Winter Traffic

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Winter Traffic Page 12

by Stephen Greenall


  Right on unfortunate cue she walks back in, Caallum casting stricken eyes in her direction and saying, Take an early lunch, Eddie. The girl emits a wave of loathing in the general Rawson direction and wonders about the morning invoices.

  ‘That can wait.’

  She shrugs and beats an exit, Rawson diligent in his duty to offer a scandalous leer; he fakes to open the door for her then doesn’t, paces around in her subsequent absence with a wide complacent smile. All the satisfied vanity in the world resides in his great unbreakable frame / he could knock the paintings off the wall if he wanted / he could whip it out and piss.

  ‘Names are time capsules. I find myself running into Edwinas left, right and centre these days, and I think Shit, it’s popular again. Only it isn’t coming into fashion now, is it? It’s coming into fashion twenty years ago.’

  Caallum’s new look at Karen is quizzical. ‘Don’t look at her,’ says Rawson in a voice that isn’t joking.

  ‘I didn’t know you were into art.’

  ‘What you don’t know would fill the harbour. Why the fuck is everyone in this joint wearing purple?’

  ‘Nobody’s wearing purple.’

  ‘Well, she was head to toe in the stuff and that shirt of yours—fuck me dead / I thought Mardi Gras was over.’

  ‘You mean purple in a broader sense. Around here we’re a little more particular.’

  ‘Is that so? And exactly how many names might you have for it?’

  ‘Tyrian, Royal Han, Crocus. Orchid and Heliotrope. Electric, Psychedelic. At the other end of the spectrum there’s Lilac, Lavender, Pansy—’

  ‘Okay-okay, on that note.’

  The detective strolls, settling upon a point in the room’s centre. He throws back his head and with a loud catarrh produces masses of saliva. Hands affect a mystical gesture as he releases the spit in a vertical stream, a pose of deep study above the awful green smear that results. ‘What do you reckon about that.’

  Caallum has closed his eyes against the atrocity. ‘I’ve done nothing. To warrant. This kind of harassment.’

  ‘Harassment? This is the creative process in action! Look at the colours, the composition.’

  ‘Please leave.’

  ‘Come on, Clam—you and me go way back. I’m the one who first busted you, baby. That entails a bondage everlasting.’

  ‘I’ve been clear of the trade for—’

  ‘August of eighty-six, it was. Forgive my nostalgia, but how we marvelled at the rain. Four hundred mils in a single day! Freddy Nile started hitting the shipyards.’

  ‘I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘A cop shop with two kegs of pseudo in your sky rocket? Yeah, Clammage—I do believe that qualifies.’

  A curtain of false glee divides Rawson from the room. Through it Millar’s quietude is impressive; she stands in the corner, rooted like the Milo de Venus. The Big Ship walks to the door and turns the simple lock.

  ‘Cal, if you’ve been clear of the game so long, why is every oxygen thief in Kings Cross putting your name to the next generation of quality masterpieces? I don’t know what colour you call them in your world, mate—but in mine they’re about yea big and as purple as a poofter’s jocks.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’

  ‘Righto. Just let me ask you one thing.’

  Rawson balls his giant left paw into a fist and, with the demeanour of vaudeville charlatan, brings his right hand across to make a winding motion. Mimed mechanism, one that causes the middle finger of his fist to rise like a drawbridge.

  ‘Up Yours. Look familiar?’

  —

  Sutton knows about horses. Knows better than to put money on the sonsofbitching things. He loves to watch them run but he never got the kick, the sharp and come-again recoil. There is masochism in the sport of kings / not much inside of Sutton.

  The rain is quitting a track famed for drainage. It does not have the glamour of a Randwick or Rosehill, but it is a prettier place than either. The horses for the second are parading the yard, gazed at by a parliament of solitary diehards. They are men who will never know such patent grooming, such glorious ease of shine.

  The animals traverse the straight in trot or energetic canter, warming for a race of fourteen hundred. Sutton pays attention to the favourites and also to the five, the horse of Rawson that the bookies have kept safe. And it is true that he is a handsome type, and that Sandy Whelan, while not exactly a gun hoop, is a rider of reputation. Sutton consults the form to see what other runners Sandy has today, noting with surprise that Sandy has none.

  —

  Rawson strides out of the Van feeling filthy and overheated. Millar doesn’t follow / he doesn’t ask her to. He gets lucky with a taxi and sits down heavy in the back, loosening his tie and saying Anywhere but here. They wind up to Oxford and catch a rare green arrow, the city forming in the distance like a children’s pop-up book. At a red he looks across and sees a lazy cruiser idling, taps his helpful driver and passes the last of the Caroline Chisholms.

  It’s Davey Corcoran and some gadget who looks about twelve years old. Give us a lift, says Rawson through the window and Davey waves him in.

  ‘Where headed?’

  ‘Not fussed. Put the races on.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘They’re lining up at Canterbury,’ says the man inside the radio, the man with the voice of the universe at his salaried beck and call. Clam Bake will give him sixty-five per cent but it’s all for bloody nothing if this equine doesn’t show. Rawson counts to ten and makes an effort to be polite.

  ‘How’s tricks, Davo.’

  ‘Can’t complain.’

  ‘You probably could if you wanted to.’

  ‘Truth. This here is Probationary Constable Something-or-other.’

  ‘Probert,’ says the child, offering a hand across the front-back divide. ‘It’s an honour.’

  ‘You bastards got air con or what?’

  ‘I’ll turn it up,’ stammers the kid.

  ‘Yeah,’ says the great man. ‘Radio too while you’re at it.’

  —

  Sutton watches Drunken Circus begin in good order and work to midfield. By the end of the second furlong he is one out from the rail, comfortable in sixth. Sutton is not immune from the thrill / he just appears to be.

  Stars Without Makeup has gone too hard, mixing with on-pacers who are merely that, horses who have only a thousand yards inside of them to give. Jimmy Hoofa on the rail is the teamster to watch, paired with Bound for Gluery maybe five or six back. Luxor Fortune hates the pace so she goes full pelt around them, Sutton hoping that Sandy Whelan has better sense than to offer chase. Drunken Circus stays put—a nice little slipstream—and at the top of the straight Whelan does the right thing. He slides four wide come the three hundred metres and the jock drops the hammer / he just deadset lets him go.

  —

  ‘They’re at the two fifty and here comes Drunken Circus!’

  Rawson has longed for the announcement with every fibre of his soul. The animal was referenced for a canny position but forget that shit / here’s the money mention, baby. He unfurls without shame the confederate yell and the boys upfront exchange electrified glances. This bastard is on at fifteen dollars, says Davey Corcoran’s bitten lip.

  The globe is ceasing to revolve, holding planetary breath as the legend full-forward soars ten feet high in the bright oblivion. Rawson’s eyes close tight against spoiling defenders and his hands are full-moon satellites that position overhead. One for every second that is left in the Grand Final; one for every point that his mob trails by come the death. It’s the moment you dream of when tiny, when young, and for just one second of granular time he sees the gods of fortune smile / he feels the fucken Sherrin stick.

  09

  A reflexive stride of purpose, a fast and arrogant mosey that synchronises with the roll of his jaw. He has the look of a man chewing tobacco but actually his poison is the gum. His woman makes him u
se it and he’s been on that shit for two years now but some habits die hard and some die iron and then there is Sandy’s which is Superman or Nosferatu—slayable but occasionally, in highly specific circs.

  The jockey hits the button and the boot clicks ajar. He deposits his gym bag and goes to close the cover but the sound of a subtle throat-clear is enough to give him pause. He glances down at the bumper and sees a shape in navy blue, a single man distorted as if in some house of zany mirrors.

  The rider isn’t bothered. He came up in a tough era. Carpark nonsense? All in a day’s work, my son. Stealin Whelan turns with a face that says he’s been around the block.

  ‘G’day,’ says the man.

  Sandy stops. He was going to open with something diamond but he’s stuffed if he can remember what it was.

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Sandy. ‘I know you.’

  ‘Nice ride today.’

  The jock shuts the boot. ‘Keen punter are we.’

  ‘I’ve been known to take an interest. Right now I’d appreciate your opinion of the horse.’

  Sandy realises with a horror he dare not show that he’s swallowed the bloody gum. You’re not supposed to do that. ‘Drunken Circus,’ he muses, pretending to brush a speck from his abbreviated sleeve. ‘Mark him down as a decent little miler who did a few things wrong.’

  ‘Like miss the start?’

  Whelan’s eyes make a darting survey of the carpark. Murphy’s bloody Law / not a fucken soul about. ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Probably got too far back in the run.’

  ‘Nope.’

  Sutton removes his shades. ‘Maybe he just didn’t fancy the firmness in the track.’

  ‘Look,’ says Sandy with the beginnings of attitude, ‘if you got a problem take it up with the stewards. They’ll tell you to piss off just like I’m about to.’

  Sutton smiles. ‘I think his real mistake was at the two hundred. You know—when he threw a left and went straight up the filly’s arse. Poor lass got such a fright she found a gear and won it.’

  ‘I went for a gap. It closed. That’s racing.’

  ‘Reg Gasnier would have been proud of that step.’

  ‘Go fuck a lemon.’

  Sandy turns and stalks to the driver’s door, surprised that he’s allowed to. He jumps in quick and central-locks but when he turns the engine it foghorns like a moose. Yafuckenwhat. The would-be driver looks in the rear-view, sees the bloke holding a mechanical heart. Fucken distributor. The saboteur walks casually up the passenger side and taps on glass. Sandy swears and unlocks / the bloke gets in.

  ‘What have you done to my fucken car.’

  ‘Nothing serious.’

  The jockey punches the steering wheel—hasn’t been this incensed since the night he forgot himself, gave Deb a clip. The cops got called and she put the AVO on, six full weeks before she come back again. ‘You don’t scare me,’ he says with a gibbon’s sneer. ‘I know what you are.’

  ‘If you know what I am,’ says Sutton quietly, ‘then you know what I am not.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What is it you are not?’

  Sutton’s arm extending like a basket cobra, a scaled drape behind the back of Sandy’s seat. It is a gesture that brings the two men close.

  ‘I am not interested. In hearing. Any more bullshit.’

  —

  Man hath no greater misfortune. Nor woman neither.

  Don’t ask anyone who’s been there. No need: it’s worse than fire, worse than flood. Worse than flaming famine but like it. It is a drought of mercy, of understanding. No misery can touch it and no words frame.

  ‘You okay back there?’ says Davey Corcoran. Armed with a native sense of tact, PC Probert has lowered the radio via small and surreptitious turns.

  The essence of the pain lies in never knowing. Hopes are raised and then—nothing. They are not even dashed. All you are left with is acute sense of vacuum, there in your gut-box like a nasty case of colic.

  ‘Probably the midget fuck on board,’ says Davey.

  ‘Bound for Gluery,’ whispers PC Probert.

  The worst thing that can happen is this: at the two-fifty mark, the race caller bellows the name of your horse in a tone of great excitement and then does not say its fucking name again.

  —

  Glen’s office is dated but comfortable. Sutton stands at its heart the way a hero presents to a king: half in challenge, half in supplication. Generally speaking his type is dismissed, but every monarch knows to fear the one man in a thousand who might undo the realm. It is often the one who looks least likely / the grail is made of wood.

  Glen curls his lip. ‘Here we go. His brother’s keeper.’

  Sutton is not offered a chair. He goes to the window, looks out and across at Woollahra winter. The carpenter takes up a comfortable position on the sill.

  Glen says, ‘How about you spare me the standover routine? You know—remember where you are.’

  The door opens and one of Glen’s secretaries wonders if they would care for something to drink. Glen says no. Sutton says nothing. The girl goes away.

  ‘Listen, Jamie, I’ve known him even longer than you have, and I’ll tell you right now I’m not happy about it. But do you know the difference between Rawson and me? The difference is he actually likes to have a whinge, play the victim. Part of him needs it. That’s why he’s a punter and I’m a bookie. So until he comes in here and looks me in the eye and tells me what I was supposed to do…I mean really, what was I supposed to do?’

  Sutton cocks his head to the left.

  ‘Fuck you,’ says Glen. ‘I didn’t want to get bought out. Never even heard of such a thing. But damn near two-to-one on a debt like that and they tell me I’ve got no choice. I hope he happened to mention that.’

  Sutton opens his hands to suggest that no one has mentioned anything to anyone.

  ‘Come on—you can’t tell me he didn’t send you.’

  The carpenter shrugs; Glen sighs exasperation, throws his arms wide open. ‘Then what the hell are we having this conversation for?’

  Sutton leaves the sill and now he does take a chair. The desk is a tip: inkwell and yarmulke, a mass of accounts. The black and white eyes of a framed Kerry Packer peek over a mound of receipts. Glen is in that photo too but wholly obscured.

  ‘He had a punt today,’ says Sutton. ‘Canterbury Park. I know it wasn’t with you. What I don’t know is why.’

  ‘You seriously haven’t spoken to him.’

  ‘He asked my ex to put it on. Apparently he was twenty grand to the good with Shane Metcalf.’

  ‘I know Shane.’

  ‘I know you know Shane. No one here is asking if you know Shane.’

  ‘Okay, then. So what happened at Canterbury?’

  ‘Sandy Whelan happened.’

  Glen waits for elaboration. Doesn’t get it. Then he does. ‘This isn’t much of a town for Rawson’s money anymore.’

  Sutton sits with legs apart, fists on corresponding knees; he looks like a kid in a high school photo. ‘Explain.’

  ‘The people who bought the debt,’ says Glen, ‘they have more sway than the tide.’

  ‘You’re saying they knew he was holding a decent ticket—and they made sure it came up a loser.’

  ‘I’m not telling you anything. But you should know that if they did hear that, and did decide that, they could certainly get that done.’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense.’

  Glen is bullfrog fat and possum grey, the principal to Sutton’s pupil. When he coughs it sounds like a wheel in his chest is spinning fast the wrong way, damaging some pretty important shit in the process. ‘Rawson talks about you like you’re the sharpest tool in the shed. But then you say a thing like that and I can see you know fuck-all.’

  ‘Fill me in.’

  ‘They don’t want the cash, Jamie. They paid me almost double just for rights. The right to own the bloke, the right to fuck him.’ Glen feels the words, spits them like venom.
Sutton is a contrast, something graven at the entrance of temples.

  ‘And you sold them.’

  ‘Buddy, you are strawberry shortcake compared to them. They came in here and they didn’t put aggro over the desk. They just started telling me things, private stuff I thought nobody could possibly know. Little details that went to the grave with my mum, my dad, things of no importance. I tell you, son, I went cold all over.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Then they started on the shit about my life that I don’t know. Real headfuck. By that point I’m almost ready to give them the Ship for nothing. No problem, they say, loyalty is a wonderful thing. Next topic is my daughters, granddaughters. Game, fucking, over.’

  ‘Who is they.’

  ‘I don’t know. Honestly—I don’t. But they said if I gave the money to Rawson myself, they’d be back. Only it wouldn’t be them, it would be, quote, some nasty people. That’s like fucken Hitler saying next time it won’t be me—it’ll be an actual bloody Nazi. Get me?’

  ‘Yeah, Glen. I get you.’

  ‘Good.’

  Sutton stands and goes to the door. ‘How long have they given you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The doctors.’

  The bookie rocks back to consider the strange man in his office. He fires another smoke / they help him think. ‘Gotta medical degree, do we?’

  ‘Pulmonary emphysema. My uncle died from it.’

  ‘Well done, clever dick. You’re a bit more cluey than I thought.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what’s the difference. It’s Rawson you gotta worry about. What do you intend to do?’

  Sutton intends to leave and does so.

  08

  Your problems are not so diabolical. They simply need to be seen in a different light, reconsidered at a distance so to speak. A watcher on Mars would not think them so awful, nor someone examining your case a hundred years from now. How many humans have walked the world, a hundred bloody billion? Most have had to feel like this / this too shall fucken pass.

  ‘Twenty-one fifty,’ says the cabbie.

  ‘Man alive, I remember when I could get here for ten.’

 

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