K Road

by Ted Dawe

  As he emerged from the little shed where he lived at the back of his parents’ place, Mangu came bouncing up. He was mostly staffy but had something else in him that made him jumpy. Probably foxy. A small dog but lots of heart. Geronimo crouched by the clothesline to rub the dog’s ribs with his knuckles. Mangu immediately rolled onto his back and slithered along the lawn.

  Geronimo was pissed off. It had to be one of the fosters. Still thought yours was ours. Sort that one out. He opened the back door of the house and slipped inside silently. He had to be quiet because the two new kids his mum had taken in were asleep in the sitting room. Once they were awake the whole house would be on its feet. And there were a bunch of them and they were always hungry. Mongrels!

  He pulled the mutton roast from the fridge and made a few sandwiches. He knew he would be as hungry as hell in an hour or two. There was only time for a few Weetbix now. He tiptoed down the hall for a quick slash before he left. The door to his parents’ bedroom was open wide and one of them was snoring loudly. It sounded like someone sawing wood. In the second bedroom, Wesley and Boyboy were in bunks. That used to be where he and Chey slept. Liz and Ngaire were in the front room. Now there was a procession of welfare kids. Some staying a year or more, others only a day. His mum had this nurturing thing, and in the face of quiet opposition from everyone else, had been taking in kids non-stop ever since the girls had left home. Cheyenne couldn’t stand it, he’d shot through as soon as he had the chance. Geronimo, more independent in his room out the back, managed to keep separate from the busy routines of the house.

  He checked back in the bunk room. Maus was gone. Maus! That would be right. The kid was incurable. He was here on last chance. His mum said, next time they lock him away in the boys’ home. She loved the challenge. But now his jacket had been taken. It had the little Scorpion pin on it. Shit! Was Maus gonna pay for this one.

  Geronimo pulled on the white gumboots that were parked by the back step and had to fight off Mangu again who knew he was going out and was making a bid to go too. They walked together around to the front, Mangu leaping high to his outstretched hand.

  The black F100 nestled in behind the hedge on the front lawn. There had been a couple of times in the past year where someone had tried to boost it, so now he pulled the fuse before he left it each night. He popped the bonnet and carefully slotted it back in. The ute’s hearty rumble kicked in straight away. It took the edge off his anger. Now it was off to Cheyenne’s.

  Since Chey had moved in with Pearly he had become more settled and harder to motivate. There was a time when it would have been him getting Geronimo out of bed to go fishing, not the other way round.

  Geronimo guessed bed was a nicer place when you had a woman in it every night. But there was the hassle of a chick. Fitting in with what they wanted, was it worth it? He didn’t think so. Just another way of tying yourself down. All that sex carried a big price tag.

  When he pulled up outside the flats, Cheyenne was waiting on the front step with rod in hand. He got up and walked down to the ute as soon as it came into view.

  ‘Hey, Chey, caught me out, man. I’s sure you’d be in with the missus eh? Reckoned it would be another twenty minutes getting you out.’

  ‘No way, man. Fishing is still fishing. Pearly was out to it, anyway. We had a late one last night. Hardly worth going to bed knowing you’d be round at five.’

  They headed for the boat ramp with the growing air of expectation that always came when they neared the harbour. The day was full of possibilities and on the water everything land-bound seemed far away and unimportant. Over by the big shed there was a sort of rack arrangement where they stored their boat. It was a bit of a drag carrying it down but it saved all the crap that went with owning a trailer.

  Cheyenne unlocked the big chain that held the boat down on the rack and Geronimo carried the little outboard from the lock box on the back of the Ford down to the water’s edge. They were a good team, he and Chey. They didn’t need words or roles, they just got things done. After they had assembled the little pile of gear, motor, petrol can, bait box, rods and oars down by the ramp, they both braced themselves for the longer haul carrying the boat. Although aluminium and only just over four metres, she was still a weighty little vessel.

  ‘Toia mai,’ called Ronnie.

  ‘Te waka … Te waka …’ answered Chey. The little echo from kapa haka days. Some things never changed.

  Reaching the sea they took off their gumboots and threw everything into the body of the little boat. The water felt warm around their ankles, in contrast with the sting of the morning air. The sky was beginning to lighten and the dark bulk of the northern shore was visible amongst the dots of street lights.

  Cheyenne pushed the dinghy away from the shore and carefully lowered himself over the edge. Geronimo was already up front sorting out the lines. The little motor refused to fire at first, answering his powerful pulls with a dull whurr. On the fourth or fifth pull there was the tell-tale chuff that signalled the right conditions were being met in the mysterious upper cylinder. Sure enough, it fired next pull. Once it ran there was no stopping this motor, so they headed off for their special spot.

  The morning air was still a bit keen as they ripped through the black water. It was good though. Cleared the head. Woke them up. Ronnie’s eyes were alert for the landmarks on both sides of the harbour that told him he was in position. The power pylon had to be in line with One Tree Hill, and on the other shore a pohutukawa lined up with the first span of Mangere Bridge. He backed off the motor as they neared the spot. Chey had the lines baited with bonito, ready to go. There was always that thrill of the first bite – waiting for it made them both impatient during these initial few minutes. Ronnie cut the motor and Chey dropped the anchor. The rattling chain clattered over the bow and was followed by the hissing nylon rope. The anchor hit the bottom of the shallow harbour earlier than expected so they drifted a little to take up the slack.

  Chey passed him his rod and they both cast out on either side of the boat at the same time. Neither spoke as they waited for a strike. After what seemed only a matter of seconds, Ronnie felt the tug that started the fishing for the day. It was reliable, this spot.

  Half an hour and several small snapper later, Chey broke the silence.

  ‘So what’s up bro?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why you pissed off?’

  Ronnie sat frowning at the ripples around his line. ‘You know that Maus fulla at Mum’s?’

  ‘Ae, the thief.’

  ‘You said a bunch there bro, he’s lifted my jacket.’

  ‘Scorpion jacket?’

  Geronimo nodded.

  ‘Ho. That’s dumb. I reckon that kid’s a bit mental. Told Mum that I thought that too.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Give him a chance, Cheyenne, he’s never known aroha.’

  Cheyenne was a good mimic. Geronimo grinned.

  ‘He’s not gonna get much aroha when I catch up with him.’

  ‘If you catch up with him.’

  ‘I’ll get him all right, he’ll be with the streeties in town. Just a matter of time before he’s spotted, then he’s mine.’

  They fished silently for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Then it was Geronimo who broke the silence.

  ‘I got this job.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. With Ozzie the King of K. Road.’

  ‘No not that, this is somethin’ else. Moonlighting. You know this guy, Vercoe, puts some notes my way?’

  ‘Yeah man, you’ve said.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he gets me to do a bit of hunting and gathering.’

  ‘Yeah. Go on.’

  ‘This is hunting and it needs two.’

  Ronnie sensed Chey’s reluctance. Didn’t used to be that way, not when they were little boys. Now he had to choose the moment carefully.

  ‘OK. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing much, just there’s this spook hangs out there. I gotta watch my back.’
/>
  ‘Spook?’

  ‘Just a guy. He watches me, I know it.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Never had a real good look at him, that’s why I call him the spook. Seen him in the distance, caught a glimpse now and then but that’s about it.’

  ‘Freaky.’

  ‘That’s why I want you with me for this op. He’ll keep well back.’

  Cheyenne looked uncertain.

  ‘You in?’ Geronimo asked, his voice now clearly tense.

  There was silence for a while as both men looked at their lines.

  ‘Truth is Pearly’s not keen on me doing this sort of thing. I’ll have to tell her I’m helping you carry something heavy. Something like that, anyway.’

  ‘Whatever … you in?’

  ‘OK. This time brother…’

  3 RECONSTRUCTING THE NIGHT

  Brett slithered out of bed and stood next to the window. It was a bright clear day and in the distance he could even make out the pale blur of the Coromandel coast. For a moment he was reminded of family holidays there. He was seven years old again. Blissful times in a village of tents. Long hot days lived in the company of kids. The only time adults were needed was for feeds. Or maybe for running repairs to small injuries. That was the golden age. Before his father died, before his mother drank, before they began the slide into chaos.

  He turned back to look at the bed. The woman’s bare back was showing an early tan line. Sun lamp, he thought. Too even to be natural. She was face down; all he could see was her hair. A tormented swirl of blonde silk. Who was she? Where had she come from? Had they had sex? This was getting bad. Time to lay off the booze. At least while he was doing E. Mix the two and your brain was mush.

  In the shower, slowly it came back to him.

  She was one of Ozzie’s girls. It had been a night of Ozzie hunting. Why was it when people owed you money they were always hard to find? It was like those laws of the universe. Physical laws. E=MC2. Ozzie owes six grand = Ozzie was here a while ago … should be back soon.

  Finally chased him down at the Slipper. Was palmed off with two yards and this chick. ‘A livestock raincheck,’ Ozzie called her. But what was her name? Leanne? Roxanne? Marlene? Raylene.

  That was it, Raylene.

  On to it, at last!

  Then the drinks. That’s what did the damage: Ozzie standing him these cocktails at $20 a pop. Not that he would have paid. Ozzie never paid for anything. It was always money coming in. The old prick, so hard to get money out of.

  After that the night had pumped. The shitty little dance floor at the Slipper become a glittering stage and his usual un-co dance moves turned into cranked up free form. He remembered bombing and snorting with Raylene in the staff toilet. Kissing everyone. Even Ozzie, Jesus, what a shrink!

  And then the big strip. Why did he have to do that again?

  Happened every time.

  First the shirt, understandable, he was sweating like a rapist, but why did he always have to go all the way? It had become a party turn. Couldn’t stop himself. All because of that little pink ‘love everyone’ pill.

  Had he fucked her? That was the $64 (+ GST) question. Now that he remembered where she came from he hoped not. He’d paid the price with an Ozzie chick a year ago. Ended up with a three month antibiotic rash. Nearly turned him into a monk, that did.

  But now there was a bigger issue. He had been summoned. He was called to the mat, as they used to say at school. But now it was Miles Vercoe. No such thing as a rain check with Vercoe. Any sign that he lacked readies was a black mark. People with black marks seemed to get a visit in the middle of the night.

  Time to jump clear of this scene. If only he could. Too many wired bastards. It was OK for Vercoe, sitting up there on cloud nine. Property developer, entrepreneur, the papers called him. Add hypocrite and arsewipe and you were nearer the mark. Channeling Flutex pills his way by the van load. It was he, Brett, who had to hook up with people at ground level. Most looked like they belonged below ground level, actually. Halfway there already too. Trogs they were. People who saw him as Jesus one day and Jack the Ripper the next.

  Like that mad bitch off the TV. Case in point. If all the goggle-eyed readers of the Woman’s Monthly only knew the half of it. At first it had been the phone calls. The ‘darling’ this, ‘kissy kissy’ that. ‘It’s all so beautiful.’ ‘Love ya.’ ‘Later.’

  Later all right. Later she was screaming down the phone, and it wasn’t her 6 o’clock news voice either. He’d have to drive across town in the middle of the night, and there she was, waiting for him, pacing back and forth on the verandah of her big Herne Bay house, biting her nails and tearing at her hair.

  A year or so on, here she is, the whole nine yards: nose bleeds, paper skin, ten kilos scrawnier. And out of a job. This time it’s threats and accusations, claims of rip offs and threats of tip offs. Hardly able to string a sentence together.

  Last he saw her she was horror movie material. Wandering round the house, rabbiting on to no-one. Living on Red Bull and cigarettes. Finally turning on him. The screamed fragments and the spit, firing past his head like shot gun pellets. Fuck that.

  Or there was that fag schoolteacher. Where did he get off? In the early days he was Mother Teresa, banging on about the poor boys from South Auckland. The ones who never had a chance, brought up on KFC and a hook in the head. All the big words too: under-privilege, dysfunction, disadvantage. Dis and dat. Last week he rings for a top up. This time he’s got a buzz in his voice: and his eyes, man they’re REM on fast forward. Turns out he’s been tweaking all weekend, he’s got a house full of wild boys and he’s hanging out for a reload. Little wonder he’s in the shit now. Name all over the papers. The only surprise was that he, Brett, hadn’t been stuck in the frame too.

  Might have been, for all he knew.

  Gotta get out.

  As he towelled off, Brett had a quick audit of all the cash he had secreted around the apartment. There was fourteen grand, tops. Six short. Six lousy grand. If only he hadn’t allowed himself to be suckered by Ozzie, once again, there would be no problem. He looked at the bed where Raylene was now on her back, snoring softly. A breast protruded from the scrunched sheets. She was pretty, there was no denying it, but strangely, he felt no desire. Anxiety had put paid to that.

  He quickly sorted the money into hundreds and thousands at the bench, then looked for an envelope to put it in. There wasn’t one. He used foil. Tore off half a metre from the roll and scrunched it into a package. Great stuff, foil. A thousand and one uses.

  There were only two real choices. One of them had to bear fruit within two hours. One was another Ozzie mission. Take a trip out to that bad taste mansion at Mission Bay. Ozziewood. Brett knew that Saturday night would have fattened Ozzie’s holdings. Most of his money was made between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m. Saturday night-Sunday morning. Over-time in the fuck farm. The thing was to get to him before he had a chance to pay off anyone else. No, forget Ozzie. He would make him pay another way. Bide his time then pull an old Monopoly move. There was always an upside to these situations. It was just a matter of finding it.

  The other path was that of contra. Ice was always hot, ha, ha. Even though the media was bleating that kitchens were springing up all over the place. Still no sign of saturation. This was a product that ran and ran. A 50 gram bag of Pure would do the trick and he knew just the place to get it.

  Time was the thing. Otherwise all options were withdrawn. He filled a large glass of water at the bench and then with careful aim poured it on the up-turned face of the sleeping Raylene.

  It was as if she had been given a belt of electricity. It was amusing. She sat bolt upright, spluttering and rubbing her face.

  ‘Fuck! What’d you do that for?’

  Brett smiled sweetly. ‘Just to tell you. I’ve got to pop out, my love. When I get back I want the place tidy, and you gone.’

  ‘Where do you fucking get off…’ she started. He held up his hand as if to
strike her and she flinched in anticipation. His hand gently subsided to a finger against his lips.

  ‘Not a word darling.’ He paused, allowing her time to compose herself. ‘Two things. Place tidy. You gone. See ya,’ he said with a smile.

  Then he turned and walked out.

  Brett eased the Porsche out of row E lot 39. He noticed that the little wanker with the midget Thai wife had stuck his jet-ski into 40, Brett’s allocated second slot. He paused for a moment wondering if he should attack it. Make some sort of point. He had been allocated two slots when he bought the apartment and he was going to have two. Even if he never used the second one.

  No, he’d deal with that tosser later; there were more important things to do now. Getting his hand on six grand before lunch time was fairly important.

  The traffic was light when he emerged into the glare of the day and headed off east. With the stereo belting out and fully engaged in driving this beast, he was for a short while, relaxed: almost content. He would have to give the balance in P. It was as good as money and more accessible. Mind you, the rate of exchange would be punishing. It always happened when you changed the terms.

  He dialled up on the mobile as he waited at the lights.

  ‘Come on man, pick up, pick up you slack arse. It’s ten o’clock.’

  Then the recorded voice cut in. ‘The number you have dialled is not currently…’

  ‘Great!’ he said and hurled the phone into the passenger’s seat so hard the back came off it. It was one of those days where the world moved too slowly … where the line of cars on Grafton Bridge, the sequence of red lights, even his phone, seemed to conspire against him. A P-head stuck in a Prozac world…