Sweet One

by Peter Docker

  Where are we?

  This is my uncle’s place, says Queenie.

  What time is it?

  Queenie glances up at the big blue sky. The sun is past its zenith.

  Twelve – twelve thirty.

  At one o’clock it’ll be three in Queensland. I’ve gotta make a call.

  So we wait.

  I need some black hair dye.

  Queenie nods and smiles.

  Uncle Wadi comes out of his corrugated iron dwelling and props on an old ten-gallon fuel drum. Uncle Wadi is a thin old gent dressed like a ringer. He adjusts his short-brimmed hat, lights his smoke, and considers the two young women who have just driven up.

  You wait here, says Queenie.

  Is there a phone?

  Inside. Ask Uncle Wadi.

  Izzy steps back from the Land Rover. Queenie jumps in, and roars off towards town.

  Paper Trail Gone Cold

  Pancho Parker is pretty pleased with himself. It’s the best night he’s had for ages: shot thirty-eight roos, all good size. A good night at the end of a good week. He was back in his shed by 2:30 am, and worked like a Trojan to butcher them all, stacking the meat in his coolroom. It’s been a good week, and when the truck comes this arvo, he’ll make a good dollar. For now, it’s 7:30 am, he pushes his sweat-stained hat back, and swivels his head so he can see behind. He puts the Toyota in reverse, and goes backwards into the little laneway behind Hannan Street. His destination is the back entrance to the Baalboorlie Pet Meat Supplies. Here he will unload the roo tails. The shop sells every tail they get, usually the same day. A steady stream of Aboriginal customers file through the store as soon as they put out the sign: TAILS AVAILABLE. The Italian proprietors know full well that these tails are not going to be fed to dogs, the marloo tails being a prized delicacy to the desert mob.

  Pancho has negotiated this tight alleyway, originally for the night-dirt removal from the big hotels on Hannan Street, a thousand times. He stops just short of the metal back gate and jumps out. He goes to the back of the Toyota and lets the back tray guard down. The back gate is closed but not locked. Pancho has his own key, so it doesn’t worry him one way or another. He hefts his big orange esky off the back of the tray, and drags it along the cobblestones into the backyard of the Pet Meat Supplies building, and right up to the back door. Ten years ago he would have carried it. He unhooks the keys from his belt, and turns to the door. The door is not locked though. He pushes it and it opens with a non-oiled squeak. The lock looks smashed.

  Mario? he calls out. Mario? You here, mate?

  He takes a few cautious steps. The door to the coolroom is just to the right of the corridor. There is a crowbar shoved through the handle, effectively locking the door. Pancho is no fool. He survived two tours of Vietnam not just because of his marksmanship, but because he always had that thing that can’t be taught: instinct. He knows this isn’t right. He slips his large pocketknife out of the leather holster on his belt, opens the blade, and holds it loosely in his right hand. He goes down the corridor and peers into the shop. Nothing. He turns and goes back to the freezer door. The gauge next to the door is showing that the freezer is turned up full bore, and he can hear the old motor banging away. With his shirt tail in his hand, he grabs the crowbar and wrenches it out of its jammed-in position. Still with his shirt tail in his hand, he pushes the silver handle down, and opens the door. A blast of cold air freezes the sweat on his forehead as he leans in for a look. There are various types of meat in boxes and plastic bags stacked against the wall. In the corner is the ice-encrusted form of a woman in the grey uniform of GPL4, the private prison guard mob. She is tied up with plastic ties, and has gaffer tape over her mouth. He crosses quickly to her to feel for a pulse. When his fingers touch her throat to feel for a pulse in the carotid artery, her flesh is freezing, and almost completely solid. There is no pulse. She has a name tag just above her left breast pocket: RANKIN. Gaffer-taped to the other side of her uniform is a sheaf of paperwork. Pancho reads the top sheet – it is a recommendation from an air conditioning service company, that a certain Mazda van has a faulty system, and is unsuitable for prisoner transport. Pancho flips it up to read the next sheet. It’s an internal GPL4 memo authorising the continued use of the same Mazda van. The signature at the bottom of the page clearly reads RANKIN. There must be at least twenty or thirty documents. All on the same issue.

  Pancho slowly backs out of the freezer, puts away his pocketknife, and goes into the shop at the front. He stands looking out of the floor-to-ceiling windows onto Hannan Street. There is an old cream-coloured telephone next to the till. He picks up the receiver and dials 000.

  Local

  Uncle Wadi follows Izzy into his abode. The walls are unlined, and the floor is earthen. Izzy notices that someone has swept the dirt floor recently. The wiring for the bare light bulbs and the TV in the corner is exposed. The only furniture is old drums and tea chests. Uncle Wadi leans in the open doorway and watches Izzy’s fingers do the little half-circles as she dials on his old phone. Izzy listens. A male voice answers.

  Baalboorlie Police.

  Constable Dillon please.

  She is put on hold for a moment, and then the line clicks.

  Dillon.

  Izzy.

  Ah. Macca said you have a timing thing.

  What’s going on?

  Another body.

  Where?

  Pet Meat Supplies, Hannan Street.

  Those Feds, or whoever they are, still around?

  They just went over there. They want it kept quiet. Don’t want to spook old ladies and school kids.

  Thanks, Dillon.

  She hangs up. She takes out Charlie’s card and dials. Charlie picks up instantly.

  It’s Izzy.

  Izzy from the Star!

  Hi, Charlie.

  Where are you?

  I ... I’m at Uncle Wadi’s place.

  I know it. I’m two minutes away.

  Izzy hangs up, and wanders back outside. Uncle Wadi nods at her. He has the kind of face that is always trying to smile.

  Uncle Wadi?

  Yes, my girl?

  Can I borrow your hat?

  Uncle Wadi smokes his rollie, and considers her request.

  You make trade? he asks.

  Rent, says Izzy. I’ll rent your hat.

  Rent? he repeats, and laughs out loud.

  Uncle Wadi whips his hat off his head with a flourish, and holds it out to her.

  Tobacco, he says.

  OK. I’ll rent for tobacco, Izzy says, and takes Uncle Wadi’s proffered hat.

  They look across to see Charlie’s old Ford station wagon taxi coming belting down the track. Izzy puts Uncle Wadi’s hat on over her blonde curls, and climbs into Charlie’s cab.

  Pet Meat Supplies in Hannan Street, says Izzy.

  Charlie swings the car around, and heads back out down the dusty track. In a few minutes they are out of the semi-scrub back blocks, and on the streets of Baal. As they head up Hannan Street, they can see four or five police cars parked up on the left.

  That’s it, says Charlie.

  Izzy jams Uncle Wadi’s hat down tighter on her head, and is careful not to show her face to any of the cops moving around. None of them notice the cab going slowly past. Izzy sees Silver Hair and Four Axehandles walking into the front door of the pet meat business. Other cops are setting up the police line.

  You wanna stop?

  Pull around the corner, Charlie.

  Charlie goes past the cops, makes a left, and pulls into the kerb. Just ahead of them they see an ambulance turning into an alleyway.

  Does that go down behind the shop? asks Izzy.

  Goes all the way down, says Charlie.

  Izzy gives Charlie a nod, and Charlie eases the cab forward, turning the nose of the car into the alleyway. They see the ambulance go down past a ute parked off to the side. A wizened old white guy stands near the ute, watching the progress of the ambulance.

  Do you kn
ow him? asks Izzy.

  Pancho Parker. He’s a roo shooter. He sells the tails to Mario at the pet food store, and the blackfullas buy em all.

  The kangaroo tails?

  It’s a delicacy.

  Izzy climbs out of the cab, and goes up to Pancho, but goes like she is going to walk right past him, intent on the tin back gate that the ambulance is angling up to.

  Ya can’t get in this way, Pancho says, rolling a match that he is holding in his teeth to the side of his mouth.

  Oh, g’day. What are all the cops doing here?

  There’s a dead woman in the freezer, says Pancho flatly. So I can’t unload me fucken tails.

  Who is she?

  Her name tag reads ‘Rankin’.

  Name tag?

  Works for that security firm.

  Did you find her?

  I just came in to unload me fucken tails.

  How’d she die?

  She was locked in the freezer room. Poor bitch. She had all this paperwork pinned to her shirt.

  What paperwork?

  About an air conditioner in some government van. Are you a cop? I already told all this to the first cop.

  No. I just came to get some tails for Uncle Wadi.

  Pancho takes the match out of his mouth and throws it down. He gives Izzy a once-over.

  Are you daughter for Snowy? he asks.

  Izzy nods. Now it’s getting freaky.

  Pancho goes to the large orange esky on the back of his ute.

  Here. How many do you want?

  Three.

  Have five.

  How much do I...

  Don’t worry about it.

  Izzy takes the roo tails from Pancho, and heads back to Charlie. She jumps in, still holding the five roo tails. Down the alleyway, Izzy sees the tin gate being opened up to the ambulance. She pulls Uncle Wadi’s hat down, and Charlie reverses out, right as Silver Hair and Four Axehandles come out into the cobbled alleyway. Charlie takes off into the traffic.

  Back to Uncle Wadi’s now. Oh, and stop for some tobacco for the old bloke on the way.

  Izzy looks down at the tails in her lap. They have been skinned and cleaned, but have a few tufts of fur at the base and the tip, and retain a strong odour.

  You’re starting to behave like a local, Izzy. You wanna watch out – you might not fit in too well with the latte set back in Melbourne.

  Don’t think I was ever in with the latte set, Charlie.

  The Blue Prawn

  Izzy stands near the telephone in Uncle Wadi’s shed/house. She can see through the hole in the rusted tin wall to where Uncle Wadi is stoking his fire. Once he is satisfied with the wood burning, he returns to the kangaroo tails, picking them up, feeling the texture, and smelling the sinewy meat.

  It takes Izzy three goes with the operator to get the name right – the Blue Crab, the Blue Squid, the Blue Prawn! She should’ve remembered – the fuss Big Bill made that night. He had been exonerated, first by a white judge, and second by the all white jury. He was clear! The head copper told the cameras that there would be no celebrating by police, and then they all adjourned to The Blue Prawn. By the end of the night Big Bill was really blind. He stood up to make a speech:

  You know what? I’m the blue prawn. I’m the blue prawn! I’M THE FUCKEN BLUE PRAWN!

  Then he lurched backwards and fell onto another table. That table collapsed to the cheers and jeers of the other cops. Big Bill ended up on the floor, surrounded by little cane baskets, and cooked prawns, and chips. Big Bill lay there laughing.

  Look at me! The Blue Prawn! Surrounded by all me little fucken prawn mates!

  To Big Bill, yelled Olly, holding his beer aloft, To Big Bill, the Blue Prawn!

  Big Bill! The Blue Prawn!

  And the room rang with their cheering, and shuddered from their backslapping. Izzy remembers catching Macca’s eye. He sipped at his beer, and looked away.

  Now the phone is ringing. Izzy imagines the blue telephone sitting on the bar facing the canal. The manager, tall and lean, orange hair going bald, will be walking out from the bar by the restaurant to answer it.

  Blue Prawn?

  I’m looking for Macca.

  One moment.

  Macca will be sitting in the blue booth at the far end of the window. He’ll be drinking XXXX out of a yellow can. The manager will carry the cordless blue receiver over to the booth. Macca will look at the display screen on the phone: WA number.

  Macca.

  It’s me, says Izzy.

  Izzy can hear Macca breathing down the phone. She hears him take a sip from his XXXX.

  There’s been another killing, says Izzy quietly.

  She waits for Macca to respond. He doesn’t. Macca takes out a pen and writes down the incoming phone number on a blue Blue Prawn coaster. Izzy hears the pen on the coaster as he scribbles to get the ink flowing.

  The GPL4 supervisor. Found in a freezer. She approved the use of the prisoner transport vehicle after she knew the aircon didn’t work, says Izzy.

  So he’s targeting anyone who had to do with the Old Man’s death in custody?

  Who’s next?

  Gotta be the aircon mechanic.

  I don’t think so, Macca. The bloke wanted to fix it, but the company wouldn’t pay.

  Does our killer know that?

  What about the cops who sent him to Baal?

  I’ll give Dillon a call. Find out the lay of the land.

  Izzy notices an ant running up the phone cord towards her ear. She flicks it off with a finger.

  I’m taking leave, says Macca. Coming to Perth. This bastard has only just begun.

  What can you do?

  I’ve got mates in WA. Mates in SAS.

  I need some false ID.

  No, Izzy.

  I need to visit this soldier in jail. He knows. I know he does.

  On your website this morning is another racist cop rave.

  I wrote that on my phone. I’m only against the bad cops, Macca. Did you like the photo?

  There’s a warrant out for your arrest.

  What charges?

  Sedition.

  Are you serious?

  Whose side are you on, Izzy?

  Justice.

  Oh, come on, Izzy.

  Macca, you wanna catch Big Bill’s killer? This soldier knows the killer. He’ll talk to me. You know it.

  Why would he talk to you?

  Izzy waits. She hears Macca draw deep on his cigarette.

  Jesus, Izzy.

  Get a photo from Foster. Photoshop my hair to black, then get a licence in the name of Melissa Hardigan.

  The girlfriend? This is fraud, Izzy.

  Macca, look at these Defence secret agents – they’re not going to share any info with us. There are no rules out here.

  I can’t do it, Izzy.

  Did you know that Dad knew the Old Man?

  Who?

  You told me Dad came here, Macca.

  Izzy hears the flick-flick of him lighting another cigarette. Exhales.

  I gotta go. I’ll call at this number tomorrow. I’ll be in Perth.

  Thanks, Macca.

  If you fuck us over, Izzy, the memory of your father won’t save you.

  Let me worry about the memory of my father, Macca. And let me tell you another thing – there’s one sure way for me not to be taking these photos and writing these articles – the police can change their behaviour! Take away my opportunity!

  You’ve got no idea, Izzy.

  So why can’t someone explain it to me?

  I don’t want to fight with you, Izzy.

  So do this thing for me. Macca?

  I’ll call you later.

  Izzy hangs up the phone.

  Thank you, Uncle Wadi, she says, before remembering what Queenie said about thank yous.

  Uncle Wadi smiles and applies himself to his rollie, all the while watching his fire burn down.

  Wee Tits and Mata Hari

  Izzy goes to roll over, but the sw
ag is so tight that she can’t. She feels like a child still in the womb who knows there is a life outside. She opens her eyes. She had one of those sleeps where she can’t remember dropping off, and knows her body didn’t move a skerrick during the night. Slept like the dead. There is something else ... A dream? Izzy sits up.

  Queenie is over near the back of Uncle Wadi’s shed dwelling, sitting over a fire in a cut-off forty-four gallon drum. She whispers to herself in desert language, and wafts smoke from the leaves on the fire over her skin like a morning wash. Izzy watches Queenie. Queenie seems at once like an ancient woman and a small girl/child. It’s as though she exists in a different plane where the passage of time is subject to laws other than those of this world. Queenie feels her eyes on her and looks up. Izzy smiles without thinking, and Queenie smiles back.

  Good sleep?

  Yeah, says Izzy.

  Any dream?

  Izzy nods and grins. Her eyes tell Queenie that she can’t quite get it back.

  You bin fightin in your dream, comments Queenie quietly.

  Izzy has some vague recollection of being in a firefight in Vietnam, and then killing a blonde woman with a plastic fork.

  But fighting who? That’s the question, says Izzy.

  ‘To be, or not to be,’ responds Queenie.

  You got a classical education?

  Missionaries gotta be good for something.

  Apart from sexual positions.

  Overrated! laughs Queenie.

  Izzy wriggles her way out of her swag, stands, and stretches.

  Haven’t slept on the ground for a while, Izzy says.

  Good for the soul.

  It’s my back I’m worried about.

  Izzy wanders over to the fire.

  What time is it?

  We all slept in. Cuppatea?

  Please.

  Queenie starts to pour tea into a tin mug from the billy.

  They both hear the phone start to ring. Uncle Wadi appears in the doorway with a question signal on his hand. Queenie nods to Izzy.