Marble Bar

by Robert Schofield

  ‘My grandparents are from Hong Kong,’ said Charlie, his face apologetic. ‘My Cantonese is a bit old-fashioned. I only got bits of that.’

  Bronson smiled, stepping forward into the room. ‘My friend here is from the hills of Wenzhou,’ he said, with a sweep of his hand towards Wu. ‘He speaks some thick mountain dialect of Wu Chinese. He worked his way down the coast to Hong Kong and hopped on a ferry to Macau. Nobody could understand a word he said, so he had to learn Cantonese, but he’s still got that thick hillbilly accent.’ He was in the middle of the room now, enjoying the audience. ‘The boys take the piss out of him, call him a peasant, so my brother here has learnt to keep his mouth shut. That’s a lesson we could all use, eh?’

  Muddy took a swig of his beer, watching Bronson. ‘How come you call him your brother? You’re not my bro but you’re brother to this guy?’

  ‘You think brotherhood is about skin?’ Bronson said. ‘I’m a brother to Wu because of an oath I took.’

  Muddy’s eyes were wide. ‘That some sort of triad thing?’

  Bronson laughed at this. ‘You think you know something about that? You think they’d let me into something like that? You know fuck-all about Wu or me.’

  ‘I know something,’ Dussell said. He’d been sitting quietly staring at the steak, and now he was licking his lips. ‘I know that if you’d stop grandstanding for a moment, perhaps Charlie could bring me a knife and fork and I could eat my fucking steak.’

  Charlie nodded a quick apology and grabbed cutlery from a pot beside the till. He laid them beside Dussell’s plate and took a step back. Dussell looked at Bronson. ‘You’re welcome to watch,’ he said, ‘but I warn you, I chew with my mouth open.’ He cut the steak and loaded his fork, then pushed it into his mouth. He looked at Stacey and winked.

  Bronson walked up to the bar in front of Stacey, between Muddy and Dussell, and put an elbow on the counter. ‘I reckon the old fella could do with another beer to wash down his lunch,’ he said. He took a wallet from his inside pocket and placed two crisp fifties on the bar. ‘Why don’t you get everyone another drink, darling?’

  Stacey looked across at Reynard, who nodded calmly. He was leaning against the icebox, his arms folded casually across his chest, his eyes swinging from Bronson to Wu and back again, until he caught Ford’s eye. Ford felt that whatever Bronson had planned would be coming soon.

  Stacey opened the icebox door beside Reynard and took out a six-pack of beer, handing one to her boss and putting one in front of Muddy and then Dussell. She clutched the remaining beers to her chest. ‘You want one?’ she asked Bronson.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll have a bourbon, neat,’ he said. Stacey put down the cans, found a glass and a bottle from the shelf, and poured him a shot. He left it sitting on the bar.

  ‘What about him?’ said Stacey, nodding towards Wu.

  Bronson raised an eyebrow. ‘Wu doesn’t touch alcohol,’ he said. ‘His body is a temple. All that Taoist shit.’

  Bronson picked up the glass and downed the shot. His fingers passed back and forth across his forehead, tracing the swirls and spirals of his tattoo, his eyes fixed on the barmaid. ‘I bet you hear everything, standing behind this bar,’ he said. ‘I bet you know all the dirty secrets of this town.’

  She took a step back away from him, leaned against the cooler beside Reynard until her arm touched his. Bronson held out his hand to her. ‘You don’t need to be afraid of me, sweetheart. Come talk to me.’

  She took a hesitant step forward. Reynard’s eyes didn’t move from the big Maori. Bronson reached out and took her hand in his, gently lifting it forward to rest on the polished wood of the counter, turning her wrist so that the tattoo along her forearm faced upwards. He lowered his head to examine it.

  ‘I thought I’d seen all sorts of ink,’ he said, ‘but this line has got me.’

  ‘It’s my pulse,’ Stacey said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  Bronson ran his thumb down the line, stopping at each little zigzag. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

  ‘I got this fear of dying,’ said Stacey, her voice breaking. ‘Dying sudden, spontaneous like, in my sleep. I look at this tattoo and it reminds me I’m still alive.’

  Bronson looked into her face, something like concern in his eyes. ‘Why would a beautiful young woman like you worry about dying?’ he said. ‘Prime of life, you are.’

  ‘Beautiful?’ she said, a small smile creasing her mouth, her hair falling over her eyes. ‘I’m not that. I’m kinda big.’

  ‘You’re not big, you’re magnificent,’ Bronson said. ‘I’ve been in Macau so long, I forgot what a beautiful gwailo woman looks like. Haven’t seen a big heavy pair of milky-white titties for years.’

  Stacey looked up now, uncertain. Bronson’s eyes were fixed on her chest.

  ‘I mean, you gotta love those little Chinese chicks,’ Bronson said, ‘but they’re so small you have to have a few before you feel satisfied. They got no curves on them, just straight up and down.’

  He looked up at Stacey and narrowed his eyes and she tried to take a step back but he had a firm grip on her wrist. ‘So tell me why you’re afraid of dying,’ he said, his voice quiet, his eyes on her, ignoring everyone else in the room.

  ‘My parents,’ said Stacey in a small voice. ‘They died when I was a kid. One of them dodgy old gas heaters on the wall. Carbon monoxide leaked out when we were asleep. They died, I didn’t. They got me in an ambulance and revived me. I remember the machine by the stretcher, the little pulsing line right by my head. Twelve years old I was.’

  Bronson pressed his thumb into her wrist where the tattooed line ended. ‘I can feel your pulse here,’ he said. ‘Good and strong. You feel you’re alive now, eh, girl? Fear and excitement, so similar, don’t you think?’

  Ford watched this from the sofa, looking at Bronson then at Reynard, wondering how long the landlord could watch it. Ford had the feeling that Bronson had finished, had had his fun. He was getting to the point now.

  ‘Now, Stacey, I’m going to ask you a question,’ Bronson said softly. ‘And I’m asking you because I reckon I can trust you more than anyone else in this bar to give me an honest answer.’ Stacey looked over her shoulder at Reynard, but Bronson tugged on her arm. ‘Don’t look at your boss,’ he said, ‘he’s had plenty of opportunity to get involved with this conversation, but he’s just stood there watching.’

  Bronson surveyed the room, making sure all eyes were on him. Dussell was chewing slowly on his steak, but was watching Bronson closely. Bronson turned back to Stacey. ‘There are two people travelling with Ford here,’ he said. ‘A woman and a girl. I want you to tell me where they are.’ She glanced at Ford, and he gave a small shake of his head. She bit her lip, avoiding Bronson’s eyes, not knowing what to do.

  Bronson waited, enjoying himself, giving Ford a little smirk. As his eyes moved back to the barmaid they caught the row of hooks fixed to the wall above the telephone. Five hooks, all numbered, each holding a single key on a wooden fob, but the first hook was empty. He let go of Stacey’s hand and she snatched it off the counter, rubbing her wrist, leaning close to Reynard. Bronson smiled at Wu, said something in Cantonese, and Wu nodded.

  Bronson turned and took a few paces towards the archway and the back of the hotel, but Reynard stopped him with a shout. Pushing Stacey and Charlie through the door to the kitchen, Reynard turned to face Bronson, reaching under the counter and pulling out a baseball bat. It was old, wooden, with most of the paint chipped off it. He held it a hand’s breadth above the counter and let it drop, the wood clattering as it landed, getting everyone’s attention.

  Bronson turned to him and gave him a taut smile, rolled his shoulders, and pulled down the cuffs on his jacket. He waited, letting Reynard think about what he was going to say.

  ‘I’ve let you shoot your mouth off, bail up my regulars, manhandle my staff, but the guest rooms are private. This stops here.’

  ‘This is good,’ said Bronson. ‘Good that you�
�re looking after your pub. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to step forward, stop me having the run of the place.’

  ‘You never had the run of anything. You’re just another big bloke, full of himself, telling tall stories in the front bar. You think we don’t get that every Saturday night in here?’

  ‘You seem relaxed about this,’ said Bronson, moving his head from side to side, skewing his jaw, and stretching the muscles in his neck.

  ‘We get trouble enough in here,’ said Reynard. He was looking at Bronson, but every few seconds his eyes darted sideways to check the man by the front door. Wu was leaning against the doorframe, a cigarette hanging from his lip, showing little interest in the conversation.

  ‘You ever seen trouble like me before?’ Bronson asked.

  ‘Not so well dressed,’ said Reynard, ‘but take away the suit and you’re just another bloke with too much muscle. You shouldn’t do the steroids, mate, they shrivel your balls. We’ve had Maoris bigger than you before, blokes that worked the mines. They were roaring drunk and we still threw them out on the street.’ Reynard’s hands rested lightly on the bat, his fingers tapping the wood.

  ‘What about Wu?’ said Bronson. ‘I’m pretty sure you never saw anything like him before.’

  ‘The guy looks like he’s in a coma,’ Reynard said.

  ‘Nah, he’s sharp, don’t you worry,’ said Bronson. ‘He is a master of wu-wei, the action of no action. He has the profound conviction that no harm can come to him, because he doesn’t really exist. But when he wants to, he’s going to take that bat off you. He’ll move so fast you won’t have time to piss your pants.’

  Reynard turned to check where Wu was standing and Bronson took two long strides to the bar, slapped a hand down on the middle of the bat and snatched it from under Reynard’s hands. Before the landlord could react, Bronson put his free hand on the knob at the end of the handle, swivelled the bat until the base pointed towards Reynard, and jabbed it forward into his gut just below his rib cage.

  Reynard let out a grunt as the air escaped his lungs and he stepped back against the cooler before doubling over, sucking hard to get air.

  Bronson took three quick steps backwards, neat movements, light on his feet for such a big man. The bat was still held out steady and level in front of him. He paused a moment, finding his balance, then spun the bat around in neat vertical strokes, first past his left shoulder, then his right, before spinning the bat in front of himself, working his hands one over the other in a blur, the bat coming to a stop upright in front of him. He then repeated the sequence, this time spinning his whole body, his feet dancing, and the arc of the bat filling the room, Ford feeling the rush of air as it passed over his head. Bronson brought the bat up high and then down in a great axe-swing onto the bar, smashing the bourbon glass and scattering beer cans. Then he returned the bat to the upright position beside his head, his face contorted into a grimace, his eyes wide, the whites showing all around, his tongue hanging out of his mouth in a hideous curve.

  Silence fell over the bar, the only movement the flicker of the television in the corner. After a moment the quiet was broken by a beer can that rolled off the counter and clattered to the floor. Henry Dussell tipped his lunch plate to empty it of spilled beer, and picked a shard of broken glass from his half-eaten steak. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if Charlie hadn’t already ruined that steak, you’ve well and truly fucked it.’

  Bronson still held the bat poised ready, looking at Reynard slumped against the cooler. ‘This little thing isn’t as long as a taiaha,’ he said, ‘or as properly balanced, but I could still clean you all up with it. I’d hoped to come in here and have a quiet word with Ford here, just the two of us. Discuss the situation. You understand? Not get emotional about anything, right? Tell him what I thought, the two of us laying it out, looking over what we have, not letting that blonde break things up. I never figured I’d have to deal with the whole fucking pub. So I’ll say this once, and make it clear. Me and Wu have some business to conclude in this town, and I suggest you all stay out of our way.’

  Muddy had backed up to the end of the bar, huddled in the corner where it met the wall by the till. He uncurled himself and sat upright on his stool. ‘That’s some seriously deadly kung fu moves you got there, bro.’

  ‘This is my culture, you little fuck,’ hissed Bronson. ‘Wu over there knows the Chinese styles, he knows the Wu Tang sword, all that, but none of his stuff is anywhere near as good as mau rakau.’

  ‘The man is Wu Tang?’ said Muddy, his eyes wide in excitement. ‘Respect, bro! Bring the motherfuckin’ ruckus!’

  Bronson swung the bat one more time, then let it drop, hanging loose from his hand. He put the end on the floor and leaned on it like a walking stick.

  ‘Did you guys bring guns?’ asked Reynard, who had recovered his breath. ‘Or do you just use sticks and umbrellas to threaten a bloke?’

  Bronson grinned. ‘I’m big enough not to need a gun,’ he said. ‘Shit, I’m big enough that most of the time I don’t even need to fight. Fuckers take one look at me and turn away.’

  ‘The last of the knucklemen, that you?’ said Reynard. ‘That could be a problem for you.’

  Reynard reached under the bar again, and when his hands appeared above the counter they held a shotgun. It was a handsome sporting gun, an over-and-under Beretta, the wood of the stock polished to a deep shine.

  The smile didn’t flicker on Bronson’s face. ‘That’s not the problem,’ he said. ‘That’s the juice. One reason I don’t carry a gun, it makes it all the more fun taking one off someone else.’

  Reynard swung it up to his shoulder in a practised movement, tucking his cheek against the stock, sighting along the barrel at Bronson. ‘Drop the bat,’ he said, cool about it.

  Bronson let the bat go and it bounced twice on the hard tiled floor, coming to rest at his feet. ‘You’ve only got two shells in that thing,’ he said. ‘Can you move that fast?’

  Now Reynard let himself smile. ‘If you look above my head, top shelf, next to the bottle of good whisky, that silver trophy there. It’s for skeet shooting. Two targets, two shots.’

  ‘Shooting at crockery isn’t the same as shooting a man,’ Bronson said, holding his hands out wide.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Reynard. ‘Men are bigger and they don’t move so fast.’

  ‘You ever shot a man?’

  ‘Never had to. I used to shoot bush melons off the fence post out the back. I always imagined a man’s head would come apart the same way. Still waiting to see how that might look.’

  ‘A hell of a mess is how it looks.’

  ‘First rule of running an outback pub,’ Reynard said, ‘is that you don’t put anything in the front bar that can’t be hosed down. Now back up towards your mate by the door.’

  Bronson stayed calm and took two steps backward. Ford scooted along the sofa, trying to stay out of the line of fire. He thought that Bronson was the most in-control person he had ever met in his life.

  ‘Are you sure this is the direction you want to take?’ Bronson said, as Reynard swung the shotgun, tracking him towards the door. ‘Remember this moment. This is the point at which it will start to go wrong for you, at which you’ll wish you’d taken a different route. When Maori warriors travel to battle, we are careful to look out for the first enemy that crosses our path. He maroro kokati ihu waka, the first flying fish crossing the bows of the canoe. We make sure this first enemy is slain, to bring good luck in battle. Are you making yourself my enemy?’

  Reynard kept his cheek hard against the butt of his gun. He was swivelling from his hips, his whole upper body, arms and gun moving as one unit, pointed at Bronson as he backed towards the entrance. When Bronson reached the door he turned, said something quietly to Wu, and the two of them slipped out into the white light beyond.

  Reynard waited a few moments until he heard a car start, then relaxed his grip on the shotgun. ‘Go close the front door, Muddy,’ his voice casual, tryin
g to disguise his shallow breathing. Muddy tiptoed across the room, closed the door and threw the large bolts top and bottom.

  Henry Dussell picked another shard of glass from his steak. ‘At least the bastard didn’t make us sit through a haka,’ he said. ‘Any of those noodles left?’

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Reynard. ‘Lunch is over. We’re closed.’

  FOURTEEN

  Ford ran out of the back door of the bar into the yard, dodging the chairs scattered across the patio as he hurried towards the room. He slowed when he saw Kavanagh on the verandah in front of their door, hanging wet clothes on a makeshift line she had strung between two of the roof posts. She looked up as Ford walked the last few yards to her. She had washed her jeans and shirt, and now wore running shorts and a singlet. She turned away to pick up the wet jeans lying on the plastic chair and Ford saw the tattoo that stretched down her left shoulder blade. At first he thought it was a scratch, something made by a large cat, five parallel lines running jagged down her back. He was about to take a step towards her for a closer look when she turned around, the jeans dripping in her hands, her eyes uncertain.

  ‘Every day is a perfect drying day up here,’ she said, as she pegged the pants to the line.

  Ford took a second to catch his breath before he said, ‘Bronson and Wu, they just walked into the front bar.’

  Kavanagh glanced quickly at the door to the room, which was ajar, the sound of the television and the air-conditioner drifting out. She then looked at Ford and her eyes narrowed. ‘Where are they now?’ she asked.

  ‘Reynard pulled a shotgun from under the bar, shooed them out the door.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Where did they go?’

  Ford shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They left in a car. I guess they won’t have gone far.’

  Kavanagh’s eyes tracked beyond Ford and along the fence, gauging its height, taking in the barbed wire on the top, the gate and the padlock.

  ‘How’s Grace?’ Ford asked.