Game Theory

by Barry Jonsberg

  The door to the shack opened and a man appeared on the verandah. He growled at the dog, which instantly dropped to its belly and rolled over. I felt like doing the same. This guy was every bit the bikie gang leader stereotype. A massive belly swelled against an inadequate singlet. And it wasn’t a belly that spoke of too many fast food meals and an overindulgence in full strength beer. It was all muscle. He had a lot in common with his dog, including large yellow incisors. Where he differed was in the ink that covered every centimetre of exposed flesh. Most of the tattoos appeared to be of women in various stages of undress, though a few featured snarling jaws and dripping blood, or racist insignias. His head was shaved but, to compensate, his beard was luxuriant enough to curtain his chest. One long and vivid scar ran from his left ear towards his mouth. My mouth felt dry and I swallowed.

  ‘Spider,’ he said, and nodded towards my driver. Spider nodded back.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. I took a couple of paces forward and extended my hand. The dog growled, but subsided at one glance from its owner. The man looked at my hand and ignored it. ‘This the guy?’ he asked Spider.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Spider. ‘The brother of my chick, man.’

  My chick? Had I gone back in time a few decades? I let my hand hang for a few moments, then dropped it.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said the guy. He turned and went back up the front steps. I could hear the floorboards of the verandah complaining. He disappeared through the front door and Spider followed. I followed Spider. I didn’t really have much choice, and anyway, I had come this far. I was determined to see this through, even if I died in the attempt. The odds appeared pretty good in that respect.

  The inside of the shack was consistent with its exterior. It spoke of neglect. A plain wooden table sat in the centre of what passed for the kitchen. The sink was full of dirty dishes and there was a vague smell of decomposition in the air. This might have been the result of an old woman who sat at the far end of the table. She had an excessively wrinkled face and her skin had that sheen you associate with leather left in the sun for too long. When we came into the room she got to her feet, displaying a surprising sprightliness. Liquid brown eyes glittered.

  ‘We have guests, Darcy,’ she said. ‘How lovely.’

  Darcy?

  ‘Yeah, Ma,’ said the man. ‘Just a couple of business associates.’

  I extended my hand a second time. The old woman took it and her grip was surprisingly strong.

  ‘My name’s Jamie,’ I said. ‘It’s delightful to meet you.’

  ‘Jamie,’ she said. She cocked her head to one side and regarded me as if I was a long-lost, favourite grandchild. ‘Charmed. Please sit. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I said. I didn’t drink tea. I never drank tea, but I guessed it wouldn’t be a great idea to spurn hospitality. Darcy didn’t give the impression he would take rejection well. I sat at the table and the old woman started to struggle towards the bench.

  ‘Take a load off, Ma,’ said the biker. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘You’re a good boy, Darcy,’ said Ma, settling back down. As he passed she reached up and pinched his cheek. ‘Remember to warm the pot.’ She smiled at me. ‘Sometimes he forgets to warm the pot and that doesn’t make for a good cuppa, does it?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ I said. Darcy shot me a glance as if suspecting I had been dissing his tea-making prowess. I wanted to point out that contradicting his mother might not have been wise under the circumstances. Basically I was screwed whatever I said.

  While Darcy busied himself with tea-making, his mother tilted her head to one side and regarded me benignly.

  ‘So what are you, then?’ she asked. ‘A criminal or a policeman?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Anyone who comes to see my Darcy is either a criminal or a policeman. Isn’t that right, Darcy?’

  ‘Sure is, Ma.’

  I considered my answer.

  ‘Well, actually, Mrs . . .’

  ‘Call me Ma. Everyone does.’

  ‘Well, actually, Ma, I’m neither. I’m a high school student.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Spider shaking his head. Darcy dropped a teaspoon into the sink and turned to face me. The temperature of the room suddenly plummeted and the atmosphere darkened. I was the centre of attention and it wasn’t pleasant. I wondered where the boning knife was kept.

  ‘I’m a mathematician,’ I added, as if that would make everything okay.

  ‘I think you’ll find I’m right, aren’t I, Darcy?’ said Ma. She still smiled but her eyes had lost their sparkle. ‘We get policemen and we get criminals. We don’t get mathematicians. I can’t remember a mathematician ever visiting.’

  Darcy strolled over to the table and put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. He didn’t take his eyes off me.

  ‘No, Ma. No mathematicians. Criminals or cops. That’s it. You’re absolutely right.’

  I spread my hands to the sides and grinned, though it didn’t come out right. I could feel my facial muscles twitching. Suddenly I needed to visit the toilet.

  ‘What I should have said,’ I spluttered, ‘was that I am a criminal mathematician. I do study maths, but I’m a criminal first and foremost. That’s my main job. The maths is nothing more than a sideline really.’ I tried to stop, but it was difficult.

  Ma softened, but her son didn’t. I couldn’t make up my mind who was the more dangerous. I also couldn’t understand how I had found my way into this room, in the presence of a brain-dead stoner, a deranged biker and a geriatric psychopath. For once, game theory offered no useful strategies.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ma. ‘What type of criminal are you, Jamie?’

  ‘I’m a murderer,’ I said. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Ma. ‘We normally get drug dealers. That’s our standard visitor, isn’t it, Darcy? We don’t often get murderers.’

  ‘Only now and then,’ agreed Darcy. He wandered back to the kettle, which had boiled. I was grateful when his attention turned to the teapot. I noticed he warmed the pot carefully.

  ‘So, you’re buying a gun, then?’ asked Ma.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said. Please?

  ‘We’ve got plenty of guns,’ said Ma cheerfully. ‘I’m sure you’ll find one to suit you. Is there anything in particular you’re after?’

  ‘I’m prepared to take advice,’ I replied.

  ‘But you’re the murderer,’ Ma pointed out. ‘You must know what type of gun you want.’

  ‘I’m a beginner, really,’ I said. ‘Still learning.’

  She regarded me for a long moment and then nodded.

  ‘Well, you are very young,’ she said. ‘So. Is this to be a close or long-range kill?’

  ‘Errr . . . close, I think.’

  ‘Sawn-off shotgun would be best. We have a good range. Unless you need to have the weapon concealed.’

  ‘I think that would be best. Perhaps small enough to fit in a pocket.’

  ‘Ah, pity. The shotgun doesn’t require much in the way of expertise. Basically, you point it in the general direction and pull the trigger. Boom!’ She smiled, revealing a set of intensely white and intensely artificial teeth. ‘Then it’s just a matter of scraping the guts off the walls. But if it’s a concealed weapon you need, then a handgun is the obvious choice . . . Ah, thank you, Darcy.’

  Her son had placed a bone china cup and saucer in front of his mother. In the other hand he held a chipped mug, which he thumped down on my side of the table. The tea splashed out of the mug and burnt my hand. I suppressed an ‘ouch’, which probably wasn’t the response you’d expect from a murderer, albeit a young one.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. Darcy scowled.

  ‘A few biscuits would be nice,’ said Ma. Darcy smiled and pulled down a tin from a shelf, opened it and placed an assortment of biscuits onto a plate. He put the plate next to his mother’s cup.

&n
bsp; ‘You’re so sweet to me, Darcy,’ she said. ‘Now, be a good boy and get the selection of handguns from the bedroom, would you?’

  ‘Of course, Ma.’ And off he trotted. Ma took a biscuit and dunked it into her cup. I sipped from my mug. The tea was disgusting, but I was determined to swallow every drop. What I really wanted was to put distance between myself and this shack. A considerable distance. Buy the damn gun and get the hell out of there. But it appeared that, even for gun dealers, there were protocols to be followed. So we sat in uncompanionable silence, drinking our tea and nibbling at a selection of Arnott’s. Spider stayed up against the wall, smoking yet another joint, not saying a word. Maybe he had more sense than I gave him credit for.

  Darcy lumbered back into the room, carrying a large tool bag. He placed it carefully on the table and started unpacking the contents. Handguns of various sizes and colours. He lined them up close to his mother, butts facing towards her. He unpacked eight in total. She looked at me. I looked at the guns. I raised an eyebrow as if engaged in expert appraisal. I resisted the urge to simply grab the closest and finish the deal.

  ‘What would you recommend?’ I asked.

  ‘This is a nice gun,’ said Ma, picking up the third one along the line. It had a polished handle and looked murderous. Then again, they all looked murderous. I guess that was the point. ‘It’s reliable,’ she added. ‘Rarely jams. You don’t want a gun that’s liable to jam at the crucial moment.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said. She offered the weapon to me, butt first. I took it. It was heavier than it appeared but I managed not to clunk it onto the table, possibly discharging it and taking out Ma. I couldn’t imagine that would endear me to her son. He wouldn’t be offering me any Iced VoVos under those circumstances. I hefted the weapon in my hand and nodded sagely. It was the equivalent of kicking the tyres in a second-hand car dealership.

  ‘Feels good,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Don’t you want to try it out?’ asked Darcy.

  ‘Nah, I’ll be right.’

  ‘You should try it out,’ said Darcy. He fixed me with that gaze again.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ma. ‘Darcy is quite right. Never buy a gun you haven’t tried. I mean, it’s not like Target here. You can’t bring it back for an exchange or your money back. We don’t work like that, do we, Darcy?’

  ‘No, Ma. We don’t.’ The silence gathered.

  ‘I promise you I won’t be returning it,’ I offered.

  No one said anything.

  ‘Maybe I’ll try it out,’ I said.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Ma.

  Darcy rummaged around in the tool bag and brought out a box of bullets. He took the gun from me and slapped it open – I’d seen that kind a million times in movies; it had a revolving chamber with six tidy holes to accommodate the bullets. It made me feel more comfortable that I had some notion of how it worked. Darcy inserted the bullets and then slotted the chamber back. It engaged with a satisfying clunk. He offered the butt to me and I took it.

  ‘Let’s step outside,’ he suggested. I wasn’t in a position to argue. We all trooped out onto the verandah, me first, flanked by Darcy, with Spider behind and, finally, Ma. She plopped herself down on a rickety old rocker and folded her hands into her lap. The dog got to its feet and growled at me. Then it glanced at Darcy and put its ears back.

  ‘What do you want me to fire at?’ I asked. I wasn’t looking forward to this. Whatever the target, I was sure to miss, but that wasn’t what bothered me. It was the thought of the recoil and the loud noise. I could envisage myself screaming and dropping the gun onto the ground as if it was red hot. Not that I minded making myself look like a dick in front of these people. But Darcy might take offence. I was coming to the conclusion that he was a guy who would take offence at almost anything.

  ‘The dog,’ said Darcy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The dog, man. Shoot the dog.’

  I looked from one to the other. Darcy’s eyes bored into me, Spider shrugged and Ma grinned in a manner that reminded me of Norman Bates in that old movie, Psycho.

  I laughed, but I was the only one.

  ‘I can’t shoot your dog,’ I stammered.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s your dog.’

  ‘But I’m giving you permission,’ said Darcy. ‘I mean, yeah, if you’d just rocked up and shot my dog I would’ve been pissed off . . .’

  ‘Watch your language, Darcy,’ said Ma.

  ‘Sorry, Ma,’ said Darcy. ‘I mean I would have been ticked off if that had happened. But this is different. I want you to shoot my dog.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I’ve never liked that dog,’ Ma chipped in. ‘It makes too much noise. And, anyway, I want a Labradoodle. Labradoodles are cute. So you see, Jamie, it would be killing two birds with one stone . . . Oh, dear, I’ve made a joke.’

  Darcy laughed. It was good to know he was capable of laughter. Not very good, though. ‘Nice one, Ma,’ he said.

  ‘This way,’ the crazy old bat continued, ‘you save Darcy having to shoot him and you get to see if the gun is what you want. So, please. Go ahead.’

  My mouth had gone completely dry. I looked at the dog. He had stopped growling now and I could see something I hadn’t noticed before. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth and it appeared as if he was grinning. I knew he wasn’t, but it seemed that way. This was a pet, even if he hadn’t been trained to do anything but be aggressive. He didn’t deserve to die. Even if he did, I couldn’t be the one to put him down. I let the barrel of the gun droop towards the floor of the verandah.

  ‘How about I shoot at something else?’ I suggested. ‘Maybe that post over there.’ I wasn’t even sure I could shoot a post that hadn’t done me any harm.

  ‘How about you shoot the dog?’ Darcy responded.

  Nobody said anything. I shifted from one foot to the other. I could run for it, but even though I’d done some athletics in school, I thought it unlikely I’d be able to outrun a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

  ‘Tellya what,’ Darcy continued. His tone was reasonable. ‘If you don’t shoot the dog, I’ll let him off the chain. He doesn’t take to strangers, does he, Ma? And you and Spider are strangers. So that’s your choice. Shoot the dog or take your chances.’

  Ma chuckled. ‘No, you’re quite right, Darcy. He really doesn’t like strangers at all.’

  I glanced at Spider. He rolled his eyes wildly towards the hound. It was easy to read him. Shoot the dog, man. Shoot the fuckin’ dog. It was a sign of desperation, anyway, looking to Spider for support.

  I stepped down from the verandah, my legs shaking violently. I really did need the toilet now, but guessed a request would not go down well. I took a few paces towards the chained animal. It didn’t snarl this time. It didn’t hurl itself towards the end of the chain. It just lay there and gazed up at me with huge brown eyes. I lifted the gun. Partly because it was so heavy, but mainly because my hands were fluttering, the barrel roamed a shaky diameter of four or five metres. I had no chance of hitting the poor thing, even at a distance of two metres. But I also suspected that if I was to miss I would have to do it again. Darcy seemed that kind of guy. So maybe it was better to do it right first time round. I couldn’t bear to think of the dog suffering. So I took another pace forward. If it decided to attack, there was no way I could escape. I almost hoped it would. A badly bitten leg might get me off the hook. But it just lay there, its eyes on my face. I think it was beginning to like me. We were forming a bond.

  I closed my eyes and forced myself to exert pressure on the trigger. It was stiff and I knew that the more I pressed, the greater the arc described by the barrel. Maybe I’d shoot my own foot off. Don’t think, Jamie. Just do it. I pressed harder, my teeth grinding together. Nothing happened. Just how much pressure did you have to exert to get this damn thing to fire? My fingers were cramping.

  ‘You’ve got the safety off, have you?’ asked Darcy. He stepped over, took the gun from
me and glanced at it. ‘Nah. Here you go.’ He flicked a switch and gave the gun back. ‘Surprising how many people forget the safety.’

  ‘You’re not a very convincing murderer, are you Jamie?’ said Ma. She appeared enormously cheerful. ‘Please hurry. It’s nearly time for my afternoon nap.’

  This time I grabbed the gun, pointed, closed my eyes and jammed down on the trigger. I couldn’t bear it. There was a very loud explosion and the gun jumped violently in my hand. A smell of burning assaulted my nostrils and my ears rang. I waited for a few moments before opening my eyes. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to open them until I was home. Maybe not even then.

  The dog hadn’t budged. It continued to stare up at me with those soulful eyes. I scanned it for blood but there was nothing. Then I heard the laughter. Darcy was wiping tears from his eyes and Ma was rocking back and forth in merriment. I gazed at them.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jamie,’ said Ma after a minute. It took her that long to recover from her chuckling fit. ‘But you should have seen the look on your face. It was priceless.’

  I tried another unsuccessful grin.

  ‘Blanks, mate,’ said Darcy. ‘I put blanks in the gun. You didn’t really think I wanted you to kill my dog, did you?’ He chuckled. Ma chuckled. Spider joined in. Even the dog panted as if laughing. What an honour to be in the presence of people with such highly developed senses of humour. Darcy suddenly stopped laughing.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Two thousand dollars for the gun. Here is a box of proper bullets. Now pay me and get off my land. Ma needs her afternoon nap.’

  ‘Two thousand?’ said Spider. ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘I think you’ll find I said two grand,’ replied Darcy. ‘You have a problem with the price?’

  ‘No,’ said Spider. He took out his wallet and grasped a bundle of green notes. ‘Two thousand,’ he said. ‘It’s been great doing business with you.’

  Darcy took the cash, counted it and tucked the wad into his jeans pocket. Then he turned and went back into the house. The door closed behind him. Ma continued to rock.

  ‘Bye boys,’ she said.

  ‘Goodbye, Ma,’ I said. ‘It was nice meeting you.’ And even nicer to get as far away as I possibly can. Maybe a couple of states distant.