Sydney Noir

by John Dale

  Dave sat watching. Andy was scared, but not groveling. Justin kept silent, then swiveled around and peered through the window. An outlook, not much, back toward Paddington, a corner of Rushcutters Bay Park, but no harbor view from this angle. Turned back and looked at Andy, very directly now. Getting ready for the hard bit.

  “He still using?”

  “Been to detox. Got out two days ago. He’s back at meetings.”

  Justin nodded this time.

  “Slimy cunt,” Stooge Brett muttered, then looked up, his mouth open. “Fuck. Sorry. I know, I know. But, fuck. You know?”

  Justin turned to Dave. “What do you reckon?” with a little upward nod on the you, part challenge, part real question.

  Dave inhaled quickly, let it out slow. He and Justin had a bond. They’d jailed together. For Dave, the last three years had happened way too fast for him to keep up, to understand: a bit of dabbling, for show, to fit in, a few more lines, and a few more, then finding out too late his interest in the stuff was serious, and that he’d already crossed over, but had no one he could really confide in, go to. Then the bust, the forced detox, a charge of deemed supply, then suddenly, real jail. He was out of his depth, scared. He did his best not to be noticed, hiding away in the gym. His sports background helped, but he was rugby union, eastern suburbs, private school, and inside it was all rugby league, western suburbs, public school. Dave had started using in jail—a suicide move, and he knew it. Sometimes he worked out with Justin, who was doing two years for the hydro crop, but who had gone into jail straight, and was staying clean inside. Knew the ropes, had respect. Not running any sort of obvious manipulation, invited Dave to tag along to a jail meeting. Dave went, pretending to be open, but inside sneering at the sharing, the stories, the earnest bullshit.

  Then something in him worked loose. He started listening in a different way. He still felt like a fake, but bits of what he heard applied to him, no denying it. Justin continued to show kindness.

  Then later, on the street, paroled a week after Justin, he kept up the meetings. That fraudulent feeling never really faded, though he got used to being there, got used to hanging out, taking it a day at a time, not using. He made friends. He talked to newcomers, even visited jail. When Justin started the labor hire business, he kept Dave in work, mostly the better jobs. When this other thing started up, Dave was the first one Justin invited in.

  Now, the rest were waiting for him to speak. Dave felt himself torn in three different ways. What was the right thing to say?

  But before he could speak, Andy blurted out, “Thing is, I feel responsible.”

  All eyes back to Andy now.

  Andy looking from one to the other. “He fuckin’ wasn’t ready.”

  Still watching.

  “We put him out there too early.”

  Justin nodded and looked at Dave again, still waiting.

  Those few seconds had been enough. “Andy’s right. We should’ve looked after him better. He can be a bit . . . flaky, we knew that. Our responsibility.” Dave sat up a little straighter. “We deal with the consequences. All of us. So, I say no flogging, but obviously he can’t sell gear for a while.”

  “Not ever,” Noel speaking quietly. “He’s a liability. In other ways.”

  A silence.

  “I mean, that we don’t know about.”

  “He didn’t get busted,” said Andy.

  “Not that he told you.”

  Justin, looking closely at Noel now: “Something from your guy?”

  Noel’s guy was a cop. They’d gone to school together, played third-grade league together. The guy was bent, cheerfully so, always had been. These days Good Bloke bought him a regular drink in return for access to the police computer system and for whatever snippets he could pass their way. Other than Noel, none of them, not even Justin, knew who he was. He was reliably crooked, though, which in their game was gold.

  Noel nodded. “Timmy was pinched for racking two months ago. Department stores. Sports gear. Cameras and shit. Hasn’t come up yet. He’s still on remand. Matters pending.”

  Heads shaking around the group, Brett muttering, “Jesus fuck!”

  Andy went pale.

  “Keeping that secret from us?” said Brett. “From everybody? I mean, how did he manage that?”

  The thought in the room: what if Timmy had turned dog?

  “He’s downstairs now,” said Andy. “Waiting. He wants to do the right thing.”

  “So he reckons.”

  Justin nodded. “Okay,” he briskly reached for the bag at his feet, put it on the desk, “we better do this now, so we can all fuck off. Timmy’s out of the rort. He’s got to square up. Straightaway. Alright, Andy?”

  Andy nodded gloomily. “He hasn’t got a zack.”

  “How you cover it, that’s your business.”

  A slow nod from Andy.

  Justin unzipped the backpack and brought out a lumpy Coles plastic bag, set it on the desk. From that he took a flat package wrapped in clear thick plastic, like a packet of Chinese noodles, neatly taped at the ends, and carefully put it down on the desk. Then the small scales, no bigger than a phone, accurate from .01 up to 500 grams, the aluminum foil, the sandwich bags.

  “Alright. Let’s fuck this puppy.”

  Suddenly laughter. Relief, to be getting on with it.

  * * *

  Later in the morning, during a lull, Maddy and Kim out fetching sushi, Di glanced out the small back window toward Darling Point—cloudy, no rain—and then down to the little lane that ran beside the building. There under the scrappy paperbarks, Bec and Timmy. Bec puffing on a ciggie, looking at her phone and talking to Timmy at the same time. Bloody long ciggie break. Or maybe Justin had told her to clear out until further notice.

  Di looked across the hall toward Good Bloke. The front door still closed. Maybe sometime someone had cold-called the business to get a worker or two to unload a semi, or drive a forklift, or something. And maybe a laborer of some sort had gone out to do the job. But the punter would’ve received no encouragement to call back, and as far as Di knew, Bec—who’d just turned up one day and asked for a job, and Justin had let her stay, why not?—dealt with the legitimate side of the business pretty much singlehandedly, ringing this one or that one, anyone she knew was looking for a day’s work, and get him to bring a mate if necessary. They might’ve made enough money that way to cover the rent.

  She looked out the window again. Bec was chatting to another woman now: young, light hair. Timmy was walking away, ten yards down the lane. Was he picking up pace? A green car parked there illegally.

  Then the ding of the lift bell, and footsteps coming up the stairs at the same time. No one due for another half hour.

  * * *

  Inside Justin’s office, each one had his sandwich bag, tightly rolled, a rubber band around the outside. Different amounts—forty grams for Andy, a hundred each for Brett and Noel, eighty for Dave—the biggest whack yet. And the cleanest shit yet. But no money in the room. That was another iron law: never the drugs and the money in the same place at the same time. That too was a benefit of them sharing that atmosphere of trust: you didn’t have to act like it was total dog-eat-dog, you could count on an honest square-up later on.

  Next everyone was standing up, ready to piss off. Each to make up his own smaller deals, grams or caps or whatever. Noel to Canberra, where he knew people, and where prices were better than Sydney. Brett to a pub in Chatswood and the university. Dave to Bondi. None of them to the Cross, though, where things were just too harsh. Andy was gloomy, but he had his stuff and now there was work to do.

  Dave, with his deal double-bagged and stuck in his jeans pocket, was looking at his phone when they heard the knock at the door. Surprisingly gentle and tentative. Justin glanced through his office door toward the frosted glass. A single profile there.

  Noel and Brett looked at each other and then without a word moved toward the unused second office, where there was another door leading into
the back hallway and the fire stairs. Andy and Dave stood still. With Bec not there to field whoever it was, Justin strode over and opened up.

  He knew the detective, MacDonald, standing there grinning. There was no shouting, no guns, no battering ram. Just MacDonald, who said, “Gooday, pal!” like a postie about to ask him to sign for a package. “Coming in, mate, alright?”

  And then the room was full of men and women. Andy on the floor, the Stooges back in the room after being ambushed at the other door. Justin was whisked into the back room. Dave into Justin’s office. But still not much noise.

  Everyone knew the drill. Cops asked first if there were any guns, then asked each one to hand over the drugs, while in the very act of thoroughly searching each one of them. The boys had too much form to break down or blather—say nothing, they knew that—but there was despair on every face. Andy looked at Noel: So what about your fucking mate, wasn’t he supposed to warn us about shit like this? Noel’s return look: I don’t fucking know. Ask Timmy.

  The packets of drugs they’d just so carefully weighed out were lined up on the reception desk. Appreciative whistles from the cops. Next to them the pocket scales, nearly as important as the dope itself, which would help prove the intention to supply. The cops miffed, though, that there was no money.

  The whole time MacDonald was friendly, conciliatory, like a favorite uncle who’d dropped by unexpectedly to take the kids to the pictures, but maybe had to clear up this little misunderstanding first.

  It all went on for an hour. The boys were separated, then all brought back together in the reception area. Justin, Andy, the Stooges all in a line, handcuffed, forlorn. Except for Dave, who was still being questioned in Justin’s office.

  Then pairs of cops took each one of them in relays to the cars downstairs. Here in Edgecliff the cops knew to keep it low-key.

  Di watched it all, half hidden behind the palm in New Beginnings. Her heart beating fast, even though it was not her business (really not her business).

  When the mob of jacks had come pouring out of the lift and off the stairs, gathering silently outside Good Bloke, they’d barely glanced her way. Except for the blond girl, the one she’d seen talking with Bec, who gave Di and her salon a good, long look. But then Justin had opened up, and the blonde turned quickly away and marched into Good Bloke along with the others.

  Di had immediately rung up and canceled the next two appointments, sent Maddy and Kim home for the day. She was shaky enough to want a cig, although it was five years since she quit. She stayed on, busied herself with admin tasks as best she could while she kept an eye on the bust. Should she ring Chris the lawyer? No. Justin would do that soon enough. But still she waited, watched Andy and the Stooges being taken away. Then finally Justin, handcuffed, with the older cop next to him, not even holding his arm, walked to the lift.

  She could feel Justin aware of her there, but he didn’t look her way—gallantry, maybe, keeping her out of it. But MacDonald, who was now holding the Fitness First bag, turned her way and knew exactly where she was in the salon. He caught her eye, shrugged sadly, said, “Sorry, love,” or something. He and Justin disappeared into the lift. The doors closed.

  She let the lift go, then said to herself, Fucking jesus, just go! and ran down the stairs. Got there as Justin and MacDonald were stepping onto the footpath, into the roar of New South Head Road. So casual that you wouldn’t even notice it was a bust unless you looked closely. She ran around, stood in front of them. MacDonald paused, for the first time unsure, and annoyed.

  “Ring Chris?” she said.

  Justin nodded quickly. “It’s federal. Not state. Tell him I’ll be in Goulburn Street. Federal.”

  “Got it.”

  MacDonald had recomposed himself. “Now, now, now. Better leave this alone, Diane. That’s right, isn’t it? Diane? We know you, don’t we?”

  That rattled her.

  He leaned over, beaming kindly now, and whispered, “So bugger off, dearie, or we’ll fuck you from here to Christmas.”

  She took a step back, said to Justin, “Ring Tony?” His recovery sponsor. Justin pulled a look, nodded.

  She watched them get into the dull green car in the side lane—she knew shit about cars, but it was so obviously a cop car. Up the street she could see the blond cop at the driver’s seat of another car, dull blue—also obviously police—chatting with Bec in the passenger seat. Was Bec being questioned? Was she one of them? Another young male cop came out of the food court carrying takeaway coffees, handed a cup to the blonde, one to Bec, and off they drove, laughing. Yes, one of them.

  * * *

  Ten minutes earlier, upstairs, in the Good Bloke office. MacDonald, Dave, and another cop, all sitting around Justin’s desk.

  Mac smiled, nodded slowly. “Went well, boys, no doubt about it,” speaking softly so not to be heard in reception, where a handcuffed and mournful Justin was waiting with a junior constable. “They pinched the Koreans half an hour ago. Pounds of piss, goods in custody. Gone for a row of shithouses.” He looked directly at Dave. “And you,” he went on, grinning broadly now, “you’ve done well, Dave. Bloody well. Best I’ve seen. Best anyone’s seen. All that time and effort. It’s been noted at the highest echelon, you get me?” Then, looking more closely at Dave, “You alright?”

  “Yeah, first rate boss, no worries.”

  Mac stood up. “Show’s over now. Consider yourself back home. You won’t be needed in court, they’ve got enough. But obviously, don’t let any of those cunts see you, not just yet.”

  Dave nodded.

  The other cop said, “They’ll know what’s up when Dave doesn’t show up in remand.”

  MacDonald shrugged. “No matter.” To Dave he said, “You’ve seen enough of the inside of Long Bay, eh?”

  Dave nodded again, grinned uncertainly.

  Mac walked to the door, patted Dave’s shoulder as he passed. “Give us a minute while I take this prick out here away. You blokes follow up later. No rush,” and he was gone.

  Dave and the young cop looked at each other. Mac had conspicuously not asked Dave to front up the sandwich bag still stuck in his pocket. Mac never overlooked anything. His idea of a reward? No rush, he’d said.

  The cop grinned at Dave. “So?”

  * * *

  Di arrived back upstairs, saw the lights still on in Good Bloke, shadows moving around in there. She went quietly into New Beginnings, stopped the fountain, turned out the main lights, sat there at her stool, and called Tony the sponsor. She finished, looked up to see Dave step out of Good Bloke, then a detective. Dave’s hands were free.

  Dave pulled the door shut until it clicked, turned to the cop and nodded. Job done.

  The cop was about Dave’s size, his age, even his build. He and Dave walked to the lift and the cop pressed the button. Dave rolled his shoulders. He said something and the cop guffawed.

  Di stared. Dave and the cop still joshing with one another while they waited. Old friends. Dave’s voice sounded different. The laugh too. The shakiness gone.

  The door opened and the cop stepped in.

  Dave suddenly looked back down the hall, straight into New Beginnings. He saw her there staring back at him. His smile went. They held the look. This time Dave let it out, let it show. Maybe he just couldn’t hide it: he was drowning. She had nothing to throw him.

  He walked into the lift, his head down.

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  John Dale was born in Sydney. He is the author of seven books, including a memoir, Wild Life; a campus novel, Leaving Suzie Pye; a novella, Plenty; a true-crime biography, Huckstepp; and three crime novels: Dark Angel, The Dogs Are Barking, and Detective Work. He lives in Sydney with his wife and son.

  Mark Dapin is the author of the highly praised military-police novel R&R. His debut novel, King of the Cross, won a Ned Kelly Award; his next, Spirit House, was long-listed for the Miles Franklin Literary Award. His short fiction has appeared in Meanjin, Best Australian Short Stories, and P
enthouse. He lives in Sydney, where he makes a living as a journalist and screenwriter, including for the recent Wolf Creek 2 TV series.

  Peter Doyle is the author of four novels and two collections of archival forensic photographs, City of Shadows and Crooks Like Us. He also writes about popular culture and music history, and has guest-curated a number of museum exhibitions, including Pulp Confidential and Suburban Noir. He is an active musician (slide and steel guitar) and works as an associate professor of media at Macquarie University, Sydney. His most recent novel is The Big Whatever.

  Robert Drewe’s novels, short stories, and memoirs—Whipbird, The Drowner, Our Sunshine, The Shark Net, The Bay of Contented Men, and The Bodysurfers—have won national and international prizes, been widely translated, and adapted for film, television, radio, and theater around the world. Our Sunshine became the international film Ned Kelly, starring Heath Ledger, while The Shark Net and The Bodysurfers were adapted for ABC and BBC television miniseries.

  Tom Gilling is a writer and journalist. Two of his novels, The Sooterkin and The Adventures of Miles and Isabel, were chosen by the New York Times as Notable Books of the Year. He has also cowritten several true-crime books.

  Julie Koh is the author of Capital Misfits and Portable Curiosities, which was short-listed for the Readings Prize for New Australian Fiction, the Steele Rudd Award, and a NSW Premier’s Literary Award. She is a 2017 Sydney Morning Herald Best Young Australian Novelist and a member of Kanganoulipo. Her fiction has appeared in Best Australian Stories (2014–2017) and Best Australian Comedy Writing. “The Patternmaker” is the result of a collaboration with designer Rioko Tega.

  Eleanor Limprecht is the author of two novels, What Was Left (short-listed for the 2014 ALS Gold Medal) and Long Bay. Her third novel, The Passengers, was published by Allen & Unwin in 2018. She writes contemporary and historical fiction, essays, book reviews, and short fiction. Her short stories have been included in Best Australian Stories, Sleepers Almanac, and Kill Your Darlings.

  Gabrielle Lord’s first novel, Fortress, was adapted into a film starring Rachel Ward, and Whipping Boy was made into a movie for television. She has now published sixteen adult novels. Her YA series of seventeen books, Conspiracy 365, is an international success and a TV series. Her recent releases include the first book in a YA trilogy—48 Hours­—called The Vanishing, and the adult novel The Woman Who Loved God.