Shotgun Honey Presents: Both Barrels (Volume 1)

by Dan O'Shea

  Wes knew he had to be patient, they didn’t understand a word he was saying. She was an ounce of pressure away from shooting his ass.

  He still thought it was going to be okay until she set her jaw in that certain way and the gun stopped waving around. She held it steady as a rock now. Then there was just the slightest upturn of a crazy smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

  At that point, he knew he was done. He had seen this movie before.

  “Might be better this way little sister, because they would a caught up with me sooner or later anyway. Running ain’t no way to live. When they would’ve found me, they’d a hurt me for sport for awhile before killin’ me too. So, hey, fuck it.” He nodded at her.

  To make sure, he walked forward slowly.

  He held his arms straight out to either side of him, like a man being crucified and grinned even bigger.

  The shots kept coming until the clip was out and then there were three or four loud clicks after that. The wind, which had died for a bit, picked back up a little and the old gutter clanged in a slow sad rhythm.

  KING TUT’S TOMB

  Andrew Nette

  The clarity of just how fucked I am hits me seconds after my last dollar coin disappears into the slot. The tiny light globe eyes on the cartoon picture of King Tutankhamun flash greedily, the numbers and symbols spin. I come up empty. Again.

  I lean against the poker machine. The glass feels smooth and cool against my forehead. Did I know it would end up this way three hours and four hundred and eighty dollars ago? Definitely. Just like every other time.

  My former wife once asked me the same question after I’d gambled away the money we’d saved for a family holiday in Queensland. I was in denial back then, didn’t have the words to say what I know now. When I sit in front of a poker machine I’m invincible. It’s the same adrenaline fuelled high I imagine hard-core smack addicts get. Don’t know how else to describe it. Gambling’s my addiction, my sickness. It’s destroyed everything I ever held dear, my job, family, friendships, and like any good junkie, still I come back for more.

  I raise my head, glance at the elderly Italian lady seated at the machine next to mine, still in her powder blue cleaner’s uniform. She smiles. I give her nothing. The easy camaraderie towards my fellow gamblers disappeared along with my last dollar coin.

  I stand, suddenly aware of the smell around me, a cocktail of body odour, spilt beer, unwashed clothes and recycled air. Not that I can talk. I raise my right arm, sniff and flinch. Sleeping in your car is hardly conducive to maintaining high standards of personal hygiene.

  The sea green tiles on the toilet wall and pale sunlight through the Venetian glass window above the urinal, would be soothing were it not for the fact the stench is even worse. I tear off a sheet from the battered paper towel dispenser, wet it under the tape, swab under my arms.

  The bar tender comes up to me as I take a stool. He’s a young guy, Indian, always polite. I can’t remember his name.

  ‘Have a bad run Mister Divine?’

  ‘You a fucking financial counsellor or a barman?’

  He flinches slightly, looks around for someone else to serve.

  I spread both hands flat on bar, try to look contrite. ‘What’s your name again, mate?’

  He turns, stares at me flatly. ‘Rajesh.’

  ‘Yeah, Rajesh.’ I give him my best shit-eating grin. ‘Sorry, like you said, I had a bad run. Any chance you could pour me a glass of ice water?’

  The water feels good against the insides of my mouth. I swivel on my stool, take in my surroundings. Pokies in the back room, horse racing and greyhounds on wall-mounted television sets in another. There’s footy tipping, Kino, a pool comp. Even the small plastic replica of a seeing-eye dog next to my elbow, a slot on top of its head, wants my money.

  Late afternoon, the place is filling up. It’s the usual crowd, mainly male, mainly old, in mismatched clothes, conversations half shouted, half whispered, full of non-sequiturs and unfinished sentences. English, Italian, Greek, a smattering of other European languages. Sounds I used to hear a lot in this area, less so as young professionals gradually colonise the suburb.

  No value judgement towards the recent arrivals intended. I’m like them, a university professor of ancient studies, no less. Well, I used to be. Egyptology was my specialisation. Perhaps that’s why I keep coming back to that particular machine. It’s the closest I get to my former discipline these days.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder, look around. I always take heart from the fact that no matter how bad I look Angus is a hell of a lot worse. His stringy hair is unwashed and receding, exposing a forehead full of skin cancers. There are bags under his watery blue eyes that flank a cauliflower nose covered in tiny strands of red and blue. His white beard is nicotine stained, the same colour as the fingers on his right hand.

  ‘I’m completely broke,’ I say as he starts to open his mouth.

  Angus raises both hands in mock surrender. ‘Can’t a man say hello to a mate without the third degree?’

  ‘Sure. Hello, Angus, I can can’t afford to buy you a beer.’

  ‘Then allow me to get you a beverage.’

  He climbs onto the stool next to me.

  ‘Hey, Sahib, two pots of your finest brew,’ Angus says loud enough for half the bar to hear.

  I wince but don’t say anything. Angus’s attitude is not unusual. Most of the clientele here lack the benefits of a broad liberal education.

  ‘How’s life, Richard?’

  ‘Aside from the fact I’m broke and living in my car?’

  Angus nods, slurps his beer noisily.

  ‘Shithouse.’

  ‘Heard you had a run of bad luck this afternoon.’

  There’s only one thing I know with any certainty about Angus. He’s a nosy bastard.

  I eye him suspiciously. ‘And you, Angus. How’s things?’

  ‘Me? Same old, same old, you know.’ Angus finishes his beer, signals to Rajesh for a re-fill. ‘I’d complain but who’d listen.’

  ‘Not me.’

  He gives me a sideways look. ‘Another?’

  I drain my glass. ‘Why not.’

  ‘Heard from the wife and kids?’

  ‘Not for a while.’

  ‘She’ll be back once she figures out she can’t do any better.’

  ‘I very much doubt that.’

  We finish our beers in silence.

  ‘Well, time I was off, thanks for the drink,’ I say, trying to sound sincere.

  ‘Sure Richard.’ Angus doesn’t turn around, just raises one hand in a desultory wave over his shoulder.

  I step outside, nod my farewells to the clutch of hard-core smokers congregated around the doorway and join the late afternoon footpath traffic, shoppers, hipster mothers pushing tank-sized strollers, kids out from school. After a couple of blocks I turn into a narrow alley leading to the spot where my car is parked. The concrete is littered with empty beer bottles and fast food wrappers.

  First thing I see as I emerge from the alley are two men leaning against my car. One is tall, sallow, with close-cropped black hair. I’m pretty sure he’s called Walsh. The other is a bald, heavy-set Middle Eastern looking man in a long leather jacket. I’ve no idea who he is.

  When I said at the beginning things are fucked, I didn’t mention the half of it. Not only am I broke, I’m in debt to the tune of about twenty thousand, give or take. I’ve lost track of the exact figure. The men standing by my car are here to collect. Indeed, I suspect they are here to do much worse.

  They stand at the sight of me. I briefly consider running but it would just make things worse when they catch me. Besides, everything I own is in the car, books, clothes, what’s left of my collection of jazz CDs, photos, other bits and pieces of detritus from my former life. It’s not much, but despite everything I’m not ready to cut the last slender strand linking me to what I once was.

  When Walsh sees I’m not going to bolt his shoulders relax. Bald Man looks di
sappointed.

  Walsh gives me a business like nod as he takes a last drag on his cigarette, flicks it into it nearby bushes. ‘How are you, Richard?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  This gets a grudging smile from him.

  ‘Elmo wants to see you.’

  People call him Elmo because of his passing resemblance to the Sesame Street puppet of the same name. He’s plump with red hair and a large round face. His real name is Declan McLaughlin and he’s a bit of a legend in the Melbourne loansharking scene. One story has it he fled Northern Ireland after he killed a cop. Another says he jumped ship as a merchant seaman in the seventies.

  I’ve heard he has a wheelchair bound wife and three children, others say he lives with his aging mother in a workers’ cottage in the northern suburbs. All I know for sure is that he owns a chain of laundromats and dry cleaners across Melbourne and takes a fierce pride in collecting every cent owed to him.

  The black four-wheel drive crawls through Melbourne’s evening peak hour traffic. Walsh, Bald Man and I hardly exchange a word. Eventually we pull up outside a large laundromat.

  Inside smells of chemicals and drying clothes. Walsh pushes me across the linoleum, past the rows of washers and driers, none of them in use, towards the back office. It has a window with a counter that looks out over the establishment. Elmo is talking on a mobile phone. Dry cleaned clothes in clear plastic bags hang in rows behind him.

  Walsh sits in the nearest of a row of orange bucket seats, picks up a dog eared magazine lying on the seat next to him, leafs through it absentmindedly. I face the counter and wait as if I’ve come to pick up my dry cleaning, my gut churning. There’s a hand written sign to my left that says change for the machines is not available.

  Elmo continues his phone call, back turned to me, voice low. He’s wearing grey slacks and a grimy white singlet. Wisps of fine red hair cover his arms and shoulders. He finishes, takes a deep breath and faces me.

  ‘Hello professor Divine.’ His voice carries the smallest trace of Irish lilt. The rest of the accent has been strangled by his years in Australia. ‘Nice of you to visit.’

  He opens a notebook on the counter, old school, runs a figure down a line of figures in blue biro, looks up at me with a neutral expression.

  ‘I make it that you owe me twenty three thousand, five hundred and twenty seven dollars.’

  He gazes at the notebook, checking his arithmetic, nods to himself. ‘I assume you don’t have it?’

  I say nothing. Is it possible I gambled away that much?

  ‘Professor, you don’t seem to comprehend the seriousness of the situation.’

  On the contrary, it’s precisely because I understand the situation that I don’t even pretend I have anything to say. Beside, he knows I don’t have the money. The fact he hasn’t already killed me means he has something else in mind.

  ‘Thought as much.’ He grimaces, reaches into one of the pockets of his slacks, takes out car keys and a piece of paper, slides them half way across the counter to me.

  I raise my hand to pick them up, pause half way, look at Elmo, unsure of what’s happening.

  ‘Go on, professor, they won’t bite.’

  Written on the paper in blue biro are two addresses. One is in Werribee, a suburb in Melbourne’s west best known for its proximity to the city’s largest sewerage treatment plant, the other in a fashionable inner city suburb.

  ‘Professor, you owe me a lot of money which you can’t pay back. Given there’s no such thing as a free lunch, we have to work out some other arrangement. As of now, you drive for me, wherever I want, when ever I want.’

  No such thing as a free lunch. My father used to say that all the time.

  I look at Elmo. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘And to think you used to be in charge of shaping young minds.’ He shakes his head. ‘There’s a car outside. Get in it, drive to the address in Werribee. There’ll be a package waiting for you. Take it and drop it off at the other address. They’ll give you something. You bring it here. Simple.’

  ‘What’s in the package?’

  ‘That’s none of your concern, professor. You’re a fucking courier now, a mule, whatever you want to call it. You do what you’re fucking told and don’t ask questions, understand?’

  ‘What if I won’t do it?’

  ‘Professor, I’ve got chemicals out the back that can turn your insides into soup or scar you beyond recognition.’

  His voice hardens, sounds more Irish. Alerted by the rising tone in Elmo’s voice, Walsh looks up from his magazine, seeing no problem, resumes reading.

  ‘I know you don’t care what happens to your worthless carcass, but think of that pretty daughter of yours, how she’d look with half her face burnt away.’

  ‘You know where Emma is?’ I know the question only risks angering Elmo further but can’t help myself. My carefully maintained fatalism dissolves at the mention of her name. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Safe and blissfully unaware, all that stands between her and living the rest of her life in a horror movie is her pokie addicted fuck-up of a father.’ Elmo licks his lips, flashes me his best predator grin. ‘But that could change. Very quickly if you don’t do exactly what I tell you.’

  I pocket the keys and the slip of paper and exit the laundromat. The car is parked directly outside, one of those ubiquitous makes, no doubt selected because it won’t be noticed. Maybe I’ve watched too many cop movies, because I feel a sudden compulsion to check the boot. No bullet ridden body, just a spare tire.

  I sit in the driver’s seat, key poised in the ignition, vaguely aware of the whoosh of traffic past my window. I’ve never been a social gambler. I went to a big casino once, didn’t like all the noise and movement. Isolation’s my gig, always has been. Gambling may have delivered the deathblow to my marriage but if it hadn’t my anti-social nature would’ve undone things eventually.

  But my daughter, that’s a whole different gig. No matter how much I’ve fucked up, the urge to protect her still burns strong. I turn the key. The engine purrs into life accompanied by a blast of top forty. I turn the radio off, pull into the traffic.

  I drive carefully, continually scanning the rear view mirror for any sign I’m being followed. By whom I don’t know, one of Elmo’s men checking up on me, his competition, police. At one point I spot an old maroon Holden station wagon that looks vaguely familiar, several cars behind me, but the dying sunlight makes it hard to be certain. I lose sight of the Holden, don’t see it again.

  The first address is one of a row of identical, squat red brick houses opposite a train track. I get out of the car and gaze around uncertainly. It’s a part of town I’ve never been before. The street is quiet and empty. There’s a vague shit smell in the air. I feel like a bird thrown off course in a storm.

  I walk past a car parked on a patch of dying grass, the smashed rear windscreen held together with newspaper and black masking tape. The front door bell is broken, so I knock, repeating the action several times until I hear a noise on the other side. The door opens. It’s darker inside than out, but I can just make out a pale, unshaven man in a terry towelling dressing grown, an infant clinging to his leg.

  The man passes me a package, shuts the door. It’s the size and weight of a phone book, wrapped in a green plastic garbage bag and bound with the same tape as the car’s rear window. I stand for a moment, the package in both hands, as if trying to divine the contents.

  The next leg of my journey is equally uneventful. At one point I think I see the maroon Holden again, but it disappears so quickly it must be my imagination.

  My second destination is a large blue brick building surrounded by an empty bitumen car park. A series of boomerang arched windows, now boarded up, give it a futuristic appearance. I recall reading about the structure in the local newspaper, a former bowling alley, the local outcry about inappropriate development when it was closed for demolition.

  I stand in front of the building, the package un
der my arm, feeling exposed and vulnerable. The only light comes from a convenience store across the road. There’s not much traffic in sight and I can hear cicadas in the nearby undergrowth. After twenty minutes I’m starting to wonder whether I’m at the right location when two men emerge from the darkness at the side of the building.

  Sweat pops on my forehead. A ripple of panic runs through me. I clutch the package to my chest. What if they’re not the people I’m supposed to meet, what if they’re muggers. Images of my daughter, interspersed with Elmo’s face, spool through my mind.

  As they get near I see they’re just teenagers in low-slung jeans and hoodies. One has bad acne. The other carries a sports bag. Acne halts, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie, while the other, a jittery, sharp-faced youth with a wispy goatee, walks up to me.

  ‘Put the package at your feet and step back.’ He voice has a nasal sound, as if he’s recovering from the flu.

  I place the package on the cracked bitumen, take several steps back. The boy drops the sports bag, picks up my package. Without looking back he and his partner disappear where they came from.

  When I’m sure they’ve gone, I grab the sports bag, jog to the car. Whatever it contains, it’s not heavy. I throw the bag onto the passenger seat beside me and fumble with the car keys.

  As I drive away my paranoia is replaced by a feeling of elation. The high is as good as if not better than gambling. I force myself to slow down, get my bearings. I realise I’m not far from Marina’s place. Shit, she’s virtually on the way back to Elmo’s. No harm in stopping off for a quick celebration.

  I don’t know what to call Marina. I suppose she’s my girlfriend, a fact that even in my highly excited state I’m a little embarrassed about given she’s about at least twenty years younger than me. We met one night in some anonymous shit hole bar. She was there to drink, I to gamble. Between the two of us we’d managed to push our respective addictions as far as possible that night. It was late, our eyes met across the beer stained carpet. Next thing I remember, I’m at her place, holding her by the shoulders as she puked her alcohol intake into the toilet. Things kind of went on from there.