A good coach always emphasised what was best, and Coach Joe was tops. He taught young Charlie how much smarter it was to take a knee rather than get knocked out by an opponent who was getting the better of him.
‘It’s a good breather through the referee’s count, and use that precious time to pull yourself back together. Keep your eyes on the ref’s hands while he counts because you’ll be too dazed to hear him. Get up at eight if you’ve got the guts to go on and show him you’re ready. Use your head and you’ve still got a chance to win.’
Today’s opponent wouldn’t let him see things that way.
The pain and dizziness increased. On that knee his body trembled. Charlie felt himself crumple into the fresh grass even as Ricky came streaking off the field.
Well past one in the morning, all quiet and not a soul around, Bobby knew they could have given him a second beating. Instead, Mike and Denny stood by his car where it was parked and then, with exaggerated courtesy, moved aside to let him in. They were smoking. They didn’t say a word.
Bobby couldn’t get the key into the door lock. The men appeared mildly interested in what he was doing; Mike took the keys from his hands and unlocked the door for him.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
Bobby slid shaking behind the wheel, expecting the crash of a blow, or of a gun shot through the driver’s window. Instead, Mike made to pass him the keys, Denny standing to one side, then Mike snapped his hand shut just as Bobby reached out.
‘Do you understand your father’s trying to play a long game when there’s no time left?’ Mike’s eyes stayed on him. ‘Bobby, we mean it. Time’s up.’
Yes, it was. Bobby had parked his car a safe three blocks from the bistro, yet here these two were.
Mike let him take the keys. Bobby drove away, adding this incident to that last terror, when he’d rushed to Sistine’s apartment with her friendship ring. He’d found her eating a sandwich and mending the hem of a work skirt. Sissy wasn’t even aware that someone had come in, or that the ring had gone. And Bobby didn’t tell her.
Mike was right. His father was going to keep playing games when there was already no way out.
The next day Bobby was at the bank.
He approached the entrance exactly as he’d rehearsed it in his head, except he’d never quite imagined himself fumbling his Hutch sunglasses as he approached the swinging glass doors, then actually dropping them. He picked up the sunglasses and put them back on, passing through the doorway.
He knew security cameras were positioned in two corners of the ceiling. No need to worry about those. They made recordings and weren’t live. He had his Makita baseball cap, the sunglasses and his heavy lumberjacket. His hair was tucked away. Tomorrow he’d shave his scrappy little beard and his sideburns. No one was going to recognise him on those tapes, and he didn’t have a police record.
The only thing that could go wrong was if a security guard was on duty. By observation he’d learned that these small banks tended to rotate their guards’ schedules. There’d been one old guy in a cheap uniform a few days earlier. Bobby thought he wouldn’t be back until next week. As he discreetly looked around, he knew he was correct. No guard, two tellers, but only one serving customers. The second grille was closed and that teller had his back turned, joking with a colleague doing something that looked a lot like shuffling papers.
This was about to go as smoothly as he’d imagined.
Bobby joined the queue. Two people were ahead of him. Then only one, a pensioner with a small push-trolley and a problem she started to explain to the teller. Bobby barely heard the tale, but things seemed to resolve in the pensioner’s favour.
‘Bright today, isn’t it, sir?’
Bobby made a laugh that even to his own ears sounded uneasy, so he turned it into a cough, which managed to sound worse. He didn’t remove his aviator shades.
So dark he could barely see this person.
‘How may I help you?’
Bobby felt his entire body freeze up. The effect was instant. As he perspired in his coat a sharp droplet of sweat fell between his two hands placed flat on the counter. Fuck, he’d forgotten about that. Fingerprints, plenty of them, right there.
He couldn’t bring himself to say the words he’d rehearsed.
And those cameras, on swivels, probably trained on him now.
The teller’s expression changed from friendly enquiry into something else.
Bobby threw up, spew tumbling like a bitter fall of rain to the ground far below. He was on a landing of the girded steps and walkway that passed beneath the Story Bridge. He’d made it there at a quick trot. Safest, closest place he could think of. Often used to go this way to and from school over in Spring Hill, good place to sneak a cigarette or a quick finger with some girl from All Hallows. Family used to live down in New Farm before his father moved the Domingos up in life, got them a better home in a more affluent area. He still liked the suburb where he’d been a kid. He might move back one day, if he didn’t make it to a restaurateur’s life in Spain, or somewhere in Italy maybe. He and Sistine could run off together. He’d learn the language in a flash. Get married, have kids, earn a lot of money and forget where they came from.
Jesus, thoughts everywhere. Except where they were supposed to be.
Here we go, another big spew into the drop.
I’m a fucking idiot.
Bobby could hear the weekday traffic. It rumbled along the six lanes of that cantilever bridge across the Brisbane River. He wiped his mouth and eyes and observed a wooden ferry crossing from the right bank. The water police below; there was a sign in a small building next to it that read Brisbane Karate Club. He knew it, even had friends who’d signed up so they could be like Bruce Lee. Bobby had thought of doing the same, then had abandoned the idea. His friends broke thumbs, toes and ended up picking fights they rarely won.
Bloody well keep your mind straight.
He breathed hard and looked around. Despite the teeming traffic above, here things were quiet and private. He took off the aviators and hurled them into the void. He wiped his mouth again, this time with his heavy padded sleeve, then pulled the entire jacket off and hurled that into space. Bobby watched it go floating down. Maybe some cop or tramp or karate aficionado would find it and make it his own.
Bobby’s T-shirt was soaked through and icy beads of perspiration dotted his face.
He withdrew the pistol, tenderly, as if it might go off on its own. Ha, look at that. The safety catch wasn’t even set. Somehow he’d forgotten. Or did he have a subliminal urge to actually shoot someone? Like himself? He set the safety and measured the distance to the river. Even with the mightiest of throws he knew he couldn’t clear the expanse of land below. That’d be something, to hurl a .38 at the river only to have it bounce into the water police car park. Then how about tossing it into all this thick brush and gnarled tree roots in the cliff’s oblique walls? Those walls were strewn with accumulated rubbish anyway; no one was going to be able get into all those overgrown weeds. The gun would probably lie rusting for years.
Did fingerprints last? Would the elements wipe it clean?
He wiped the pistol with his T-shirt.
He should empty the bullets. Scatter them in one direction. Hurl the gun into the other. Forget about banks and playing some kind of criminal hero. Now Bobby understood he had about as much stomach for that as he did climbing into one of those boxing rings his father used to dominate.
Best thing he ever did, getting out of that bank before things went too far.
Yet the problem was still there and Mike and Denny were living reminders. Bobby pulled his arm back for the biggest throw of his life, then relaxed and cradled the .38 in his palm, and tried to think matters through just one more time.
…
In the public hospital the young doctor looked over the results of Charlie Smoke’s tests and told h
im that in three days they’d be with his specialist, Dr Tetley-Barber, so he should make an appointment for a proper consultation.
‘How’s your shoulder today?’
‘Can’t move it a lot.’
‘Don’t try. Have you understood what I’ve told you?’
He had, and there wasn’t going to be any appointment or consultation with Dr Tetley-Barber, or anyone. The well-intentioned of the world would put him on medications and give him therapies and have him back in hospital rooms getting even more tests done. For his heart, his kidneys, whatever else such good people thought was worth measuring.
What none of them understood was that Charlie had his own solution, one taught him by Joe Pacca and emphasised by his father’s boot. Soon as he could Charlie would redouble his efforts, not simply stalk around the gym’s hardwood floor while his crew trained, but actually join them. Some of the older kids wanted the experience of sparring. Leila Hatami, for instance, was the queen of wanting more. She even saw herself as a fighter one day, amateur or otherwise. All right then, he’d give them safe but real rounds, and join in one-handed if he had to.
‘It’s definitely this capsu-whoever thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it’ll be gone in a month or two?’
‘No one can guess the timeframe but from what I’m observing of how far it’s progressed, then probably yes. But the real concern’s your heart. The cardiogram is worrying, and the symptoms you’ve reported—’
That was about as much as Charlie Smoke needed to hear. He’d train himself into shape. Once this shoulder-cap-bullshit thing was gone it’d be like he’d never had it in the first place.Even Holly had told him that. He used to love running, and not just the easy jogs he took with the kids these days. His knees didn’t hurt. His legs were strong. There was no reason he couldn’t build up to ten kilometres. Used to be a breeze back in the day. This heart of his was going to get itself in shape, one way or another.
In this ward, Holly visited. That was another reason to not give in. Each time he saw her his body gave a pang, arm to shoulder to heart. Such a barometer for his feelings; he ought to laugh it was so responsive.
The first time she came it was a surprise. So after that he made sure to shower and shave first thing every morning. And forget these mortifying hospital smocks. He asked one of the cleaners, Italian like Charlie, to do him a favour. The cleaner was a good guy name of Bruno, and Charlie gave him more money than the favour was worth. So Bruno brought him the two new shirts he’d asked for. Guessing what was up, he also presented Charlie with a bottle of aftershave from his own house.
‘There are visits and there are visits, right, cumpari?’
He didn’t want to share the joke with Bruno, but, well, his compatriot knew the truth. Charlie might be in a hospital but he wasn’t going to let Holly see him looking like some sick old man. And Bruno, thirtyish, quite good-looking and maybe a bit of a blade outside of work, had good taste. Not only were the shirts far more stylish than anything Charlie was used to, but Bruno’s aftershave was subtle, just a little hint of spring.
‘You look so well, what are you even doing here?’ Holly asked next time with a laugh.
Words to make Charlie want to push his chest out with pride. And did she lean in just a little, to catch a breath of that spring?
‘They keep saying I should have more tests. They put suckers all over to measure my heart.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. I have to see a specialist.’
Holly, considering him, that half-serious smile on her face, took one of his hands. She held it in both hers.
‘The way you took Ricky out. I’m sorry this happened to you.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Maybe you needed a rest.’
‘You’ve got a fence needs fixing. Any change at home?’
She shook her head, not wanting to talk about it.
‘But Charlie?’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re a good man.’
A little less of that smile, like she had to pay something for those words.
Then she laid his hand down over his own chest.
So, Holly turning up, but no Sistine. The kid wouldn’t even know he was in a hospital, and if she did, would she care?
He wouldn’t stay there. Charlie got himself free well ahead of whatever any doctor might have been planning; he had his things and was out the front, hailing a taxi. Look, a gorgeous morning so full of light. No more wards, no more sick people. He left the shirts and aftershave back there for Bruno; let him continue his ladykiller ways.
His taxi dropped him home. Charlie showered then changed into loose clothes. He took the pills he was supposed to take.
‘If you’re going, at least stick to this prescription until you see Dr Tetley-Barber.’
A grudging acquiescence.
He tried to listen to some records but found himself nodding off in his chair. That wasn’t good, it wasn’t what he wanted, to be drowsy as an octogenarian in a nursing home. It was an act of will to resist, to just stay awake. He’d run, but okay, not today.
Then play more records, all his best, one after the other. Those decades of songs and their musicians were like his own lifeblood. They made Charlie want to move to his old upright. Without him quite noticing it evening had come; with it, pure humidity. He kept his front door open to let in whatever evening air there was, and here at the piano he followed an album’s closing song. As he did, as if for Charlie’s personal relief, there were nice slips of a cooler breeze.
The keys responded to his touch and he made sure his left shoulder didn’t need to move, and though his fingers warmed nicely he knew he’d never had and would never have the touch of a real pianist.
The record ended. He continued playing, making up a piece as he went along. There were brief pauses where he got stuck or made what sounded like a wrong turn, but mostly he liked the way it was a bit of traditional blues and a bit what you’d hear on the pop music stations these days. He was thinking of Holly, and to him this bit of improvisation sounded just like Holly. Meaning what he felt when he saw her, or how it hurt to be away from her.
The things he dreamed about when he thought of Holly.
Put it all into this tune. And the music flowed—flowed until he became aware of someone at the door. There wasn’t a knock. He tried not to think about how he should have kept that door shut and locked. He heard a step inside, his heartbeat heavy. All these years and the bastards had caught up with him; a familiar thread of pain travelled across his chest on the left side. He willed himself to stay where he was and to not look around, because if he did he’d be looking backwards, into a place too many decades ago.
So Charlie made more of his melody, and his hands only stopped moving when he caught a scent of berries.
‘What’s that called?’ she asked.
No one had travelled out of the past, and it wasn’t Holly either.
‘Nothing … just fooling around,’ he said.
‘Wouldn’t you be better off if you’d stayed in hospital?’
‘How’d you find out?’
‘This very nice person called the bistro and asked if she could come see me.’
‘Oh?’
He gave Sistine a glance, but couldn’t tell whether she was pissed off or not.
‘Someone called Holly. Did you send her?’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘Huh.’ She either didn’t believe him, or didn’t care. ‘Well, last night before my shift she came to Diego’s. We had coffee together.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘Stuff about your shoulder. And hospital.’
Charlie tinkered some more with the tune, found the right notes, then stopped again. His heart wanted to break for the way his daughter stood in his living
room, in his home. And for the way she wouldn’t even try to hide her dislike. Yet she was here, even though she’d never been anywhere near the place before—and he had Holly to thank.
‘Is she your girlfriend?’
‘What? No.’
‘She’s got violet eyes. I’ve never seen that before. I didn’t even think it was a real thing.’
‘Violet,’ he repeated. That was the colour; purple but not really.
‘They say Elizabeth Taylor has violet eyes.’
He turned to look at her. Sistine was wearing a creamy shirt, a fringed suede miniskirt and boots. Her black hair was loose and in one hand she held a floppy hat. He made room on the bench seat, ignoring the throbbing pulse in his left shoulder.
‘Come on.’
She didn’t move.
‘Mum used to tell me how much you liked playing.’
‘I guess she was right.’
‘You wanted to be a musician?’
‘That wasn’t on your grandfather’s agenda.’
‘So you tried to teach me.’
‘You remember that?’
Sistine put her hat aside. Hesitating, looking like she really didn’t want to, she sat next to him. Their bodies didn’t touch. Charlie gazed at hands so different from his, settling over the black and white keys with red polish on the fingernails. He wondered what she could do with those keys, if anything, then nodded at the twelve-bar blues she picked out. Sistine handled the little vamp with ease.
Her mother’s hands, elegant fingers.
With his right he joined in, creating a little melody over the top. Sistine followed that into a new key, and gave it more of a mood, not quite melancholy but not quite sad either. Something in-between.
‘You’ve learned a lot.’
‘My school wasn’t all that great but they had a decent music program.’ Sistine stopped. ‘Just tell me what’s wrong with you, really.’
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