It was not much later than nine when Matt called Jack’s mobile.
‘Hey, Jack — Matt Richards. We saved those Somali kids, remember? Need to get to Doncaster toot sweet. You up for it? Return trip, too.’
‘Yeah, I’m free. Where’ll I pick you up?’
Jack imagined Matt still being dressed by his valet in his Toorak mansion, and then corrected himself. He was probably years away from that stuff.
‘One-oh-one, where else?’
‘Be there in five.’
‘See you then. Don’t be late.’
Jack detected anxiety in Matt’s voice. He immediately sensed this trip was unusual. There wasn’t likely to be much investment-banking action happening in Doncaster. Still, it was another fare, and quite a good one at that.
He pulled up outside 101 Collins Street, just past an enormous new tram stop that made life even harder for cab drivers. It really was an absurd building, a late-1980s indulgence fronted by four fake Greek columns with nothing on top of them. It had a huge revolving door and a cavernous marble foyer decorated with large original artworks. As Jack marvelled at the vanities of the business classes, Matt burst through the revolving door, spotted the cab, and vaulted into the front seat.
Even though he was driving against the last phase of peak-hour traffic, the drive to Doncaster proved to be slow going. Light rain had started to fall, so the swish-thunk of windscreen wipers filled the gaps in their conversation. Matt was distracted, and much less urbane than when Jack had driven him to the airport. He sat next to Jack in the front seat, but only talked every now and then. He obviously had things on his mind.
‘Few late nights, mate?’ Jack inquired, as Matt stifled a yawn.
‘Yeah.’ Matt’s voice was flat. ‘You know what it’s like. Investment banking …’
Jack had little idea of the hours investment bankers worked, so he said nothing.
Matt sniffed loudly a couple of times. ‘How much longer?’ Sounds like a six-year-old kid, Jack thought.
‘Ten minutes maybe.’
‘Good.’
After a short burst of confusion as they conferred about directions, they finally pulled up opposite the driveway of a home with a high fence in an obscure street in Doncaster, Melbourne’s ultimate middle suburb.
‘Wait for me. I’ll only be five minutes.’ Matt fidgeted with everything from his tie to his belt and his jacket as he got out of the taxi. He disappeared up the driveway.
Jack couldn’t see much of the house because of the high fence. It was a pleasant-enough morning, so he wound down his window to get a better look. There were a couple of cypress trees in the front garden, and the house was set well back. It was double storey, and made of dark-red brick.
Jack noted a security camera staring at the entrance from the point where the gate met the fence. Interesting, he mumbled to himself. Wonder how many homes in Doncaster have security cameras?
Aside from this oddity, which could have been a symptom of middle-class paranoia, the house had all the features of the dull brick dwellings so typical of Melbourne’s middle suburbs. Built on sizeable blocks in quiet streets, these places were finally generating some excitement in the property market, after decades of relative obscurity.
For want of anything better to do, Jack began to speculate about the house’s owner. One of Matt’s bosses perhaps. Investment bankers weren’t liked, of course, but surely not to the extent that they needed to screen visitors with security cameras?
He fiddled with his cigarette packet, and thought about lighting up. On the principle that this would inevitably bring about Matt’s return, and hence mean wasting a cigarette, he put the packet down unopened. Better to light up at the rank in Collins Street, he reckoned.
He resumed his speculations. Did investment bankers do home visits? Did their clients live in Doncaster? It was very perplexing.
Then things started to happen. He heard a couple of loud bangs from the direction of the house, like doors slamming or things falling over, and then saw Matt coming down the driveway towards him, half-running, half-stumbling. He tripped on the edge of a flowerbed and nearly fell, but after staggering for a few steps, he regained his balance and ran through the gateway. He didn’t even check for traffic as he ran across the road, came around to the passenger side of the cab, and leapt into the front seat.
‘Quick! Drive! Got to get out of here!’
Jack had been waiting years for this. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been told to follow that car. He was in the middle of the action, his driving skills crucial to a quick getaway.
He took off with a squeal of tyres, and almost collected a tweedy, middle-aged woman who was about to cross the road in front of him. Within seconds, they were out of the street, and heading towards the Eastern Freeway at speed. The quiet suburban landscape flew past in a blur. They were well away from the mysterious house, and there was no sign of anyone following them. Jack kept checking his rear-vision mirror to make sure. His heart was pumping, and his hands gripped the steering wheel with unusual intensity. He was sitting bolt upright, with his head almost touching the car’s roof.
As they merged onto the freeway, Jack relaxed and settled back into his seat.
‘What was that all about, mate?’
Matt was still breathing hard. He sniffed, took a couple of deep breaths, and then sat back in his seat. He had a large red mark, with a touch of a graze, on his left cheek. His perfectly groomed hair was now dishevelled, and his tie was off-centre.
‘Can I trust you?’
Shit. ASIO one day, financial conspiracy the next, Jack thought. Curiosity was eating him up: what on earth was this all about?
‘Of course you can. I’m a cabbie.’ Jack’s attempt at dispelling the tension didn’t work. Matt failed to respond.
‘You in trouble?’
‘What does it look like? Sorry … yeah, big trouble. Shit!’ Matt banged the heel of his right hand hard on the dashboard in frustration.
‘Hey, careful with the vehicle! No harm in telling me all about it, mate — I hate cops,’ Jack said in a sympathetic tone. Passengers who might tip well were always worth a bit of pastoral care.
‘Not cops I’m worried about. It’s dealers.’
‘What kind of dealers?’ Jack assumed he was referring to drug dealers, but he knew Matt mixed with other kinds of dealers in his job — marginally more legitimate ones — so he felt it necessary to ask.
‘The kind that play for keeps.’ Drug dealers, obviously. How did a fancy kid in a striped shirt and gold cufflinks get mixed up with heavies?
‘How come you’re …’
‘Don’t even go there.’ Matt rolled his eyes, glanced at his watch, and pulled down the sun visor so he could use the mirror to straighten his hair and tie.
‘Fuck! That’ll bruise. What am I going to say?’
‘Dunno. Domestic violence? What’s going on? Not every day I drive a getaway car for a bloke who’s been beaten up by drug dealers.’
‘Sure I can trust you?’ Matt was now casting anxious, darting glances at people in the street as the car sat waiting for the lights to change. He was shaking, even though they had been back in the cab for over twenty minutes.
‘Mate, I gave up dope ages ago. Only dealers I know are small-fry types. And like I said, I don’t like cops. So who am I going to tell?’
This seemed to reassure Matt. He exhaled slowly, making a discernible whistling noise as the air escaped through his teeth, and then turned to look at Jack.
‘Okay, okay. I’m in deep shit. I’ve been scoring coke for my boss — lots of it. He’s into it big time. Must have a few mates he shares with, I guess. Doesn’t like dealing direct, too much risk, so I get to do the business for him.’
‘How come? Can’t you tell him to piss off?’
Matt laughed — a sardonic, cheerless g
uffaw.
‘You serious? I can’t afford to lose my job. And once I’d done it for him once, he had it over me. I’ve only done it four or five times … and I get a bit of free stuff for my trouble.’
‘So what’s all the aggro about? You rip them off or something?’
‘How stupid do you reckon I am? Just fucked up, that’s all.’
‘How?’
‘Got ripped off by a mate. Now I owe them money. I put together a group buy, and got left holding the baby. I can’t pay for a week or so, so I’m in the poo. Big time.’
‘Thought you guys were rolling in it?’ Jack assumed that investment bankers purchased cocaine like ordinary people bought beer.
‘Only the big guys. And I’ve got a lifestyle to maintain. This stuff isn’t cheap.’ Matt gestured with an upward sweep of an open palm at his expensive-looking outfit.
‘So what now?’
‘Dunno. Skip town, maybe. Prick threatened to cut my ears off if I don’t cough up tomorrow.’
‘How much you owe?’
‘Ten grand. Plus interest.’
‘Shit, can’t you sell something?’
‘I don’t own much — it’s all leased. Apartment, Beemer, jet-ski, everything. Want to buy a second-hand suit?’
‘What about a loan?’
‘Not easy. Got nothing to borrow against, and my credit card’s maxed out. Couldn’t do it overnight, that’s for sure.’
The cab fell silent for a couple of minutes. Matt seemed to have shrunk. All the brazen self-confidence had faded, and a frightened, disoriented teenager was peeking through the mask. Jack almost felt sorry for him. He couldn’t help recalling his generous tip — and he had given him Farhia’s phone number.
He turned left into Collins Street and looked across at his passenger.
‘Might be able to help.’
‘How?’ You’re only a cabbie, Matt’s tone said.
‘Not sure yet, but got a couple of ideas. Maybe get the cash — maybe some time to pay. I know people. One good thing about this job.’
‘Give me a call if you come up with anything.’ Matt didn’t sound hopeful. Desperation was written all over his face. He appreciated Jack’s offer, but didn’t take it seriously.
After saying a brief goodbye, Jack pulled into the rank. He was a fair way back in the queue, which meant he had a break. He tossed the morning’s events over in his mind, wondering how Matt would explain his bruised face at work, and how he could help him sort out his problem.
A small touch of reality started to seep into his thoughts. What am I doing? First I’m saving Farhia from spies and terrorists, now I sign up to help a guy sort out his drug debts. Must be going crazy. Sure, the prospect of more tips couldn’t be ignored, and without Matt he would never have even met Farhia, but what did he know about drug dealers? Then he thought about his ASIO problem. Matt seemed like the kind of guy who would know how to tackle that, so maybe he could enlist his help on that front.
His first option for helping Matt was to ask Rowan. He knew people, all kinds of people. Somewhere in the crowd of hangers-on, crims, and B-list celebrities that Rowan knew, Jack was sure there was a serious drug dealer. Rowan might be able to get him to sort out the Doncaster guy, or something like that.
It was still spitting a bit, but Jack decided to stretch his aching legs. He worked his way through two cigarettes as he leant on the side of the cab, wrestling with Matt’s problem. He was an unappealing figure amongst the expensively attired pedestrians, all power-dressing and casual elegance, but he didn’t care. He had given up worrying about his appearance years ago, and in the Collins Street canyon of congealed money he was invisible. No one looked at cabbies, and if they did, about the only thing that registered was their ethnicity. Jack often noted a passenger’s surprise when he realised he had a driver who spoke perfect English and knew where he was going.
His encounters with Farhia, Jeffrey, and Matt swirled around in his head. He tried to think things through logically, but couldn’t quite manage it. The excitement had him tingling. He didn’t know how he was going to deal with this odd mixture of challenges, but he didn’t have anything to lose. Farhia was surely just a mirage, and he doubted he would be able to do anything to help Matt, but what did it matter? He didn’t care if Matt ended up as the first earless banker in Collins Street.
That afternoon’s driving was something of a nightmare. The nights were usually the worst, which was why Jack preferred the early shift. It suited Ajit, who had a day job in a call centre. Obnoxious drunks and crazy teenagers didn’t generally get in cabs in the middle of the day.
Today was upset-housewife and drunken-weirdo day. After he’d snatched a quick lunch at a dirty noodle bar in Swanston Street, Jack picked up a fare to Pascoe Vale — a good, solid, no-fuss kind of fare. As luck would have it, he also picked up a return fare. Pascoe Vale was outside his zone, but with no other cab available, home base cleared him to do the job.
His sense of satisfaction dissipated in less than two blocks. His passenger was a middle-aged woman with a blotchy, tear-stained face and a new suitcase. Jack turned his nose up at the bright-purple, modishly curved suitcase — impractical fashion accessories in his opinion — but he put it in the boot anyway.
It soon emerged that the woman was leaving her husband. Against his better judgment, he drifted into amateur counsellor mode.
‘You think I’m doing the right thing?’
‘Depends. Can be tough out there if you’re single, divorced, middle-aged, and all that.’ For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she might take offence at being described as middle-aged, but she didn’t seem to notice.
‘But he’s an arsehole! He’s been screwing my best friend, he ignores the kids …’
As they were caught in traffic, Jack took a closer look at her. Straggly, dyed-blonde hair, reddish face that was probably pretty once, nice eyes, nose a bit too big — all-in-all, not the worst-looking woman he’d ever had in his cab. Definitely not at her best, for obvious reasons, but not without attractions.
In spite of his infatuation with Farhia, Jack couldn’t help himself. One of the few fringe benefits of driving taxis was the occasional appearance of attractive female passengers. Jack automatically sized up every woman who got into his cab who wasn’t eligible for the pension. And it was amazing what some of them said to him.
‘If I don’t do it now, I’ll be stuck with him forever. That’d be worse, wouldn’t it? I’m still young and pretty enough to find someone else, aren’t I?’
She seemed to be talking aloud to herself, but Jack thought it would be diplomatic to respond, in case she interpreted silence as disagreement.
‘Yeah, guess so.’
‘How will I make him pay child support? Maria’s ex earns heaps, but he hides it all in trusts and stuff. Do you know how much it’s supposed to be?’
‘No idea.’
‘Men are all the same! Just after one thing, get bored ...’ She stifled a sob and continued. ‘... leave us like a bag of rubbish on the road ...’
‘Not all blokes do that.’ Jack felt obliged to defend his gender. He hadn’t ever had much chance to love ‘em and leave ‘em, so he was a bit offended by this sweeping accusation.
‘You’re all the same,’ she mumbled, as if Jack wasn’t really there.
‘Hey, listen love. I’m sorry about your husband and that, but ease up, okay? I’ve never done that to anyone, lots of blokes haven’t. Just because you married a dickhead, doesn’t mean we’re all like that.’
Oops, there goes my tip, Jack thought. Stupid bitch, can see why he’s nicked off.
By the time he dropped her at her sister’s place in Fairfield, Jack was mightily relieved. On an ordinary day he wouldn’t have minded that much — the conversation could even have been rather diverting — but today he had other things on his mind.
One short fare later, and he got the drunk weirdo. This bloke was a fountain of conspiracy theories — angry, aggressive, and physical. It wasn’t easy from the passenger seat of a car, but he kept invading Jack’s personal space, grabbing his arm, leaning over too close to him, and exhaling beery, oily breath all over him.
‘They’re fucking crooks, I tell you, mate. That prick Jackson, his wife’s best mates with the developer’s wife, play tennis together, all that kind of shit, they went …’
He paused to let out a prolonged burp, then resumed without drawing breath. ‘… on holiday together. Stinks, you know what I mean?’
Jack wasn’t in the mood. His passenger was one of those people whose appearance is so bland that his image fades from your mind almost before they’ve left your presence. He was dressed casually, not obviously derelict or down on his luck, just drunk and obnoxious.
‘Hey, do you see that plate, mate? Rambo, but spelt with a double “M”! What kind of dickhead’d have that? What’s the point? Show he’s illiterate or something? Christ, I hate personalised number plates! Why would you spend good money on that? And how about the idiots with a one for an “I” and a three for an “E”? How stupid’s that? World’s full of fucking morons …’
Once in a while, Jack came away from encounters like this with the disturbing feeling that he had just been listening to himself. He agreed wholeheartedly with this passenger’s view of personalised number plates — in his opinion, they all spelt the same thing — ‘WANKER’ — but it was disconcerting to hear his own views coming from such an unpleasant source. The thought that he might be degenerating into a ranting loser like this guy troubled him.
He often enjoyed a chat while he was driving, but not if he had things on his mind. Then he preferred to zone out, put the cab on autopilot, and chew over his problems. He had long outgrown the novelty of listening to the secrets of emotional passengers, and he had a robust dislike of dickheads.
‘It’s amazing,’ he would often tell mates over a drink. ‘People tell you stuff they wouldn’t dream of telling their friends and family. Having affairs, ripping people off, shafting their boss, bad-mouthing their best friend … it’s incredible. All just gets spewed out, and I just sit there and say a few words every ten minutes or so …’
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