by JR Carroll
The young man tried to raise his head, dimly conscious that someone was there. He tried to tell her something, but there was too much blood in his mouth, and it blew out in thick, frothy bubbles when he tried to form words. There was blood coming out of his nose, too, from both nostrils. Horrified though she was, Florence also felt inexplicably calm: it was so unreal. She felt as if she should cradle his head, or do something. Inexperienced as she was in such matters, Florence could see that he was in his death throes. He seemed intent on telling her something, perhaps the name of his killer, but could not. Then he mustered the last of his strength and uttered something that sounded like ‘Miss you’. He lifted his arm towards her, and she noticed a gold watch gleaming on his wrist. Florence slid it off and dropped it down the front of her bra. It was just an instinctive action. Maybe he wanted her to have it. Then she saw the inside pocket of his jacket, which was flung open. The corner of his black wallet was protruding. She looked nervously behind her, but the skip was serving as an effective screen from public eyes. She lifted the wallet from his pocket, opened it and saw with wide eyes that it contained some hundreds and fifties. She put the wallet inside her bra too. Both his trouser pockets, she noticed, had been pulled out by the killers, and there were coins on the ground: no doubt they would have grabbed the wallet had they not been disturbed. She was about to leave when she saw he was wearing something, a pouch of some kind, around his neck. Tearing open the velcro fastener she removed a thick bundle of cash with excited fingers: the killers had missed this too. With no room left in her bra, she pushed up her lemony dress and put the cash bundle in her panties. Florence was feeling both thrilled and appalled with herself as she adjusted her clothing. It wasn’t as if she didn’t feel pity for the man, but the temptation to rob him was simply too overpowering.
She was about to scarper, but then, seeming to summon up all his remaining strength, the dying man reached out for her; Florence took his hand and patted it. The poor fellow was making wet, rattling sounds in his throat, as if there was a blockage in his windpipe preventing him from breathing freely. Finally he gave a gasp and fell back, hitting his head on the pavement with a loud crack. His leg gave a few jerks, then he was perfectly still. Florence knelt by him for a few seconds, staring at the body, then said, ‘I’m sorry, whatever your name is.’ Then she got herself together and scurried away in the direction the attackers had taken: further into the lane, a dogleg to the right, past some more skips at the backs of Chinese restaurants, left again, and finally emerging into the mainstream of normal city life in Lonsdale Street. Trying to behave inconspicuously she joined the flow of pedestrians, conscious of the watch and the wallet and the wad of money uncomfortably filling her undergarments. She hailed a taxi at the first opportunity, got in the back seat, gave the driver directions to the Richmond flat, then wondered how she was going to get the cash out to pay him without being seen foraging in her bra or knickers. During the journey she managed to sneak her hand up her dress, into her panties, slide the rubber band from the bankroll and peel off a note, which turned out to be a hundred-dollar bill. She’d never had one of those before. Florence was bright-eyed and absolutely ecstatic with extreme, conflicting emotions and confusing thoughts rushing like a whirlwind through her mind, not the least of which was the matter of how much she was going to tell Robert when she got to the place she now called home.
Even when she opened the door and went in she didn’t know. Robert wasn’t in the living room. The toilet flushed and then she heard the tap running. Robert came out wiping his face with a towel, and when he saw her standing there his face broke out in a relieved smile.
‘Did you get it,’ were the first words he said as he moved towards her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t find anyone, Robert. There was no-one there.’
Robert’s shoulders sagged; the smile faded away and vanished.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know what …’
‘It’s all right, love. Not your fault. Not your problem. Thanks for trying anyway.’ He turned away, rubbing his face, the vibrations from his back and shoulders betraying the inconsolable disappointment of a boy who had not been given that special, yearned-for toy he’d been promised for Christmas. Florence wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her face on his back. He was hot and moist through his shirt.
‘Robert,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Turn around.’
Wearily he did so, and when his sad eyes met hers she reached into her bra.
‘Florence,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’m just not interested, love. I feel shithouse, in fact. Please don’t …’
‘Sh,’ she said, and handed him the watch. Puzzled, sceptical, he gave it the cursory once-over: now he was interested. It wasn’t a piece of shit. It was Swiss. Eighteen-carat gold with a gold and silver band. In mint condition, too: not a mark or scratch on it.
‘Where the fuck did you get this little item,’ he said. He was working out how much they could get for it – at least five hundred, maybe more.
‘Now this,’ she said, and withdrew the black wallet from her other bra-cup. When she opened it Robert’s jaw just dropped open. The wad inside it was half an inch thick. He looked at her, then at the wallet, then at her again.
‘Shit, Florence,’ he said in a dry voice. ‘What have you done. What have you fucking gone and done, girl.’
Florence unbuttoned her dress and let it drop to the floor. ‘Feel inside my knickers,’ she said.
Robert looked down at them, seeing the unnatural bulge and frowning. He put a hand in them, touching and smelling the thick mat of salty hair, and coming out with a roll of cash that was as thick as the first one, which was still in the black billfold in Florence’s fist.
‘I found it,’ she said. ‘I found it all in a lane.’
But Robert was still trying to take it in. He had the look of someone who had been slapped in the face, hard, and was trying to come to his senses. He was reeling.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he said numbly. But in truth, he didn’t know what he believed. Large amounts of money were found in the street, buried at railway stations … But good fortune did not often, if ever, come the way of people like Florence, or himself. It just didn’t happen. Yet … what alternative explanation was there?
‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘I picked it up off the ground. All of it. The watch and the wallet were together, near a rubbish bin, and the rest of it was a bit further away.’
‘Where,’ he said flatly.
‘In the city.’
‘Where in the city.’
‘In a lane somewhere. I’m not sure which one. It was near Russell Street, near where I was trying to score.’
So, Robert was thinking, you were wandering along in the busy heart of town and found all this treasure lying at your feet, which, miraculously, no-one else had seen. Robert had grave misgivings. What was he mixed up in? Fair enough, she could find a watch, maybe a wallet, but a wad of cash too? What was going on? There was guilt, deceit, written on her face, but he was reluctant to push her too hard in case she became upset. It seemed to him that Florence was desperate for him to believe her story because she wanted him to be complicit in whatever she’d done. She wanted a partner in crime. Robert was totally thrown. Shit. For all his venal excesses over the years he had never resorted to thieving or crime, not real crime, to fuel his habits. At least the savings he’d siphoned from the joint account with Patti were half his. Naturally, he had no desire to attract police attention, to wear shit for something Florence had done. Apart from spending two or three nights in the drunk tank he had managed to avoid all that grief on top of everything else – so far. But the fact was, he realised, this was too much money for him to throw back in her face. And after all, they were partners.
‘All right, Florence,’ he said. ‘I believe you. You’re a very lucky little person.’
‘We are,’ she hurriedly corrected. ‘It’s ours, Robert.�
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‘No. It’s all yours, Florence. I had nothing to do with it.’ This was not merely selflessness speaking, but a desire not to be tainted, to keep himself at arm’s length.
‘No way,’ she said. ‘You looked after me, and now I’m looking after you. That’s fair, isn’t it.’
She was in his arms now. Robert was touched, and seriously confused. Rattled.
‘I suppose it is,’ he said.
‘How much do you think we’ve got?’ she said.
‘I’ve no idea. Let’s find out.’
‘Let’s go to bed and count it.’
It seemed appropriate, and Robert, who had had a few drinks but felt sober now, was thinking of going there anyway, just to kill time, before Florence had turned up. ‘Why not,’ he said.
Sixteen thousand and six hundred dollars was the final figure. Throw in the watch and they had maybe eighteen. She had flung the emptied wallet over her shoulder and the notes were now scattered on the washed sheets – Florence seemed to take pleasure in shuffling them around like playing cards, even rubbing the waxy plastic material on her skin. Some of it had fallen on the floor.
‘I wish we had some champagne,’ she said.
‘We’ll get some,’ he said, smiling at her while she fooled with the notes, picking up sheafs of them and letting it all float down onto her, until she was covered with money. She had it all over her and between her legs, where it slipped down.
‘Doesn’t it turn you on,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he said. It was turning her on, that was apparent. Watching her, Robert experienced an almost subliminal flashback to his wild days with Patti, when all they did was fuck and drink and spend money. There was so much of it around then, and yes, it was one hell of an aphrodisiac. Robert was remembering the time they stayed at the Crillon in Paris, where all they did for three whole days – between having bottles of champagne and gourmet meals sent to their room – was carve chunks out of each other like feral cats on this massive bed with satin sheets, day and night. It made no difference if they were both pie-eyed: in fact, being pissed on expensive fizz enhanced their sexual performance, gave it an extra potency – and made them more inventive. They didn’t see a great deal of Paris on that trip. Being young was so different: in those days, even when you were hung over to blazes you were still happy. Money made you horny, there was no question about that: it put a completely different slant on life. While they were ripping into each other one afternoon Patti asked him, ‘Do you think we’re sick?’ and Robert said, ‘If we are I don’t ever want to get better,’ and that became a private joke for the years to come: Lord, don’t make me better yet. Some joke now. He looked down at Florence’s head, with her hair spilled out over his stomach. Among the rustling of banknotes she was sucking his cock again, valiantly trying to get him up. She was so determined and so randy, the poor deprived girl. Robert spread his legs and let her go at it, playing with her hair and trying to fantasise. She was really into it. Now she had his balls in her mouth too, rolling them around on her tongue. He closed his eyes, drifting with the sensation; it was really Patti with him, and they were back in the Crillon, not this miserable shithole. When Patti sucked you off you stayed sucked off, by Christ. Robert remembered actually passing out briefly one time because the orgasm was too strong for him: his system overloaded and his brain just … blew a main fuse. It was the trip of his life, and he never forgot it.
Lying there while she worked on him, making wet, fleshy noises with her lips, Robert suddenly found himself tuning in to a slight but unmistakable change deep in his water. Something was definitely stirring down there. He emptied his mind until it was a total blank, slackened his limbs and allowed himself to just go with the flow. Soon he became aware that his cock was growing in her mouth; it was getting hard. He could feel it doing its thing. It was up. Then his chest was heaving. Seizing the moment he rolled Florence onto her back, went instantly inside her and, with a delirious howl, gave her one of the very best. It wasn’t the Crillon and the sheets were not satin, but the way Florence was sliding around on the fresh banknotes gave them the right feel.
20
Danny had had a scare as he was coming out of the casino into a rainy afternoon, having had a profitable two hours in the Platinum Room. His pockets were bulging with money, and he only needed to make it to the car park and the safety of his Golf. He knew that in foreign casinos winners were often targeted by gangsters, killed and robbed of their cash. He had been told that day by Brand Filjar, who seemed to have a never-ending fund of such tales, of a case in Macau where an American tourist had visited the casino, won thousands, left the premises intending to return to his hotel – but never made it. His body was found at a rubbish tip, and no-one was charged with his murder. The police merely shrugged it off, it was so commonplace. Why had Brand told him that? Danny was starting to feel distinctly paranoid, but rationalised his fears away with the thought that it was nearly over: almost time for the fat lady to burst into song. She couldn’t appear fast enough.
He was about to place the key in his car door when he felt, but did not hear, a presence at his back. He turned swiftly and was face to face with a smiling Lewis Kenny. Although it was raining steadily Kenny was only wearing a T-shirt and jeans and seemed completely unaware of the water running off his face and drenching his clothes.
‘Danny, old son,’ he said cheerfully, showing off his teeth. ‘How’d you go today? Big score?’
Danny caught him glancing at his pockets. He felt exposed and vulnerable; there was no-one else around in the car park. He could see from Kenny’s face that he knew this, that he knew everything, that he was not there for a free shower or social chit-chat. Danny was comforted by the knowledge that he was carrying most of his cash in the neck pouch. But it could only hold so much without looking obvious, so he had a sizeable amount in his pockets as well.
‘So-so,’ he said.
Kenny’s grin broadened. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels.
‘So-so?’ he mimicked. ‘So-so? Where does that fuckin’ come from, Danny? Chinkland?’
‘What?’ Danny said. He was becoming increasingly conscious of the cash in his pockets, and Brand’s Macau story was preying on his mind. What does this bastard want?
‘All you rice-eaters are cunning, shifty little shits, aren’t you?’ Kenny said.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Danny said. ‘I’m not a rice-eater.’
‘Course you’re a fuckin’ rice-eater,’ Kenny said, raising his voice against the intensifying rain. There were hailstones too now, but Kenny ignored it all. He might have been standing in bright sunshine. ‘Think I don’t know one when I see one? You’re a fuckin’ gook, mate. Your old man, or his old man’s slipped the old wanger into some horizontal gash somewhere along the line.’
‘I have to go,’ Danny said, and half-turned to put the key in the door, being careful not to take his eyes off Kenny, or present too much of his back to him.
‘Danny,’ Kenny said.
‘What.’
‘I been hearing things about you.’
‘What things.’
‘Things like, you goin’ to the coppers over a certain matter, about which you know fuckin’ nothing. Is that right?’
Danny shook his head. ‘I haven’t been to the cops about anything.’
‘Also, you’ve been moonlightin’, rortin’ the fuckin’ system blind. You know what I’m talkin’ about, don’t you. Course you do, you cunning, shifty little slope rat. You’re a squirrel. It’s in your slit eyes, Danny. You can’t hide it. You might think you’re fuckin’ inscrutable, but you’re a fuckin’ pane o’ glass to me, son. I got your number.’
‘I haven’t done anything to hide. I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about.’
‘On about? Wake up, Dan. Wake up before you die. You might be dead already. It might be too late. You might be a dead man walking.’ He was saying it as if it were all true. Danny shivered and was frightened.
Kenny said, ‘You gooks are supposed to be good at martial arts, aren’t you? Well, I got news for you, Danny. I’ve seen a shitload of fighting in my time, all kinds, and I never once saw a karate chop that could beat a bullet or a knife. Remember that, for the short time you have left.’ He stepped forward, got right in Danny’s face and stabbed his chest with his finger. ‘You’re in up to your eyebrows, Dan. Nowhere to go but under. And I can flush you away like shit through a goose.’ Rain had got into Danny’s eyes. He brought his hands to his face, wiped the water away, and when he could see again Kenny was not there. There was no-one to be seen anywhere and he was standing alone among the cars in the heavy downpour, rain and huge hailstones hitting the car bodies with such force it sounded like an interminable drum roll.
On the road to Airport West, Danny was hit with delayed shock: what was Kenny doing to him? What had made him think that Danny had gone to the police? Shit. Shit. He was shaking as he drove the car. He was so weak he wanted to faint. He was feeling as if the screws were tightening on him. He had a stack of money now, and what was to stop Kenny or anyone else from killing him for it? You meet people in the casino, they talk, tongues wag, stories about big winners and losers are passed around, everyone knows everyone’s else’s personal business. He kept thinking of the American tourist in Macau. The soaked, smug face of Lewis Kenny came back to him again and again, Kenny standing in the downpour in his T-shirt, showing Danny he wasn’t a normal person with normal feelings. He had never seen Kenny in the Platinum Room, but Kenny obviously knew people. He knew Victor Wineglass. Who else did he know? Sigmund? That seemed an unlikely combination. But someone had got in Kenny’s ear about Danny. What were the dynamics here? He came at it different ways, but couldn’t make the lines intersect, couldn’t find a solution. Kenny was just there, and the threat had been real. The dripping face grinned at him through the wiper blades. Danny put his foot down: he had better do something, urgently.