‘You’re not the one bleeding,’ Mike replied. His hard stare returned. He put the blackjack inside his coat, then considered the bright red patches in the tablecloth. Blood continued to drip onto his shirt and trousers, to the floor. He pressed the tablecloth to his face again and said, ‘I’ll take the bag.’
‘No counting?’
‘I want out of here.’ Mike glanced at Denny. Then he said, ‘Junior’ll let you know what happens next.’
It was like being caught in quicksand. Bobby knew what his father and Mr Smoke would be thinking. As much as they wanted to see the back of these men, who could say what would happen to that money once it left the bistro? Mike and Denny might count it out and claim there wasn’t enough. They could keep a portion for themselves and tell Junior he’d been short-changed. Or Junior himself might have some new trick up his sleeve.
‘Wait,’ Mr Smoke said.
Mike waited, entirely without pleasure.
Again it was as if Mr Smoke had to decide something. Then he spoke.
‘We’re not getting anywhere. Without Junior’s guarantee, tonight doesn’t mean anything. That’s a lot of money and I’m not giving it away just for this problem to keep going.’
Maybe Mike had had enough. He didn’t speak but jerked his chin at Denny. Denny understood. Mike went to the bistro’s front door. The welcome bell tinkled. Denny made a wide berth of Bobby’s father, still with the .38 hanging at his side. Mike held the door open, waiting.
Mr Smoke pulled the backpack onto one shoulder. Again he grunted with some sort of pain.
From where he was sitting Bobby said, ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Te quedas donde estás! Stay where you are!’
‘It’s not right, Papi. It’s our business.’
Mr Smoke appeared to steel himself. He walked to Bobby then leaned forward, his mouth close to Bobby’s ear.
‘Wherever Sistine is, go look after her.’
Bobby felt himself swallow hard.
Mike let Mr Smoke pass to the outside footpath. Denny followed. Bobby, unhappy, watched them go—but when he glanced at his papi he thought he caught the unmistakable glimmer of relief.
…
In the front bucket seat of a late-model Holden Premier, four doors and six cylinders, Mike started to count out the money from the backpack.
‘Where the hell you been keeping this shit?’
The notes were pulped and mashed after decades spent padding the inside of one of his heavy bags, plus other places throughout his house where he’d secreted it all. It was a mess thrown together, but Charlie had counted it himself in his back room—it had taken hours to reach the almost unimaginable sum. Now he was suspicious of the way Mike was trying to do this while they drove. A real count would require space, patience, and maybe even someone to oversee the process. Charlie noted that the weedy one, Denny, drove with a very light foot on the accelerator, no hurry to get anywhere. Charlie sat in the back trying not to look like a man nursing an agonising shoulder. He wanted this over and done with; he wanted to go see Holly, find a way to fix things with her.
Mike’s nose had stopped bleeding. He rolled down his window and hurled the tablecloth out. Then, frustrated by the futility of the counting task, he gave up with a grunt. He didn’t replace the fistfuls of bills he already had out. Instead, he kept a separate brown satchel on his lap and, with a sinking feeling, Charlie saw that into it that money went. Here then was the game. Mike and Denny were taking a share and Charlie would be the only one to know it for sure. He could stand in front of Junior and tell him over and over; Junior might believe him, or he might see some stupid ex-boxer who thought he was smarter than he was. Then on the thing would go. More threats, more violence, these men and their never-ending road of trouble. And Sistine attached to it all via the bloody Domingos.
Mike wasn’t quite satisfied with the amount he’d skimmed. He took another fat fistful and shoved it into his satchel, then he twisted in the front seat and leaned over the centre console.
‘You said you wanted this over, but do you mean it?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Junior’s not going to like counting that shit only to come up with the wrong number.’
‘The right amount was there till you took yours.’
‘Maybe you’ve got more.’
‘You helped yourself to your share. Junior’s going to love that.’
‘Maybe our share can be bigger and Junior’ll never know. If you’ve got more squirrelled away?’
‘Only problem with that is there is no more.’
‘Why don’t we check your place out? Just give the directions.’
‘You’re deaf, right?’
‘There’s another way of looking at this.’
Charlie tried to keep his frustration down. Every time Mike opened his mouth he wanted to shut it for him.
‘What other way?’
‘I’ve got a feeling that what you’re trying to give us doesn’t include Flemington.’
‘What’s Flemington got to do with anything?’
‘You pretending you don’t know?’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Couple of days ago Junior gave the old man another twelve thousand. The prick managed to lose it in record time.’
‘Lose what?’
‘Twelve thousand dollars. Put it on the nose of some third-rate nag, trying to cover his entire debt.’ Mike gave a short laugh. ‘The old guy’s nuts, you know that, right?’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘“The Danger” Domingo.’
The name itself seemed to amuse Mike. And now Denny too.
‘Wait, no.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Bullshit. I don’t know anything about that. What you’ve got there is every dollar Bobby owes, including the last bit of interest.’
‘Bobby doesn’t owe anything.’
‘What?’
‘Back in the day, did you take too many to the head as well? That kid doesn’t owe anything except by affiliation. He’s been covering for his father.’
‘Why would he?’
‘You blind?’
‘What?’
‘Maybe you don’t have a son. That kid idolises his old man. Just like everyone else does. ’Cept for Junior.’
Charlie had to blink for the oaf he was.
‘For me it’s a road that ended a long time ago.’
Then he almost had to laugh. This whole thing, so obvious. Of course Bobby hadn’t run up so stupid a debt. The boy just wasn’t capable of it, but that father of his with his endless lies and schemes—add twitching hands and a fading memory too. Well, Diego Domingo could definitely create a debt impossible to pay off. And a good son would try to save him.
Gesù Cristo but he was blind.
Mike’s eyes were still on him. He said, ‘So you want me to believe you just happened to have the exact amount you thought the old guy owed?’
‘Sure, why not?’
‘Tell me, where’s the rest?’
‘You and your friend, you’re stealing from your employer and you expect more from me?’
‘We can make you tell us.’
Denny’s eyes moved from the road ahead. He glanced at his partner. Charlie understood the message. The Premier took a long left turn. The area they passed through was non-residential with very few lights. He turned in his seat and saw car headlights through the back window, but they were in the distance, far behind, maybe not even coming this way.
‘I never saw you fight,’ Mike spoke, now almost affable. ‘If you and Diego are supposed to be friends, how is it you don’t know he’s gone soft in the head?’
‘He’s okay.’
‘That old man plays the horses like there’s no tomorrow and it doesn’t worry him he’s got no money. He owes Junior but he’s
letting the boy carry the trouble.’
‘Give me my backpack and let me out. You keep your share. I don’t care about that.’ Charlie pushed himself forward. With his good hand he tried to grab the pack from Mike, but the man’s grip didn’t give. Charlie had to relent. ‘I told you to pull over. I’m going home.’
He looked at the nothing outside, searching for a light, maybe a house, any sign of life he might run to. He tried to find the calm that Coach Joe Pacca had taught him. Maybe it just wasn’t there any more. The boxing world was too far away and he’d spent years hiding in Kulari and fraying his own nerves, anticipating a moment just like this.
‘Hurry up. Let me out.’
Between Mike and Denny there was the exchange of another silent glance. Charlie saw Mike’s hand reach down the side of his seat. Denny eased the car off the road and the headlights of the vehicle that had been far behind now passed straight by. There was no one to call out to, no help to find.
Charlie shoved his door and tumbled out. Denny pulled up with a harsh, juddering skid.
The two men were in the black night after him and Charlie had no idea where he was running. The air was cool on his face and he wanted more of it, days and nights of it for years and decades to come. He didn’t want to end here in the middle of nowhere. He’d run and never turn back. It was the same escape he’d been making since the moment he pulled away the blindfold to stare into Old Terry’s bulging eyes. It was the blind dash into a night that only turned darker the further he went—and so he caught himself and stopped dead, for the futility of it all, and turned around.
He saw the flashing arc of something in Mike’s hand swing down, then it hit him. Another blow followed. It knocked him to the ground. Charlie felt himself on his hands and knees, crawling across gravel. He shrank from more blows. Some were glancing. Some bit hard. Against a velvet sky and three-quarter moon Mike and Denny circled him, making a sport of their moment, and in this absolute nowhere they had all the time in the world.
Charlie breathed heavily. He started to push himself to his feet. No blow stopped him. They wanted him to stand. He saw Mike’s eyes wide, exhilaration tinged with a sort of fear, maybe for the extent of what he was about to let himself do. Mike stepped forward, keeping well out of the older man’s reach, and Charlie saw he had what looked like a very short police-issue baton, probably a metal core encased in hard rubber. Denny had the same. That’s what they’d used on him.
But now Mike flicked his baton and it expanded to the length of his arm. He came at Charlie fast and brought it down in another whipping arc. Charlie twisted on the big toe of his left foot—‘Like you’re twisting out a cigarette butt, the harder you do it the faster you turn,’ he heard Coach Joe shout—and didn’t try to avoid the blow. Instead, he leaned into it, checking most of its force. Mike hadn’t expected him to come in rather than jump back. It was an old boxing move, an instinct learned. The baton cracked him across his left shoulder another time. It wasn’t so hard, but through stars and a jolt of electricity Charlie felt a snap inside that shoulder, as if something fractured.
Mike tried another swing but Charlie was too close. He grabbed Mike around the middle and with his right gave him a solid short punch to the ribs and an uppercut that only glanced Mike’s chin. The first might have knocked some breath out of him, but the second wouldn’t have hurt. Then Denny was there. Charlie swung at him and missed. He couldn’t run again and felt himself an old bull facing its death stroke. He faced both men square on and recognised the unmistakable thrill of blood in their faces.
‘Tell us about the extra money,’ Mike spoke, gasping to get his wind. It wasn’t a real question. Neither Mike nor Denny wanted money now.
Then came raining blows. Charlie put up his right arm to ward them off. His left hung useless. He felt the beating as if to someone else, and barely registered the headlights that loomed in the middle distance, growing rapidly larger.
Those lights glared as a four-door of some sort skidded and swerved in the gravel, swinging around so that a back panel slammed into Denny and sent him off his feet into the darkness. A passenger door was open, then a back door, and then the driver’s door. The headlights cut a swathe across the empty space. Mike tried to understand what was happening but somehow he’d lost his baton. Two figures were turning him from one to the other.
Charlie heard the crack of bone against bone.
He was on one knee. He lifted his head. He squinted at the light and another figure was dragging Denny out of the darkness, his face covered in blood. Three figures circled the two. Voices crackled with age but were full of quiet delight:
‘Hopeless are we?’
‘Made for dancing?’
‘And so racist in our modern age.’
But Neville Doctor didn’t much join in. Instead, he came over to Charlie and lifted him to his feet. Charlie was surprised by the strength in those thin arms.
‘How you feeling?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘You look like shit.’ Neville helped him stand straight. ‘Diego’s smart as a fox, huh? After they threw us out we sat tight in Billy’s car.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Well.’ Neville looked over his shoulder. ‘We’ve got no real problem with these boys. We’ll just keep them busy a while. Can you drive?’
‘Yeah …’
‘Take their car, Charlie.’ Neville sized him up. ‘Everyone understands you want to keep yourself locked away. But we’re all brothers, brother.’
…
As soon as Carmelo left with Junior’s men Diego started on the Cava. He’d told Robertino that he’d better get home but again the boy had refused. He wanted to stay. They both needed to know how the night would end.
Now, with time passing and the wine soothing his nerves, the empty bistro’s airconditioning keeping out the warm night, Diego felt an overwhelming kindness toward his son. That was the perfect word for it. Robertino might have panicked just that little bit, but really he’d done okay. Producing the .38 had even helped tonight’s turn of events—which couldn’t be better. Carmelino was the one to go work things out with Junior. Diego was safe; his boy was safe. The story was done.
Robertino sat with him and soon they opened a second cold bottle. The pair drank, waiting for Carmelo to return. Or for Junior to call. Then the boy put down his glass and went to the telephone as if he’d forgotten something. Diego listened as Roberto rang the house. Sistine was still there with Miranda. The horde of relatives would have gone by now, stomachs sated by the evening’s surprising invitation. He could hear Robertino talking with Sistine, reassuring her, his son’s voice so low and loving it made Diego proud. Carmelo Fumo, for all his help, could go to hell.
My boy and the daughter I always wanted, that’s going to work out as well.
Someone was at the front door. Diego hadn’t needed to lock it. Carmelino walked straight in, the welcome bell tinkling. At first Diego felt his heart swell with relief—now he’d hear how the problem was one hundred percent over—yet he saw that Carmelo was bleeding, his knuckles torn, not quite walking straight. He looked like he needed more than the allotted minute of Dougie Hart’s good cutman’s touch—either the application of Negatan or adrenaline hydrochloride to quickly coagulate the wounds. Carmelo walked to their table and dropped the old backpack on the floor, plus a brown satchel Diego didn’t recognise.
Diego felt all sharp certainties threaten to drain away.
Carmelo was breathing heavily. It took moments for him to gather himself and speak. When he did his words were for Roberto.
‘I was wrong about you. You’ve looked out for your father.’
‘Jesus, Mr Smoke.’ Roberto tried to get him into a chair. ‘What did they do to you?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Carmelo looked around. As if still in a daze he went to the sink at the bar and ran the c
old water. He doused his face; Roberto tried to help him. Diego saw watery blood drip from Carmelo’s hands. The man took the mat off the bar and used it to wipe himself off. Cava or not, Diego felt his throat dry. His mind hummed. Carmelo pressed the mat to the wound at the side of his head, his chest still deeply drawing air. Roberto dug in a drawer for hand towels. He took the bloodied mat and gave Carmelo a clean towel.
Carmelo walked from behind the bar and pointed to the satchel. ‘Bobby, do me a favour. There’s money in that bag. Put it into the backpack.’
Roberto did what he was asked. Diego saw rough wads of cash join—rejoin—the money in the bigger bag.
‘But what happened?’
‘I was going to keep on for home … not come back here. But that wasn’t right either … You need to know, Bobby. I’m sorry I can’t help. That money, I’m taking it back. I was prepared to pay out a debt for you, but him … ’ Diego felt Carmelo’s glance, the first time he’d looked in his direction. ‘This is between a father and son,’ Carmelo said.
‘But where are we up to?’
‘Back to the start. Maybe worse.’ He indicated Diego with his chin. ‘Ask him.’
Diego pushed himself to his feet. ‘What’s this circus, Carmelo? You offer assistance then you come back with an accusation?’
Roberto looked between both men. ‘What accusation?’
‘Bobby, look … I thought you were the one playing the horses. Like you told Sistine. But I get it now. They told me. You’ve been protecting this old fool.’
Again Diego felt that glance. Carmelo said, ‘You need to figure out whether he deserves it.’
Those words, from a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a sewer, whom Diego had once laid flat, they made his blood boil.
‘Don’t try to make yourself better than me. We both know what you are.’
‘I’m not arguing.’
‘Then take your money and get out of here.’
Carmelo removed the towel from the side of his forehead, studied it, then held it there again.
‘Bobby, where’s Sistine?’
Burning Down Page 18