by Ted Dawe
‘Hey, Uncle. What’s up?’
‘I saw this Island boy checking out your ute. Big fulla. Thought I’d better stick about. Probably nothing but you can’t be too careful, eh?’
Ronnie looked around as if he expected to see someone lurking in the shadows.
‘Well, thanks, Uncle. We’d better shoot.’ Chey wanted out.
Mahu closed in for a goodbye hongi. ‘What’s happened to your nose, Cheyenne? Looks a bit munted, man.’
‘Banged it.’
‘Banged it on his eyebrow?’ Mahu said with the hint of a grin.
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, you’re better off away from here. There’s a hundred ways to find trouble on this street.’
‘Yeah. We’ll be off.’
‘Tell your dad to drop by. Brothers got to stick together.’
‘True!’ said Geronimo.
‘See you, Uncle.’
The drive home was silent. Mahu’s words seemed to be scratched into their skin.
7 THIS IS THE SHOW
At the top of the page the letter had a coat of arms that featured crossed hockey sticks. Below it were the words St Lucia’s Anglican Girls’ School, the initial letters all picked out with gothic capitals.
‘Slags,’ thought Ozzie, ‘that would be right.’
Certain phrases jumped out at him. ‘Your establishment “The Pussy Palace” with its lurid signage …’ And ‘offensive messages confronting young women …’ And ‘…live in a society that celebrates gender equality …’
The letter was signed by a Ms Trotter on behalf of the girls in Room 7. Below that, about 20 pupils had signed their names too. He looked at the variation in the signatures’ colour, size and style. Some of these, the ones at the top, were shapely and controlled. As you read down the list they got messier, until the last three or four which were just tags. He was sure he had seen a few of these scrawled on walls near the Pussy Palace just recently
This wasn’t new, though. It had happened before, during the eighties, when some feminists had got it into their woolly heads ‘to liberate his sex slaves’. First there were the letters, then the ‘occupation’ of the footpath outside while they harassed the clientele, then the media got on to it. His girls were the ones who got rid of them in the end. Taking a few of the ringleaders out to Mangere to meet their whanau. To show them why they looked forward to coming into K. Road each night. The tide turned after that. The lesbos disappeared back into the safety of the university, or wherever it was that they had all come from.
This time he couldn’t help himself. He wrote back, thanking them for the comments, promising them that ‘he would refer them to his Creative Consultant Lulu Taufoa at their next bored meeting’. That in the meanwhile they should ‘keep open minds because he was sure he employed a few SLAGS girls in his time and they had impressed him with their excellent presentation and their slick moves’. In fact Ms Trotter herself was welcome to try out at their monthly auditions. There was always a place for her in the resident karaoke girl group, ‘The Cunning Stunts’. He knew that teacher pay didn’t go very far and perhaps she should expose herself to new possibilities.
He signed the letter Seymour Titty, P.A. for Mr Mike Osbourne. He wished he had a letterhead but then again – you didn’t get many letters in this line of business.
About five or six days later a letter arrived from Ms Trotter. This time though she meant business. As he read, he could sense her blood rising to battle. She wasn’t ‘one of those people who could be brushed aside’. How ‘a reasonable enquiry had been responded to with a contemptuous brush off’. How she hoped that he knew who he was up against because now she was ‘taking the matter to a more public forum’.
Ozzie laughed. What was it with teachers? Were they born without a sense of humour or was it something they lost along the way?
Some days later there was another letter, this time from the City Council. It was written by a Ms Hackett and referred to complaints from the public, compliance regulations, signage, liquor licenses … and gave him 14 days to respond. This time he was angry. There were no puns about ‘not being able to hack it’. This letter was all about money. His money, no-one else’s. First it would go to his lawyer, Roger King, Q.C. and then there would be a series of ‘disbursements’, if history was anything to go by. There were so many people to pay off on the council, and they all thought he was a millionaire.
One of King’s lackeys rang back later in the day to tell him that it wasn’t going to work. Ozzie cut him short. ‘I don’t pay to talk to you. I want to talk to the organ grinder, not the monkey.’
King was on the phone half an hour later.
Evidently the Ms Trotter he had been teasing was the daughter of Councillor Trotter, the hard-nosed Christian from Mount Roskill. Elections were coming up and this had all the makings of a crusade. They had to play this carefully otherwise it would be Ozzie’s hide nailed to the barn door. Maybe it was time he backed off a bit. Made a few concessions.
He was really caught off guard when the Hard Truth got wind of it. The billboards read ‘“Booty in eye of beholder” says K. Road Sex Czar.’ The journos even threw a few suggestions of their own his way. ‘We think “The Rubber Butt” would cause less friction or “The Gland Hotel” might appeal to the Asian clients.’
After that it was just a matter of time before the Palace was under siege from the television journalists. Campbell Brisket from 24/7 drawled out from the box about ‘shameless shenanigans from the Sultan of Sleaze’. Joe Public was scared away and forced to patronise the pricier flesh pots at the bottom of town. Profits dropped. Girls were laid off. The council closed in for the kill.
When it seemed that all was lost, one of King’s so called ‘courtiers’ brokered a deal between Ozzie and Trotter. His excited face appeared on the national news, announcing that the new deal ‘allowed two proud men to walk away with their heads held high’. Trotter conceded that an establishment specialising in male tension relief might have a part to play in New Zealand’s most dynamic street. Ozzie agreed to a sign that included no words that could possibly have a double meaning. Furthermore it would be a simple neon sign, with no pictures.
The two Trotters were pictured on the front page of the Herald locked in a victorious embrace. Below it, in the form of an insert, was a picture of the scurrilous Osbourne stalking away from the council chambers.
It must have been about a month after this that TV crews once again converged on the lower end of K. Road for the unveiling. Many of the more zealous councillors were assembled for their response and reaction. There was no sign of Ozzie; he was in his upstairs office and wasn’t taking calls.
At precisely 8 p.m. a technician lit up the sign and pulled back the thin, blue, tarpaulin.
The words were small, blue and discrete except for all the initial letters, which were large, pink and flashing. This Is The Show.
8 WHEELIE BIN
He woke 15 minutes before the alarm, marvelling at the precision of his body clock. Five-fifteen for 5:30. Never failed! Brilliant!
He slipped out of bed, trying to avoid disturbing the blankets too much. No point in extra work.
In the spare bedroom were his weights, charts, scales. Nothing was left to chance. There was none of that cardiovascular stuff. Too boring. Best to kick one’s sluggish body into action. The body was a dog, it needed thrashing on a regular basis to show it who’s boss. No gentle stretches for him. There were 11 exercises, each with three reps. The chart challenged him ever onwards. He had his weak days and his strong days. It riled him, but he could live with it. He moved about the mini-gym with an economy of action that characterised him in everything. No deviation. No sloppy excursions.
Back in the main bedroom, his arms and legs tingling, he felt slightly dazed. Oxygen starvation to the brain. His brain could handle it. Best to keep the brain in line too. That’s where all the limits came from. He stared at his rack of shirts in the wardrobe. One hand reached out an
d plucked an olive green shirt, while the other flicked a bright red tie off the rack. Doubts. A bit contrasty? Perhaps, but that’s the way it went. From here on it was easy, the grey YSL trousers and Bally shoes, courtesy of the trip to New York. The socks and underwear, even more straightforward. The tie/shirt combination set the tone for the day. That was critical.
In the shower he worked his body vigorously. Punishing it for being tired, for daring to ache. He shampooed the same way. Not only his head but his armpit, chest and pubic hair too. He reckoned he was the only guy on the planet who did. If you had hair, it should be glossy, wherever it was … stood to reason.
Now to the mirror to work through the exfoliants, the toners the face creams. These he applied to the familiar geography of his face with the cold scrutiny of an oncologist examining the diseased features of a terminal patient. There were certain lines around the mouth, and at the corner of his eyes that came in for particular scrutiny. Finally, he stood back giving the finished product an intense, sidelong viewing, before he walked through to the kitchen to get the coffee and toast started. By the time he had finished dressing, it was just 6.30. That was about right. In the gloom of the bedroom he caught a glimpse of the red tie. It looked like a slashed throat.
He made the coffee and drank it right away as the toast was cooking. He pushed the remote button on the Merc’s key ring and heard it burble into life next door. Best thing he ever did, the remote start.
He ran out to the gate to retrieve the paper. The toast popped on his return. Gone were the muesli and yoghurt, now it was just dry toast and Vegemite. His tongue relished its salty strength. He checked his watch. Seven minutes to read the paper. He flicked through it, clocking the headlines to reassure himself that there was nothing unusual, just the familiar madness and misery. Then, with it folded back to expose the financial page, he placed it next to his briefcase. By the time he packed away his cup and plate the clock on the microwave said 6.46. He checked it against his watch and was relieved to find it was a minute fast.
The little car clock agreed. 6.45. He was right on target. Fifteen minutes was ample time to make work at this time of the day, even in fog, like this morning. He had a route worked out avoiding compulsory stops, traffic lights or situations where he had to give way to the right. Anything that would slow down his undisturbed passage. It wasn’t until he emerged at the Valley Road intersection that he had to join the legions of commuting stiffs. The sad losers who blundered through life, as obedient and docile as domestic animals. Being enveloped in a dense, suffocating fog, the traffic was heavier than usual and moved slower than it should. He tried a new diversion through Newton. He was sitting on the margin of lateness.
As he rounded the corner a shape loomed up before him causing him to brake sharply. It was a large, corrugated iron water tank, on its side, rolling along towards him. He eased out across the line to let it go past. On the other side of the tank there was an old man. Long white hair and beard, barefooted, accompanied by a small black dog. Without thinking he gave a sharp blast on the horn. The man glared at him and saying nothing, moved on. Two thoughts came to him almost at the same time. King Lear, and dung beetle.
By the time he reached the K. Road-Queen Street intersection, there was a queue. There was never a queue here. It was a free left turn. What the hell was going on?
The car clock now said three minutes to seven and he still had to get to the end of Ponsonby Road. He would never do it. He would be like all those other boring grunts who whined about traffic.
Then he saw his chance. He could squeeze along the inside: it wasn’t quite a full lane, in some places it would take one wheel on the footpath. No-one else had the balls to do it. Up and around the corner into K. Road. That’s where he saw the problem. Up ahead there was a stationary rubbish truck. The traffic was threading around it, one lane at a time. The truck driver was out of the cab, standing next to a spilt wheelie bin and the mess of debris next to it. There were other people too. Sort of standing around. What the hell was going on! Pick it up man! Get on with it! There are people here with lives!
To hell with it, he decided, and squeezed along the inside intending to brazen his way back into the other lane when he reached the truck. The crowd of bystanders up ahead thickened. What was the deal?
As he reached them he wound the window down and yelled, ‘Move it, morons! Some of us have got lives.’
A couple of people who had their backs to him turned and stared. They said nothing but stepped aside so he could see into the throng.
On the ground in front of them wasn’t a green wheelie bin with a red lid but the body of a man wearing an olive green shirt and a red tie. To say it was the body was quite accurate. The head had been pulped to oblivion by the huge wheels of the truck. In his right hand was a black briefcase, still firmly gripped. It too, was identical to his own. The body lay on its side, legs in a running position, as though, if stood upright, it could somehow complete its crossing of K. Road and go on to work.
He stared at the figure. He flicked a glance at his face in the rear view mirror, still shaved, exfoliated, toned … still his own. His contact with the wet road grew more distant.
There was a tap on the window. It was the truck driver, waving him into a gap, letting him slot back into the lemming-like progression of anxious drivers on their way to work. He faltered for a moment, almost stalling the Mercedes, and then rushed forward, eagerly. What a relief to flow slowly towards the Ponsonby Road corner. How pleasant to let other drivers in from the side streets. How trivial it was to be 20 minutes late.
9 BRYCE AND EVAN’S MORNING BEAT
Bryce, even though he had a thing about Porsches, was too busy blahing about the All Blacks to spot Brett whistle past in his 911. They were waiting patiently at the lights. It was a quiet morning. A morning devoted to visiting the victims of break-ins and burglaries. A morning of taking statements and faking empathy for the outraged home-owners.
After getting the statements, they’d spend the afternoon writing them up, back at Central. One step up from being a parking warden. Still it wasn’t stressful like a domestic call-out and people were always pleased to see you.
‘Yes, it was terrible that a person could go out for two hours and come back to the work of these people…’
‘Yes, a few years ago burglar alarms were only for banks. Locks were used when one went off on holiday.’
‘Yes, it is surprising that as well as the stereo the thieves have taken your entire CD collection. The criminals must have similar taste.’
‘Yes, you will need to dig deep for all those receipts. Insurance companies are suffering too…’
They were both developing an instinct for liars, which, according to D.S. Willets was still the most useful talent a cop could have in the long run. There were some houses where the victims wanted the entire place dusted down for fingerprints and nothing had been taken. The perps had just come in for a preliminary sniff around. There were other houses where expensive jewelery had been taken but the details and the values were the only points of interest. Still seemed like old farts’ work. Not what they’d signed up for. What made it bearable was that Bryce and Evan had been teamed up since the days in the Academy. It wasn’t one of those partnerships forged out of necessity, it went right back to their school days, their rugby days.
The last call of the morning had been near the beach front at Mission Bay. Three bikes stolen from the carport. All locked up of course. All top of the range mountain bikes. No receipts. It was all so predictable. Over the back fence was a huge white mansion with a pool and terraced gardens. Bryce could see this man swimming lazy lengths. He seemed to move back and forth with a mechanical regularity … he resembled those clockwork boats kids play with in the bath. The aimless, tireless, back and forth.
Mrs Stevens came around the back to see what he was doing. ‘He does that every morning, regardless of the weather.’
‘Looks boring to me, I guess he gets something out of it.�
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‘When you get past a certain age it’s called staying alive.’
‘He looks as though he’s got a few bucks.’
‘His name is Osbourne, have you heard of him? He’s the sex shops guy on K. Road, always in the paper.’
Bryce sensed her disgust but wouldn’t be drawn. He knew about Ozzie Osbourne, everybody did.
‘Great big house like that and he’s the only one who lives there,’ she added, trying to steer the conversation towards the unfairness of it all.
‘So where did you buy these bikes from?’ Bryce pulled out his pen and pad, signalling an end to the chatter.
‘I’m … I’m not sure now, it was a while ago, I think it was that big bike shop in Newmarket.’ She seemed startled, a little off guard.
‘And it was inside the last twelve months.’
‘Oh no. It was a year or so ago.’
‘But your husband said they were for your children’s last birthdays.’
Now she looked flustered, betrayed, as though he had snuck up on her and given her a slap after she had been nice to him. Bryce looked at her but said nothing more.
As they drove away, Evan remarked what nice people they were.
Bryce agreed. ‘Bullshitters, though.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, out the back while we were chatting about the local crook over the fence her story unravelled like an old sock. Bit disappointing. I was beginning to like her.’
‘You’ve got it in for rich women.’
‘No. Just for rich women who are liars.’
Evan, about to start up the car, turned to him. ‘Everyone lies.’
Bryce gave the long-suffering sigh he used for whenever Evan made a statement like that. ‘That’s not the point, man. She wants to be treated like she’s the innocent victim of a crime, like she’s somehow better than the sex shop guy over the fence, while at the same time she’s pulling a fast one. And using you and me as the mugs to carry it off.’
