabby’s eyes widen, as she spots me first, but I put a finger to my lips. She gives me a tiny nod, and continues dancing.
I slide my hands over the soft fabric clinging to Willow’s waist and pull her into my body. Her delicate, flowery fragrance surrounds me in a sexy fog.
“You sure you know the words to this one, Blondie?” I say quietly, my mouth on her ear. I can’t resist kissing the soft nape of her neck.
She shudders and turns in my arms, swaying wistfully to the beat. Her smile couldn’t be any brighter. Her fingers weave together behind my neck, and she plants a loud kiss to my mouth, leaving a sweet berry taste on my lips.
“This one, I know for sure,” she says with a wink.
“Can I have this dance?” Mick asks Gabby beside us. He offers his outstretched hand. She places one hand on her heart, and extends her other hand to him. He kisses her knuckles in a ridiculous display of gentleman-ship.
She tugs on his hand, forcing him to take a step closer. “Get over here, Michael,” she huffs. He gives me a ridiculous grin and sweeps his arm around her waist, settling it on the curve of her lower back. A young guy with short black hair moves in front of Sarah, and strikes up a conversation with her as they slowly move to the beat.
For a few songs Willow and I move to the music, our bodies hard against each other. I have to start thinking about boats and work, to calm my dick. The dick wants what the dick wants.
Work.
Seagulls.
Bait.
The old timber clock at the end of the bar tells me it’s almost time. I dig my elbow into Mick’s side. With a slight chin lift, I know I have his attention.
Sting Page 19
