Over the next year or so Jason’s pad evolved into a kind of social club. Any one of about a dozen of us were liable to show up there at all hours of the day or night. Had some times round there, I tell ya.
Anyway, about a year after I arrived on the scene, one summer avo’, me and Gator wagged last period and shot round Jas’s for a bong or four. He’d wagged the whole day on account of having some bitch over in the morning. When we arrived, his old lady’s car door was open, like she was just heading out or something, so we snuck round the back, jumped the fence, then crept through the long grass towards the crib, quiet as thieves.
The door was ajar — it was rooted and tended to creep open if ya didn’t slam it hard — and from inside came the sounds of some slut getting shafted. The noise was tinny, though, from a distance like, and she seemed to be moaning in tongues. A spasmodic slapping sound was almost drowning her out as well, its rhythms way out of sync with hers.
Gator whispered to me, ‘What the fuck’s he gone and pulled now, the prick?’
‘Dunno, bro. But I’m sure as hell gonna take a Jack Nohi.’
So we eased the door open and crawled in, knowing the arse-end of a couch would hide us. But once safely behind it, we saw that the bed was empty, and, standing slowly, learned that the doxie getting dicked was none other than Humungus Helga, that darling of the Kraut porn scene.
And there sat Jason, sprawled on the sofa, not three feet below us, eyes riveted to the TV screen, pants positioned for maximum ankle warmth …
Playing Han Solo on the pink Darth Vader.
Caught purple-handed.
Though we were directly behind him, so close were we to the guy it’s a wonder his sense of smell didn’t alert him. But it didn’t, and Jason stayed ignorant of our presence for the next few minutes, enjoying a whale of a time, too. Left hand pounding. Easing back from the gravy-stroke … hard at it again.
Build ’er up … ease ’er back down …
With a remarkable display of professionalism, me and Gator actually managed to keep silent throughout.
Finally, Jason brought himself to a teeth-grinding orgasm, bucking like a landed marlin, coating his bare stomach in several wads of baby-batter.
Through a process of sign language, Gator graciously assigned me the honours. I thanked him with a nod, before casually enquiring, ‘So how was that for you, anyway?’
Well, the wanker flew across the room as if a hornet had crawled up his Jap’s eye. At least he would’ve flown across the room, had his feet not snagged in his trousers and brought him tumbling to the deck, spoof going everywhere.
Only then did we laugh and, oh, Christ, I tell ya, oxygen debt and stomach cramps very nearly killed the pair of us.
Several minutes later Lefty tearfully swore us both to secrecy, an oath we took with mentally crossed fingers, thirty-odd punters learning of the incident before night-fall.
As if one of them has loosed a lager-bomb, a moan of collective distaste goes up from the ladies.
Someone, muttering: ‘You dirty bastard.’
Face set, Lefty stares out his window, sucking on a durrie like a man intent on emphysema before the week’s out.
Times like this I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
I guess it seems strange, the three of us hanging with the dude when we so obviously loathe him. But I’m sure he’s not the first person in the world to remain part of a group that they weren’t really wanted in. That Mick and myself have kicked around with Lefty since Form One — a few years before Lefty reached the conclusion that when god filched one of Adam’s ribs, his goal was in fact the creation of Lefty’s personal harem — no doubt has much to do with it. As well as that, as I’ve said, the guy’s mastered the art of parasitism to the extent that, should ever need arise, I’d back him on worming his way into the affections of Beelzebub.
And yes, let’s have a moment of candour: we also keep Lefty on for crumb-feeding reasons: the old ‘trickle-down effect’.
Mick, to the ladies: ‘Anyway, we’d better go and do the deed.’
Amanda: ‘Yeah, cool. We’re a bit dodgy about driving in the ghetto at night, so we might just meetcha’s back here.’
Mick: ‘Sorted. Seeya’s soon.’
Alice, passing me a wad of cash, which I hand on to Barry for counting: ‘Later, Gator.’
From my newly realised ‘legend’ status, as we pull away I find the nerve to drop her a suggestive wink.
Lefty, whining: ‘What’d ya do that for, Barry?
Baz: ‘Ah, ya fucking deserved it, man. Old Gator had them on their knees and you greened out and tried to steal his thunder.’
Lefty, hollow: ‘That’s a lie.’
Mick: ‘Whatever ya reckon, Lefty. I don’t know what you’re worried about, anyway: every cunt in town already knows ya got snapped having a onesome.’
‘They didn’t!’
Me: ‘They do now.’
Tandem minus one: ‘Hahahahaha!’
Untenably left out, at this point Lefty actually cracks a half-smile himself. ‘I guess it is pretty funny.’
Mick: ‘Good onya, Lefty. That’s what being a man’s all about, mate: making mistakes and not caring.’
We turn into the ghetto proper, uttering the usual rites.
Baz: ‘Fuck me, someone’s left the gates unlocked after curfew.’
Me: ‘Ya might wanna edge her up a few clicks, Mick: at this speed they’ll have the wheels off before you’ve even seen ’em.’
Lefty, grave, betrayal apparently forgotten: ‘We are entering a zone of rampant uncleanness. Passengers are advised to secure all windows and doors.’
Functioning streetlights are few and far between in this part of town — too tempting a target for kids with no hopes — and darkness cloaks the ghetto. Some nights you could almost mistake it for just another suburb.
Until you pass a house where an after-pub party is in full swing, spilling out the front doors. Groups clustered about guitarists, singing for all they’re worth — jingjajing ajingjajingajinging — inhibitions banished by Mr Brownstone, united for once, thrilling with the only real solidarity they ever seem to capture, one that lives no longer than the strings on the gat. Toughs eyeing one another off; toughs embracing with the tearful remorse of the very drunk. Painted women squealing and cackling, nursing broken faces, pathetic creatures beaten to this wheel since time forgotten. Shattered bottles glinting on the road. Grubby kids sitting or sleeping on the footpath, waiting on parents who won’t surface until sun-up or later.
Just anuva Friday in the gheddo, bro. See yu fullas ’ere next Thursday. Oh, an’ Satday, tu. Maybe even Sunday if we got any pingas left. Not Monday or Tuesday, though: be wading faw my dole. Just bread and budda faw the kids till Wensday. Then we orf again. Cherrrrr, bro!
Mick: ‘Which way, Lefty?’
‘Take the next left.’
‘What number?’
‘86.’
We see the vehicles well before the address, all of us hoping it’s coincidence. No such luck. 86 is ‘packt’. Mick squeezes into a space within the row of cars, most of them suped Holdens, Falcoons, Valigrunts — The ’Dan fits in a treat.
A mini party is taking place on the front lawn, within the ring of cars parked on it, making it difficult to size up individuals. It seems, though, that both sides of the divided state house are equally full: all the lights are on behind taped and cardboarded windows, both doorsteps jammed.
Barry: ‘We sure picked a top night to visit this place.’
Mick’s the first to perceive the gathering’s true colours — green and white. Dismayed: ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
Lefty: ‘What’s the matter?’
‘See that gorilla on the lawn, the one between the ute and the EA Commodore?’
We all pick him out.
‘Wait till he turns round, then read the back of his leather.’
As it happens a chill grips my bowels. On the rear of the jacket is a picture. An emb
lem.
A patch.
The head of a rat, its snout too long — obscenely long — stubbled, toothy, smirking. It wears an infantry helmet, cocked at a rakish angle, and in the background, behind the creature, a dappled smear suggests an army at its back, tearing to gleeful battle.
We’ve all seen the patch before — on TV and closer — this nationwide symbol of fear and violent crime. The words encircling this specimen are thus wasted on me, but I read them anyway, glutton that I am. THE RABBLE — VEGAS CHAPTER.
Given the vital clue, our eyes of a sudden identify Rabble paraphernalia everywhere: more patches scattered about, green bandannas, jerseys, beanies, cut-off gloves, a Rat flag replacing a broken window.
Me, quietly: ‘Lefty, my boy, thanks to you, somewhere in this world a village is without its idiot.’
His reply is equally hushed, as though we fear drawing attention — as indeed we do. ‘How was I to know the cunt lived in a fucking Rabble house?’
Barry: ‘How well do you know him?’ Dude could be at the flicks for all the consternation he betrays.
Lefty: ‘He roots my cousin Melissa sometimes. We’ve toked together a bit, round at her crib, and he said whenever I needed Freds just to cruise round here. He said they weren’t his, but that the fulla he lived with, the one shifting them, was desperate for the bucks and keen to up his clientele. I could tell he was a tough cunt, but I’d never’ve suspected he was Rabble.’
Barry: ‘He’s not patched then?’
‘If he is, I’ve never seen him wearing it … and Melissa’s never said anything.’
‘Must be a prospect. Wouldn’t live in a Rabble house otherwise. How old is he?’
Lefty: ‘Twenty-five-odd.’
Barry: ‘Fits, I guess.’
Me, sighing: ‘Ah, well, at least we won’t die wondering.’
Barry: ‘Meaning?’
‘Well, the score’s obviously off, isn’t it?’
Barry: ‘Like fuck. I practically gave my word to those chicks, and Lefty did give his to me. We can’t let them down now: you know how suckful it is when you’re all primed to do some A-class and the contact goes and bums out on ya.’
I’m left a little astounded by this. ‘Well, yeah, subjecting someone to that’s a pretty tough thing to have on ya conscience, but when ya wake up in an IC ward with a drip in ya arm and a tube up ya cock, I’m guessing it begins to seem a little like the lesser of a few evils.’
Barry, dismissive: ‘Nah, he’ll be right. He’s got a well-connected bro in there, and they’re gagging for the business. He can close the deal and shoot straight out, no dramas.’
Me, dubious: ‘You wouldn’t seriously send him in there, would you?’
Barry, incredulous: ‘Course I would! He knows one of the pricks! You know what these Rangis are like: in with one, in with ’em all.’
‘Yeah, maybe in a room with about five of them strumming on a six-string. But this is a gang party, man. Assuming he can stay alive long enough to even locate his man, it only takes one person with a slightly badder rep to decide Lefty’s trespassing, up and give him some lip, and ten of them are gonna play Let’s Kick White Boy Till He’s Shitting Organs just for a fucking laugh.’
Barry, scoffing: ‘You’re over-reacting.’
Lefty’s pretending to be half asleep. He wants in there about as much as he wants to donate his pork sword to medical science, and he knows I’ve far more clout with Barry than he’ll ever have.
I clap Mick on the shoulder. ‘What, are you a silent partner in this?’
Mick, shrugging: ‘… I dunno. I’d love a Freddy, and if Lefty’s got a good contact …’
Lefty: ‘Well, I hardly know the guy, really. He might not …’
Barry, rounding on him suddenly: ‘Shut the fuck up and get in there, Lefty! You gave me your word, and if you don’t at least give it a shot, you’re getting out of the car right here and walking home — you’ve got my “guarantee” on it.’
At this time of night Lefty’s got about as much chance of escaping the ghetto on foot as … as he has of scoring A-class from a Rabble house.
Lefty may not feature highly on my Chrissie card list, but leaving him to this is out of the question. ‘Fuck, you can be an unreasonable cunt, Barry. If he walks from here, I’m walking with him.’
Barry, to me, not far off a shout: ‘Why do you always have to pull this shit? Who the fuck died and appointed you every cunt’s guardian angel anyway?’
Before I can reply, Lefty, who it seems hasn’t a huge degree of confidence in my ability to sail him from these straits, suddenly glimpses salvation. ‘Fuck, there he is! I can see him! Give me the money now!’
Barry hands over the notes quick smart, and Lefty’s gone.
At the edge of the overgrown lawn he hesitates, face to face with the plunge. He glances back at the car, once, and I can almost hear the gulp as he commits, stepping gingerly toward a knot of drinkers, feet embracing the grass as though it holds land-mines. I watch their backs go up as they grow aware of him, patented scowls quickly donned, and then he holds his hand out to one of them. It’s shaken, but with tangible reluctance.
Drifting away, the pair talk for a couple of minutes, recipients of pointed stares.
I kill the remains of a beer can, crush it, crack open another, my last.
Lefty jogs back to us, head bowed to Mick’s open window. He wears a shaky smile. ‘It’s sweet … but he wants us to go inside. He reckons the guy dealing them needs cash chronically and will wanna see all our faces so he can give us all the go-ahead to come back and score whenever. He’s trying to build his customer base.’
Barry, voltage thrumming, ‘What do ya’s reckon?’
Mick, to Lefty: ‘Can’t ya just say we’re in a rush and have him bring them out?’
‘I tried, but no go. From what I can guess, this dealer’s pretty high up. Joe wants to use us to earn some brownie points.’
A building sense of challenge — almost a slide into despair — shouts that any chance of staying out of this is eluding me rapidly.
Lefty, banging in more nails: ‘He guaranteed we’d be sweet in there.’
With Barry staring at me, I can think of no pertinent artifice, and, with booze in my veins and Lefty painting so rosy a picture, straight chickening out has ceased to be an option. But I’m certain Mick’s not up for this either. In the hopes of his ingenuity outweighing my own, I throw it over to him. ‘What do you reckon, Mick?’
But, eventually, he draws a blank as well. ‘… I dunno.’
Barry, caustic: ‘Ahhh, will you two stop pussyfooting! We’ve got an escort into the joint, the dealer’s a big cheese and he’s gagging for our custom! What could go wrong?’
My gut knew it was coming anyway: I’m mentally ready. Resigned. ‘… Let’s do it, then.’
The gods of peer pressure chuckled.
On reflex, Barry slips out of his leather jacket, hiding it under the seat. We all do the same with our collars, dusting off the black T-shirts beneath. I drain my can in one hit, ditching the empty, wishing for once in my life that’d I’d bought Waikato.
As we lock doors Barry’s practically bouncing. Mick and I exchange a long stare.
Start across the road.
Barry, level and pumped: ‘No stress, dudes. In and out assignment. Christ knows we could all use a regular acid contact anyway.’
Joe meets us at the lawn, shakes all our hands. No taller than me, and just as skinny, he contrives to seem benign despite the ragged black clothes, the green Rat’s scarf around his thigh, the beanie pulled down close. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yu fullas gotta meet Charlie, eh, then yu’s can come back an’ score whenever.’ But his eyes hold a nervous twitch, and — brownie points or not — I have to wonder how much face Joe stands to lose by traipsing through the party with four ‘ballheads’ in tow.
Mick: ‘Yu sure this is sweet, bro?’ unconsciously, he’s adopted the gutter Maori cadence one is well advised to use when trying for ingr
atiation with them.
Joe, a little too blasé: ‘Yeah, bro. Yu’s wif me now. Just stay close.’
At least he’s calling us ‘bro’. When addressed by one of these guys, so long as he refers to you as ‘bro’, you can rest assured you’re in his good books. On the other hand, if he starts calling you ‘beau’, initiate a salvage rapidly.
As he leads us toward the door, as the revellers grow aware of our presence, I don my practised ‘An ego? Me? You’ve gotta be kidding’ face — expression completely clear, eyes wide, a little overwhelmed, infinitely approachable.
Few patched members out here, numbers made up mostly by associates and prospects.
This is what becomes of those homies who graduate, those for whom the dream of gang life isn’t tarnished by brushes with the law, by an overload of violence: a baptism of years terrorising streets, rumbling every weekend, hunted by untold enemies, running when the odds don’t suit — sometimes not being fast enough — stealing and mugging, gaining personal recognition from oinkers. Years of this tend to sort the men from the boys, whittle chaff from the hardcore.
Darwinism in accelerated, perverted microcosm.
The guys surrounding us now — silent of a sudden, begging us to make eye contact — represent the distilled essence of the venom strutting our city streets of a weekend evening. Though no less vicious for it, these dudes have survived the life’s first stages; had their doubts and fears eroded by incessant conflict. Unlike most of their adolescent apprentices, running amok even as I speak, these young men have found belief in their strength as individuals. They’ve fought outside the pack, forged their ‘talents’, their ‘staunchness’ in the crucible of victory and loss. If there are points involved, these cunts will take a beating almost as soon as dish one out.
This, of course, makes them so much more dangerous.
Thanks to their being accepted into this outer circle of gangsterism, thanks to their moving on to bigger and badder things — the initial perpetuation of a life of serious crime — these young tigers — guys who’ve grown too big and mean to find much thrill on the streets — move on, drift away from that segment of the circle which interlaps our own. Drugs aside, the realms of adult Maori crims are an ocean from ours, and as such they all but cease to exist for us. It’s thus easy to forget that the thugs we’ve dealt with throughout our teenage lives don’t all tire of the life and grow consciences.
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