Cheaters

by JR Carroll

  When he got home he changed out of his wet things, had a cup of tea with his mother, glanced through the paper. An hour or so there and he couldn’t stand hanging around any longer, so he got moving. First he drove to a luggage store and shelled out for a good suitcase, a Samsonite, then cruised Sydney Road, Broadmeadows, looking for a suitable car yard. Eventually he settled on Pingalis Motors, which had a yard full of shit-heaps that didn’t look much better than scrap. The sky had cleared completely by now, and every wet, metallic surface flashed in bright sunlight. A man greeted him as he poked among the clunkers for sale, and Danny eventually settled for a dark green 1971 Mazda Capella with three months registration and hardly any rust, for which he paid three hundred and fifty dollars. After the paperwork he then offered one hundred and fifty dollars extra to have the salesman drive it to Airport West for him and then get a taxi back to the yard. The guy didn’t jib for a second: times were slack for Pingalis Motors.

  After explaining to his mother that someone had given him the car as part-payment for a debt, Danny sat out in the steel garage for an hour, working out the best way to handle the next few days. He was still uptight and scared from the meeting with Kenny. Sigmund, Victor – the whole nest of them seemed, in his mind, to be locked in together. It was possible, even likely, that they knew where Danny lived, where Mischa lived, and that thought induced a cold shiver. The money wasn’t safe in either house – and that was where the Mazda came into it. Today was Tuesday. By Friday it would all be over. Three days. The garage vibrated as a big jet roared overhead, making him look up. It seemed to trigger him: he pulled out an old leather trunk that had belonged to his father, unlocked it and added the contents of his pockets and the neck pouch to what was already in there. Then he started counting.

  On the Thursday morning, ten-thirty, Danny was doing what he did best: playing roulette. Using the bankroll Victor had given him, he had developed a new system, which was based on percentages. The return was modest each time, but the chances of winning high: thirty out of thirty-seven. It meant covering most of the numbers on the table, which was tiresome and hard work, but in less than an hour he was up by quite a sizeable margin. Strangely, when he was engrossed in playing roulette all his fears dissipated into the air, absorbed by the bright lights and the incessant bustle and noise of the swarms of punters. Only the spinning wheel and the little white ball mattered.

  On this day he had stopped gambling, done his mental calculations, been to the cashier’s window and visited the toilet to hide his skim in the neck pouch when Victor materialised with his mobile in his hand and a winner’s smile on his face.

  ‘I’ve just had some luck,’ he said. ‘The other day a chap gave me a hot stockmarket tip, some goldmining outfit. I bought in right away, and this morning they’ve gone through the roof.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ Danny said. ‘Well done, Victor.’

  ‘I can’t decide whether to sell now or not. This chap thought they’d go even higher, but I don’t know. It’s a risk. I don’t even know if they’ve found any gold or not. I understand it’s all speculative.’

  ‘Have you doubled your money?’

  ‘Oh, more than that. Much more.’

  ‘Then I’d sell if I were you. Take your profit and walk away.’

  ‘I think you’re right. Anyway, I was just speaking to Sigmund, and he wants to meet us for lunch. I take it you’ve finished here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do all right?’

  A nod from Danny. He handed Victor a cheque, which Victor trousered so fast it was like sleight of hand. The cameras, Danny realised. He doesn’t want the cameras to see it.

  ‘Good. Look, I have some business to fix up, so I’ll be a bit late. Sigmund knows this. Grab a taxi and get yourself to the Canton Duck, in Chinatown. It’s in Troutbeck Lane, somewhere near the Chinese museum, I understand. Anyway, you’ll find it. I gather it’s a small, family establishment, and Sigmund knows the people there, so we’ll be looked after.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Nearly twelve. Sigmund said he’d be there at half-past. I should make it by one, one-fifteen. But start without me.’ He put a hand on Danny’s shoulder. ‘I think I will sell that stock, Danny – thanks for the advice. I’ll take my profit and walk away. Like the sound of that. Sounds like the gambler’s creed, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Victor …’

  But Victor was already retreating. ‘Danny, no time. We’ll have a good lunch. I think it’s a celebration – Sigmund said he had some terrific news. Must be very special – he never goes out during the day. Never.’ He waved and was gone.

  Danny didn’t take a taxi. He didn’t want to go to lunch with Sigmund, either, but how could he fail the feast to which he had been summoned. Once again, Victor’s powers of persuasion had given him no chance of refusing. Well, it was only lunch after all, and the way Danny looked at it, his time in this caper was short, counting fast down to zero. Twenty-four hours, and he and Mischa would be in the air. Take your profit and walk away.

  Near the Chinese museum, Victor had said. Troutbeck Lane. Danny knew the name, but there were so many lanes and alleys in the city, especially in this precinct, that he could not be sure where to find it. Walking along Little Bourke he crossed Russell and continued east, looking for signs. Signs. There were enough of them – in fact there were signs everywhere he looked. There it was – Troutbeck Lane. It was just an ordinary alleyway like all the others. It didn’t seem to be the kind of location where you would expect to find a restaurant, but these family-run places were tucked away in all kinds of obscure little corners. He checked Raymond Weil time: 12.25. Into Troutbeck Lane he went, looking out for the restaurant sign. What was that chow house called again? Canton Duck.

  When he was halfway down the lane he could see there was a right turning, which was a dead end. He reached a skip overflowing with waste and stopped. There was no eating house in here. There were just the backs of buildings that looked like warehouses, but some of them must have been restaurants going by the putrid fish smells from the skip. This was definitely a bum steer. He turned to leave, thinking he’d better ask someone where this Canton Duck was, when some men ambled out from the dead end right turning. Funny: he hadn’t noticed them when he’d looked down there a few seconds ago. He didn’t take much notice of them at first – then he saw one of them was Lewis Kenny. I can flush you away like shit through a goose. Fuck. The other two were the strong-arm men he had seen standing over Donna Pritchard in the casino.

  ‘Danny, Danny,’ Kenny said. ‘Guess what. Three strikes and you’re out, mate. End of story.’

  Danny took a backward step, but the two others had positioned themselves behind him. One of them spread his big hands on Danny’s shoulder blades and pushed him, hard, into Kenny’s arms, and Kenny hit him deep in his stomach. The wind went right out of Danny’s sails there and then. Shit it hurt. Kenny pushed him back to the others, telling him what a dirty, thieving little gook he was. They abused and played with him for a minute, then Kenny grabbed him by the throat and told him he was going to slice him up into sashimi and toss him in the skip with the rest of the stinking fish. You’re on the nose, pal. Your time’s up. Wave goodbye to the people. Bye, people. He banged Danny against the skip, and when he bounced back hit him again and again in the chest and stomach. Danny did not realise he was being stabbed until he saw the bloody weapon in Kenny’s hand. It was unusual: the blade wide and short, the tapered point curved upwards like a hunting knife. Kenny held it between his fingers and jabbed it into Danny as if he were punching him with a knuckleduster. He went down, then felt their hard kicks jolting his body. Danny looked at his chest: there were rents in his shirt, from which oozed and spread his life’s blood – he could see it welling and pumping through the sodden cloth at an alarming rate. He put a hand over it, and it seeped through his fingers. Blood looked so dark, so vivid, when there was a lot of it. Nothing was this colour except blood. It was frightening. He could feel himself emptying out, growing weak
, and felt so sad and deprived. The blood was pooling under him, saturating his back, then it began inching its way towards the valley in the centre of the lane and along the slight incline towards Little Bourke Street. The kicking stopped, then hands were grabbing at him and rifling through his clothes; he pushed them away with what strength he had but they kept coming back and pulling at his pants pockets, turning them inside out. Then there was shouting and swearing, a boot to his leg: ‘Come on, he’s fucked. Let’s fuck off.’

  Danny heard, and felt through the cobblestones, the scampering feet of his attackers. He lay twisting and squirming alongside the filthy skip. There was so much pain now, pain everywhere, burning him up. He knew he could not survive. It was all over. The computer terminals in his brain were being unplugged, one by one. Oh, fuck. He should have taken his profit and walked away a lot sooner. He should never have changed his rules. He should never have … oh, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Please … He was conscious that he was weeping, weeping and bleeding. His mouth and the back of his throat were full of blood, making him cough. Mischa. His vision was fading fast: the blue sky at which he had been staring had turned opaque, and he knew that if he allowed his eyes to close he was finished. He fought hard to keep them open, to withstand the searing pain, to find reserves of strength where there was virtually nothing left to muster.

  Then he became aware that someone was leaning over him, and lifted his head to see who it was: a woman. She was there, but not doing anything. Why wasn’t she helping him? He tried to speak, to ask for help, but the blood in his mouth made speech difficult. He raised his head and felt the blood run back down his throat, making him cough. Then he knew for sure he was going to die very soon, in moments, and said, through the blood: ‘Mischa.’ He lifted an arm, a last, weary gesture, and barely realised his watch was being removed. His vital signs were vanishing. Numbers, thought, memory, reasoning, everything: all gone. In their place was a kind of white noise, a flickering, fading static as the last slowing impulses became a continuous flat line. He did not feel the wallet or the cash from his neck pouch being removed. He wheezed and rattled like an old, old man, his left leg spasmed, then his head rolled slowly to one side and he went to sleep.

  21

  The following morning they were getting ready to leave for the supermarket for a decent splurge when there was a loud rapping on the door. Thinking it was probably a neighbour, since he never had visitors, Robert opened the door – and then immediately wished he hadn’t. There were three of them: a solid young guy in shorts, singlet and work boots with tatts, a neck as thick as Robert’s thighs and muscles everywhere, a thin guy with tiny eyes and wild hair, like Young Einstein’s, and a coal-black man of mountainous proportions.

  Robert said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ the muscleman said, moving Robert to one side with a gentle push and entering the premises. The other two followed him, the black one shutting the door and leaning on it. Robert had a very bad feeling indeed. But then he thought: Today I die – good. Wonderful Some pain, one short sleep past, we wake, and then it’ll all be over.

  ‘I’m definitely going to buy some new clothes,’ Florence was saying as she appeared from the bathroom. Then she saw the visitors and in that second her world collapsed totally. It was right there on her face, which drained instantly of all colour. She opened her mouth, but didn’t – couldn’t – speak.

  Larry Wolper said with a softness that was tinged with menace, ‘Well, look at this, will you. Hi, kid. How’re ya doin’?’

  Florence swallowed. Robert said, ‘Who are you people. What do you mean barging in here. You can’t just …’

  ‘You shut your face, Legend,’ Larry said, pointing but not looking at him. He seemed to have three sets of biceps on his upper arms instead of the usual one. ‘You’re in enough shit as it is. Isn’t he, Thommo.’

  The skinny one with the shocked hairdo said, ‘Yeah, fuckin’ shut up, right? We’ll work out your freight in a minute.’ The black man was just cruising around the room, checking it out and whistling noiselessly.

  ‘So,’ Larry said. ‘You been floggin’ your twat, Florence. You filthy fuckin’ … Shit, is this the best you could fuckin’ manage? Not fuckin’ up to much, are you.’

  ‘Please, Larry,’ Florence said in a scared voice. ‘I don’t need this. Just go, will you.’

  ‘You don’t need this. I fuckin’ need it. I need it bad. I don’t like filthy sluts like you shaftin’ me and then floggin’ their dirty little cunts around town.’

  The black man, who had wandered to the breakfast bar, said, ‘Hey, mon. This is some cheap digs. Look at the fuckin’ workmanship here.’ Using a fraction of his power he lifted the laminex bench, separating it from the cupboards beneath it in a shower of crumbling and splintering chipboard, with dried glue stretching and snapping like elastic. ‘This is bullshit, mon. Bullshit. Where’s the fuckin’ building inspector.’ He hurled the benchtop into the kitchen while Larry and Thommo looked on with bright-eyed amusement. This was going to be some blast. Robert was feeling powerless, enraged, terrified – but this was his place; it was up to him to do something before these animals got out of hand.

  ‘We’ll give you what you want,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is you’ve come for. Just … leave.’

  Larry looked at him this time. ‘What’s your fuckin’ name, Legend?’ he snarled.

  Robert took a deep breath and said a line he’d been waiting to use for years, ever since seeing Lawrence of Arabia. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is for my friends.’

  ‘My name is for my friends,’ Larry said. ‘You must never get to use it then. Smartarse.’

  He pushed Robert against a wall; when he hit it his teeth rattled.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ Florence shouted. ‘He didn’t do nothin’.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what gets up my nose, Florence,’ Larry said. ‘When I work my fuckin’ butt off from dawn to fuckin’ dark, fourteen hours a day, six days a fuckin’ week, and then some bitch sneaks into the fuckin’ joint and rips off the fuckin’ rent money. That really shits me.’

  ‘And the Mary Jane,’ the black man said. ‘Don’t forget the Mary Jane, mon.’

  ‘Right,’ Larry said. ‘Fuckin’ Mary Jane too.’

  ‘We’ve – I’ve smoked that, but I’ll pay you for it. I’ll give you the four hundred back and another hundred for the dope, okay? Then we’re square.’

  ‘No, we’re not fuckin’ square,’ Larry said, moving towards her. ‘You forgot the fuckin’ interest. We’re a long way from square.’ He gave her a shove, and she stumbled and went down.

  ‘Don’t hit her!’ Robert said. ‘We’ll fix it up! Whatever it is, we’ll pay you, she said!’

  ‘Look at this, mon,’ the black man said, bending over and inspecting the TV. ‘This is what you call an antique. We won the war with this.’ He took a step back and kicked the screen, which exploded. ‘Now that’s fucked it, hasn’t it. Fuck.’

  Thommo was wandering around to see what he could do. There were some books against a wall. He picked one up, tore pages out of it and tossed it over his shoulder.

  ‘That book was fuckin’ boring,’ he said. ‘And so’s this cunt.’ He ripped up another one and tossed it the same way. ‘They’re all fuckin’ boring.’ He kicked them all over the floor. Robert was stiff with fear, and Florence was crying silently. Larry slapped her face and shoved her again. The black man was looking for something else to wreck while scratching his chest. There were cupboards over the sink; he ripped off one of the doors.

  ‘Check this, mon,’ he said. ‘More shit fuckin’ workmanship.’ He pulled off more cupboard doors. Then he ripped the space heater off the wall. ‘These heaters are no fuckin’ good.’

  Strolling back into the kitchen area he pushed the fridge over. It hit the floor with an ear-splitting crash. Larry began hitting Florence, repeatedly slapping her about the face, abusing her and tearing her dress.

  Suddenly Robert didn’t care any more: eno
ugh was enough. He thrust himself between Larry and Florence, got right in the man’s face and instructed in a controlled voice that was surprisingly free of terror, ‘Leave her alone, you weak bastard. Get the fuck out of here – the whole gutless fucking bunch of you. Take what we owe you and get out. Now.’ He stared into Larry’s unmoved, colourless eyes, noticing their clarity and also a fine scar, like a razor-cut, across the cleft of his chin. Robert could feel the power flowing from Larry’s body. He was thinking, quite rationally: This man is about to kill me. He is going to take my head right off.

  Larry hesitated, seemingly caught in two minds. Then he dipped his head and butted Robert sharply on the bridge of his nose. It happened in a flash.

  Robert saw many stars and staggered backwards. His eyes were stinging. When he opened them he could not see properly because they were filled with blood. The noises of rampaging were all around him; he heard Florence yelling, ‘Stop it! Stop it! Here’s your bloody money!’ in a voice that was trying to be authoritative but which was in fact hysterical.