by Scot Gardner
‘Thanks, boys,’ the older of the security guards said, puffing. ‘We owe you.’
They marched milkshake man towards Centre Management and the three of us – and a small crowd of shoppers – watched them leave.
That was it?
One of the over-groomed guys from the coffee stand in the middle of the hall pushed through to me.
‘Okay?’ he asked, and handed me a damp cloth.
‘Fine, thanks.’ I dabbed at the milk on my arm and handed the cloth back.
‘I saw it all,’ he said. ‘You guys are heroes.’
Julian grinned.
‘You didn’t have to put yourselves at risk like that. What if he’d had a knife or something? We shopkeepers love your work even if nobody else does.’
And that was supposed to be a compliment?
I exchanged glances with Julian and Jelat. We collected our beasts and sent them rolling towards the supermarket and our lunch break.
In the food court, Jelat sipped at his Coke and shook his head.
‘I can’t decide which one of you is the craziest – Jules eating someone’s rubbish or you and your seaweed and . . . whatever that orange stuff is.’
‘Roe,’ I said. ‘Fish eggs.’
He shivered. ‘We live in a civilised country. We are surrounded by real food like hamburgers and fries. You don’t have to live like this.’
‘When was the last time your mum made you fries?’ I shot back.
‘When was the last time your mother made you fish eggs?’
A familiar face emerged from the crowd. Carter Manson. I didn’t have time to shrink before he recognised me.
‘Will? William Rushton?’ he called, weaving through the tables towards us.
I looked away, but he just kept coming, slicing his way through my invisibility.
‘Ha! It is you, soft cock.’
Julian stopped chewing.
‘Milton’s? You’re a trolley boy?’ A grin split his face. ‘That’s perfect. Where’d you do your degree?’
I felt the flush spreading across my face. My jaw clamped.
‘Bet your old man’s beside himself. How’s Claire, by the way? We’ve missed her. We’re all missing her.’
Julian stood.
Carter glared down at him. ‘Take it easy, Frodo,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got your ring.’
Julian sneezed. A shotgun blast of soy-inky third-hand noodles hit Carter in the face. Blinded, he recoiled and lost balance, swiping a loaded tray from a table before colliding with a cleaner’s trolley. A stack of about fifteen plates hit the tiles. In the confusion, Jelat tugged my sleeve and together with Julian we made our exit. We passed the security guard we’d helped before lunch. Julian caught his elbow.
‘Big guy,’ he said, pointing. ‘I think he’s drunk.’
‘Thanks,’ the guard said. ‘Again.’
Julian dusted his hands and walked as fast as his little legs could carry him until we were deep in the southern carpark.
Jelat was still laughing and looking over his shoulder.
‘It’s the height of bad manners to sneeze at somebody,’ I said.
‘I’m a Westie,’ Julian said. ‘That’s how we roll.’
‘True,’ Jelat added. ‘A sneeze is not a proper sneeze unless you share it.’
They walked off.
‘Hang on,’ I said, and grabbed Julian’s shirt. ‘We’re supposed to be working on your etiquette.’
He slapped his forehead with his palm. ‘What’s the proper way to deal with an arse who’s all up in your face? Disrespecting you, your job, your . . . girlfriend?’
‘Ex.’
‘Ex-girlfriend. How do you deal with that? Sit on your hands and just take it, apparently.’
‘If you’re tall enough, you headbutt the bridge of his nose and mop his blood off your forehead with his 200-dollar shirt.’
‘See, I’m not like that. That’s giving in to biology. Violence is a last resort. And I’m not that tall. I’m a lover, not a fighter.’
I scoffed.
‘It’s true!’
‘How’s that relevant to this situation?’
‘Well, you’re my brother, and I love you. The sneeze is a defence mechanism, like one of those octopus thingies.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘And a sneeze with noodles is something special. I don’t spit for just anybody.’
‘Then I thank you.’
‘Whatever.’
‘No, I mean it. Thank you.’
‘Don’t go on about it.’
I threw my hands in the air.
‘What?’
‘You’re supposed to say prego.’
‘Pardon?’
‘De nada.’
‘Huh?’
‘Do – itashimashite.’
‘English, please.’
‘No worries, you’re welcome, my pleasure.’
‘How do you know all this shit?’
‘I’m an Alfie.’
‘Ex.’
‘Ex-Alfie. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
BOSS
FIVE PAST EIGHT on Tuesday morning and no Joanie. The brew room was locked. The boys were twitchy.
‘We should stay. She might be stuck in traffic,’ Doug said.
I’d been looking over my shoulder since the encounter with Carter the day before. He wasn’t the sort of guy who suffered anything quietly. I was in two minds about whether he’d involve the police.
‘We’ll vote then,’ Julian suggested. ‘All those in favour of going home, please raise your hand.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘What about the trolleys?’
‘What about them?’ Julian said.
‘Yeah,’ Ricky chimed in. ‘What about them, Will?’
‘If somebody doesn’t collect them, they’ll fill the carparks. Whose problem will that be?’
They looked at me blankly.
Jelat tugged my sleeve and showed me a text on his phone. ‘It’s from Tef’s sister,’ he whispered.
Tef needed 500 dollars.
‘Who has that sort of money?’ Jelat said.
A young woman in a tight black skirt and heels appeared from the centre and made a beeline for the brew-room door. She parted the sea of hi-vis with her smile. She flashed a single key on a yellow plastic tag.
‘Morning, boys,’ she said.
A stunned silence greeted her.
‘Good morning,’ I said eventually.
‘You must be Will,’ she said.
I nodded.
She held out her hand. ‘I’m Bernie from Centre Management.’
Her hand was office-soft and tiny.
‘Joanie’s had a bit of a family crisis and won’t be in for the rest of the week,’ she said, unlocking the brew-room door.
‘I see.’
She unfolded a note and handed it to me. ‘I wrote the note myself, but I hope you can make more sense of it than I can.’
All hands on deck. Tuesday street run.
‘She said you’d know what to do.’
I nodded again, and she handed me the key. Why me?
‘Hang on to it. It’s the only spare we have.’
She clip-clopped back to the centre and we watched her go.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘Joanie’s off for the rest of the week.’
Julian cheered. Ricky jumped, and then punched the air. He checked both his watches.
‘We don’t have a driver so it’ll be all legwork, I’m afraid, and we’ll do a street run this afternoon.’
‘I feel a bit sick,’ Julian said.
I rolled my eyes.
‘I do too,’ Doug said.
‘Enough,’ I said. ‘We need everybody working their best if we want to keep up.’
Julian stiffened. He saluted. Ricky and Doug followed suit. Jelat stared at his phone.
‘Jelat?’ I said.
He flipped me the bird. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
> I sent Doug and Ricky to the western carpark. Julian and I followed Jelat to the southern wilds. There weren’t many cars yet, but there appeared to be a hundred trolleys scattered across the tar savannah.
‘Double time, soldier!’ I said.
‘Suck my balls,’ Julian barked.
‘Suck my balls who?’
‘Suck my balls, sir. Yes, sir,’ he said, and saluted limply.
I jogged to Jelat. He popped an earbud out.
‘Which police station did they take him to?’ I asked.
‘West Tennant,’ he said.
I shouldered him. ‘He’ll be all right.’
‘It’s not juvie,’ he said. ‘It’ll be the real thing.’
‘He’s not going to jail yet.’
Collection was a different game without Joanie. We jogged and shunted ridiculous anacondas of fifty-odd trolleys.
‘Let’s max it out,’ Julian said. ‘See how many we can push.’
Challenge accepted.
We joined our pythons until we’d made a shining Chinese New Year dragon that stretched half the length of the carpark. It was a thing of great beauty. We’d added on every trolley we could find and we could still move it. Well, Jelat could keep it moving on the flat if we helped him get it started.
‘Circle!’ Julian shouted, and began towing the dragon’s head around.
The ring was a considerable traffic hazard, but surprisingly easy to move. Julian climbed on top and surfed. Jelat took photos. I figured if we ever needed to give Joanie a heart attack, showing her the pics would do it.
For all our antics, nobody died and the job got done.
Jelat detoured to the toilets on our way to the brew room for morning tea. We found Doug standing outside the door wringing his hands. He’d been crying.
‘What’s up, Doug? Where’s Ricky?’ I asked.
‘Some kids,’ he said. He pointed with a wonky finger across the carpark.
I spotted Ricky’s hi-vis. I could hear him bellowing. A circle of bodies moved around him, tossing something back and forth over his head.
I sprinted. Halfway there, Julian appeared at my side.
‘Are we shooting to kill, Sarge?’ he said. ‘No cameras out here.’
‘Let’s just see how it unfolds.’
They were about our age – two girls and three boys – dressed in unofficial Westie uniforms of grimy name-brand streetwear. They had Ricky’s wallet. The poor guy was red and shiny with snot and tears, the corners of his mouth foamy with spit.
One of the girls spotted us and ran off. The guy with Ricky’s wallet squared up at me. I dodged a fist and rammed him to the ground. Julian went down with the first guy he tackled. The remaining girl screamed and started kicking Julian.
Her singlet ripped as I dragged her clear. She turned on me and scratched my cheek with her first blow. She kicked my shin and wound up for another attack, her teeth bared and eyes white. With an open hand, I smacked her. It spun her and she dropped to her knees. The guy with Ricky’s wallet delivered a blow to the side of my head that rattled my cage but didn’t put me down. That’s when it got messy. He grabbed my shirt and tried to drag me off balance. One of my blunt body punches landed with a crack and winded him. He dropped the wallet. I shoved him onto his arse and scooped it up.
Julian was on his feet. He limped clear. Jelat arrived at a trot, fists balled, but the heat had gone. The guys we’d brought down skipped clear and – seething – regarded us from a distance. The girl I’d slapped held her cheek and screamed a string of abuse.
Julian dismissed her with a backhanded wave. ‘Equal rights, bitch.’
I stared at the hand I’d slapped her with. That was a first. And a last. There must be another way.
Ricky sobbed and dropped to his knees.
Julian patted his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Ricky. It’s over, mate.’
He helped him to his feet, but Ricky was still unsteady.
‘Oh, look at you, poor bugger,’ Julian said. ‘Come here . . .’
He opened his arms and Ricky fell into them. He cried into Julian’s neck. Julian rubbed his back and the pair rocked together for an awkward minute.
Jelat’s eyebrows jumped.
When they eventually drew apart, Ricky’s face had returned to its normal colour. I handed him his wallet and the handkerchief from my pocket.
Doug stumped up to his friend. ‘Are you okay, Ricky?’
‘What do you think?’ Ricky spat. ‘Why don’t you mind your own beeswax for once?’
‘Oi, Ricky,’ Julian said. ‘Watch what comes out of your mouth, mate. He was just asking if you were okay.’
‘Yeah, but he didn’t help, did he?’
‘Look at me!’ Doug squeaked, and held his twisted arms wide. ‘I’m useless in a fight.’
‘He did the right thing,’ I said. ‘Doug told us you were in trouble.’
‘He did,’ Julian said. ‘If it wasn’t for Dougie, you’d still be playing keepings off with those bastards.’
Ricky sniffed hard and tried to spit. Chuh! It dribbled down his chin onto his hi-vis. We took a step back. He wiped his face and checked his watches. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘That’s all right,’ Doug said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t help more.’
After lunch, I thought Doug and Ricky could continue their round-up in the western carpark, but they had other ideas.
‘Do we have to?’ Doug asked.
‘Yeah,’ Ricky said. ‘Why do you guys get all the fun jobs? Why, Will?’
‘Fun?’ Jelat said. ‘Wandering the streets hunting for lost trolleys? If you think that’s fun you need to get out more.’
But they were adamant, and in the absence of an authority figure, we scoured the neighbourhood as a crew of five. At Doug-kilometres-per-hour. I hung at the back and watched the expressions on the pedestrians as the guys made space for them on the footpath.
What a crew. The little Westie pit-bull took point, closely followed by the Cro-Magnon watch-checker. They both gave the crusty-headed Doug plenty of space, and with some speed up his gait grew wider and more flamboyant. The black guy had his hands jammed in his pockets, his shoulders around his ears. Get within a half-metre radius of him and you entered the aura of nightclub music that swirled around him. He stared at the ground as he walked, and I knew what I needed to do to lift his spirits.
In the middle of Catherine Street Park, a budding artist had dragged a shopping trolley into the branches of a golden elm. It was well above our reach.
Jelat leapt to a low branch and nimbly hoisted himself level with the metal beast. He shoved it and it moved enough to back us up.
‘Go again,’ Julian called.
Jelat pushed. The trolley dropped a foot before coming to a stop and hanging there with its metal bars threaded through branches like a thirty-kilogram possum trap.
‘It needs to go up before it can come down,’ I said. ‘Might as well leave it.’
Jelat climbed anyway, and tangling his limbs around and through the branches, he lifted the entire trolley clear and sent it clattering to earth.
We gave him a standing ovation. He bowed from his nest.
We’d found three more rogues before we made it to the edge of West Tennant. Doug spotted a cage hiding under an old blanket on a jungle-grassed front yard. Julian scissor-kicked over the fence. He bundled the blanket and placed it on the front step, then turned the trolley towards the gate.
‘Piss off, you bastards!’ came a voice from within.
The locks on the front door clattered and it sprang open, revealing an elderly woman in mismatched pyjamas and a floral dressing gown.
‘Get the hell orf my property,’ she bawled. ‘I need that trolley.’
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ I said. ‘The trolley belongs to the supermarket. It’s our job to return them.’
‘Not that one.’
‘Even this one,’ I said, and nodded to Julian.
The woman started making her way down the steps. Julian amp
ed up his efforts and skidded the trolley through the grass, the woman in pursuit. He made it to the footpath, but the woman kept coming, lower dentures bared.
Julian grinned and gunned it. The woman quickly gave up the chase and turned on me.
She shoved my chest. ‘I’ll ring the bloody cops.’
‘That might be the best bet,’ I said.
‘How am I supposed to pick up the grandkids if I haven’t got a trolley?’
‘Sorry,’ Doug said. ‘We are just doing our job.’
The woman frowned and looked him up and down. When she opened her mouth again, her voice had lost its bullets and knives.
‘Of course you are,’ she said, and skulked through the broken gate and inside.
We worked through until six-thirty.
‘What happened to your cheek?’ Julian asked.
I felt my face. ‘I got attacked by that Westie girl this morning.’
‘Want me to draw on some stitch marks? Make it look a bit gangsta?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Maybe we can hit it with the disinfectant when we get home. Westie cooties have killed people before.’
‘Afraid I won’t be joining you for dinner this evening,’ I said, as I locked the brew-room door.
‘Hot date?’
‘You could say that. Got to head into the city. I’ll be back later.’
‘Whatever, mystery man,’ he said. ‘You can’t hide shit from me for long.’
‘You’re FBI?’
He spoke into his wrist. ‘Suspect’s getting suspicious. I’m going dark.’
RAVEN
THE MILTON’S BOYS were waiting when we arrived on Thursday. All four of them. I nodded at Tefari, but he didn’t make eye contact.
‘Heyyy,’ Julian said. ‘Welcome back, big man.’
Tefari grinned and they hugged gangsta style, with audible back slaps.
‘Good to see you, Tef,’ I said. We shook hands, but he still wouldn’t look at me.
‘How was jail?’ Doug asked.
‘Why don’t you mind your—’
‘I didn’t go to jail,’ Tefari said.
‘Lucky,’ Doug said.