by Nick Spill
Clovis took his violin out of the case, placed the case in front of him (but within grabbing distance) and started to play an Irish gigue. The traffic sounds mixed with the violin to make Clovis nostalgic for Rockefeller Center or Columbus Avenue or St. Marks Place or anywhere where there were pedestrians with loose change and spare dollar bills. Nobody was on the street.
To complete the picture of the street musician, he wore dark glasses and had a sign in his case:
PLEASE HELP ME BUY
A BLIND DOG
After four gigues he had six cents in his case and a dozen Samoan children giggling and pointing at him, not fooled by the shades.
She came out of the clinic and turned right, to her BMW parked at the curb. She stopped in front of Clovis, looked at him, at the sign and at his face again.
“Clovis! You’re not blind!” She uttered, astonished at his ruse and wondering what this was about. Clovis was playing “Women of Ireland” from “Barry Lyndon.” He stopped abruptly and addressed her in a thick brogue accent, without looking in her direction.
“What has that got to do with it? I want a blind dog, not a seeing-eye dog. Who said I was blind?” he continued playing from where he left off. The children were laughing hysterically at his accent. The tall woman in the black dress and white shirt continued walking. The violinist speeded up the tempo and applied extra thick vibrato making the music very syrupy. The woman stopped, turned her head to one side then spun around.
“Do you want a lift?” she asked.
He lowered his violin, adjusted his glasses and smiled.
“Why, that would be dandy.”
Clovis got into her car, his violin case on his knees, his dark glasses over his forehead nestled in his spiked red hair.
“Where can I take you?” Mel asked.
“Home.” He gulped.
“How is our Maori chief?”
“Oh, he’s fine. A little rowdy at night and he eats a lot, but he’s paying for everything, so I can’t complain.”
“What do you think of him?” Mel had not turned on the ignition.
“I don’t know, he’s, formidable. Far smarter than he lets on. Cunning’s the word, I think. I like him. But there’s something else there I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe I’m too naive to work it all out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he said all he needed was a few more days, then everything would come together.”
“Do you believe him, Clovis?”
She said this in such a way that Clovis’s response had to be, “of course not!”
“Yes.”
“I sense he’s not telling you everything.”
“Oh.” Clovis had a sudden feeling of dread. He wanted to go home and hug Plum. Make sure she was all right. All the mysterious and attractive forces he felt for Mel had dissipated. “Are we still on for tonight?”
“Yes, of course.”
Mel pulled up to Clovis’s cottage. In the hallway, Clovis heard Plum sobbing. He burst into the living room to see her curled up in a ball on the sofa. Her face was invisible under her matted hair. Wiremu knelt beside her, trying to console her, making cooing sounds like he was luring a bush pigeon into a trap.
Wiremu stood up when he saw Clovis, his hands open in a gesture of helplessness.
“What happened?” Clovis asked.
“What did you do to her?” Mel addressed Wiremu, who was alarmed by her accusatory tone.
Clovis thought of all the times he had left Plum and Wiremu alone that weekend as he lugged beer crates and extra food home for Wiremu. Then there was the bitter memory of how he had found Plum in New York. And didn’t he remember what Plum used to do in Auckland? The knot in his stomach grew tighter.
“It wasn’t me!” Wiremu shouted. He was not used to being verbally attacked, especially by an angry Pakeha woman.
“Plum! It’s OK. I’m here.” Clovis hugged her as best he could. Her head was locked into her knees.
“Clovis. Clovis. You swore you’d never leave me,” she mumbled through her hair.
He helped her sit up. She wiped back her hair from her wet face, too distraught to care about her appearance. Then she threw her face into Clovis’s khaki shirt.
“He knows. He knows,” she sobbed.
“Who? Who knows?”
“He came. He came to get me. He knows I’m here.”
“Who?” Clovis lifted his face up to Wiremu.
“I think it was one of Terry the Turk’s men,” Wiremu offered.
“Who’s that?” Mel asked.
“Terry the Turk. I saw one of his men through the window. He came to the front door, knocked for ages, then tried the handle. Went to the back door, then tried to look in the windows. Plum saw him. When he left she went hysterical. I’ve been trying to calm her down ever since.”
“He knows. He knows.” Plum lifted her head off Clovis’s wet shirt.
“Just as well she locked the back door, otherwise I’d’ve had to blow him away.”
Mel looked out the window at the street, then turned to Wiremu.
“Who is Terry the Turk? And what man?”
“Terry Turner. He owns a lot of real estate, a couple of massage parlors, a strip joint on K Road and the biggest used car lot over on Ellerslie Road. That’s where he launders most of his money.”
“I think I’m missing something,” Mel said.
“Terry controls a lot of dope around Auckland, and he brings in coke, some hash and acid. Very diverse. And elusive. The cops have nothing on him.”
“How do you know?” Mel shot back.
“I thought everyone did!” Wiremu was defensive. “Being in Parry is like graduating magna cum laude at Crime University. I met just about everyone who went through there. In many cases we knew what was going on outside before the cops did. Everyone talked to me, because I had a certain influence.”
He did not tell Mel that he graduated MA with first class honors in Psychology in the Waikato University outreach program. He had become a champion debater, the only way a prisoner could get out and visit other prisons, during debating contests. He failed to mention his older half-brother, Rawiri, who was also related to Hei Hei. Rawiri had not adapted to prison life as well as Wiremu, who became assistant librarian. The head librarian had been Terry the Turk.
“Terry did time for possession of stolen property. About the only thing he hasn’t done. The cops set him up. Terry is basically into everything. Prostitution, false insurance claims, I’ve even heard he did some white slavery for some rich Arabs that passed through on their private 707. When there was a real bad oil shortage. Kiwi girls for oil. That’s why the government can’t touch him. I don’t know about that.”
“What about the man at the window? Was he armed?” Mel kept looking out of the window, moving from one foot to the other.
“That was Big John. He had a billy club in one hand. A big black American car, could be a Lincoln. Lucky I was here, Clovis. I wouldn’t let anyone harm Plum. Especially that animal.”
“Why would this man want to see Plum?” Mel asked.
“He’s a bad man. I’ve had some dealings with him.” Wiremu was unwilling to go into details in front of Plum. And was the man with the billy club looking for Plum or Wiremu?
“So now we’re hiding from Peter the policeman and Terry the Turk.” Clovis tried to make a joke. No one laughed.
“Don’t worry, little sister. I’m here. I’ll protect you.” Wiremu laid his right hand on Plum’s shoulder.
“Why don’t we all pile into my car and we can eat and talk about this at my place. It is my official night off, so we won’t be interrupted by my beeper. I hope.”
“Yeah. Bring your violin, Clovis. You haven’t had your practice today, and I’m really beginning to like that piece by Brahms. Have you a piano, Mel?”
“No. Do you play?” Mel was surprised at the question. When would she have had time to play the bloody piano?
“No. I thought you might.”
Mel held her car keys in her hand. Clovis picked up his violin case. He hated being asked to play at other people’s houses. It reminded him of when his parents were alive and he had to play in front of guests.
“Shall we put a sack over his head?” Mel looked at Wiremu then turned to the others in the hallway.
“You can hide my face, but you can’t hide my body.”
• • •
Terry Turner watched John Eustace sweep out the tiny room in the concealed side of his basement. His Victorian-built stone house was on a street behind Mount Eden on the Epsom side, with neatly mown lawns and flowering hibiscus shrubs.
John straightened his back to his full height. He ran one hand through his close-cropped white hair. His hands were like the paws of a polar bear.
“Reminds me of inside.” He lowered his icy blue eyes. Terry noticed, not for the first time, how docile John could appear to him. Yet he had witnessed John kill with his bare hands, and the look on his bodyguard’s face had been one of sublime enjoyment. How contradictory human beings are, Terry mused, as he bent over to adjust the sheets of the small cot he had set up in one corner. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. He wanted everything to be perfect for his guest.
“Do you think she’ll like it here?” Terry ran his small left hand over his shiny bald patch, imitating John’s gesture.
John went back to sweeping a ball of fluff out of the doorway, not sure if his boss was kidding him. Who likes to be kidnapped? Terry could ask some peculiar questions.
• • •
Mel lived in a two-bedroom house on Rautangi Road off Mount Eden Road. Her property extended to the reserve, Mount Eden, an extinct volcano nearly seven hundred feet high, once a Maori fortress with terraces and a pa site. The house’s wooden slats were painted a dark green and the windows and shutters were a rusty grey. The front garden was filled with tall flowering shrubs, camellias, rhododendrons, frangipani and a grapefruit tree laden down with big yellow fruit. They could hear music, Split Enz playing “Stranger Than Fiction.”
Henry was lying on the couch with his eyes closed and legs stretched out.
“Oh my god. You really got it?” Mel asked.
He sat up, beaming ear to ear. “Oh. Hello everyone. You all look so somber.”
“You didn’t get the food? You didn’t go shopping? The list I gave you?” Mel asked.
“What list? Didn’t have time. I had to wait for this delivery.” Henry turned down the volume and hoped he had saved himself from one of Mel’s outbursts.
No one mentioned the intruder called Big John or Terry the Turk as they sat at the dining room table and chewed their way through a tuna salad from cans with fresh summer vegetables and slices of large red beefsteak tomatoes, washed down with a cold Chardonnay.
“I don’t think you can compare a Yankee to-may-toe with a Kiwi tomato. These are so much more yummy.” Clovis savored a beefsteak exploding in his mouth.
Plum remained quiet. She slowly ate and observed everyone. Clovis kept looking at her, trying to gauge if she had recovered from her afternoon fright. He could not tell. She took everything in but let nothing out.
“I hear you’re real skilled in martial arts,” Wiremu asked Mel. Henry glanced at Mel.
“I used to teach women self-defense, but there was a case where a young Samoan woman, a student of mine, killed her boyfriend who was abusing her, and I was called in as a witness. Put me off teaching, but I haven’t the time now anyway.”
“You should come up to Hokianga and start a practice. There’s a shortage of doctors up there,” Wiremu added.
“Yes, we can move into the country, run a small farm. Grow organic food. Look at the stars every night.”
“Henry’s new theme song.” Mel rolled her eyes.
“I grew up in the country, well, Pukekohe. It was green but no forests. I love forests. I can’t believe we were in New York the same time you both were. We could’ve crossed paths,” Clovis responded.
“Kiwis seem to find each other in faraway places,” Henry said.
“New York isn’t faraway, mentally.” Plum looked across at Clovis.
“You know what I mean. It’s different,” Henry added
“Different but the same.”
“What was your dream in New York?” Henry asked Plum.
Here the dialogue split into two threads. They had finished the tuna salad, and Mel opened another bottle of white wine she got from the refrigerator.
“What did you think of New York?” Clovis asked Mel.
“What do you mean?” Plum asked Henry.
“Well, everybody who comes to New York has a dream. They want to conquer the city, prove themselves, be the best in their field,” Henry replied.
“I found it rather civilized. Not what I expected. I’ve seen so many movies about New York. I think this place is more violent. We’re not tamed here. It’s like living in the savage garden. I see it all the time in my practice,” Mel said.
“I want to be an actress,” Plum declared to Henry. “I thought a New Zealand Chinese girl would be different there, but there were hundreds of actresses who looked just like me.”
“No. I can’t believe that. You’re unique,” Henry declared.
“That’s what’s so good about music. Even playing in the loudest rock band, there’s a liberation I wouldn’t trade for anything.” Clovis’s eyes went misty.
“I’m just relieved to be back here,” Plum sighed. “I want to start my own theater troupe. I can do that here and get an audience. In New York it’s almost impossible.”
“You’re playing in a pub?” Wimeru addressed Clovis.
“Not that one again?” Mel rolled her eyes.
“Why not join a drama company? There must be tons to join,” Henry asked Plum.
“I know a lot of people who’re interested. It’s just a question of organizing.”
“Couldn’t find anyone to play with in New York. I really like the music scene here. Odd that. We’re taught to look up there for the best of everything, but from what I’ve seen, we have it all here and better,” Clovis said.
There was a lull in the conversation when the music stopped from the other room. Henry had turned up his new stereo system so that the music could leak into the dining room. The Split Enz album gave way to an old Animals album with “The House of the Rising Sun.”
The delicious aroma of baking bread wafted into the dining room as they sipped coffee. Henry explained that his PhD thesis had propelled him into a top-secret research lab on Long Island. He resigned from the lab when he found out he was really working for an obscure section within the Department of Defense. All his research was for a new weapon. Because of his contract, he could not publish his paper.
“It’s so secret I shouldn’t even talk about it. What the hell! I’m here. On the other side of the planet. It’s as if my work didn’t exist.”
“What was the research?” Wiremu asked.
“Pure, not applied. I was working on a universal algorithm, an equation that explains all matter and energy and how they work together. You know, Einstein’s e equals mc squared? Well, it’s an extension of that, the Unified Field Theory. What I was proposing was…” Henry caught himself. They looked lost. Mel was bored.
“What happened to you in New York?” Clovis asked to break the silence.
“It’s a long story. There were two groups of people after me, American spies, I think, and Bulgarians, who were trying to recruit me as a defector, you know, ‘come over to us and we’ll give you all the resources you’ll ever need and you’ll win the Nobel Prize in Physics and have all the women and caviar you want.’ No, Mel, just joking, only the caviar!”
He could not tell if Mel was scowling at him.
“They were either going to recruit me or destroy me. They were found at the bottom of the elevator shaft in my building. I only got to hear about that a few days ago, when someone from the American Embassy came over to interview me.”
Mel kept that look on him. But Henry took this to mean she was jealous about the Bulgarian women, even though he had made that part up.
“Now, with all this going on, Mel flew into New York. I had gotten back into my apartment and cleaned it up. But then another couple of thugs broke in. They’re not Bulgarians or mobsters, they’re Albanians! They slap me around and start interrogating me. They go through the remains of all my papers and notes. They demand all my scientific work. Now Mel was coming to see me. I had called her up. She said she was flying into JFK. But I didn’t know when. I found out later there was an urgent telegram downstairs at my hotel from Mel. But telegrams in New York are not what they used to be. They worked in 40s’ movies, but not now.
“So, while I’m tied up in my room being worked over by these garlic smelling goons, she lands and is in a real shitty mood. I wasn’t there to greet her. There is no car for her, no note, no nothing.
“Now picture this. I am passing out with fear and fatigue from these evil-looking guys in badly made suits. If you saw this in a film you wouldn’t believe it! But I was tied to a chair, hands and legs.
“Then suddenly the door is flung open, no, it’s broken down, and in storms Mel, really pissed. I mean, I have never seen anyone so pissed. Steam is coming out of her ears she’s so pissed. She does not stop moving. She does a front snap kick to the oaf nearest her, then smacks him with a back fist so he’s stunned, but he’s so fat in the gut he doesn’t fall over. The other guy who was just about to slap me again in the face swings around and brings out a long shiny knife. I yell at Mel to watch out, he lunges at her, and she sidekicks his knees out from under him then smashes her fists into his ears. And boy he had big ugly ears. Then she proceeds to pummel him until he collapses.”
Henry stops to look at Mel. Mel has never heard Henry tell the story before and is surprised by his animated rendition.
“Now the other thug is coming around and is really angry. Only Mel is madder. She’s beside herself with rage and launches into another attack on him. Fists, feet, elbows, the remains of the furniture. The fight seems to go on and on. And I’m still tied up. I mean, I cannot move, only yell and scream at them both. Mel finally knocks him down and gives him one last kick. Then she checks them, like she switches into Doctor mode, sees if they are okay. Of course they are not. They’ve had the beating of their life.
