by Tony Birch
‘You okay?’ the boy asked.
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ I pressed my forehead into a dry and splintered weatherboard, feeling beaten by the trip I had taken, all for nothing. When I looked up the boy was gone.
I walked around the homestead, stopping occasionally to look in through a broken window or pick up a piece of rusted metal from the ground and examine it. When I got back to the front of the house I saw the boy returning down the dirt track on his bike. An elderly white-haired woman with rich brown skin wobbled along beside him. She marched through the gate and walked up to me. Her hands were as calloused as a brickie’s and I had never seen a more weathered face.
She gave me a long hard look.
‘You been telling Conway here you’re a relative of old Jimmy?’
‘Yes. I am.’
She dropped her hands onto her ample hips and opened her stance.
‘And what sort of relative would you be?’
‘What sort? Well, I’m … I’m his …’
She leaned across to me and whispered, ‘Your name? What’s your name, then?’
‘Peter. My name is Peter.’
She nodded her head up and down and quietly repeated my name in a soft voice as she ran her eyes over my face. ‘Yes,’ she said loudly. ‘It’s Peter.’
She raised the pale palm of her hand and rested it against my chest. ‘Peter. I heard she name you Peter.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I knew one day you’d be comin’. Thought I’d maybe be dead before you get here. I was sure that one day Peter would come.’ She rested her other hand on Conway’s head. ‘See, Conway. Like I’ve been tellin’ you all.’
She looked along the dirt track she had walked, lifted her arm and pointed.
‘We’re up here. Me, young Conway here, and the others. You want to come with us? You look worn out, Peter. Come with us. Up home.’
THE MONEY SHOT
Vincent and me arranged to meet in the car park at the 7-Eleven at midnight. ‘On the dot,’ he’d repeated when he’d called me at the Golden Cue earlier in the night. At half past the hour I was pacing out front of the store doing the best I could to keep warm. There was no sign of him, the 351 tank he drove around town in, or Buster, an associate from way back who he preferred to work with. Buster was top shelf at lifting cars, was a reliable driver, and he could heavy with the best of them. But I couldn’t figure why we needed him on this job. We wouldn’t be using a hot car, it wasn’t a robbery – in the technical sense – and there’d be no aggravation unless we fucked up completely and the Jacks showed.
‘Buster could stay home on this one,’ I’d put to Vince while planning the job as we walked his dog along the dry creek bed that ran alongside the freeway. It was our office, quiet and out of the way. ‘We don’t need him. We end up with a two-way split and a fee for the girl. Makes more sense than a three-way cut. Do the arithmetic, Vince.’
‘Arithmetic. What does that mean? You watch too much shit on the TV. Fuck the arithmetic, Jackie. And it’s math – do the math. Buster’s never said no to a job. I ask him to do something, he never questions it. Fronts up, does the work and splits. Doesn’t splash the dollars around at the Casino. Or on the snatch. And he keeps his mouth shut. Like a steel trap. Can’t buy that loyalty. I line up a job, any job, he’s in.’
Vince wasn’t going to change his mind.
‘Okay. He’s in. When’d you last see him? He doesn’t travel too well on the gear. He could be using.’
‘Months back. I’ve had nothing for him. It’s been dry. He’s been at me for some work. And he’s not using. I wouldn’t take him on if he was using. Talked to him on the blower. He’s trying to settle down. By the way, the girl we’re working with, Juice, she’s not in for a fee. She set this up. So she gets a full twenty-five per cent.’
‘Fuck. Anyone else? What about the bloke who mows your lawns? How much we paying him?’
‘Take it easy, Jackie. This is the laziest quid you’ll ever make.’
I couldn’t remember money ever being lazy, not the way we had to work for it, at least. It came with stress and aggravation.
I walked into the 7-Eleven, over to the hot food counter, pulled out the last sausage roll from the warmer and hit the long black button on the coffee machine. The girl behind the counter was Indian. Or something like it. She had one of those jewelled studs stuck through a nostril. Even in the stained two-sizes-too-big company polo shirt she was wearing, she looked stunning. I tried striking up a conversation about how tiring it must be working the graveyard shift. She smiled as politely as she needed to, handed me my change and went back to watching a Bollywood song and dance on her laptop.
I walked outside and woofed down the sausage roll, took a couple of sips of the syrupy coffee and poured what was left on the ground. It wasn’t like Vincent to be late. The job could be off, for all I knew. I never carried a mobile when I worked, in case a mate or some old girlfriend called and I was tracked later on. My legs were turning numb on me. If he didn’t pull in by one a.m. I’d hop it home.
I was still hungry and my guts were rumbling. Other than the sausage roll, I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. I rarely ate before a job. Knowing we might have to sit for a while, the last thing I needed on my mind was a gut ache and a badly needed shit. Ducking behind a tree or up a laneway for a piss was no bother, but having to find a bush to squat behind could catch you out – and leave you with a grubby mitt.
I went back into the shop with a hot pie on my mind, realised it could be a poor choice, then walked the aisles and settled on a packet of chocolate Teddy Bears. I was back out front jumping up and down on the spot and munching on a foot when the 351 grunted into the car park. Vincent pulled up in front of me, left the engine running and gave me the thumbs-up. Buster was in the back seat. I walked around to Vincent’s side of the car and knocked at the window. He shook his head like he was sorry for keeping me waiting.
‘Where you been, Vince? It’s the North Pole out here.’
‘Sorry.’ He nodded towards the back seat. ‘We’ve had complications.’
‘Like what? The job still on?’
‘It’s on. Jump in. We’ll talk on the way.’
I hopped in the front passenger seat, turned to Buster and offered my hand.
‘Long time no see. How you been, Buster?’
‘Good, Jackie. First rate.’
Even in the dull light he did look better than the last time I’d seen him, almost a year back. He was thinner in the face like he’d lost weight, and for the better. He was nursing a blanket in his arms and didn’t bother shaking my hand.
‘What you got there? You bring your dirty washing, Bust?’
He pulled the blanket away. ‘No. It’s a kid.’
It was a baby, with big dark eyes and a tuft of hair poking out from under a pink knitted bonnet. I turned to Vincent for an explanation. He shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands up like he didn’t want to know. The car was still idling in the car park. Buster and me had worked together on one or two jobs but were not overly familiar. Vince could control him but he had a short fuse and could fight like ten men. I was careful around him and watched my words.
‘Is that a baby girl you have there?’
His face lit up like a doting father, which apparently he was, although I’d heard nothing about it.
‘Yeah. A little girl. Florence. She’s five months old.’ He brushed the side of her soft face with a fat thumb. ‘What do you think of the name? Florence.’
I’d never given baby names a thought, and didn’t care one way or the other. But I wasn’t about to insult him and wind him up.
‘Yeah. It’s a nice name. Like Florence Nightingale?’
‘No. Florence and the Machine. Pam, her mum, is a huge fan.’
‘She’s … Baby Florence … is she yours?’
‘Yeah. Mine and Pam’s. Our own kid.’
‘Ahh, with this job on, little Florence, she’s not coming along for the ride, is she?’
Buster apologetically lifted one of his massive fists and spoke as quietly as an old girl with a bad throat, another surprise.
‘I’m sorry about this, Jackie. I really am. But you see, Pam got a call earlier tonight – I was all ready for Vince when Pam’s old girl, who lives up in Benalla, took a fall in the kitchen and ended up in Emergency there. Pam’s had to take off and look after her. She couldn’t take the baby with her ’cause some prick broke into our car a couple of nights back and knocked off the baby seat. And we haven’t picked up a new one.’
The baby let out a grizzle and Buster rocked her in his arms.
‘I’m on my own with her until Pam gets back. I’ve cleared this with Vince. Haven’t I, mate?’
Vincent didn’t say a word. I was keen to prompt him.
‘Has he, Vince? Cleared this with you?’
‘He has, Jackie. Don’t worry. It’ll be cool.’
The baby rolled her head from side to side and opened her mouth.
‘See that,’ Buster pointed, with the knowledge of a midwife, ‘with her gob open like that, it means she’s hungry. She wants her milk.’
Florence let out a squeal and started to cry. If it had been anyone but Buster nursing the baby I might have made a joke about breastfeeding her.
‘Milk? Do you want me to go into the shop and grab a carton?’
‘We can’t do that, Jackie,’ he scolded me, like I was a fucken moron. ‘She’d shit through the eye of a needle if you fed her straight milk. Or she wouldn’t shit at all. I can’t remember which. But it would sure fuck her up. And Pam would cut my balls off.’
He reached behind the front seat and pulled out a pink vinyl backpack covered in yellow daisies. He unzipped the bag, pulled out a full baby bottle and held it to his cheek.
‘Good. Still warm. This is proper baby formula, Jackie.’ He held up the pack. ‘And I bet you haven’t seen one of these before? A fucken esky for bubs.’
‘No, I haven’t had use for one. You, Vince? You seen the baby esky?’
Vincent was picking dirt from under his fingernails, avoiding the obvious problem we had on our hands.
Buster tucked the baby into his armpit and slipped the teat into her mouth. She latched onto it straightaway and sucked like she hadn’t been fed in days. He even made baby noises as he fed her. He might have cleared bringing the baby on a joyride with Vincent, but not me. I was taking a risk on the job and was entitled to a say.
‘Buster, have you given any thought to pulling out of this one? You know, you and Florence might have been better off taking the night off.’
He shot me a look that cut me in half. Only Buster could do that.
‘I need the money, Jackie. For a new baby seat and other stuff. She’ll be after a cot soon. And I’ve promised Pam.’ He gave me the eye, to be certain there’d be no argument. ‘Anyway, Jackie, I roll with Vince. You know that. I’m Pancho to the Cisco Kid. Isn’t that right, Vince?’
‘Sure is.’ He sounded about as enthusiastic as I was. ‘Sure is,’ he repeated. ‘Hold onto the kid, Bust.’
He put his foot to the floor, reversed the 351, spun the back wheels and tore out of the car park.
Vincent went over the plan as he drove. It wasn’t easy concentrating on the detail. I had the radio in one ear, blasting ‘hits of the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s’, and baby Florence screaming out her lungs in the other. She’d demolished the bottle of formula like an alcoholic on the charge and was after more. Vincent struggled to talk over the top of her and a Van Halen guitar solo.
‘Juice is in there with him now, at the motel on Park Street. She’s going to send us a text on this,’ he held up a throwaway, ‘with the room number. We crash the door in five minutes after the text comes through. Or thereabouts. We burst in and you start shooting. You got it?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I screamed. I hit the off button on the radio. ‘I’m sorry, Buster, but I can’t hear a thing with the baby in my ear. Can you do something to quiet her?’
He bounced Florence up and down on his knee. ‘I’m trying. I’ve winded her. My guess is that she’s still hungry.’ He held up the empty bottle. ‘There’s no formula left.’
‘What does she eat?’ I asked.
‘Mostly this stuff and some cereal and baby biscuits. You wouldn’t believe it. She’s got no teeth and them biscuits are hard as rocks. She chews on them with her gums. You should see her go. Like Bugs Bunny on a carrot.’
I pulled the packet of chocolate biscuits from my jacket pocket.
‘Maybe you could try her on one of these. Can’t hurt her.’
‘What are they?’
‘Chocolate Teddy Bears. My favourite.’
‘Hey, fucken mine too.’
He took a biscuit out of the packet, broke off a leg and rested it on the tip of little Florence’s tongue. She stopped crying straight off and went at the chocolate.
‘She’s loving it,’ Buster smiled. ‘Look at her go.’
‘Thank God,’ Vincent muttered. ‘So, did you get all that, Jackie? You know what to do when we go in?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got it. You kick the door in. I shoot. But can we backtrack a bit. Who’s the pick-up?’
‘Firstly, we don’t have to kick anything in. She’ll leave the door unlocked for us. And the pick-up,’ he hesitated, ‘is some professor from the university.’
‘A fucken professor? From the university? The plan was to mark someone with a truckload of money. Some cunt-struck old prick in banking or insurance, you said. Maybe a politician. We never talked about any professor.’
‘Take it easy. We tried for the top end of town and got nowhere. Her sister got her a spot working at a club on King Street. She was there for a month and the only bites she got were from low-rung clerks and floor traders too pissed to scratch themselves and too tight to buy her a drink.’
‘She should have shown them her tits.’
‘She did. Only ended up with more pimply kids chasing her.’
‘And she threw it in?’
‘She did. And then about six weeks back, she was at the bank and saw this bloke in another line eyeing her like he wanted to fuck her on the spot. She played him right there. Dropped her handbag, he picked it up, she smiled and said, “Ta”. They went off for coffee together and she reeled him in.’
Buster broke off another chocolate leg for the baby. He bit the head off the biscuit and chewed on it himself.
‘You got more of those, Jackie? She loves them.’
‘Yep, plenty, Buster. You look like you fancy them yourself.’
I passed him another biscuit, which he swallowed like a sword.
Vincent pulled into the kerb, opposite a rundown 1960s motel. Its neon sign flashed ark iew at us. He pulled a digital camera from his jacket.
‘I charged the battery before I left home. It’s ready to go. Just point and shoot. All we do now is sit and wait for the call.’
‘Are you sure about this, Vince? I don’t see us squeezing a fortune out of a fella like this. I’ve done a few runs through the university, lifting purses from the library, a laptop here and there. Most of them intellectual types walk around with the arse out of their pants and beards storing the leftovers from lunch. Can’t tell them from a dero in the gutter.’
‘I don’t give half a fuck about how they dress. I’ve done my homework and this bloke’s perfect. He’s got two kids in private school. That’s fifty thousand a year in the till on its own. They live in a double-storey renovated terrace in East Melbourne, a couple of mill, minimum, and they’ve got a beach house down the coast. Don’t worry. He’s got plenty. And Jackie, the cream-on-the-cake is his missus. She’s old money. The embarrassment would kill her. Her old man is a retired politician. He was a Treasurer or
something. So don’t worry. This bloke will pay.’
‘How’d you get all that info on him, in six weeks?’
‘Juice says he’s depressed. And likes to talk a lot. Mostly about his troubles.’
‘What’s the bag?’
‘If we go for a one-off, probably twenty. If we can string him out, we might double it. Leave that to me, Jackie. Just be sure you get a good shot of his bare arse along with his happy face.’
‘That’s if he’s fucking her. Maybe he’ll back out, seeing he has so much at stake with the wife. He could get cold feet.’
‘He’s already fucking her. She gave him his first look at it weeks back. Same motel. He rode her like a Cup favourite, she said. Hands and heels. And he couldn’t wait to mount up again.’
Buster leaned over the seat and tapped Vincent on the shoulder.
‘Have you worked with her before, this Juice chick? She reliable?’
‘Yeah. She’s a full pedigree. Her granddad was one of the last of the big street bookies. My old man pencilled for him when he was starting out. Our families have been Christmasing together for as long as I can remember. She’s like a sister.’
‘I wouldn’t want my sister on the game,’ Buster laughed.
‘Neither would I. I said like a sister.’
We sat in the car for another half hour without a call from Juice. Vince checked the phone a couple of times, worried that it might not be working. ‘Cheap shit.’
I sensed a complete fuck-up.
‘You got a smoke, Vincent? I’m out.’
‘Thought you were trying to give up?’
‘I am, but it’s not working. I got a sore jaw chewing on all that nicotine gum.’
He pulled two cigarettes from a packet and handed me one. He was about to light up when Buster interrupted.
‘Fellas, can you smoke outside of the car? You know, with the baby and all, and that passive smoking.’
Vincent looked at him through the rear-view mirror.
‘Are you serious, Buster? It’s freezing out there.’
‘Yeah, I am. I’d be okay with it, just the one fag, but if Pam smells cigarette smoke on the baby’s clothes she’ll go off her head at me.’