K Road

by Ted Dawe

Brett knew he was on the money. There was an urgency about Ronnie that wasn’t usually there. He never allowed himself to look hassled.

  ‘Trouble is, Ronnie, in my other life,’ Brett grinned, ‘before I got all respectable, I spent all my time chasing people who owed me money. Our mate Ozzie was one of those. Good to leave that behind.’

  Ronnie stared at him, obviously, pissed off, then said softly, ‘Thought you might like to stay in touch. I guess Cujo would be up for it.’

  Obviously he knew Brett was worried about Cujo. They all were. He was getting bolder every day. Nearly out of control.

  ‘Cujo? Wouldn’t’ve thought Jake would wear that one.’

  Ronnie shrugged and left. Made it clear he wasn’t going to ask twice.

  Brett mused at his desk. This had to be it, the sting Evan had warned him of. But Ronnie, what’s up with that? He couldn’t imagine him being part of any narc operation. He was a lone wolf. Too staunch to be part of Willets’s plans. And P. He was glad to be clear of that scene. Too many crazies in that gold rush. Sampling and dealing. Mad-eyed bastards banging on your door at midnight. Everything hurry hurry. Always watching your back. Pockets stuffed with money. Too whacked to keep track.

  Still, he wanted to keep Ronnie on side: he’d been so good for the club. He and Jake were a team. And Jake? He took the brother thing so seriously. Maybe that’s why Ronnie had come. Jake would never ask for anything. Too proud. But he was worried about Cujo, that was a given.

  Couple of days and it was all there. Twenty k in an envelope. All scooped off one weekend’s takings. A 72-hour rave that started slowly and never stopped building. And the cops had stayed well clear. What was with that? Must ask Evan. Jake and Ronnie had never left Blade the whole time. They took turns, cat-napping in the back room. You couldn’t buy loyalty like that. It made all the difference. He had to come through now, to hell with Willets. What could he do?

  When Ronnie came to his office, he looked wrecked. They both stared at the envelope.

  ‘Should I ask about this?’

  Ronnie sat in the chair opposite never taking his eyes off Brett’s. He shook his head. ‘Two weeks and you’ll get thirty. The rest? It’s complicated.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Ronnie leaned forward as if to take the money and then reached out across the desk. The two men shook hands. For an instant they both felt it, a sort of bond. That was it. Then Ronnie picked up the envelope carefully, and slapped it gently against the palm of his other hand. There was a comfort in the weight of money. He looked at Brett for a moment as if he wanted to say something.

  ‘This isn’t about the money, Brett.’

  Brett nodded and waited for an explanation, but none came. Ronnie slid the fat envelope into the pocket of his leather jacket and left.

  Brett had this odd feeling, something like a pang. He had seen Ronnie in a new way. He saw that he had been wrong about him, short-changed him. There was more to him than he thought. Something of himself about him. Maybe he too had raged against the hand that had been dealt him. Someone who had decided that he wasn’t going to be that thing known as ‘the good son’. That he had a choice. Let Cheyenne fill that role. The one he’d been groomed for. He would do it his own way.

  But for Brett this was as far as it went. A realisation. A gush of empathy.

  It was the last time he ever saw Geronimo.

  It had been hard for Geronimo, going behind Jake’s back to deal through Cujo. But what choice did he have? Any other option disappeared long ago. Up in smoke. They had to do this deal outside the club, that was for real, somewhere well away from Jake’s eagle eye. It was all so simple. All he had to do was swap the notes for a package of Pure. Get the package into Brett’s office. Send a text. That was it. He was home free.

  Ronnie knew it would be the end of Blade, for him anyway, but then he was a bit sick of all this. The waiting. The worrying. The boredom. After this he fancied doing something else. Something legit, maybe, who knows?

  The trick was to get away from Jake for half an hour. Long enough to score anyway. Cujo had said Myers at midnight. It was a bad time, Blade was jumping at midnight and he and Jake would be busy as. But that was the arrangement. The rest of it would be easy.

  As it turned out, his chance came easier than he expected. Jake had wanted an hour off early on. This chick had given him the look. He was all eager. Wound up. Hungry for it. When Ronnie fronted again, Jake had the blissed-out grin of the guy who had scored. At quarter to twelve, Blade was packed and there were 30 people waiting outside on the street. There was no down time when it was this busy. Normally. But then again, Jake had scored, so when Geronimo said he had to slip off for half an hour he just gave him the eyebrow and said, ‘No worries.’

  It was cool and clear after the smoke and heat of the club. He headed up to Myers, or P Park, as they called it. When he got to the entry he turned around, half expecting to see Willets and the whole of the drug squad staked out in parked cars. There was nothing. Across the road there were skinny dudes hanging around in little Jap rockets, outside a bunch of Asian restaurants, sign boards all covered with their own squiggles. ‘What a scene,’ he thought.

  Behind him was the brothel that had become a landmark. Next to that a kindergarten. It took someone as cashed up as Vercoe to be able to site a cat house next to a bunch of pre-schoolers. Had to laugh. Then the park itself, all lit up and waiting for him

  It was a bit freaky, this park, at the best of times, but tonight it was something else. How he wished he’d been able to call Chey. Have him by his side. But that wasn’t an option. After that last time, Pearlie had put her foot down, and Chey had done what he was told, the pussy.

  He looked back at the park. There was something wrong, but what was it? There was something missing. Then it came to him. That was it! People! There was no-one here. Not even bums. That wasn’t right.

  He fired a last look up Queen Street. There was a comfort in the noise, in the busy-ness. Then he made the plunge and strode on down the path. From the bottom of the hill, he could see all the way to the arcade that ran through to K. Road.

  Nobody.

  He moved on.

  Up on the left was the big palm tree and the little stand of bush behind it, just like he had been told. Sure enough, in the gloom under the trees, well away from the powerful anti-rape lights lining the main path, he spotted a cigarette tip. It had to be Cujo.

  He walked quickly out of the light. As he approached the crouched figure he saw someone leave cover on the other side of the park. Cujo straightened up but said nothing. Geronimo knew in a moment, he’d been set up. The guy crossing the park was Hemi, who he’d turned away from Blade a couple of days earlier. Part of him relaxed. He could take Hemi, take both of them for that matter. Bring it on.

  A hand touched Geronimo’s shoulder, gently, almost like a woman’s touch. He turned.

  It was him. The spook. The one who’d been following him. Butterfly knife in hand. Geronimo’s mouth opened but there was no chance to say a word before it hit him in the gut with unbelievable force. He sank slowly to the ground, holding his stomach, his mouth silently framing the word, ‘Why?’

  The spook crouched down in front of him, staring into his face with blank, black eyes. ‘Roxy,’ he said.

  28 ALL GOD’S CHILDREN

  The music was so soft, so sweet, that Roxy thought she was dreaming it. This wasn’t the place for background music. It was the big hall of the Hastings High Court, jammed with people, all like her, all waiting for a 10 o’clock hearing.

  It was a new building, with marble floors and glass walls at each end. Where Roxy sat the stainless steel benches were nearly all taken. Outside the entry to each court room there were a number of glass offices. Each contained anxious groups of people soundlessly talking to their lawyers.

  Most of them here were young, not as young as her maybe, but not 20 either. Some looked like they owned the place, swaggering up and down, spotting each other with raised eye
brows. Some were grinning, like it was a big joke, hands in their pockets, leaning back on the benches, giving staunch stares to the cops that walked back and forth before they disappeared through unlabelled doors. Others though, looked shit-scared, like her. Didn’t know what was going to happen. Knew it wouldn’t be good. Felt alone. Exposed.

  There it was again, that music, finding a gap in the blah blah, and then being drowned out. Like those cell phones that cut out all the time, leaving you trying to guess what’s in the gaps. She stood up, a bit stiff after 20 minutes on the steel seats. No sign of her case worker, might as well wander down to the end and have a stare out the window. Nothing else to do.

  He spotted her the moment she stood up. ‘Where did she come from?’ he thought. ‘How did I miss her?’

  She stretched and her T-shirt rode up showing a strip of flat stomach. Nice. She was small but the way she moved had caught his eye. She moved like a dancer. Or a boxer. It was there in every step she took. Grace, maybe.

  She came closer. He tried not to stare at her too directly – chicks hate that – just enough so she knew he had clocked her. Then it was like her choice.

  What a stunner. The sort of face you see on Christmas cards. The Virgin Mary look. He felt a rush through his whole body. Like a little rush of P, but better. He knew straight away that he had been changed. Something had happened and now nothing would ever be the same again. Jesus. So sudden.

  She looked out the glass wall at the end of the hall. A car park, rapidly filling. But she didn’t really look out the window, she looked into it. She spied the guy with the guitar, in the reflection. She looked at the picture of a woman dancing, painted on the broad end. Then his restless fingers working the fret board. She looked at his moody poet’s eyes. Then she looked at her own face, thinly reflected. It was all over. Nothing she could do.

  He stood up and walked over to stand beside her, his hand never even pausing on the stem of the guitar. Working out an endless tangle of melodies, jumping effortlessly from one to another. They stood side by side, staring out the window, and at the same time looking at each other in the reflection. Below them was a car park half filled with cars, beyond that new roads reaching out to half-constructed buildings. The big court room building was the first step in a new development.

  ‘Over the hills and far away.’

  ‘What’s that?’ she said.

  ‘Some song we used to sing, at school, a hundred years ago. “Over the hills and far away.”’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So that’s where I’d like to go. I’d like to go down there to that car park. Choose the best wheels on offer … mind you from here they all look pretty shit … boost it, and then “over the hills and far away”.’

  ‘Yeah, if only.’

  ‘We could.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I reckon you’d like to go too.’

  She never said anything, but she smiled and looked at him directly for the first time.

  ‘What are you here for?’ he asked.

  ‘Common assault I think, or maybe aggravated assault. I wasn’t really listening.’

  ‘What’s with that?’ Jazz sensed a story.

  ‘This chick was back-stabbing me. I went to tell her I knew she was doing it. Before I knew what, I’d smashed her face. Couldn’t control myself. Felt good though.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘You?’ She dug her hands in her pockets.

  ‘Possession.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Just dak. A bit of an old tinny in my jacket pocket. Didn’t even know it was there eh? Have to laugh.’

  ‘That sucks.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit. It’s the way it goes. I was playing my Diab outside a supermarket. Making good money. The manager tried to move me on.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Just ignored him at first, fat prick. I was doing Hendrix, takes a bit of concentration. He tried to close my guitar case so I gave him a kick. Just a little one eh? Save me saying “Fuck off” ’cause I was singing. Anyway he fucks off, which is good, but then he comes back with some cops, which is bad.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re going to get done for assault like me.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, then they found the joint on me when we went back to the station. Supermarket guy wouldn’t press charges, couldn’t be bothered, so the pigs do me for about one and a half joints. Wanted to know where I bought it … like it’s some big drug bust. I told them someone had thrown it into my case the day before. I often get that from the bros. Nothing wrong with it.’

  ‘What’s your name anyway?’

  ‘Jack, but everyone calls me Jazz.’

  ‘My name’s Roxy but everyone calls me Roxy.’

  ‘Ho! That’s freaky. What a coincidence.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘So where do you hang out?’ Jazz asked, doing a little run down the fret board with his left hand.

  ‘At my mum’s mostly. I used to live with my dad but he hooked up with this chick. Everything turned to shit after that.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Old story, man. This skank liked my dad but didn’t like me. She was sweet to me at first, but after it all got serious she turned into a grade A bitch.’

  ‘That’s sad.’

  Roxy stuck her jaw out a bit and then said, ‘Shit happens. I’m over it.’

  Jazz looked at her thoughtfully for a while, digging out some slow sad tune on the fret board. ‘Have anything to do with you smashing the chick?’

  Roxy blushed. ‘You’re smart.’

  ‘Don’t want to be nosy.’

  ‘It’s OK. Yes and no. She’d been dissing me because her boyfriend wanted to be with me. I didn’t want him, he was ugly, but that didn’t stop her. But yeah I’ve been sort of angry since those days. I blow it sometimes. Never know it’s coming. Have to watch myself eh?’

  ‘Now you’re caught up in all this shit, huh?’ he said, indicating the busy hall.

  ‘Looks that way. I reckon I’ve been caught up in shit for a while now. So it makes no difference.’

  ‘Who are you with here?’

  ‘My case worker. She’s upstairs having a cup of tea with the cops. Reckons she can get a diversion.’ Roxy paused, then added as an afterthought, ‘As if I give a shit.’

  They both turned their backs to the big window and looked down the hall again. The place was packed now. Full of losers, like them.

  ‘Do you know what the difference is between them and us?’ Jazz had this cheeky look.

  ‘What’s the difference between them and us?’

  ‘They’re stuck here. We’re not.’

  ‘How do you work that one out?’

  ‘We could go down to that car park. Boost a car. Be halfway to Taupo before anyone even knows it’s missing.’

  ‘You and me huh?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘I don’t even know you. You’re just some guy with a guitar, hitting on me at a court house.’

  ‘I reckon you know me.’

  ‘Where you from anyway?’

  ‘I’m from down the coast.’

  ‘What’re you doing in this dump?’

  ‘Meant to be working in forestry.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘OK for a while. Bad for my hands though.’ He held them up. He had these slim long fingers that looked strictly indoors.

  ‘Jeez what girl fingers.’

  ‘Need them for this …’ and he picked out a quick riff to demonstrate.

  This was the first time he had given the guitar any volume, and immediately, everyone in the long foyer turned towards them.

  Roxy giggled.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. That always happens when I play. That’s why I reckon it’s time to hit the road. Go up to Aucks. Score a recording contract. Become famous. Get fifteen girlfriends.’

  ‘Bit up yourself, eh?’

  ‘The girlfriends bit maybe, but the rest, I reckon it’s on. No
point in being modest. There are a lot of guitar players around, but not many like me. There aren’t many axes like Diablo here.’

  He held out the guitar. She took it. Although he was casual about it she knew that it was precious. Holding it felt awkward, wrong maybe. Like picking up someone’s baby out of a pram.

  She gave it back. ‘What’s with Diablo?’

  ‘Devil.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You got to deal with the devil if you want to make real music. Otherwise all you do is play tunes. Music is different. It goes all the way in. Makes people different while they listen to it. Casts a spell eh?’

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘Better believe it.’

  Roxy looked at this guy. This guy she had known all of ten minutes. She looked at all the sad bastards in the foyer. Waiting to have their cases heard. She looked at the green hills with the new roads scarring their smooth contours.

  ‘We can’t just walk away from all this, it will follow us.’

  Jazz smiled. He noted the us. The we.

  ‘Listen, Roxy. Life’s a river. We’re all just floating down it. Flowing to the sea. Sometimes a chance comes to climb out of that river. To do something different. Most people don’t see it. They just go with the flow. But we don’t need to be like that. Like most people. Let’s climb up that bank. Do the different thing.’

  ‘The cops will chase us. My mum will put them onto me. I’m only fourteen.’

  ‘The cops will be pleased to see the back of us. Somebody else’s problem. Tell your mum where you’re going. She might not like it but at least she’ll know where you are.’

  ‘Yeah I can just see that. “Hey Mum, I’m off to Auckland with this guy I met at the court house.” “OK Rox. That’s cool!” Yeah, right!’

  ‘Drop her a note. Save the face to face.’

  Roxy was taken aback. ‘You’ve got all the answers, eh? How old are you anyway?’