Behind the Hood (Behind the Lives)

by Hansen, Marita A.

  “Hello,” a deep male voice said.

  Nike whipped his hand back and turned to face a tall Samoan in a black suit walking towards him. The guy’s stern expression promised a whole world of hurt if Nike fucked with him.

  He felt like a little kid who’d been caught touching something he shouldn’t have. “Sorry, just admirin’ your Cortina.”

  “It’s not mine.” The man indicated with his head. “Come with me, Mr. Craven’s expecting you.”

  Nike followed him inside the house. White marble, a huge chandelier and framed paintings decorated the foyer, while grillwork and red carpets created a stunning-looking staircase that veered off in opposite directions.

  The man indicated to Nike’s feet. “Take off your shoes.”

  Nike did as instructed, then followed him down the passageway on his right. The man opened the door at the end and motioned for Nike to enter.

  An elegant office made up of white walls, red curtains and carpets greeted Nike’s eyes. Behind a large mahogany desk a man sat in front of a computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

  The assistant prodded Nike forward. “Mr. Craven, this is the courier.”

  Mr. Craven looked up. “Please take a seat.” He indicated towards the only chair in front of the desk.

  Relieved by the guy’s friendly face, Nike sat down. Shit, he’d been worried about nothing. No scars or Russian accent came with this father-type. With his rimless glasses and bald spot, Mr. Craven looked as scary as a freaking accountant.

  Mr. Craven’s smile slipped. “I hope you’re better than the last courier.”

  Nike cleared his throat, his nerves returning in an instant. Ash had told him what had happened to the previous courier, and he had no intention of following in the stupid cunt’s footsteps. Instead of delivering Ash’s package to Mr. Craven the guy had disappeared with it. The drugs weren’t found, but he was. Unfortunately, it was in the Waikato River floating face down.

  “Ash is a mate. I wouldn’t do that to him,” Nike replied.

  Mr. Craven’s smile returned. “Good. May I have it?” he said, holding out a hand.

  Nike handed over the package. Mr. Craven placed it on his desk, pulled open a drawer, and removed a switchblade. Nike flinched as the blade swished open. A penknife would have done the job, he thought. He stopped himself from shaking his head. Whether rich or poor, drug addicts were all alike to him. He thought about the disgusting piece of trash he’d visited last week, a Len something or other. The fat bastard also used a switchblade to cut open his drugs. If Ash hadn’t let him borrow his gun, he was sure the guy would have stabbed him.

  Mr. Craven slit the plastic and pulled out a clear package containing white powder. He made a small hole, wet his finger and stuck it in, then placed it on his tongue. His smile turned into a grin. He held the package out for the other man to take. “Put it in the safe and bring me the money.”

  Nike kept his eyes straight ahead as the assistant took the package. He heard some clicks and a clink, then a black briefcase was placed on the desk in front of him. The locks were opened, and the top pulled back. A whole lot of red back greeted Nike’s awestruck eyes.

  “Count it if you want,” Mr. Craven said.

  The man behind Nike picked up the briefcase and plonked it unceremoniously onto Nike’s lap. Nike’s hands shook as he counted through the thousands. Holy shit, there was more money here than he earned in a year.

  After a while, Nike clicked the lid shut and nodded at the man. “All good.” He went to stand up, but felt a hand push him back down.

  “I’d like to offer you some work,” Mr. Craven said. “I’ve used some of Mr. Rata’s couriers in the past to do deliveries for me, but now I’m looking for someone to do some other work. Mr. Rata recommended you for the job. I pay extremely well.”

  Nike forced himself not to frown. Why the hell didn’t Ash warn him about this? He was told nothing about Mr. Craven wanting him as an employee, and there was no way he wanted to get into this sort of crime. What he was doing was bad enough, but this guy was not small scale.

  Nike shifted around in his seat. He didn’t want to insult Mr. Craven, but he also didn’t want to get over his head. “Um ... I’ve already got a job.”

  Mr. Craven cocked his head to one side and grinned, making Nike feel even more uncomfortable. The man’s smile didn’t feel so friendly now. Instead, it reminded him of the Joker’s leer.

  Mr. Craven pulled off his glasses, wiped the lenses then popped them back on. “That money you counted is what you can earn in six months if you work for me...”

  Nike’s eyes bugged out again. He could start saving for a house with that sort of dough, in a nice suburb with a backyard for Jake to play in. Plus, Jess deserved better than Claydon. But what the hell did the guy want him to do for that sort for cash? A fucking blow job every day?

  He heard a laugh come from across the desk. “...and that doesn’t include the bonuses I give, if you do good by me.”

  Nike opened his mouth then closed it. Shit, he didn’t know what to say.

  Mr. Craven continued. “I need a new chauffeur and would like you to start tomorrow. What do you say, son?”

  If Nike could have jumped up and down he would have. Holy crap, he’d earn a shitload of money and he didn’t even have to do anything illegal.

  Nike grinned. “Thanks. I would like to take up your offer.”

  The man’s smile slipped again. “There’s one more thing you need to know about working for me. Whatever you see and hear during your employment is never to be mentioned to anyone. Okay?”

  Nike nodded. As long as he wasn’t going to be a drug courier he didn’t care. He was just going to be a bloody driver. What could happen?

  Mr. Craven’s smile returned as he leaned over and shook Nike’s hand. “I’ll see you back here tomorrow at nine a.m.”

  ***

  Ash looked like he’d been through the ringer. He had the whole Picasso thing going on; his face coloured in different shades of blue and swollen to the hilt. Nike wondered what the other guy looked like as Ash was a mean motherfucker.

  “What happened to you?” Nike asked.

  “Dante didn’t like me disciplining Sledge.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, Dante looks worse than me.”

  Ash stepped aside to let Nike in. He smiled at the sight of Beth’s Fox Terrier attacking the vacuum cleaner.

  “Stop it, Snatch,” Beth shouted.

  The dog continued snapping at the nozzle as Beth tried to clean the stained blue carpet. With a frustrated grunt, she dropped the vacuum pipe, kicked the off button and bent down to scoop up the dog.

  Nike smiled at her. “Hi, Beth.”

  She walked out of the room, her “fuck you” expression doing all the talking. Nike’s smile faded. He could only imagine what sort of trash her brothers had told her about him.

  “How’d the delivery go?” Ash asked seemingly unaware that his girlfriend had flipped off Nike.

  Nike’s smile returned. “Great. Here’s your money,” he said, handing over the briefcase.

  Ash took it and headed for the dining-room table. He placed the briefcase on the formica top and clicked it open. “You count it?”

  “Yup.” Nike grabbed a chair and sat down. “That’s freaking mega money, man.”

  Ash grinned then winced, obviously still in pain from his injuries. He trudged into the kitchen, grabbed two beers and returned to the table. “Yeah, Craven pays well,” he said, handing one to Nike.

  Nike pulled back the tab. “Thanks for the recommendation. Much appreciated.”

  “What recommendation?”

  “The chauffeur job for Mr. Craven.”

  “I didn’t recommend you.”

  “But he said...” Nike stopped mid-sentence, his mind going over the exact words Mr. Craven had used. “He said Mr. Rata had recommended me for the job.”

  Ash thumped his beer down on the table. A shot of froth spilled over his hand. “Fuckin’ Dante! I’
m gonna pound that bastard.”

  Nike looked at him confused. After the episode with Sledge he wouldn’t have thought the brother would have helped him out.

  “Why would Dante do me a favour?”

  “Cos it ain’t a fuckin’ favour. It’s payback for yesterday. Craven’s dangerous. There’s no way in hell I’d want cha workin’ for him.”

  Nike sighed. Man, he really didn’t want to hear that. He’d been looking forward to telling Jess that they’d finally had a break. “But it’s only a chauffeur job. How bad can it be?”

  “You’ll be taking your life in your hands if ya work for him. I’ll ring him and say I don’t approve.”

  Nike shook his head. The courier work and Ash’s occasional jobs weren’t enough to get him and his family out of Claydon. Plus, it wasn’t like he was going to be the guy’s bodyguard, drug courier, or any other shit like that—it was just a chauffeur’s job.

  “No, Ash, I need it. He’s gonna pay me a shitload.”

  Ash leaned forward. “Don’t take it, man. I don’t want cha gettin’ hurt.”

  “For Christ’s sake, I’m just gonna be a pansy-arsed chauffeur. Don’t be so melodramatic, man.”

  Ash shook his head. “I’m asking you to reconsider. If ya need the money I’ll flick you some more work.”

  Yeah, Nike thought, more drug running, like that was less dangerous than driving some rich prick around.

  He took a swig of beer then stood up. “Look, I’ve gotta go. Catch ya later.”

  Ash’s hand whipped out and latched onto Nike’s arm. “Don’t take it, Nike. I don’t want cha endin’ up in the Waikato like that last bloke. This cunt may look like a pussy, but he’s more dangerous than gettin’ a blow job from a Pit bull.”

  Nike ran his fingers through his hair, his mind wrestling with what Ash had said. He’d thought the last courier had worked for Ash, not Craven. Although he wanted the money bad, he couldn’t ignore what Ash had said. “Okay, but I’ll call him back.”

  Ash let go of his arm. “Things will work out. Be here by nine, and I’ll give ya the stoners’ delivery. They’re friendly.”

  Feeling miserable, Nike nodded. Little choice he had. “Okay.”

  He dug into his pocket for his phone as he left the house. It wasn’t there. He got in the van and searched the dash and glove compartment. Crap! It was probably still in the jeans he’d worn yesterday. He hoped Jess had checked his pockets before dumping them in the washing machine. There was no way he could afford a new one.

  He turned on the engine, backed out of the driveway and headed for home, wondering if the day could get any worse.

  28

  Jess

  Jess stared at the pregnancy test. Those two blue lines changed everything. How was she going to tell Nike?

  She slid down the wall and closed her eyes, picturing Nike’s sweet face. He’d been shocked the first time she’d told him about being pregnant with Jake, but had supported her in every possible way—with love and money. But two children would put him under too much strain. They couldn’t afford another child right now. The poor guy was stressed as it was with his huge workload.

  The sound of a vehicle rumbled up the driveway. She pushed up and dumped the test on the vanity, then lumbered down the hallway. As she entered the lounge Nike closed the ranch-slider behind him.

  Jess breathed in, her stomach doing a great impression of the tango. She knew she had to tell him, but he looked so tense and tired. She wanted to make him feel better, not add to his worries.

  “What’s wrong, baby? Why you home?” she asked.

  “I left my phone. Have ya done the washing yet?”

  “No.”

  “Thank Christ for that. I left it in my dirty jeans.” He strode past her, heading down the passage.

  Crap! The pregnancy test!

  Jess ran after him. He froze in front of the clothes hamper for a moment, then picked up the white stick off the vanity.

  “You’re pregnant,” he said, his voice almost a croak.

  “I just found out.”

  Nike placed his hands on the vanity and dropped his head.

  “I’m so sorry, Nike.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who wouldn’t wear those damned condoms.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She knew he’d blame himself. He always did if anything went wrong. But she was equally to blame.

  “I should’ve insisted,” she said.

  He went to hug her. “No, don’t cry, sweetie. It’s not your fault.”

  Jess moved back. “Dammit, Nike! Why do ya always hafta blame yourself? I didn’t want you wearin’ them either.”

  Nike dropped his hands, his expression stunned.

  Shit, she didn’t mean to yell at him. “I’m sorry.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, and leaned against his chest. His heartbeat was racing against her ear and his body felt tense.

  “I’ll hafta work now,” she said.

  “You can’t, you get bad morning sickness.”

  “Then I’ll work at night.”

  “No, Jess. You’ll be too exhausted, and you need to look after Jakey. Plus, your morning sickness lasted all day for months last time.”

  “But we’re already in the shit with the credit card, and when the baby comes we’ll need even more money. I’ll just do telemarketing or sumpthin’ else that doesn’t involve being on my feet.”

  He looked up at the ceiling then back at her. “We can get through this.” He hesitated then sucked in a breath. “I’ve just been offered another job that pays better.”

  Jess wiped her eyes as hope flickered through her. “What is it?”

  “I’ll be chauffeurin’ a rich guy around. He pays extremely well.”

  “How much?”

  “Close to ninety grand a year.”

  Jess breathed in sharply. They could move to a really nice neighbourhood with that sort of money, and another baby would no longer be a problem. She smiled at Nike and squeezed him tight. She could hardly believe their luck. For Nike to be offered a great job just when she found out she was pregnant was beyond believable. Finally, everything was going to be alright.

  29

  Tama

  Tama stretched, then swung his legs out of Naf’s bed. He yawned and looked around the room. Someone had tidied up while he’d slept. Before he’d zoned out the grey carpet had been covered in clothes and other stuff. Except for a beat-up guitar, it was now cleared away. He was surprised that he’d slept through the clean-up. He figured it must have been Mrs. Connor, because Naf didn’t know the definition of being quiet.

  He glanced at the alarm clock. 2:06 PM in red digits flashed back. He hadn’t meant to sleep so long, but guessed the weekend had finally caught up with him.

  Feeling hungry, he jammed his feet into his boots and headed for the kitchen. The sound of a beater stopped, followed by something being dropped in the sink. He entered and walked towards the dining-table.

  “Hey, Mrs. Connor.”

  “Hi, Tama. You want some pancakes?” Mrs. Connor transferred scoops of mixture onto the fry pan.

  Tama bit his lip before a, ‘Shit yeah,’ came out and replaced it with a, “Yes, please.”

  She smiled at him. “You want a drink too?”

  He grinned back and nodded. He couldn’t help himself. Whenever Mrs. Connor smiled at him it always put a stupid expression on his face, like it did with Beth. God, she was one hot mother. Yeah, she was over forty, but she looked more like Beth’s older sister than her mum. She had the same jet-black hair and one helluva figure, now decked out in jeans, a green sweater and a frilly apron. Tama liked to rib Corey and Naf about how they couldn’t possibly be her kids, since they were too fucking ugly.

  Once the mixture was sizzling in the pan, she took a bottle of juice from the fridge and handed it to Tama. She passed him a glass, then went back to the fry pan and flipped over the pancakes.

  “Heard you’ve been in trouble,” she said.

 
; “Hmm,” he replied, not wanting to get into it with her. Each time someone brought up the damn topic it made him feel worse.

  Mrs. Connor transferred the pancakes to a plate, then scooped more mixture into the fry pan. “How’s your mother taking it?”

  Tama scrubbed a hand down his face. Right on, just dish up more guilt onto his fucking plate. “I dunno. She wuz out when I went back.”

  “You need to turn yourself in.”

  “Nah, they’ll fuc...” He stopped his dirty mouth again. “I’m eighteen now; I’ll get prison time.”

  “Yeah ... but you can’t keep running. Plus, you’re still young, Tama. You’ll probably only get a few years.”

  Only a fucking few years? Shit, it was easy for her to say that. He shook his head. “I don’t even wanna spend a minute in jail.”

  “Well, hun, you should’ve thought about that before you hurt that kid.”

  “I didn’t mean to. It wuz an accident.”

  “Then tell the police that. They showed up here last night—”

  Tama bolted upright. “What didja tell them?”

  “Calm down, love. I told them nothing, because I knew nothing. But I would like to drive you to the station. I’ll stay with you as long as they allow me.”

  He shook his head.

  She placed a plate in front of him. “They’ll go easier on you if you turn yourself in.”

  “No.” He pushed the pancakes away and leaned on the table, placing his head in his hands.

  “Eat up, Tama. We’ll talk about it again later.”

  He grabbed one and stuffed it into his mouth as Naf walked into the room. His friend waddled over to the table and went to take a pancake off the plate.

  Tama whacked Naf’s hand. “Get your own.”

  Mrs. Connor handed her son a plate piled high. Tama took a swig of juice from the bottle, watching as Naf sat down. No wonder Naf and Corey were fat bastards.