‘You here, never better.’
‘Hurry up.’
‘If I’m not a hundred percent I’m definitely not far off. So speculates Dr Kildare.’
When she didn’t reply, Charlie eased the fall board down over the keys and turned sideways to face her.
‘I told you, didn’t I, how I used to hold you on my knee and say, “Hey, Sissy, tell your old man a secret,” and you always had a little something up your sleeve? Maybe things don’t change very much. So why not tell me what’s going on?’
‘Bobby wants me to marry him.’
‘That’s kind of funny.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re nineteen. And he’s no more than a child himself.’
‘I think I’m going to say yes.’
He waited, watching how downcast she seemed, black hair glistening.
‘I’m pretty sure you’re not waiting for my blessing.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Funny how you don’t look so happy at the prospect of marriage. Maybe you could be studying and making more of your time.’
He liked the quick hint of anger in Sistine’s eyes, so much better than sitting there looking miserable. Then it was gone and he had to wonder what had taken the juice out of his girl.
‘Maybe I don’t really know what to make of my time. But Bobby’s very clear.’
‘Bobby thinks he’s very clear. He’s not. A kid like him’s not ready for the responsibilities that come with marriage, believe me.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I’ve seen him. He’s not a man yet.’
Sistine’s silence hardly meant she agreed, he could see that. Which made Charlie understand a now obvious fact.
‘You’re not here just to check on your old man.’
‘Do you really want me to be able to say what I need?’
His own words, as spoken in Diego’s Bistro. He gave the moment back to her. ‘I want you to know I can listen.’
It took Sistine a full minute to get the words out; he was patient.
‘Bobby owes money.’
‘All right.’
‘And unless he pays it back he’s in trouble.’
‘You’re not talking about a regular loan.’
‘No.’
‘So what’s it about?’
‘Horseracing.’
‘Horseracing?’ In any other circumstances he would have laughed. ‘How many red flags you need?’
‘Whatever this is, it’s a problem that has to be fixed. I’ve got a little bit of money coming. Mum’s life insurance policy, but I have to wait.’
‘Until you’re twenty-one, correct. By which time this idiotic idea’ll be a long way out of your head.’
‘I’m going to help Bobby one way or the other.’
‘It’s not your problem. His father’ll fix it.’
‘They don’t have enough money.’
Now Charlie did laugh, short and bitter.
‘That family’s loaded. And one way or the other Diego’s never going to let his own son sink.’
‘It’s not that easy. What I hear is the family’s just about bankrupt.’
‘That’s their tight-arse story. Don’t get involved with these people. Do not make the mistake I did.’
‘He was as good as a father when you weren’t around so how can’t I be involved?’
‘That’s enough reason to get sucked into some stupid debt’s not even legal? Think about what you’re saying.’
‘I am.’
‘What do you want from me, Sistine?’
‘You said you had money put away to help me. Okay. So will you?’
‘Not for that family.’
‘And so not for me?’
‘In this case you’re right.’
Sistine pushed herself away from the piano. Charlie felt more than a stab of pain inside, it was a heat, and sharp. He eased the fall board back up, then fluffed the simplest slow run.
‘I’m asking.’
‘Not for the Domingos.’
‘Jesus. Fuck. Mum told me you couldn’t be trusted.’
‘Sistine—’
‘She told me you stole money that wasn’t yours.’
‘Just stop it.’
‘And I imagine that’s your wonderful nest egg for me?’
Charlie concentrated on the keys, not on the dull emptiness that yawned wide when Sistine snatched up her things and got herself out of his home.
…
As he came to Building 4 Diego Domingo wondered, not for the first time, how and when a different sort of money could be made from this area. Some day this conglomeration of enormous old warehouses would become as extinct as the wool that flowed through them. A vast industrial estate of riverside land and wharves would be worth a fortune, and not some petty fortune either. The district, so inner-city, sitting between the popular suburbs of New Farm and Newstead, had its riverside docks, its cranes, its warehouse buildings and wool yards—plus a lingering odour that didn’t quite make sense, somehow half diesel fuel and half livestock. To Diego it had the stench of a tannery; for all that the area adjoined such pretty suburbs.
Terence Junior, just like the furtive little rat he was, liked to operate within such persistent malodour. His late father’s business office had been elsewhere, overlooking parklands, because that was the type of man Old Terry had been. His son preferred a large, arid office on the fourth floor of wool warehouse 4; whenever Junior opened his window you could bet on that surrounding stench flowing through the room.
Now Diego needed to lean against a wall, not for the pervasive pungency but because of himself. Funny how there were days so exhausting, even when he didn’t do very much. The bistro and the years; also the careful steps a man needs to take when he owes a small fortune, the problem bringing him here tonight.
These things weigh on your shoulders, no matter how young or old you might be.
In fact, it was Robertino bringing Diego Domingo here tonight—Robertino and the way he had allowed himself to panic. How could the boy be so feeble? Yes, there was a debt to repay, earned through gambling on horses, and yes, Junior’s men might threaten bruises and lumps, but was that a reason to fall apart?
Bruises and lumps make a man. Go ahead and welcome them.
Diego would handle Junior, as he always did.
The estate was deserted and he felt a curious coldness to the brickwork beneath his palm. It took a moment for Diego to realise he was perspiring all over. He turned and saw slow currents in the black river, the silhouettes of freighters that had docked. Diego squared his shoulders and straightened his tie, then wiped his face with his handkerchief. He felt his chin for any roughness of stubble. He touched his hair.
Ahead was a short incline that led to Building 4’s arched entranceway, secured by a metal concertina-style door, operated by pulley. Diego knew what all late-night visitors to this place knew: the pulley wouldn’t be locked. With an easy clatter of gears the thick chains rolled the door to head height. Diego held the metal chains as he walked through, then let the door grind back down. Inside the building the light of street lamps and a fat shard of moon slanted diagonally through tall windows, his only guide. He knew this place well enough. At the steel-grilled elevator he pressed the red-rubber call button. When the cage arrived he stepped inside and hauled its grilles shut. In a few seconds he was on the fourth floor.
Diego took an unlit corridor to a door without a handle and rapped three-one-four. Comical, these subterfuges, when everyone knew what was here, plainclothes police, detectives, government ministers and lesser apparatchiks alike. In a moment the thin one, Denny, opened the door. Mike stood behind him. Diego had known these men for years yet he had no feeling toward either; in his mind Terence Junior’s employees remained as anonymous as shopgirls and
bus conductors.
And this warehouse building, ostensibly empty, was anything but. Now he was in its rough but fully equipped casino. There was a busy bar. The entire expanse of floor hummed with chatter. The air was close and grey with cigarette and cigar smoke. No music played. There were twelve gambling tables of various sizes, tables Diego had never attended and never would. Players stacked or threw cards, money and dice. The females present were few, maybe a half-dozen, there to carry alcohol on trays and be willing to move to the relaxation rooms on the floor above.
Yet another of the things Diego would never attend, though he didn’t begrudge any man who might. On his eighteenth birthday he’d offered Robertino the chance at a small education; the boy hadn’t wanted it. A good son, one to be so proud of, even if he was a little on the effeminate side. Though not completely—just look at how he loved Sistine.
One thing surprising? Tonight Mike and Denny chose to lead him across the floor as if he needed guidance. This brought a murmur of disquiet to his belly, but he still had the most useful ace of all up his sleeve. Old Terry had adored Diego Domingo. The boxing days had been good days. ‘The Danger’ had helped Terry Darcy make money, and the Domingos had known Junior when he was just a newborn swaddled in a rattan clothes basket. These were the old connections he’d never let Junior forget. And this was what Robertino couldn’t comprehend: history protected them all.
He traversed the makeshift casino, led by his accompanying duo. The three boxers-cum-horse trainers were in attendance, raising their right fists in their usual trio of solidarity. Diego gave them a wink. At a glance it appeared two of the men were winning, one was losing. Come midnight the house would gobble all three whole.
At Junior’s office Denny knocked then opened the door, allowing Diego to enter first. The two followed him inside, deepening the disquiet in Diego’s belly. He was about to make a friendly greeting but saw Junior at his desk, concentrating on what was in front of him. Diego crossed the room and waited.
For years Terence Junior had worn thick black frames with heavy lenses, but sometime in the recent past he’d switched to wire frames and finer lenses. Maybe there’d been advances in the science of optics. As a boy he’d reminded Diego of a cartoonish bookworm. As a man he was like some old-world accountant, a remnant of bygone days, as unfashionable as 1915. Diego always felt that Terence Junior was old in his heart as well, a son who’d taken nothing of his father’s unforgettable joie de vivre.
Diego continued to wait. He wished he would be invited to take a seat. Where was the drink he was usually offered? Junior favoured whisky, Dimple, in its distinctive bottle, and Diego couldn’t help feeling that right now he’d be helped by a shot or two.
The younger man kept his head down as he wrote in a ledger, transposing figures from one book to another. Diego saw columns of figures written in blue pen and black. There was no red. He assumed that for Terence this must be a good thing. He also perceived the dull pate beneath the thinning hair; there wasn’t much of a ‘junior’ in Terence any more. Poor Old Terry, a criminal and greedy to the core, yet so likable. Unfair to have suffered the twin fates of a son so unpleasant and a death so horrible. He’d been choked to death at his desk. Not this desk, but a solid walnut antique in an office that used to feature original oil paintings, a library of books definitely not to do with accounting, and a bar open to all visitors.
Junior’s colourless lips were pursed together. He put pen and books aside and raised his grey face.
‘Diego.’
‘How are you, Terence?’
‘Anticipating full payment.’
‘I haven’t come with money.’
‘Then the simple solution remains.’
‘Which I can’t do.’
‘On the contrary. I’ve described the generosity of my contract to both you and your son. Why wait another minute?’
‘Your father would never expect this.’
‘Diego, I have something to tell you.’
‘Yes?’
‘You must stop invoking my father’s spirit. We’re far beyond the influence of good memories now.’
‘The restaurant is for my family, Terence. Your father was there on opening night and he christened the bar with a bottle of vintage Bollinger. He had his special table. That man was family, and you should consider yourself the same.’
‘Do you understand how tiresome this story becomes? And, in fact, you reference your family yet you won’t sell one small business even in the face of the troubles you cause your boy. Flawed logic, or is yours an obtuse personality, Diego?’
‘If you talk in circles I can’t understand you.’
‘Then let’s be simple. What on earth do you need?’
‘More capital.’
‘Capital to slip through your fingers and increase your debt. There are so many men like you, seeing glory around every corner.’
‘Just give me the chance.’
‘You remind me of my father’s words, spoken long ago. “Other people’s cash is Diego Domingo’s addiction, but he treats his own money as if it’s his blood.”’
‘Words are words. As a friend, I’m asking. Please help me.’
Terence Junior, through those shining round glasses, considered him. Considered him for long enough that Diego felt himself shrink.
‘I’ve said we’ve come too far now, so I need to speak plainly.’
‘I—’
‘Shh. Listen without interruption.’
Diego Domingo, not offered a seat, or a drink, inclined his head.
‘This is my assessment of you and your position, Diego. You adore placing bets. It’s an addiction I recognise. My father made his money from inveterate gamblers such as yourself, and I’ve continued that tradition, though it’s a diminishing tranche of my enterprise. Until recently you’ve played well and wisely. Yet as your memory has slipped and the trembling of your hands has increased, your wagers have become more flagrant. You’ve become dismissive of the financial obligation you create. In effect, you borrow more and more for the chance of a jackpot that will erase your debt.’
Diego thought he should maintain his respectful silence and didn’t comment.
‘You convince yourself you can win more money and hold on to your little restaurant with its chintz and fake glamour. My friend, it will be bulldozed to make way for a future I’m helping build.’
‘Just one more chance.’
‘My God. Roberto demonstrates such loyalty toward you. Diego, you’d really risk him so?’
‘With more money I can make your full amount, I know it.’
Junior shook his head, then, as if terminally exasperated, he opened the deep drawer to his left.
‘I’m no longer responsible for you. For you or your son.’
Diego watched him withdraw four, then five tightly bound blocks of cash. Junior placed them on the table beside his ledgers. Mike stepped forward and collected the blocks into a small shopping bag.
Diego placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘And you will leave Roberto alone.’
Behind clean lenses Junior’s eyes barely glanced toward Mike. Mike placed the bag to one side and slammed his fist into Diego’s rib cage. He and Denny then helped the crumpling older man sit into a chair. Diego coughed and fought for breath, a string of spittle falling from one corner of his mouth.
Mike dropped the shopping bag into Diego’s lap.
In a moment Diego pushed himself from the chair. He took the money with him and struggled to the door, but made certain he held his back straight.
…
The rest of the house was dark except for the red power-button-glow of the Technics stereo system. A record was playing. Tonight Charlie’s music was upbeat. Mostly he didn’t hear it, not from his back room, at least not until those moments he stopped hitting the heavy bag and caught his breath. His ch
opping punches had their own rhythm. They came as a couple in a row, then a quicker half-dozen, then a heavy, plodding one, one, one.
He rested, and as he did there were footsteps on the back staircase. The outside lamp revealed the vacant allotment behind his house, then Holly coming to the door. Charlie slipped off his beaten leather gloves. He let her inside. His face and shoulders were damp with sweat. Sistine’s visit was still with him and the heavy bag hadn’t done its job of clearing his mind.
As Holly Banks came inside he concentrated on unrolling the clammy black wraps from his hands.
‘I was out the front but I guess you couldn’t hear me. I heard you. So this is where you train?’
He nodded, awkward and quiet.
Holly looked around at this room added two decades back. An old steel bucket was pushed out of the way against a wall. It held the icepacks he’d been using on his shoulder. Two threadbare towels were crumpled beside it. The rest of the room was spartan, though it held trophies that meant very little, and some books.
‘You must be happy to be out of hospital.’
Charlie went to the bucket. He pressed one of the packs to his left shoulder.
‘What was the news?’
‘Everything’s good,’ he lied. ‘Like you said, shoulder’ll be better soon.’
He felt her eyes on him a moment, then she turned to the room again.
‘Look at these trophies … your career.’
No, he wouldn’t look at how little his life amounted to. These useless mementoes needed to be cleaned out. His crew could have it all—and it looked like that’d be sooner than expected. The doctors had warned him. His heart might be in trouble. Which was bad, but Sistine’s visit left him with a far worse sense of futility, something that gnawed at his belly and made him want to take another hard half-dozen rounds.
‘Charlie?’
He shook his head.
‘What’s wrong?’
Holly touched the heavy bag hanging at the centre of the room. She considered the many blank spaces in the walls and shelves, and the second big hook in the ceiling, that one empty.
‘What’s missing?’
He wasn’t sure he wanted her here. This late, the light bad, Holly’s eyes appeared darker than ever, as if they didn’t reflect any sort of light at all. Against that her hair was out, silken and long. There was colour in her face and her lips too, as if the Holly Banks of booze and troubles had never existed. In this small room she radiated warmth, and something else, something unexpected. It was a sort of lightness. The promise of taking away troubles, maybe with something as simple as a half-serious smile, or a hand holding his.
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