Five flat sighs: ‘Uh.’
Bum, winking at me: ‘The chances of me sorting ya’s for nose-candy, however, are significantly higher. Overwhelming, in fact. But the day you guys have to fucking score off me is the day I break faith with this honourable trade of mine.’
Mick, to Barry: ‘Ya just gotta love this guy, yeah?’
Steve, uncertainly: ‘What about our … our business ’ere?’
Without a word the onus descends on me. I accept it, as I know I must. ‘Yeah, Bum, listen, man. Before your trip kicks off, have ya got somewhere we could talk a little shop?’
Bum just shrugs, but I can feel his ears pricking up. ‘Let’s step into the office.’
He leads me through to the shithouse/bathroom, a cubicle little bigger than a standard wardrobe, locking the door behind him. There’s barely room enough in here for Bum and myself, let alone Bum, myself, and Bum’s hair.
Bum, slamming the lid on the dunny: ‘Be seated. Might I harve Miss Mills fetch corffee? She’s recently retarned from hoeliday. Darling woman. Toetal peach.’
I lax back on the throne. ‘Thenk yew, my good fellow, noe. I’m afraid I indulged frightfully oever brunch.’
Like a gothic marionette, Bum squeezes his tiny arse into a tiny basin, folding into what he contrives to make seem a comfortable position, one foot rested on a window-sill high in the room’s far corner.
He doesn’t procrastinate. ‘What’s the scene, jelly-bean?’
‘We wondered if you’d wanna go in on a deal with us. You line up the buyer, we provide the wares.’
‘What flavour we talking?’
‘Blow. Outdoor. Primo. Durban Skunk. Seeds from the ’Dam.’
The waltz in his eyes quickens. ‘This time of year there’s fuck all outdoor anywhere. Up here, of course, we’ve got indoor skunk coming out our fucking arses, but most of that’s got no body to it. Cunts get too greedy: churn out too many yields to keep good quality. Dudes get sick of smoking the shit. You know us meat and potatoes Kiwi druggies: give us prime outdoor any day of the week. But, as I’m sure you know, we’re still a few weeks from harvest, so if you’ve got primo Durban Skunk, you could find a buyer for that at a National Party convention … without my help. What’s the catch?’
I’m careful not to break his gaze: this is more of a pact than a partnership — a murder/suicide pact (of sorts) — and, mate or no mate, Bum’s the type you’ll only cross once. ‘We need you because we’re expecting to be trying to move a shitload of the stuff.’
‘As in …?’
Breath deserts me; it comes out like a wheeze: ‘About a hundred-odd pounds.’
Without transition, Bum’s eyes are no longer dancing; they’re marching.
Goose-stepping.
His voice drops, but where I sounded infirm, he just sounds predatory. ‘Are you for fucking real?’
I can only nod.
Warm as hail: ‘Now how the hell would five kids from Vegas lay mitts on a hundred pounds of Durban Skunk in March?’
Sickly: ‘Do you really wanna know?’
His ponders this for a long while, my world fluxing around the axis of his eyes.
Bum, at last: ‘Na.’
And with that I know he’s mine.
Thank you and goodnight.
I’d had fleeting doubts, but at the end of the day Bum’s a dealer: were he an ambulance chaser, this thing’s a paralytic billionaire.
Bum, clarifying: ‘At least I do wanna know, but only vaguely — enough to see them coming if it ever gets to that. And I need to know now, in case I end up trying to shift it to the same party you cats are … embezzling.’
My reply’s as immediate as panic. ‘It’s the Rabble, man.’
He sighs long and low. Takes the time to light a gasper. Holding my eye: ‘An amount like that — had to be one of the big players.’ He lets me escape a moment later, and, staring into space, Bum’s eyes begin to tango, oozing the spice. He savours his ciggie like it were cadged from the headsman. Distant: ‘If it was anyone but you sitting here — or maybe Mick — I’d say “no fucking chance”. But you guys are on to it. With you two involved I like the odds, and at the end of the day that’s all this game boils down to: you keep your ear to the ground, minimise the risks, then dive in like a man with no doubts. I’ll say nothing further on the matter, but just let me echo what I’m sure you know already: fuck this up in any way and you’re dead, plain and simple. If the Rabble don’t do you outside of prison, they’ll sure as shit get you on the inside. You’re a clever bastard, but don’t take a thing for granted. Run through your plan over and over.’ Eyes swivelling to impale me: ‘And if there’s the slightest heat on you after the job, you come the fuck near me ever again and I’ll toss you to the wolves myself.’
Given the nature of our arrangement, Bum’s within his rights saying this, but his harshness rams home the enormity of our venture by several brutal inches.
Someone throws an invisible switch; the stuffy bathroom loses five degrees.
Me, croaking: ‘Shit, I need to get pissed.’
Quick as a punch — so quick I instinctively fear attack, nearly yelp and cringe — Bum’s long arm raps me on the shoulder. ‘If you’ve already decided you’re up for this, what you need to do right now is chill the fuck out. What you need is to get a line of uncut Peruvian marching powder up your nostrils.’ Seemingly disembodied, his face looms close to mine, and to my paranoia his sudden grin suggests any number of things. ‘And it just so happens you’re in the realm of the candy-man.’
Attention all workers: Bags and coats are NOT to be taken into the warehouse. They’re to be left in the cloakroom provided. Along with all pride, dignity and sense of self-worth.
True to tradition, the early shift have overrun the cubby-holes long ago. So, at an empty spot along the wall, Barry and I dump our belongings on the lino. A neat row of lockers face us from opposite, but staff got first dibs on these. Brown-nosers got second, leaving us standard robots with sweet fuck all.
True to tradition, Barry flips a finger at the miniaturised telescreen jutting from the wall above us. While he pockets his valuables, I begin work on the second sign.
Barry, for the first time today: ‘Fucking wankers. What’s the point having cameras in here if they can’t stop dudes’ bags being ripped off?’
Me, for the first time today: ‘Read your contract, bro. “The company takes no responsibility for the welfare of employee property.”’
Barry, huffing: ‘Yeah, right. Where’s the profit in paying the insecurity staff to guard the belongings of expendable workers?’
Me: ‘Only their reasoning is even more Machiavellian: this is a facet from Management Strategy, Section 78, Subsection 4C.’
‘Which reads?’
‘“A worker stripped of humanity is a component with fewer overheads.”’
Barry, noticing what I’m doing: ‘You should watch it, dude: that one’s in full view of the telescreen.’
Me, finishing: ‘Who gives a fuck? It’s D T Day.’
‘Oh, that’s right. I forgot all about it. Nice work, by the way.’
‘Cheers.’
Queue here for signing in
and the surgical removal of another eight hours of the prime of your life.
Barry rings the buzzer and, slouching against the wall, we await the leisure of an Apprentice Overseer (AO).
Barry, reflective: ‘What’s one pet hate every adult shares?’
‘Pass.’
‘Getting older. Am I right?’
Nodding: ‘I’m guessing you’d struggle to find a western adult warmed by the ageing process.’
‘And yet, had they the power, how many people in this very position — about to begin the day’s work — wouldn’t click their fingers and beam themselves instantaneously to the end of the day?’
‘… I know I would. I’d do it the next day, too. And the day after.’
The AO arrives, rudely interrupting our profundities, clipboard b
randished like a bull-whip.
Tutting: ‘Trotter and McPike. Late again, gentlemen. What’s the excuse this time?’
Me: ‘Our flight from Sao Paolo encountered white-out conditions and flew smack into the Andes, killing most aboard. We were left the ordeal of traversing the ranges on foot …’
AO: ‘Yeah, good one, McPike. You’re about as funny as a fart in an elevator.’
Barry: ‘Just sign us the fuck in, Gimp, or I’ll ram that clipboard up your ringpiece. Sideways.’
The AO scoffs, but does as he’s told. Barry’s reputation ensures this. Still, I believe sniping alone would have seen Barry sacked by now, only even the real overseers can’t be certain of escaping the shockwave.
Might is right is right.
At least it is when it’s on my team.
The transaction complete, we don zombie masks and slot into our appointed roles.
Barry unloads trucks with a counter-balance fork-lift. I stand on the Goods In floor tallying the stock on incoming pallets. Office hacks match these quantities arriving to the quantities ordered, print location sheets. Guided by these, a crew of reach-fork-lift drivers transport the stock to its temporary home in the numbered shelves. More retrieve stock from these locations, taking it to sheep who scatter it through the pick-face at the warehouse’s far reaches. Other sheep, pushing trolleys, shuffle up and down the pick-face, following computed directives, filling boxes with bits and pieces. A few more links down the chain, these boxes find themselves despatched to individual clients.
Over it all, telescreens take silent and thorough notation. AOs swagger, threatening ‘loafers’ into action. Overseers gather in corners, characterised by suits, cufflinks and smiles, locked in impromptu ‘meetings’ for just as long as they fucking well like, the steps of nearby sheep lent extra spring by calculating regard.
A mural of immense elegance.
6
Friday, 10 March, 8.41pm
Lefty, from the front seat where he somehow ended up: ‘I really need a feed before we hit the piss. Anyone else?’
Steve, Baz and I draw blanks. We’re looking to get slaughtered tonight: at pub prices, to achieve such on a full stomach’d set us back at least forty bucks a head.
As usual, Mick’s on driving duty. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bite myself. Pretty skint, though.’
I know for a fact that he’s got sixty bucks in his pocket.
Lefty: ‘This excursion’s on me, remember? I don’t mind throwing some chow down ya throat.’
‘Sweet. What’s your poison?’
‘Burger Queen.’
‘McDick’s it is, then.’
There’s no need to detour in search of the Juggernaut’s vending machines: this is the Smoke; one encounters consumption centres every few kilometres. For the time being they retain the character of names — Epsom, Mt Eden, Newmarket — but for how much longer?
Logarithmically, names are so … unwieldy.
The spaces between — block after block, mile after mile — are unrelenting nest and plant. Through it all we’re gusted along by twin streams of units, purring, roaring, chugging improvements on a dying sunset as tainted as lust.
Soon a golden minaret summons the faithful, and spying a hole Mick eases The ’Dan down, swinging her across two lanes of traffic with reassuring insolence.
As he pulls into a park I suffer a change of heart, declare on impulse: ‘Actually, grabus a coupla veggie burgers, will ya, fellas?’
They depart to offer homage; Steve has worship of a rival deity in mind. Producing a pre-rolled joint: ‘Little bit’a gunja left from the drive up, boys. Not enuf t’ wet all whistles present, but enuf t’ get the three of us buzzing.’
Barry: ‘Top man.’
Given that we’ll soon be ensconced in a heaving ARC, I need a dose of Mary Jane about as badly as I need a three-way with the Topp Twins. But old habits die hard, and when you’re straight forethoughts of being stoned are so easily overlooked. Besides, the male bonding to be supped from the three of us indulging in a sneaky session proves too tempting.
Against nasal denouncement, we resolve to decamp from The ’Dan.
Steve: ‘Whada we say if we get back after they do, though? They’ll noe we ’eld out on ’em strade away.’
Barry: ‘Ahhhh, what’s a good excuse? … Gator? You’re the ideas man.’
The solution finds me in seconds. ‘Let’s get Uncle Rangi happening. We’ll say we wanted to see if we could fool them.’
Barry, chuckling admiration: ‘You’re a fucking crooked bastard, McPike.’
He fetches the kit from the boot, jumps back in, the three of us giggling like kids in a pantomime.
Steve opts for the beard and mo — full, black, trim. ‘Always wanted t’know ’ow I’d look wif one’a these.’ He fixes it to his face, the sticky strips along its inside adhering easily. ‘Never ’ad the patience t’grow one, though: too fuckin’ itchy.’ Barry straightens it for him, and Steve checks himself out in the rear-view mirror. ‘Fuck! A few stone lighter an’ I’d pass faw a dreadlocked Billy Ocean!’
Me, trapping my own hair beneath Uncle Rangi’s wig of dreads — longer than Steve’s, but just as thin: ‘A few stone heavier and you’d pass for Barry White, mate, the Walrus of Love himself.’
He turns to me, chortling: ‘Fuck you, Medusa.’
‘Fuck you, bro: you wear your hair like this by choice.’
Barry: ‘I won’t bother with the makeup. I think I’m scary enough as it is. Besides, I don’t reckon I could handle looking half as foolish as you two do.’
Steve: ‘Let’s do it.’
Back at Bum’s we each took the time to shit and shave, throw on collars, clean jeans, smellies, more personalised bitch-attractant. Big-city nightshift is kicking in around us — the very air hums with it — and the Vegas boys are feeling the bizzo.
With wrong in mind we slip into the dark of back stage — among the effluent to the rear of McDick’s. Judge it sufficiently barren for needs of nefarity.
The circle of idolatry forms; Steve lights up, tokes deep, hands it on, resumes talking. ‘Yeah, yu’s should’a seen this piece’a shit. Toby drives round my ’ouse in it, and I ’ear the fucker coughing and farting from ’bout a mile away.’
Barry, whispering lest he lose fumes prematurely: ‘What was it again? A combi?’
Steve: ‘Na, man, it was a Bedford bus. And I say t’ the cunt, ‘“Yu aren’t seriously gonna try and drive t’ Whangamata in that thing?” He goes, “Yeah, man. It’ll get us there, sweet as.” So I thought, “Fuck it,” grabbed my stash and jumped in faw a cruise.’
He breaks off to drag a second hit from the doobie, hands it on again.
Barry: ‘Did he have a bus licence?’
Steve: ‘’E didin’ even ’ave a fuckin’ car licence!’
‘Hahaha.’
Steve: ‘And shit, I ain’t neva sat inside a worse ride, eh. It was running on ’bout two and a half, I’d say. Uni joints damn near worn through. Can’t of ’ad a warrant in four or five years. Plugs and points last changed in the sixties. Tyres so worn she almost skidded changin’ lanes. Hissing constantly, man, as if she was set to blow ’er top. Temperature gauge read OK, but I’d’ve taken Prebble at ’is word before I took that. Graunching up a storm whenever yu changed gears, jumping outta fourth. But I tell yu what, it were peak ’oliday season and no cunt passed us all the way from Morrinsville t’ Whangamata.’
Me, impressed: ‘Yeah? That fast?’
Steve: ‘Na, na; tu much smoke. Went through ’bout …’
Baz, low and alert: ‘Heads up, fellas. We got company.’
From the opposite direction a figure’s approaching us. Too dark to make it out properly, but by its size it can only be male. The joint’s with me, but I’m reluctant to toss or stub until there’s real need.
Steve, muttering: ‘It looks like Bacon.’
Even without the smell to condemn us, young guys seldom linger in urban backwashes to discuss the econo
mic ills of Black Africa. A cold finger strokes my spine. This may be the last of the weed, but …
… Bum sorted us for nose-candy …
… and nestled among the wedding tackle we’ve each got a gram that abruptly gives off the heat of a supernova.
Steve’s not wrong, but by the time this is verified the oinker’s just a few feet away. The hand I hold behind my back shouts like clarion. I spy a nearby drain and take a shot, dart-like. It sails between two bars — Legend! — striking liquid with a hiss.
But the damage is done.
In the darkness, what I can make of the oinker’s face beneath his peaked hat only goads my alarm. Some oinkers have hearts — seriously — are open to interpreting the law a little eccentrically when it’s in the common good. But I intuit instantly that this fucker’s not cut from that cloth.
Late thirties. Flat stare. Thick moustache. Mottled complexion. Spreading girth.
Oinker, delight barely in check: ‘What have we here, then, fellas? Come to collect the trash, have you? Funny time of day for it.’
Barry, amiable: ‘Na, mate, we’re just getting a little air while our friends are inside having a meal.’
Translated from diplo-speak: You know what we’re doing here. You also know that hundreds of thousands of others around the country will, and have, been doing likewise tonight. We’re consenting adults, we were at pains to be discreet, we’re not making any trouble, and the longer it stays in our heads the less likely we are to get into trouble. You know this: you’re a cop. How about letting it slide?
But Holmes is having none of it. Scoffing: ‘A little air my arse. You’re out here smoking marijuana: you all stink of it! And I’m not blind: I saw the white Bob Marley here ditch the joint.’ Leaves us hanging a while. ‘I wanna know who you bought the reefer off.’
I can read this guy’s history like a timeline: straight C student; second-rate sportsman; failed attempts to cultivate a ‘hardman’ image; lost cherry at age nineteen (to a twenty stone boiler); joined the Swineherd for the easy money and easier respect; first beer and ‘parties’ at oinker school; career at glass ceiling thanks to a lack of intelligence and charm; blames it on everyone but himself; seeking to amend things with ‘sound’ bust levels.
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