Burning Down

by Venero Armanno

  Ricky’s eyes, pleading.

  A husband striding, not walking, never stopping to give the time of day.

  Charlie replaced the hose, made sure the tap was off. By him was a garden bed of daisies, white petals, yellow centres. Holly’s touch.

  ‘—work is your excuse and you look for other people to—’

  ‘Don’t put your past mistakes on me, Holly. We both know what you did.’

  ‘There’s no way to say sorry to you. No way to prove it. And now you’ve taken someone as well, haven’t you?’

  ‘Holly, shut the fuck up.’

  No, no, this wasn’t anything for Charlie Smoke to know about, but Gesù how tortured those voices sounded. He remembered last moments with Tracy, not so much arguing, or even begging, just the simple abandonment of hope from her side.

  ‘Charlie, can’t you please, please just go?’

  He returned to the ruin of the fence, quickly gathering tools to throw into the back of the ute so he could disappear.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Ricky, Jesus. I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I went out the back.’

  Ricky started to collect a square-mouth shovel, a mattock and a claw hammer. He put them into the ute’s tray, then simply stood where he was, barefoot, still wearing a short-sleeved cotton shirt and school shorts. His hair, dark brown and mussed, looked like it could use the attention of a barber. Charlie arranged his things in the back. Now he didn’t rush. The boy wanted something, maybe just a minute’s company. He noticed that he had his mother’s eyes, their shape but not their strange colour.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘They’re fighting.’

  Charlie didn’t nod or acknowledge that. Instead he took a long breath and looked around. ‘Funny how you’re on this main road, but with all these trees your place can be sort of peaceful.’

  ‘Not always.’

  Charlie let that fade. ‘When I was a kid, I used to have lots of troubles at home. My old man, he had one of those tempers you never know when it’ll go off. So I used to find myself some quiet place I could go. Let him do whatever he wanted to do without me.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Sometimes. If he didn’t find me.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Oh, lots of places. One of the ones worked best was a couple of streets away. There was this kid, a bit older than me, and his father built him this treehouse right up top of a giant fig. You climbed up a ladder and from there you could see the roofs of all the houses and the local church up on a hill. Whenever I could, that’s where I used to go.’

  ‘What did you do in there?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s what made it so good.’

  ‘Huh.’

  Charlie considered Ricky’s yard with its eucalypts and weeping lilly pillies. ‘You’ve got trees big enough. I bet you could ask your dad to make you a treehouse in one of them.’

  ‘He’s not like that.’ Ricky shook his head.

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘Me? My specialty’s bricks and concrete I’d have to build you a bunker. Survive an atomic war.’

  Ricky’s face lightened at the joke, but he didn’t reply.

  For a moment Charlie looked into the boy’s eyes, always so sad, or maybe just hurt, and instead of seeing Holly Banks he somehow saw himself, that heavy boy he used to be, always trying to please a father who had no idea or interest in what his son might really need.

  ‘You got somewhere you like to go, or someone to visit?’

  The boy took a deep breath. Charlie saw what the answer was.

  The front door opened and Peter Banks emerged. The man paused a moment, then came down the path toward them. He stopped halfway and put his hands in his pockets. He didn’t look at either of them. Instead, he surveyed the road and the traffic, the sky. All of which seemed to be of interest. After long moments his gaze finally shifted to Ricky.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘Your mother and I need to speak to you.’

  The expression in Ricky’s face deepened, as if he had closed in on himself.

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ Charlie said, his voice soft. ‘Go on.’

  Without a word, Ricky did.

  Charlie climbed into the ute and started it up.

  As he drove away he had the oddest sensation of not actually wanting to leave.

  …

  That night, Diego ‘The Danger’ Domingo of forgotten boxing rings, trophies and gaudy glass-jewelled belts surveyed the crowded mess of his office desk. It was busy with invoices, small samplings of restaurant goods from hopeful providores, and folders—those slim manila folders of handwritten checklists, typed bank and credit union statements, business and personal letters, even cards and postcards as well. Touching any of these items, even if it was only to clear them from sight, tonight required more effort than he was willing to give. Robertino could start applying his mind to such matters. Diego would leave things just where they were and ask him to do so, come tomorrow or maybe next week.

  This evening in a charcoal-brown suit, with white Winchester shirt and dark tie with hints of teal, Diego stretched his back and felt the familiar yet uncomfortable crack of joints always so stiff. He’d learned to live with creeping aches and pains in his middle years, yet even as he didn’t want to acknowledge it he knew these twinges grew worse week by week. He wished he had the strength and stamina of his early years; he envied his own youth, when he trained on the heavy bag and took the long morning runs he used to enjoy so much. Some nights he still dreamed of the ring and the exciting stench of smoke-filled clubs and halls. The moment he faced some new adversary who stared at him with determined eyes, even hatred. Whenever he saw that sort of naked enmity Diego knew he’d already won, for his opponent had lost his most powerful weapon—his head. When he faced a man cool and collected, an opponent no less troubled than if he was in a practice session, the metallic taste of fear would sit at the back of his throat. Yet even then Diego had found a way to get past those feelings. His record spoke for itself: 53-6, with two draws and three no-contests. The numbers were all that counted. No one need look too closely at the quality of those opponents, especially once real money started to enter the equation.

  Diego swivelled his plush leather chair and reached for the black-and-white television on its stand by the desk. As always, he had to fumble with the dual-stick aerial before a picture appeared through the distortion and snow. A static-laden announcer’s voice cleared and Diego made sure the volume was low. Images of horses racing hard at a track wobbled as if transmitted from under water. He continued moving the aerial, growing quietly agitated, and the more the picture wouldn’t fix itself the more his hands shook. Diego stopped what he was doing. He held his hands together, waiting for them to calm. Then, by way of a small miracle, hands and images settled nicely. Finally.

  He eased back to watch the race, his thoughts clearing. A good bottle of Valdepeñas was what he needed. He liked to stay like this a good hour or two, something that had recently grown into a habit. He had the necessary form guide in his desk, all nicely marked up with his ideas and bets. But even as he relaxed his desk telephone interrupted proceedings.

  ‘Si?’

  Miriam was calling from the bar because she knew he preferred advance warning of any visitors. His office was next to the kitchen, close enough that he felt its radiant heat and could always tell which spices and meats were cooking. Tonight, spicy pimentón, also fennel. Cured pork was in the pans, plus milder sausages. Gorgeous.

  He said, ‘Bien cariño mío,’ and turned the horserace off, pushing the television away. He opened manila folders and spread a series of papers in front of him, picking up a fountain pen and keeping it poised over a page as if he was lost in important matters. His hand didn’t shake, which returned his usual confidence. At the polite
tap on his door he called for the visitor to enter.

  ‘Hello, Papi.’

  ‘Sistine, que pasa?’

  She came to his desk in the bistro’s uniform, a black shirt and skirt, dark stockings and flat shoes. Her black hair was pulled back in a long ponytail. Always pretty as hell. She also had something of the demure novitiates Diego used to love at the Carmelite convent he’d attended in his hometown close to Valladolid. Her mother, Tracy, had been even more beautiful, a potential Miss Australia if there’d ever been one. Lucky that Diego adored Miranda so and had never wanted to cheat on her.

  He knew Carmelo had first met Tracy in the emergency room he’d been taken to after a particularly nasty non-title bout. That night Diego had been watching, second row, with his agent and manager, determining whether this young fighter should be allowed to become an opponent. In the ring a crushing left rip had cracked two of Smoking Charlie’s ribs and floored him. That had made up Diego’s mind: I can beat this one. He’s weak and he’s not too smart. And we’ll make sure there’s one more guarantee, with Old Terry’s special touch.

  Diego smiled at Sistine. She had a quality that he had warmed to from the very first day he’d visited Carmelo and Tracy to see their new baby.

  ‘Papi, I have to tell you something.’

  ‘Yes, my darling?’

  ‘Bobby’s in trouble.’

  ‘Hmm?’ he said, caught unaware and careful to keep his voice flat. Diego took his time to set his pen down and move some papers around. He couldn’t imagine what sort of trouble his boy might be in, but his usual instinct told him not to give anything away. For Sistine to come to him with this, well, it must be something.

  ‘Want to know a secret?’ he said. ‘When he was a boy, it was always notes from school. In and out of troubles, but never anything important. A very, very good child.’

  ‘This time it’s serious.’

  ‘Why would you say this?’

  ‘Papi, he’s been gambling.’

  ‘Ha,’ Diego laughed. ‘Not Bobby.’

  ‘And he’s got himself a terrible debt.’

  Diego had to wait a moment, making sure to keep his expression mildly sceptical and nothing else. The room seemed to float in and out of focus.

  What in hell is she talking about?

  ‘I don’t think so, Sistine.’

  ‘You have to understand what’s happening. He’s keeping it from you. He must be so ashamed. Two men even beat him up in the alley outside.’

  Diego joined his hands and felt their unwelcome tremor.

  ‘That’s why he’s not in yet,’ Sistine continued. ‘I don’t even know where he went. He was at my place acting strange, then he said he’d meet me here, now … I just don’t know.’

  ‘Tesorina, what has my boy been doing?’

  ‘What I’ve just told you, but I’m worried there’s more.’

  It wasn’t only the tremor in his hands, there was something else: the miserable confusion and clouding of his thoughts that had been driving him mad so long now. He heard himself say, ‘Wait,’ but wasn’t sure what he wanted Sistine to wait for.

  Diego tried to force some clarity to his thoughts. He looked away from the strain in Sistine’s face and considered the framed photographs covering one wall. Some were of family. Others were of his shining career before the bistro. Heroic battles, championship belts, and the extra-special picture of himself and Carmelino during their only match—five rounds in Carmelo had needed to capitulate and yet again Diego Domingo had kept his belt. Wonderful as these were, on the opposing wall was the sweetest photograph of all: Diego and Miranda holding their baby boy.

  ‘Papi …’

  Diego pushed himself from his chair and came around the desk, one leg stiff, in concert with the pull in his lower back.

  ‘Querida,’ he spoke, ‘so much like a daughter. Maybe one day you’ll be a real daughter, huh? One day when you and my son start to see each other properly.’

  He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, kissing both cheeks.

  ‘Papi, please, about Bobby, I’m not talking about one day. He’s in trouble now. I’m trying to tell you. He needs your help before he does something stupid.’

  Diego could see that no sweet talk would put her off. Maybe she did have something important to tell him.

  ‘In what way does he need my help?’

  ‘He owes a lot of money.’

  ‘How much is it?’

  ‘He said something about it being over eighty thousand dollars. Can you believe that, Papi?’

  He felt as if a hammer was about to hit him on the back of the head.

  ‘I keep telling Bobby he has to go to the police.’ She was pleading now.

  ‘Never! They’re the ones more corrupt than sin.’

  ‘Papi, that was the old days. This is 1975. But he won’t anyway. And I just know if he doesn’t find the money—’

  ‘Stop. Please, let me think.’ Diego waited a moment. ‘I … I might know who these people are.’

  ‘Can you talk to them?’

  ‘Of course. Yes, yes, of course … I’ll never let my boy be hurt. Todo va a estar bien. Everything will be fine.’

  ‘That’s what Bobby keeps telling me.’

  He gave her a hug, fatherly and reassuring.

  ‘Quickly now. Go on, they’ll need you outside.’

  Diego Domingo held his hands behind his back, twisting his fingers as he watched her leave the office.

  …

  Charlie Smoke came in well after eight, drained by the day’s sapping heat, yet scrubbed clean and in his best clothes. Shaved, hair washed, his fingernails as broken as they always were and new hard calluses in his right palm, the product of needing to favour that hand seeing his left arm was giving him such trouble. He hadn’t intended to return to Diego’s Bistro for at least another week or two, so that Sistine could have plenty of time to think about the card and that note he’d written her, but the argument inside the Bankses’ place plus the lonely hurt in Ricky’s eyes made him want—need—to come find her, just see his daughter.

  He was at the same table as last time and had a bottle of the same type of chianti. The wine was good and he took small sips in case it went to his head. Tonight the bistro was busy and several couples all well past middle-age moved with or without grace on the small square of the dance floor. Charlie watched them and he watched Sistine. She served a number of tables, obviously conscious of his presence, then he saw her make her way to his back corner.

  ‘I can get a job anywhere you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re planning on becoming a regular.’

  ‘Sistine, why don’t you sit down?’

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘Work one minute less,’ he said. ‘The old man’s not going to mind.’

  With an abruptness that surprised him she did what he asked.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘How are you? I mean, without your mother.’

  ‘Can I have the photograph you stole from my house?’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Yes that. You think I wouldn’t miss it?’

  ‘I’ll bring it next time I—’

  ‘Forget it. Keep the thing. I’ve got a copy somewhere.’

  ‘Sissy.’ Charlie took a breath. ‘I know it must be hard.’

  ‘You had nothing to do with my mother or me so what do you think you know?’

  ‘That’s not quite true. I was around when you were little.’

  ‘I had my father all the way to six years of age, lucky me.’

  ‘Why don’t you listen a second, Sistine?’

  ‘To what? Now my mother’s dead you think you can have a daughter?’

 
It was strange, he’d had that odd sensation of being half naked under Holly Banks’ gaze, and here with Sistine he felt the exact same thing. Somewhere in his memory, and heart, she was the little girl he’d played with, and read to, and put to sleep, yet here she was as someone different—a young woman, and one wise enough to see him for what he was.

  He held his nerve and said, ‘I do have a daughter.’

  ‘Who’ll help you enter your golden years with a clear conscience. Or are you just too used to women looking after you?’

  ‘Sistine, it’s nothing like that.’

  ‘I bet. Who wrote that card the other night?’

  ‘The card?’

  ‘Such pretty writing.’

  ‘It was me, who else?’

  ‘You left Ma for a succession of bimbos, right?’

  ‘That’s not true. Not one bit.’

  ‘Then why did you leave?’

  ‘Well, that part’s complicated …’

  ‘Made simpler by the fact that now my mother’s dead you’ve discovered a paternal streak.’

  ‘When I heard Tracy died of course I wanted to see you. I mean, a lot more of you. Find out what I could do to help and let you know something important. Which is that you still have someone. You have another parent. You’re not alone.’

  ‘I’m far from alone and it’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘These people? The Domingos? Don’t get yourself too involved with this family. Do your work, collect your pay and live your own life. Diego’s not your father. He’s got his own kid. So he was friendly with you and your ma all those years, but you don’t know him.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re worse than I thought. Just listen to you. What’s it called when someone blames everyone else for the things they do?’

  ‘Sissy, maybe I don’t know too much about Diego any more, but I know where he comes from. This place, it’s got to be a stepping stone for a smart girl like you, nothing else. How could you drop out of university and come work here?’

  ‘I need to support myself. Have you thought of that?’

  Charlie hesitated. He didn’t want to bring this next thing up. His secret was safe where it was, locked away, no one but him knowing about it.