by Ted Dawe
4 THE WHALE RIDER
When Hape heard about the parade a little fire had started somewhere near her heart. It warmed her up, from the inside. A parade!
Later, when somebody on the K. Road Business Association told Lotta that the street girls could have a float, well, Hape just knew she had to be part of that. The next thing she heard on the grapevine was that a meeting would be held in the Naval and Family. The first one anyone had organised since that girl had disappeared.
Hape got there early. She was in for a long night already, but what the hell, this was something different. After 10 p.m. the joint filled up fast. Everyone was there and the regulars were driven upstairs by all the squawking and squealing. After a while Gigi got up on the bar did a few dance moves and then screamed for quiet. Hape noted her fishnets had a big tear at the back and you could see the soft black stubble in the harsh light on her face.
When there was some quiet, Gigi said that the numbers had been capped at 30 and she only wanted the pretty girls. Moles need not apply.
‘They’d scare the public’ said Chanel with a giggle.
Names were taken. Hape joined the line. When she got to the front, Gigi and Chanel exchanged looks.
‘I don’t think so girlfriend,’ said Chanel, and pointed to Hape’s foot.
One of the platform shoes had about three inches more on it than the other.
‘My legs are as good as yours,’ Hape said to Chanel, burning with shame.
‘Yes, but they’re different lengths, darling,’ said Gigi, looking around for a laugh.
‘Not a matched set,’ added Chanel.
Everyone hooted.
That was the end of it. Hape slunk from the bar, eyes swimming with tears. She had been transported back to Waituhi Primary School, complete with club foot and special shoe.
Hape didn’t see Sione and Sonny until she was right next to them. They were throwing a set of car keys back and forth and in between them was a short, fat man in a dinner suit. Piggy in the middle. They’d got his keys while he was at the ATM. It was an old trick but it kept them in P. They already had his money, but they wanted more. They wanted to hammer him because … well, just because they could.
The little man was desperate, face scarlet, and he looked like he was about to cry. Sonny and Sione were closing in for the smash.
Then it happened. Hape reached up and did an intercept. For a moment everyone stood still. This wasn’t part of anyone’s plan, not even Hape’s. She flicked the keys to the little man, who scuttled across the road to the safety of his shiny red Jaguar. Hape cringed, waiting for the punch.
Some time later everyone heard that the parade had been taken over by some big developer. Same guy who was putting up the 30 floor apartment block next to the flyover. Money was being thrown at it. K. Road was going national. All respectable. The theme had been changed. No more jocks in frocks, hero parade stuff. The theme now was ‘Celebrating Polynesia’. Word was that the girls weren’t wanted any more. It was all about the street’s new image. Re-branding they called it.
Back in Galatos Street it was on everyone’s lips. All the girls were highly pissed.
Some had already assembled costumes. Changing the parade was like offering someone a chair and pulling it away as they went to sit down.
‘When I find that Miss Polly Nesia she won’t be celebrating. I’m gunna boot her where the sun don’t shine,’ said Gigi.
Chanel gave a high kick in agreement. Some part of them always knew they were going to be ignored again, same as ever.
As the day got closer the street put on its party clothes. The old buildings were swathed in banners and flags. All of Auckland seemed to turn its focus on the bent road that ran along the ridge. In spite of their rejection the girls got caught up in the spirit of things. No point in standing on the footpath with your bottom lip dragging on the ground. They were party girls and this was party time. The traffic was mad, just like Christmas. Everyone was making money.
On the night of the parade the girls decided that if they couldn’t be on a float they would take over the Pitt Street corner. They would be a sort of float anyway, just one that didn’t move. They would upstage those straight hypocrites who had rejected them. They would steal the show from the footpath.
By 8 o’clock the street was packed. People had poured in from the far reaches of the city. It was tough for the girls to hold their ground because every mum, dad and their 2.4 kids were squeezing in from both sides.
Then the band started up and a squadron of police motorcycles crept slowly towards them from the Ponsonby Road end. Everyone pushed forward, trying to get a better look. The girls were marooned in a river of well-scrubbed Pakeha faces. They felt out-numbered and panicky.
Behind the motorbikes with their flashing lights, walked three people. The Prime Minister, the Mayor of Auckland and a short fat man in a dinner jacket.
‘Who’s that little dude?’ someone asked.
‘He’s the guy who’s paying for all this they reckon.’ Gigi knew more than she was letting on.
After that came the culture groups from all the Pacific nations and finally, further back, something big and grey brought up the rear.
Chanel, who was the tallest could see it first; it was a giant whale made of flowers with flashing lights for eyes. Two unicyclists carried a banner before it which read ‘Te ika o Tamaki Makaurau’.
High up on the head of the whale a figure was perched, swinging pois with little lights in them and swathed in a shimmering gold puipui. Her face was transformed by a moko picked out in glitter but it was still easy to tell who it was. It was Hape.
As she got closer the street girls broke out into cheers as they recognized her, up there, proud, representing them. Gigi and Chanel were strangely quiet. Misty turned away, suddenly needing to file her nails. The whale drew level with the Pitt Street corner. Hape spotted them and let loose a call. A call dripping with anger and indignation.
It was her call…
It was her karanga…
It was te karanga o Hape…
5 THE (COLD) HARD TRUTH
‘It’ll be good. It’ll be different.’
‘Owners won’t wear it.’
‘Well, not yet maybe, but when they see it – different story.’
‘Tell me again.’
Paul was relieved, at least the guy seemed interested. ‘Something focused on this street. Something that treats K. Road as an entity in its own right. A community.’
‘Yeah? I think entity is the better word.’
‘This street is a town within a city, but a very special town. There’s nowhere else like it.’
Merv snorted.
‘It’s a town defined by everyone’s dark other. One that talks to our anarchic impulses…’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘A settlement that sits on the border between the golden mile and the dreaming suburbs, the cusp perhaps…’
‘University piffle lad. You might read that sort of crap but Hard Truth readers –’ he paused for thought. ‘Hard Truth readers want those sorts of stories.’ He pointed at the fading banners that wallpapered the upper reaches of their old office. ‘The dope on Auckland Cup winner.’ ‘Mayor’s bridge to nowhere.’ ‘“Hang him!” shouts anguished mother.’ ‘The All Black and the choir boy.’
‘That’s what they want. That’s what they’ve always wanted. And I reckon as long as I sit in this chair … as long as the owners make enough money to keep their kids at boarding school … as long as water flows down hill … that’s the way it’s gonna to be.’
Merv pulled out his rollies, rocked the creaky old tilter back till he could get his feet on the desk, and began the absorbing task of constructing a smoke. He had the triumphant smirk on his face that said, ‘That’s cleared all that up.’
Paul watched him with a sense of dread. He had this recurrent nightmare that one day, years after Merv had gone off to old hack heaven, it would be him, Paul, at that enormous paper-co
vered desk. Paul fielding the copy from an uppity junior. Paul belting out acres of lurid, lowbrow gossip. The thought made him shudder. ‘Paul Du Prez, this is your life!’
He had been fourth in his class at AUT. He could ape the style of all the big guns. The columnists on the Guardian or the New York Times. The freelancers who cruised the hot spots and spat their copy out through Reuters. Not to mention the local plonkers. And now where was he? All his mates seemed to be working for the big guys, or were in some edgy, glossy mag, busy driving German hatchbacks and making names for themselves. Even Sinead Coulter. She must have slept her way onto that TV show, it was the only possible explanation: because there she was, every night at seven, another shiny grinning ‘reporter’. ‘Reporter! Don’t get me started,’ he thought.
‘You see lad, there are a few universals. A few things that human nature, being what it is, will always hunger for. That is what the community,’ he made the word sound like an obscenity, ‘craves. The fall of the mighty. Ergo “Bridge to nowhere.” That launch pad on the motorway that’s been waiting in the wreckage of Newton Gully for twenty years. I remind the community from time to time that it’s a monument. A monument to the greed of their elected councillors, and to the power of the press. Others forget, Merv remembers.’
He blew a thick cloud of smoke into the middle of the room and leaned back even further before continuing his reverie. ‘I remember when I was your age. Wanted to write stories that would echo around the world. That would get everyone asking, “Who is this guy?” Well, I tell you, these stories don’t drop into your lap and they are not offered from the mouths of the mighty. They begin as tiny tremors that no-one else can hear. You gotta have your ear to the ground. And you know where you hear them? Yeah, it’s where I send you each day. Court Room Three. They’re there lad, just you’ve gotta learn to recognise them. You have to develop the instinct for sussing out that there’s something more to this. Something missing maybe. You gotta be like those sniffer dogs at the airport sticking your nose in where no-one wants it. Pissing people off. Otherwise you’ll always be filing a day late, along with everybody else.
‘And another thing. The sex stories. Yes, the ones that you think are exploitative.’
Paul rolled his eyes.
‘I know you do lad. But behind all the readers’ tut-tutting about kinky All Blacks and bent vicars there’s the unquenchable thirst for more. That’s why we’re here. To give them every stinkin’ detail. That’s us. That’s the Hard Truth. That’s what you’re part of. Be proud of it lad. It’s an honourable tradition. One day, if you’re alert, a Christine Keeler type story will walk into your courtroom, but you’ve got to be ready for it.’
Paul was going to ask who Christine Keeler was but thought better of it. ‘At least read my proposal, Merv. Don’t be so keen to write off what the “young fulla” comes up with.’ He knew that last comment would hit the spot. The ‘young fulla’ was one of Merv’s refrains whenever he was recalling his early years with the Hard Truth.
Merv snatched up the print out and gave it 90 seconds of attention behind his blue cloud of tobacco smoke. Then he threw it down. ‘“K. Road Round Up!” Soft cock reportage, P.R. puffery. Who’d read that?’
‘Anyone connected with the K. Others too. You never know until you try. Look. All I ask is for you to allow it as a possibility. Nothing may come of it, and three months down the track I may be saying, “Merv, you were right. Again!”’
Merv grinned. The kid had spunk, that was for sure. Merv himself wouldn’t have had the temerity to say that in his day. Mind you, it had to be confessed, those were the great days of the Hard Truth. Before all the women’s mags stole the ground out from under their feet.
‘Entirely self-funding?’
‘Yeah, I thought you might like that bit.’
‘Free!’
‘Means the circulation is stable from the outset.’
‘Hot from the press to the fish and chip shop.’
The two of them sat in the office waiting for the resonance of Merv’s final scornful jab to fade away. But when Merv got to his feet, Paul felt sure a concession was coming.
‘It’s your baby. It’s in your time. It has no visible link to the Hard Truth. It’s strictly a one issue trial. Now off you go, it’s nearly ten and Court Room Three beckons.’
6 GERONIMO AND CHEYENNE GO HUNTING
By the time they parked the F100 in a little street just off K. Road, Geronimo hadn’t said much, and Cheyenne hadn’t asked. The only thing Chey had learnt since the fishing trip was that they had to give someone the smash. There was two hundred bucks in it for him, but it wasn’t about the money. When you were asked, you came. End of story.
The street was covered with streamers and bits of paper. There had been some sort of parade earlier on. It was still busy, with people standing around drinking, not wanting to go home. All the clubs and bars were full with shouting voices. It was like there had been a big rugby match.
As they waited at the lights, a voice behind them said ‘Tena korua!’
They both turned at the same time. It was Uncle Mahu, their dad’s brother, wearing his Maori Warden uniform. Suddenly they were 12 again, and he was bringing them home from the cop shop.
‘Hey, Uncle,’ Cheyenne began, but Mahu leaned forward silently for a hongi. Then it was Geronimo’s turn. Nothing hurried this.
‘You fullas are a bit late. It’s all over.’
‘What’s over?’
‘The parade. “Celebrating Polynesia.” Cissy and Rimu were in the Maori group.’
‘True?’
‘Yeah. Our story, man. The legend of Hape.’
‘They had a whale?’
‘Sure. And a whale rider. This was an hour or so ago.’
‘Pity we missed it.’
‘So what are you guys up to?’
It was the old voice. Part friendly, part terrifying. They were children in his presence. That was the way it would always be.
‘Going clubbing,’ said Geronimo.
‘In those clothes?’
‘Not that sort of club, eh.’
‘Where’s Pearly, Chey?’
‘She’s at home, this is a boys’ night out.’
The buzzer gave the signal to cross and Geronimo saw his chance. ‘Better fly, Uncle. Catch you later.’
‘I’ll be here.’
There was something of the warning about that and both boys knew it.
‘So what’s the drill?’
‘I want you to wait in the doorway. I’ll follow him in, you grab him, I’ll take it from there.’
‘That it?’
‘Yep.’
Chey felt a mounting irritation. What was the problem? Why couldn’t Ronnie come out with it?
‘So what’s this about?’
‘Nothing, it’s just a job.’
‘That it? Just a job.’
‘It’s better that way.’
But Ronnie could tell that Chey wouldn’t be bought off that easily. ‘Look. It’s just a fulla been told to stay away from the Casino. Won’t do what he’s told.’
‘So it’s a bit of a talk.’
Ronnie held up his fist. ‘Might have to cross the language barrier, bro.’ He grinned and went off to take up his position.
Cheyenne stood in the entranceway to the apartments. He didn’t like it. He would defend his brother, no question. He would help him out too, even if it meant lying to Pearly. Who knows what Ronnie had got himself into? But meeting Mahu had spooked him and now this ‘just a job’ crap. It was all wrong.
The apartment block was one of those office buildings with the mirror glass that someone had divided up and stuffed with Asian students. He didn’t know how they could stick it. Packed in like sardines. They wandered past him in ones and twos. No-one gave him a second look. He kept peering out into the night to see if he could spot Ronnie but there was no sign. This was a bad deal. He wished he’d made some excuse. Left Ronnie to sort out his own shit. It was one way traff
ic, this. Always was.
‘Kia mau!’
It was Geronimo. The ‘get ready’ call from kapa haka.
He tensed. A couple of Chinese teenagers walked past him but they were so into each other they never so much as noticed him. Then a young Chinese guy with glasses appeared around the corner.
‘Get him,’ yelled Geronimo.
Cheyenne moved forward with his arms out but the kid sprang back much more quickly than he had anticipated and was back on the footpath in two steps. He was getting away … Cheyenne plunged into the darkness after him. He was just out of the lit area when he ran into Geronimo and the kid at full speed, knocking them both to the ground. The three of them had banged heads together like a nose-to-tail crash on the motorway. Cheyenne’s eyes streamed and his nose bled. He could vaguely see Geronimo punching and kicking the kid on the ground next him. He tried to get up and was hit a glancing blow from Geronimo’s boot. The kid was lying on the footpath screwed up in a ball. Chey grabbed his brother and pulled him back.
‘It’s over brother! It’s over!’
Ronnie was hard to stop when he got going. He kept trying to wrestle loose; to get in that last kick, finish the job. They stood back for a moment looking at the kid. He was small, even for an Asian, his glasses were smashed and there was blood in his thick black hair.
Geronimo turned away. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Chey knew Geronimo couldn’t look at the kid. Couldn’t look at what he’d done.
Back in the lights of K. Road, Cheyenne caught sight of himself in the shop window. He wiped the blood from his banged nose onto the sleeve of his white shirt. Geronimo had a lumpy eyebrow from the kid’s head. What a mess. What a fuck up.
They hurried on back to the street where they had left the ute. The crowds had moved inside now and they walked quickly to avoid being looked at. As they rounded the corner they could see someone leaning on the bonnet of the black F100. It was Uncle Mahu.