Blindside

by J. R. Carroll

  Stan remained at the bar because the shooters were gone in a nanosecond, and then he had to order another one. He was feeling nicely juiced as the blood pumped in his ears in time with the music, which had now segued into ‘Simply Irresistible’. The thumping, techno-house mix interspersed with an unseen DJ’s voice jived perfectly with his mood. He’d had some snow earlier and it was wearing off, but the shooters were topping him up. Tonight he was very much in Superman mode—he could tear the whole fucking building down if he’d a mind to. He checked out the undulating waves of purple faces, searching for one in particular. Then he felt a hand on his arm.

  ‘Hey!’ Rick Stiles shouted against the din.

  ‘Hey!’ Stan shouted back. Since they hadn’t seen each other for a few days they shook hands five different ways, the ritual culminating, as always, in a make-believe head-butt, then a bear hug.

  ‘What are you havin’?’ Stan shouted.

  ‘Whatever,’ Rick told him. In no time a shot of Green Chartreuse and Absolut was in his hand.‘What the fuck’s this?’

  ‘Down it,’ Stan said. ‘It’ll zap you fast.’

  ‘I like to notice the view on the way sometimes,’ Rick said, and downed it.

  ‘Got any decent shit?’ Stan said.

  ‘Couple of Mitsubishis. No blow. It’s scarce right now. And fucking expensive.’

  ‘Fuck. I was hoping for some blow. I used up my last half-gram.’

  ‘Didn’t save any for me, you selfish bastard.’

  ‘Give us half of one of those Mitsubishis.’

  Rick produced a small plastic sachet, took out a pill and carefully broke it across the middle. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Stan said, and they washed them down with new shooters.

  ‘Zinggg,’ Rick said. ‘Christ, I see what you mean. Bang.’

  ‘Nice cocktail,’ Stan said. ‘It’s a real seven-forty-seven.’

  ‘A what?’ Rick said, cupping his ear.

  ‘Seven-forty-seven. Put the brakes on and you still finish up in fuckin’ Tokyo.’

  Rick laughed his head off and ordered a fresh round. ‘Simply Irresistible’ had now become ‘My Sweet Lord’.

  A bit later Stan grabbed Rick’s arm and said,‘Let’s go out for a while.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Come on.’

  Down the staircase, past the restrooms and out the back was a car park. A big African with a tag clipped on his shirt stood guard at the door. ‘No pass outs,’ he told them.

  ‘Fuck that . . . Seraphim,’ Stan said, reading the tag.‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Don’t matter, mon. No pass outs. It’s house rules.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Stan said, and got on the phone. ‘Joe? Stan here. Your coon Seraphim on the back door is givin’ me wax— no pass outs, he says.’ He waited, then gave the phone to the African.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ the African said, listening. He tossed the phone to Stan, who caught it. ‘You boys make sure you practise safe sex now,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck you too, you dumb fuckin’ coconut,’ Stan told him.

  They climbed into Stan’s Ferrari. Rick lowered his window and took out his soft pack of cigarettes. ‘Stuyvo?’ he said, and Stan helped himself.

  ‘That cunt Shaun McCreadie’s out,’ Stan said after blowing some smoke.

  ‘I saw that,’ Rick said.

  ‘We’re gonna fix his wagon.’

  ‘Who is?’ Rick said.

  ‘You and me.’

  Rick smoked and flicked ash out the window. ‘Ease up, mate. That was a million years ago.’

  ‘We’re gonna fix his fuckin’ freight all the same, once and for all.’

  ‘Not me. Sleeping dogs, Stan.’

  ‘Bull-fuckin’-shit. He’s goin’ off, and you’re in it with me, brother. It’s the old team back together.’

  Rick was shaking his head and exhaling smoke with a whistling sound.

  ‘You know what this is?’ Stan said. ‘Three words: Unfinished. Fucking. Business.’

  ‘It’s over as far as I’m concerned, mate—dead and buried. Along with the old team. There will be no revival. Hell will freeze over.’

  ‘Can’t jump ship after all this time, Rick. Unless you’re a rat.’

  ‘I’m not jumping ship. Christ.’

  ‘You a fuckin’ rat?’ Stan said, in his face now.

  Rick was unmoved. ‘Fuck off, Stan.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Fuck off? Everything we’ve been through, now you stiff me, eh?’ Stan said, pushing every lever. ‘My brother?’

  Rick threw his cigarette out.‘That was another era. I don’t do that shit any more. Finito. I have two little girls to support, remember? I got a real job and all.’

  ‘You do want to be part of the new business venture, right? Still want your share of that action?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Rick said.

  ‘Everything. I need you onside, mate,’ Stan said. ‘You help me, and I help you. That’s how it’s always been. And don’t give me that crap about your little girls. Listen: I’m putting out the call, mate. Are you receiving? Can’t do it alone, it’s a two-man job: the old team is definitely back in town. And you can’t afford to say no—right? Right, Rick?’

  ‘Cool it, Stan,’ Rick told him. ‘Just fucking calm down.’

  But Stan could not cool it. He sat rigid, fists clenched and face quivering in a sort of controlled simmer. Waves of rage and hostility filled the car. Rick turned away and lit up another Stuyvo. When he’s in this frame of mind you either have to bend to his will or fight him. I swear, if I have to I’ll fight him, and kill him, because I am not going back down that road . . . Not interested, not helping. And Stan, you cunt, as much as I love you, you have no hold over me now; no sir—not one itty-bit. So go fuck yourself.

  The journey home was not a happy one for Rick. Three times Stan phoned him, trying a different tactic on each occasion: emotional blackmail, financial incentive, then threats of violence against himself and his wife and two children. That was when Rick blew up and tossed his phone over the back seat. He skidded on tramlines and nearly crashed the car. By Christ, he was dirty—it was one thing to deal man to man, but what sort of animal brings innocent children into it? Rick didn’t believe Stan meant that, about hurting the girls, but he was crazy, after all. You couldn’t trust him because he was so fucking volatile. And he reacted badly to alcohol and chemicals. He was a complete nut when he got this way. But then, next day, he was just as likely to call and grovel and beg forgiveness. He had two sides, both extremes, and neither one was the real Stan. The real Stan was fucked up years ago, by a train of bad shit that started long before the Shaun McCreadie affair. That family . . . well, it was rooted from day one. Rick didn’t believe Stan would cut him from the upcoming business venture. He needed an acceptable front man as licence-holder, and because of his dodgy past Stan would probably not meet the ‘fit and proper person’ requirement of the Brothel Act. That’s if it even got off the ground, which Rick doubted.

  When he got home Rick settled down in front of the TV with a half-bottle of Captain Morgan rum and his cigarettes. Through the plasterboard walls of the stucco-and-timber house he could hear his wife Gloria snoring and mumbling in her sleep. She was a lazy wretch but a decent mother with a heart in the right place. Rick sometimes became annoyed with her because she had no idea how tough it was earning a dollar driving cabs, as Rick did night and day, to clothe the ever-growing, fashion-conscious girls and put food on the table. To supplement their income he dealt drugs in a minor way, but even so had the constant worry of selling to undercover cops. And his wife had no commonsense: when he gave her housekeeping money she bought goods at the corner store for twice what they cost at the supermarket, and wasted it on dumb things like magazines and expensive salon cosmetics and hair products. She was quite pretty, but obsessed with her appearance.

  As per usual there would be no sleep for Rick tonight— with special thanks to Stan. He resumed watching an ol
d black-and-white movie he’d had on earlier: It’s a Wonderful Life, with Jimmy Stewart. Apparently he is saved from killing himself— by an angel—and then finds out how much he has been missed: everyone loved the poor sap. What a crock of shit. Rick watched the movie anyhow, with a cool professional eye. He loved Jimmy Stewart in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance and the Hitchcock thrillers, but this Capra guy was away with the pixies. He lived in a world of his own, like Stan.

  Rick Stiles was an old-movie buff. His all-time classics, the ones he watched over and over, were Key Largo, with Bogart taking on Edward G.Robinson and his band of thugs,and Twelve O’Clock High, starring Gregory Peck as the burnt-out air force commander. The opening flashback sequence in that one never failed to move him. But there were scores of others: 12 Angry Men, with Henry Fonda up against Lee J.Cobb, The Magnificent Seven, the movie that launched Steve McQueen’s career, and, right up there too, Brando’s electrifying portrayal in A Streetcar Named Desire. They all rated in Rick’s Top Ten,along with Hud, Stagecoach and Spellbound. But right now he was going through a Jimmy Stewart phase. Northside 777 was next.

  Smoking through his pack of Stuyvos and sipping the Captain Morgan, he immersed himself in the movie and tried to put Psycho Stan out of his mind. Psycho—another great movie. That guy—Stan, not Norman Bates—was losing it fast. He was definitely a candidate for suicide in Rick’s opinion. He was fond of saying, ‘I’m living in a world of hurt’, which sounded like a cheap line from a movie. If he ever did try topping himself he sure wouldn’t get the Jimmy Stewart treatment. There’d be no angels for Stan the Man. They’d shoot the bastard again to make sure he didn’t get up, and right now Rick would be first in line to pull the fucking trigger.

  Stan wasn’t feeling so hot himself as he drove home to Port Melbourne. The E tablet normally made him feel warm and fuzzy, but that wasn’t happening now. Warm, fuzzy Stan had gone and crazy Stan had replaced him. He was dark on Rick—abused him out loud for most of the journey, with the window down, so that when he’d stopped at lights a man in the car next to him looked over to see who he was shouting at. Stan shot him a savage glare and said, ‘What are you fuckin’ starin’ at, Bozo?’ Turned out it was an unmarked cop car, and they pulled him over. It wasn’t Stan’s night. The two plainclothes officers searched him and went through his car too, demanding to see receipts for a portable Sony CD player, a Palm Pilot and a set of earphones still in their packaging. Stan didn’t have any receipts, although he’d purchased them that day. He didn’t even know what to do with a Palm Pilot—he just wanted one. When the suggestion was made that he might have come by the goods dishonestly he spat the dummy and said,‘Don’t shit me. You cunts know who the fuck you’re dealing with here?’ To which the main cop said, after checking his licence: ‘Yeah—Stan Petrakos. Jesus. Not the Stan Petrakos? Goddamn. Not the piece-of-shit, two-bit slimebag and cavemouth Stan Petrakos? That one?’

  Stan said,‘Go tell it to Lou Galvano—if you can find him.’

  ‘Ah,’ the same cop said while his partner foraged around in the Ferrari, ‘Lou Galvano—another leading citizen. He speaks well of you, Stan. When we had him in the cells once he said you gave the best blow jobs in town bar none.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Stan said. He was on simmer again.

  ‘You had a drink tonight?’ the cop said.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I can smell it on your mangy, cavemouth, piece-of-shit dog’s breath. Here, blow on this—unless you prefer something with meat in it.’

  The other cop sniggered. Things were going downhill rapidly for Stan. The preliminary breath test showed that he was significantly over the legal limit of .05. They confiscated his car keys, the CD player, Palm Pilot and earphones, some CDs and tools and a few other items for which he had no receipts, and drove him to the nearest police station. The Ferrari was left at the side of the road. At the station they made him empty his pockets and remove his gold chains and his belt before conducting a proper breathalyser test and interviewing him in relation to the confiscated items. Then, because he was showing signs of violence, they put him in a cell while they did the paperwork. It all took a long, long time—they made sure of that. By 6 am when they had drawn up a string of bullshit charges on top of the DUI Stan was not feeling like Superman any more. The shooters and the half-Mitsubishi had worn off completely, leaving him ragged and parched. Bastards wouldn’t even give him a glass of water.

  ‘Gonna report you cunts to the Human Rights Commission,’ he shouted from his cell.

  ‘Gotta be human first, dickhead,’ one of the night shift uniforms replied, triggering guffaws.

  Finally they let him out of his cell and sat him down.

  ‘Do you have any complaints about the way you’ve been treated here?’ the station house sergeant said, straight-faced, completed rap sheets and statement in front of him.

  ‘I want my phone back,’ Stan told him. ‘I want to make a call. You people have made a big mistake. You’re all dead meat.’

  ‘Are you making threats to kill police officers?’ the sergeant said without emotion.

  ‘By the time I’m finished you bastards’ll be lucky to crack a job in fuckin’. . . Warrnambool. You’ll be cuttin’ down the dead coons every fuckin’ mornin’.’

  Still unmoved, the sergeant said, ‘I repeat: are you making threats to kill police officers? I still have room here for additional charges if that is the case.’ He waved the papers.

  ‘I want my phone,’ Stan said.

  ‘All in due course, Mr Petrakos,’ the sergeant said.‘First we need to clear up these very serious threats you’ve made, then you are required to read and sign this statement so we can file the charges—then we might consider bail. Might.’

  So it went on. It was another hour before Stan was allowed to leave. He collected his possessions—excluding the CD player, Palm Pilot, earphones, CDs and tools, which the sergeant said were ‘retained as possible evidence, pending’— and discovered that his wallet had been cleaned out. It had contained around $150. He looked at the sergeant and the sergeant looked back at him with the same expressionless face.

  ‘Everything in order?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Stan said, and stepped out into the blinding early-morning sun without another word.

  Everything in order. Stan had plenty of time and opportunity to reflect as he made the three-quarter-hour-long journey to his car on foot. He considered phoning Suzen, but the dozy bitch would be comatose until noon after a night at Joe’s. He was so dirty on Rick he hadn’t bothered going back in to collect her. So he hoofed it. He didn’t give a shit about the DUI rap—he’d had two of those before and it made no difference. He drove anyway, every single day. Having a distinctive car meant he ran a bit of a risk of being picked up, but so what?

  So fucking what?

  He turned around in the general direction of the police station and screamed: ‘SO FUCKING WHAT?’ He shouted it a few times and added: ‘ALL COPPERS ARE CUNTS!’ A young woman hurrying along was his next target:‘ALL COPPERS ARE CUNTS, DARLING! I’M GONNA KILL ME SOME BEFORE I DIE!’ She was gone in a flash after giving him a quick, nervous smile—humouring a lunatic on the loose. He hollered at her disappearing back: ‘RUN, RUN, RUN, BABY! GO ON, RUN !’

  Everything in order. Stan considered how he might avenge himself. He could plant a bomb in the cop shop, one of those satchel bombs. Pipes full of gunpowder and scrap metal, with a timer: go in, put it down, leave. Stan was a top-notch hater. Sooner or later he would find a way of squaring it with those cunts. He had their names and they were on his death list— the detectives were Wilson and Janovic, and the sergeant was Blore. He would deal with them. Wilson, Janovic, Blore . . . He committed the names to memory. Bomb in the cop shop played brightly in his mind. He saw the white flash, the shit flying, bleeding bits of copper blown everywhere, the limbless, headless corpses spreadeagled on the road . . .

  Headless corpses.

  This image blurred into his father and Steph: s
ame old, same old. Everything came back to that. Stan trudged on, eyes downcast, watching his feet crunch the footpath: left, right, left, right . . .

  ‘FUCKING CUNTS!’ he screamed at no one. A man across the street glanced at him and Stan stopped, raised his face and went: ‘AAAAARGH!’ The guy scurried on.

  Liquidity problems. Cash flow problems. Cop problems. He reached an ATM and put in his card before noticing it was shut. He punched the ATM twice, walked on, came back and punched it some more, then gave it a flying kick.

  That was better.

  Cash flow problems. Stan should be rich, not busted. He should be swimming in it. But the old man, the old man . . . George totally fucked it, the whole nut. It was a sorry story and Stan hated remembering it. Stupid old cunt. Stan roared: ‘DIE, DIE, DIE!’

  George, his father, was dead, leaving behind millions for his only surviving son. Millions. Then the Tax Office became interested in his affairs. An investigation found that George owed huge amounts in back taxes. They froze everything and tallied up a bill, adding retrospective interest and penalties. Receivers, liquidators, accountants and lawyers swarmed over his activities, uncovering all his hidden cash and his assets, all his cars, planes, properties; his antique and art collections, all the fittings and furnishings, his wife’s possessions, her horses, even her engagement ring—the lot. Picked him clean as a plucked duck. Everything was sold off, including the never-completed Lancefield mansion on which he owed a long line of tradesmen and sub-contractors vast amounts—for bargain basement prices. Turned out he owned very little. It was all done with mirrors, based on chains of unpaid debts going back decades. Hundreds of people lined up to be paid so many cents in the dollar. He’d been nothing but a shifty, sleazy fucking car salesman all the time. Stan had retained a top brief to try and stop the flow of cash, but all that did was suck up more money—Stan’s. That brief vacuumed it all up and gave zip for it. When it was over there was fuck-all left. The liquidators let Stan keep his Carlton pad and the old Ferrari, both of which were in his name, and that was that. The rest was dust.