by Alan Duff
Oh? Bill looking askance. And what makes ya think we white guys ain’t? Oh, not saying that, man. Not. Hell, wasn’t that long ago I had a brawl with four ofem – and the minute Jube made the exaggeration he knew he’d made a mistake, that this guy wasn’t buying it that he, tall and mean as he knew he looked, he would have to be one hell of scrapper to handle four, specially if the four were Maoris, and he felt his face redden but he had to finish it even though it ended lamely – all on my jacksy, and they got stuck into me over a game of pool. As usual, eh Bill? Trying to rope Bill in, to sort of smother the lie, and inside cursing himself for not telling the truth that it was three on one, and he had held his own, very well in fact. (Why the fuck did I have to throw in one more?) So naturally I went down. But I gavem sumpin to think about. Pointing to his right eye scar again, as if that’d retrieve the lie, but Bill’s cold eyes telling Jube no such thing. Anyrate, like I said, Bill, I hate the black bastards too. Black – Yeah, man, you said so.
Jube took the hint. Had to. Had to stay on his toes. Now that he was right inside gang headquarters, even if he was sorta like one ofem in that he was white and he didn’t like Maoris neither, though he didn’t have a thing about em that these guys must have, judging on Bill here. So he foot-shuffled about, stared at the gang flag, the floor, the ceiling, around him at the set-up of tables no different to an ordinary bar, the tables were probably stolen from a pub, one at a time over a period, because they were standard elbow-height pub tables with the hole in the centre for the ashtray and steel bits to put your feet on as you talked and smoked and leaned on your elbows and of course drank since that’s one of the whole points of life, ain’t it, to drink to get drunk, to smoke cigarettes, get stoned when you can, and oh, get a fuck when ya could. The whole point.
He took his sweet time with drinking the bottle, keeping just behind Billy, who wasn’t doing much talking still; and when he did, it lacked sumpin, Jube wasn’t quite sure, friendliness or sumpin. Then Bill bought Jube a bottle and they drank that one a bit faster, which loosened Bill, made him more the guy he seemed, and he didn’t mind Jube asking about his life, what’d made him a Skull Rider; it was just two dudes chatting the time away at a bar that coulda been an ordinary pub bar on a quiet Monday arvo, nothin special.
Bill’s story weren’t no surprise, just a standard story same as everyone else’s, you know, having a bad upbringing, hating his old man or his old man hating him, hardly any ofem hated their mums even when she was a bitch, it just never got said. The gang made him feel he belonged, that he was someone for the first time in his life. Everyone loved each other in the gang. No shit, we love each other closer’n brothers, Jube.
So they had another bottle on that one, and Jube got to tell his very similar story except it didn’t end in him joining a gang, but he did know the legendary Ace, did Billy know him? sure Billy did, don’t everyone? They laughed at their late friend in common and Jube was half drunk enough to tell Billy the poem he wrote and had put in the Star In Memorium column, his very own tribute to a good mate there in black and white for the whole of Auckland to read. Man, it kinda freaked me out, eh, knowing so many people would read it. But Ace, you know don’t ya, Bill, he was worth it, weren’t he, mate? Oh yeah, he was alright. No doubt about that. The first dudes started coming in, in twos and threes and fours, going up to the bar getting served by Billy and eyeing Jube over while they waited for their drink, though it was no big deal, not as if it was eyeballin or nothin, just kinda half-hostile curiosity, with no hellos or nothin; half ofem had shades so it was hard to tell if in fact it was half hostility, it might’ve been, it mightn’t.
Jube chatting in between arrivals to Billy, and Billy chatting back quite another person. Glancing around him every little while, just to check out the human scenery, noticing how there wasn’t one without a beard, it must be part of the uniform; how a lot of em had them cutaway-sleeve sweatshirts so the denim jacket over it, also without sleeves, looked more or less one piece, gave em a bulked-up look, so that the ones without real muscular or solid arms poking out from the prevailingly hairy shoulders looked like pinsticks, or with padded-up torso that hardly chilled a man with fear. (Fuckem.) Tats were the order of the day, which Jube had long ago in his life stopped noticing except for an indication maybe in familiar initials or names tattooed of a prison, a borstal lag with maybe dates, otherwise he never saw em, no reason to. Tats are tats.
So when’s the Prez arrivin, mate, any idea? Soon. He’ll be here soon. Think I should buy a round of drinks, Bill? Jube in a half whisper. Man, why’d you do that? They got bread. We ain’t coon gangies here, we know how to look after our money affairs; you wait till you meet the Prez. You can buy me one you want, though. Sure, Billy. Whyn’t ya move into sumpin witha bit more … Trailing off because Billy’s look said that wasn’t a good suggestion, dunno why, but it wasn’t. So Jube changed to rum and Coke. Doubles.
He fingered the bulge of money notes in his jeans pocket frequently. Made him feel good. Like, real good. So was the rum starting to work, boy, was it working on a man’s head today. Must be just topping up my alcohol-loaded system. (Hahaha.) Exchanging pleasantries with Billy the barman, nodding to the different gang dudes who arrived or came to the bar for refills – of beer, most ofem. Not one gave him a return greeting and a couple ofem gave him really heavy pegs. Though he weren’t worried. Not really. Not with the dough in his kick and the double-charged rums working away. And he was here on invite, or he wouldn’t be here now would he? (Hahahaha!) nearly laughing out loud at that. But checked himself.
He brought up the game of rugby league with Billy, did he follow the game? Nope. Sport sucks. (Oh.) Ya see some big hits in league, though. Still sucks. Too much training. Too much listenin to some prick telling ya run here run there; I’d givim run some coach starting shoutin in my fucking ear tellin me to run here run there. Only one guy I listen to and that’s the Prez. And Jube could see the fanaticism in Billy’s eyes. When Billy swept an arm out at his surrounding fellows, told Jube, Ask them, man, what they’d do for the Prez, his eyes wide, and quite mad, Jube got a touch nervous. Like someone’d turned on an alarm inside; this other voice, the one’t exists in everyone and says things out of the blue might even be the true blue, saying the alarm shoulda gone off long ago. But Jube just one drink, it might even be several, too far gone to heed properly what his instinct was saying.
And when the Prez did arrive, big and bearded and impressive and self-assured that he was, he shook Jube’s hand warmly when introduced by a deferential Billy, This here is Jube, Prez. He, uh, wants to buy some bulk dope. So Jube wasn’t the slightest bit worried, not with the warmth in the Prez’s smiling blue eyes. He looked a lot like Jube’s late hero, Ace, the one he’d composed the ode to. Cept Ace was meaner-looking; not as big, specially not barrel-chested like this big dude, but Ace had something special about him.
The Prez asked Jube how long he’d been here in the place, he asked had Billy been looking after him like a good Skull Rider should, and Jube laughing said he couldn’t’ve asked for better and smiled at Billy, who nodded gratitude back for Jube scoring him some points with his beloved Prez, and Jube asked the Prez what he was havin but Prez said no, on me, and bought Jube another double rum and Coke, which made, what, seven or eight he’d had, plus the beers, plus the beers he’d had at the pub where he got taken by Reuben to be introduced to this druggie contact cos they were a tight, organised group, hard to get close to, and they weren’t free, open and reckless like the dumbo Maori gangs with their access to large quantities of dope, those black coots’d sell it to anyone, which is why they were always getting done cos some undercover’d busted em – again. Which reminded Jube: Course I coulda gone and done the biz with one of the black gangs …
Eyeing the Prez for a signal of approval that he was alright, show he was a black-hater like they were. But the Prez gave away nothing, just nodded. Then a sheila came in the front door. A real looker. Enough to give a horny dude like Jube a hard
on the spot. Blonde, with tight black trousers that showed her great legs he could see the shape, slight protrusion of her fanny shaped there, her breasts didn’t have no bra under that near-see-through white blouse; she had a smoke in her mouth which had her squinting one eye, which caught Jube in a withering glare of question so he looked away. And she, the looker, stepped up to the Prez and kissed his big bushy beard. He ruffled her hair, Hey, babe. Slid a big hand down her back and held her in a hug as he asked Jube, So how much ya lookin to buy, pal? I forgot your name. Jube. Jube, that’s it. How much were you after then, Jube?
He took his time in answering straight away. Just let it drawl out, Oh, bout, what … Pulled out his wad, looked at it, up at Prez, then without fear or a sense of inferiority, Four thousand bucks worth? Had to fight to keep himself from breaking out grinning so proud, so big did he feel.
Or he did till the Prez merely shrugged, looked at his woman, tweeked her chin, rubbed his fuzzy face playfully on her face, she giggled, and Jube caught the Prez’s big mit grabbing a handful of bum cheek. And he envied the guy sumpin terrible, wanted that babe for himself, to bury his nose in her cunt, shove that laughing gear down on his equipment (fucking choke the bitch ta death on it …) pretending he had his eyes on the floor but he was fixed on that V of twat outline. Okay, Prez breathed near in his ear. Four buys you a pound. Aw, come on. Four buys you a pound and two ounces. I thought it bought a bit more’n that. Jube not worried, this was just negotiating, he knew the score.
One pound five ounces they settled on; so two ton an ounce with an extra ounce thrown in. They shook hands on the deal. Prez invited Jube to stay on for a few more drinks; anyway, someone had to go and get the dope. Only a dope’d keep it on the premises, the Prez joked, had Jube in stitches. The Prez ordered a round of drinks for the half-dozen or so who were at the bar servery; one was introduced as the sergeant-at-arms, and, man, did he look like one, the ugly prick, worse cos he wouldn’t remove his shades even in here so Jube couldn’t read the man’s eyes. But what the hell, he was with the Prez himself so what was he worried about? Yet the voice kept whispering away inside him.
The Prez liked rugby league, used to play it, years ago when he was a bit younger, but sure, he loved the game and yeah he thought that fight between the Aussie and Kevin whatshisname, the coon cunt, was a real humdinger, though as a rule he hated blacks, hated em. So do I, Prez. So do fucking I. So Jube confined his league anecdotes to white players. The night came in.
At some stage the Prez gave whispered instructions to Billy, who then left; Jube assumed to get the dope. He offered to pay Prez the four g, but good ole Prez, he smiled, no, wait till we got sumpin t’ give you in exchange. How’s your drink?
Billy returned, came straight up to the Prez and said something in his ear. Prez didn’t give nothin away in his face; he’d make a good poker player Jube assessed in his getting-drunk state. Prez heaved a big sigh. He looked for some time up at the ceiling then asked Jube The Tavi’s your watering hole, right? Jube nodded, Sure is. Ya been there? Prez shook his head, Hardly, bud. Place’s fulla blacks. Looked at Jube, them friendly blue eyes now lancing into a man’s watering own. Jube gulped; wished he had a smoke going to hang onto, hide his nervousness. The eyes boring into him. Nowhere to look cept into them; he couldn’t look away, not with every set of eyes on him; he knew why, too, this guy was the Prez. Why he was the one in charge of the show, of all this lot, there’d be plenty of nutcases amongst em, yet he was in charge. The president. Though for the life of him Jube couldn’t figure out what he’d done or said to turn the situation like this. He just couldn’t.
Prez jerked a thumb in Billy’s direction – Billy was stood with folded arms adding his bit to the evils Jube was getting, and Jube hurt, hurt and hating Billy, even in the brief glance he caught Bill eyeing him like he was, he hated him – Billy here’s juss been down to Tavistocks … he was telling Jube in a fairly ordinary-volumed voice, though not so the tone. And Jube was understanding what leadership is about. You know, to check you out, case you was an undercover, mean ta say – Man, do I look like one? Jube with outspread of hands and appealing face. The Prez shook his great head, shrugged huge shoulders, So what does one look like, man? Jube in an instant stabbing a finger at his tats right down his arm. Them, man. How many undies ya see with them. Angry. Hurt too. Then it struck him that if Billy had checked Jube out at the Tavi, then surely he woulda come back Jube’s crim credentials all sweet as? A weight seemed to half lift off his mind, even though the Prez seemed to be building to sumpin that weren’t necessarily gonna go Jube’s way. (Hope. We all live in hope.)
Then the eyes, with bearded outburst encasing them, and reddened with booze or whatever, boring into Jube’s eyes. But not sayin a thing. Not one word that’d explain why this shift and what’d Billy turned up with from the Tavi.
Uh, Prez …? Like – like Billy here musta found out, you know, my form? Looking to Billy. Billy? What’d people tell ya, man? But Billy’s hostile features tellin Jube right away what information he’d got weren’t what Jube could possibly have expected. So alarm bells ringing in his head, his half-aching half-murderous heart. (Man, I could poke Billy’s eyes out, I could.)
Then Prez bellowed out to his men, and his deep voice echoed and boomed in the hall-like room, cavernous of sudden perceptive change: He’s white, right? A murmer of yeahs. He grapped an arm of Jube’s rammed it ceilingward. For an absurd moment Jube thought it might be a welcoming ritual, that maybe they were so impressed with him this was the Skull Rider way of showing a man they liked his form, his style. Jube felt close to giggling. The grip on his arm tightened, and Jube could feel the man’s strenght, hear him telling his men in that booming voice, He’s white, He’s white like us. The grip tightened painfully. Yet he’s living with – now get this, guys – he’s flatted up witha – witha – And Jube knew what was coming. He didn’t understand it. Not in the context. It didn’t seem fair. Or right. Not when he’d deliberately chosen this white gang for being just that. Because he thought they’d have the principles he perceived the Maori gangs as not having. He understood, though, leadership, what it was, what made it; it was a voice that summarised. The voice that put the direction in these ordinary guys’ their hatreds their unsure classifications, this is what leadership is about: they sum up the followers, they – he, this leader, he sums up any given situation for these thickheads to understand. He says, this is a Thing, and we don’t like Things, says I your leader. Then he orders the Thing to be attacked.
So Jube didn’t hardly hear the Prez calling out his summarisation of Jube, Jube the Thing. Who is flatted up with a nigger.
Just as he didn’t feel, not really, not as a painful beginning to a series of pains, inflicted pain. Just a thud. Boom. Sorta muffled. Like cannon fire in the distance. It mighta been thrown by the Prez, seein as how he was the most wild-eyed ofem in that split second of situational sum-up that man gets when he is under attack, or it coulda been Billy threw a king hit because of his own hurt at warming to this Thing, being fooled by It. Didn’t madda who it was; only that Jube was still standing, and thinking, Don’t they know Jube McCall can take a hit? All my life I been hit, and never have I gone down from the first blow, ask anyone. So Jube tottered. And punches flew at him from everywhere. And voices were yelling through clenched, enraged, fucked up teeth, Geddim! Geddim! Kicktheniggerloversheadin!
Then he fell from his six feet and three inches of gawky height. (I fall down … And we all fall down! hahahahaha!) A childhood nursery-rhyme line came to him, with it children’s laughter, from out of the mind blue yonder; as did the adult voices chatter this mad cacophony that he wassa niggahlover come to him, and he wondered about that one: if he might not be in the wrong country? Maybe I been in America my whole rotten life and now known it till now? This ain’t New Zealand. We don’t have niggers. And anyrate, I’m one of the good guys?!
They didn’t hurt. Not the punches. Not the boots. Not a one ofem. Just jolts, is all; jolts of el
ectricity going off in a man’s brain. Sparks, yeah. Lectric sparks of brain signal, thought event, word connection in the squiggle of brain mass with its highways and off-roads and backroads of tracks and unmapped ribbon routes of message conduit. Tha’s all. Tha’s all ‘t’ happening to me: it’s a brainstorm. It’s an event happening from the outside to the inside; sumpin good’ll come of it … sometime. Some day. (Oh …) Ohh! (… I’m sure it will. Sumpin good’ll come of this –) Ohhhhhhhhh.
Boots stomping, heeling at his protective hands covering his face. (Sumpin good …) And: My, is that Sonny I can see? Hey? Sonny? Oi, Sonny, lookit what you don, man. You did this. You’re why they’re doing this to me. And me, all I was trying to do was help us. Me and you, Sonny. I was trying to double our bread. (Oh, but sumpin good always comes of even a beating – don’t it?) Jube fixing on something in his mind. A thought. An idea. A notion – yeh – a notion, that everything gonna be alright, Jube boy. Everything.
Juss like Daddy tellin me. (Or did he?)
15
Sing to us, Boris. Sing to me and Jane, Sonny with the tape labelled in hand-written black ink on the box, ‘Music from the Slavonic Liturgy’.
The snow fell. Frozen icicles suspended from the church eaves. Shingle roof was only just visible in edging of otherwise total snow cover, though the spire broke clear of it because of the angle. And snow whipped up in flurries from some deeply cold Russian wind, as worshippers hurried to the warmth of church inner sanctum, hidden behind thick fur hats and upturned collars and oversize coats, hurried to the window glow of candlelight in a semi-gloom of probable morning over there in that climatically terrible country. Sing to us, Boris, and choir.
Sonny having woken with a start to a just-before-midnight troubled dream where he was struggling to hold onto a kite for all he was worth, and Jube was on the other end trying to tear it away from him. Woke and immediately ached from the dream effect as well the voice of imaginary Jane in his mind as clear as if she was there, beside him. And wanting to hear, to see that music.