‘Nothing, really. Just wondered. Why isn’t it van Doyne, or van Dine, or something?’ Matt waved the business card Jack had given him, as if presenting evidence in court.
‘Dunno. In Dutch it’s van Done … guess my old man wanted to sound more Aussie or something …’
‘Cop it at school much?’
‘A bit. Wogs got worse though. Greeks, Italians, you know …’
‘Yeah.’
‘Suppose you went to a posh private school?’
‘No, normal high school. Dad owned a car dealership, but by the time I came along it was going downhill.’
‘So how’d you get into all this banker stuff?’
‘Few lucky breaks, I guess. Did well at uni, got an uncle who used to work for one of them.’
‘Want to get married, have kids, all that stuff?’
‘God no!’ Matt seemed genuinely horrified by the suggestion. ‘Maybe when I’m forty or something. Years away.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.’ At last Jack was finding some common ground with his unlikely new friend.
‘Sounds like you had a tough childhood, mate. Still recovering.’ Matt flashed a sardonic smile in his direction.
‘Could’ve been worse.’
A vague sense of the absurdity of the situation was floating around in Jack’s mind. They were on the run, they’d just disentangled themselves from the crowd in a ridiculous entertainment venue, and they were standing in a carpark talking about his childhood. He was still breathing faster than usual, but he had recovered enough poise by now to shift back into gear.
‘Come on, let’s go to the pool joint. Not exactly hiding out around here.’
Matt acknowledged that it was time to move on.
Jack pointed to a small side-street running from the opposite side of Cardigan Street, and they crossed over quickly and started walking up a slight hill. Orr Street was dominated by anonymous multi-storey commercial buildings. Jack ushered Matt down a small lane and up to an unmarked door, which he opened.
Inside they were confronted with an ancient set of wooden stairs that were so dimly lit it wasn’t possible to see how far they went. A single naked globe on the first-floor landing was the sole source of light. Jack stopped when they reached the landing, and opened another unmarked door.
‘What kind of place is this?’ Matt asked. ‘Pretty strange front door.’
‘This is the back way. Manager’s a mate. Doesn’t matter how often you go in or out, you pay to play. Probably a good escape route. Some of the customers aren’t too respectable — know what I mean?’
‘Ah, yeah, okay.’
They eased their way into an enormous room with two long rows of full-sized billiard tables, each of them illuminated by a long bank of fluorescent tubes suspended only a metre or so above them. The remainder of the room was dark.
They could see that about half the tables were occupied. A small kiosk at one end of the cavernous room appeared to be where patrons paid to play. The walls contained cue-racks and other paraphernalia, and the air was heavy with a purple-grey smoky haze. Matt whispered to Jack that it felt like they’d walked onto the set of a Bogart movie.
‘Want to play?’ Jack inquired casually. He assumed that if they just stood around and did nothing they’d look suspicious, maybe even get hassled.
Matt agreed. In the dim light, his fancy suit could have been mistaken for an op shop cast-off, but to make sure he didn’t stand out too much, he took off his tie, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
They walked around the outside of the tables towards the kiosk. Jack had a more confident air about him, now that he was back on home territory.
They passed a tall, wiry man who had just completed his shot. As he straightened and turned, he caught sight of Jack.
‘G’day,’ he said in a sardonic, condescending tone.
‘Scabber — how’s it going?’
‘Shitting on him. Naturally.’ He pointed at the table, and looked across at his opponent standing at the far end of the table preparing to take his shot — a short, overweight man who was completely bald.
‘Good stuff.’
‘Who’s your mate?’ He cast a suspicious eye over Matt.
‘Customer, actually. You know … got to look after your customers.’
‘True.’ Scabber punctuated this terse reply with a short, mirthless cackle, displaying a set of crooked yellow teeth. His face looked like he’d weathered innumerable battles.
‘Your shot,’ his opponent called to him. Scabber made no effort to introduce him, and Jack didn’t ask. He’d learned from experience not to show too much curiosity around Scabber.
‘Yeah, it is too. Good to see you, Jack.’
Having been summarily dismissed, Jack resumed his march to the kiosk. It was unattended when they got there.
‘So who’s that guy?’ Matt asked.
‘Scabber? Scabber McPhee. Old mate of mine, sort of. Done a fair bit of time for GBH, burgs, that sort of thing. Pretty much the last of the old school. Don’t make them like Scabber any more. Good bloke, though. Handy to have on the team.’ Jack tried to sound as if he mingled with criminal heavies all the time.
‘I’ll bet he is.’
‘Not sure what he’s doing these days. Doesn’t pay to ask.’
‘No.’
A bored-looking man with a Midnight Oil T-shirt, a very large ear-ring, and an impressive double chin appeared inside the kiosk. Jack asked for a table for an hour, and Matt handed over the required cash. They took possession of a small box containing a wooden triangle and a set of pool balls. The attendant barely said a word throughout the entire transaction.
The ensuing hour was filled with aimless chat about their predicaments, and some half-hearted explanations of the game’s rules and protocols from Jack. Much to his surprise, Matt had never played before. What on earth had he been doing with his life?
They were relaxed now. There was no sign of their pursuers, and it was clear that they had succeeded in giving them the slip.
‘So what’s really going on with this dealer?’ Jack asked Matt.
‘Who knows? Maybe he’s got an image to uphold. I owe him money, so he’s got to make an example of me …’
‘Rowan says he got him called off for a bit. Called in a favour …’
‘Doesn’t look like it worked …’
‘No, maybe not. Rowan’s a bit of a bullshit artist.’
‘Still don’t know how I’m going to put together the cash.’
‘What about your boss?’
‘No way. He’d go mental if he knew I’d fucked up like this. Puts him at risk.’
‘Parents? Girlfriend?’
‘Mum and dad don’t have much, and mum’s sick. Probably kill her if she found out. And I’m between girlfriends.’
‘Ah-ha. Me too. Common problem.’ Jack wished he actually was between girlfriends. It was stretching it to classify a decade as ‘between’.
‘So what’s all this ASIO stuff about?’
Reasoning that he was now involved with Matt, Jack told him about Farhia’s book. He didn’t want to tell him about the photos on his phone, but he couldn’t think of any other way to explain ASIO’s interest in him.
‘Tricky situation,’ Matt said at the end of his explanation. ‘Maybe you should find someone to read it for you, find out what’s in it. Could be harmless.’
‘Yeah, not easy, though. They all know each other … and half of them are related. Hard finding someone who wouldn’t tell Farhia.’
Matt potted a ball with a level of skill that belied his lack of previous experience.
‘Hey! Thought you said you’d never played before.’
‘I haven’t. Got lucky.’
‘So did you grow up in a convent or something?’
‘N
o, I just didn’t like the whole pub thing. Dad spent his whole life in the pub — reckoned that’s where he made his sales. Drove mum nuts. He was a prick, dodgy as a three-dollar note.’
‘So you got respectable?’ Jack couldn’t quite disguise the sneer in his voice. In his eyes, there were few occupations lower than car salesman, but banker was one of them.
Matt interrupted his shot, stood up straight, and rested the end of his cue on the floor.
‘Just didn’t want to be a pissant pretending to be a bigshot. I spent my whole life surrounded by people who were full of bullshit and not worth ten bucks — always working another scam, ripping off their mates. They thought going to uni was for wankers, when deep down they were just jealous because kids they went to school with got to go, and they didn’t. They lived in Vermont and pretended it was Brighton — you know the story.’
Jack didn’t really know, but years of driving had given him a very keen understanding of Melbourne’s complicated social strata. Matt’s words rang true. He sounded more sincere than usual, a bit more grown-up, even a fraction bitter. More to this guy than I thought, he mused.
Their hour of pool was almost over. They decided it would now be safe to venture outside and take a tram back up Swanston Street. Matt doubted Karl had the patience to wait that long: ‘Probably back in Doncaster by now.’
The return trip was uneventful. They even had a laugh at some of their more ridiculous exploits earlier in the evening.
‘Lucky you couldn’t see me sprinting up Victoria Street, mate. Not a pretty sight!’
‘Probably going to have to get the suit dry-cleaned. Next time I’m out with you I’m wearing overalls!’
‘How much’s that clobber worth anyway?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
The top end of Lygon Street was deserted when they got off the tram. There was no sign of Karl, nor of Robert Jeffrey. It was hardly likely that either of them would be lurking there, as almost two hours had passed since they’d scrambled onto the tram in Lygon Street, but Jack needed to make sure.
Matt opened the door of his silver BMW, waved goodbye to Jack, and sank wearily into the soft leather seat. Jack kept walking, and as he approached the flats, slowed down and looked around for any signs of Jeffrey. Everything appeared normal, and as he mounted the rear stairs he sighed — a deep, heavy sigh of pure relief. He was physically and mentally spent.
What a day it had been. ‘Christ I’m buggered,’ he muttered to himself as he rummaged in his pocket for his key.
Once inside, he fiddled around for a few minutes, tossed his clothes onto the lounge-room floor, and collapsed onto his bed. He made a mental note to look for a Somali driver in the morning. The print on the photos was very small, of course, but his phone’s zoom made it just large enough to read. Once he’d worked out what was in the book, he would be in a much better position to deal with Jeffrey. And Farhia.
9
Confusion
Jack’s mobile phone continued to weigh him down. It was a nasty fat slug, lying heavily in his right trouser pocket. He was even starting to wonder whether Farhia was worth all this effort. Handing the phone over to Jeffrey would solve a very big problem, and he could always refuse to assist ASIO any further. The La Trobe stuff was trivial, surely. What could they possibly do to him after all these years? Imagine the fun Neil Mitchell would have on 3AW if Jack got banned after years of taxidriving because he hadn’t mentioned a minor conviction of over thirty-five years ago on his licence application. And he was sick of driving cabs anyway: they might be doing him a favour if he got thrown out.
He was still struggling to understand what Matt was up to. Their mad dash through Melbourne’s inner north seemed like a bad dream. If it wasn’t for the fact that both his quadriceps hurt — especially when he stood up — he might even have doubted whether it had happened. He now had a new layer of aches and pains added to his earlier injuries. Hanging around Matt was bad for his health.
At least he had a small distraction this morning. He was long overdue to get a haircut, and if he was to continue his pursuit of Farhia it would be good to smarten up his appearance. As always, his regular barber was a reliable source of solace and advice.
‘Long time this time, hey, my friend?’
Jack snapped out of his reverie in the barber’s chair and looked at Louie in the mirror.
‘Yeah, had a bit on.’
‘You should make more effort. For the ladies. You’re a good-looking man …’
Jack smiled as he listened to the snip-snip of the scissors and the soothing patter.
‘Yeah, yeah, Louie. Watch out Brad Pitt, Jack’s coming!’ He laughed at this absurd notion.
‘Louie make you look good, my friend.’
‘Yeah, good stuff.’
Jack didn’t feel much like talking. He only bothered to get his hair cut now and then. Like most hairdressers, Louie talked a lot. He was a part-time psychologist and counsellor, supplementing his considerable skills with the scissors. Jack’s hair was a bit curly, and thinning on top, so he could go for quite a long time without getting it cut. To make the best of a bad job, a visit to his old mate Louie was just the trick.
Louie’s shop was on the south side of Elgin Street, a tiny place with two chairs, a mirror, and some other bits and pieces. A quick trim cost fifteen dollars. It was the only old-style barbershop left in Carlton. There weren’t any Man magazines lying around any more, but otherwise little else had changed since the 1960s.
Louie had been plying his trade there for over forty years. He was now in his late sixties, and he only kept at it because he didn’t have much else to do. His wife had died, the kids had grown up and moved away, and he didn’t have many other interests. He was a living example of the benefits of the Mediterranean diet, as he was as healthy as a thirty-year-old. Cutting hair was a good way of seeing people and passing the time. Louie was a Carlton institution — everyone knew him and liked him, and he was an excellent source of practical advice.
‘You should get married, my friend,’ he said.
‘Yeah, I should.’
‘Before it’s too late.’
‘Yeah.’ Jack was trying to resist getting drawn into a deeper conversation on the subject.
‘No ladies on your radar?’
‘Well, er …’
‘Aha! You can’t fool Louie!’
Jack surrendered. He was trapped.
‘Just someone I’m a bit keen on. Never happen, though. Too young, too different.’
‘Never say never, my friend. The ladies, they are a mystery. Nothing happens like you think.’
Louie knew when to stop probing, and was always careful to keep conversations of this kind at a very general level. If Jack wanted to provide details, he would. His lively gestures made Jack nervous, though: he could see the comb and scissors waving around, and he didn’t fancy getting poked in the back of the head.
‘Why would any woman go for me? In my fifties, no money, just a shit-kicker cab driver … Who’s going to be interested in me?’ Jack could imagine how pathetic this sounded, but he couldn’t help it. Louie was one of those people who others opened up to, in spite of their embarrassment.
‘Jack, Jack, Jack. No negative thinking! You got to take a risk! You heard of Casanova? Greatest lover ever? Italian, of course …’
‘Yeah, yeah, course I have …’
‘He was ugly. Short, too. But he knew how to present himself, how to be bold. Probably had a good hairdresser! You are much better than you think! You must be confident!’
This pep talk was delivered with much emphasis and waving of arms, and Jack felt a nip on his left ear. Luckily it was only the comb, and Louie didn’t seem to notice. Jack didn’t say anything.
‘You’re right, I guess.’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘But she’s a bloody Somali, Louie! Buggered if I kn
ow how I got into all this. Shouldn’t even be here. Bring all their fights, tribes, clans, all that shit. What am I doing?’
Louie was diplomatic. ‘True love, it doesn’t matter, my friend. If she is beautiful, she is beautiful.’
‘Easy for you to say, mate. You married one of your own.’
‘If Maria was Eskimo, I still marry her.’
‘Better man than me, Louie.’
Louie affected a final couple of flourishing snips with his scissors, and then stood back to examine his handiwork.
‘Much better. All done, my friend.’
Jack stood up gingerly, leaning heavily on the arm of the old-style barber’s chair to minimise the strain on his aching quads.
‘Thanks, mate.’ He pulled out a ten- and a five-dollar note from his pocket, and offered them to Louie.
‘No, no, my friend. Spend it on your lady. This one, she’s on me.’
‘You sure?’ Jack didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. Fifteen dollars wasn’t a small amount, but he thought he should query Louie’s generosity out of courtesy.
Louie grabbed Jack’s hand in both of his, and squeezed it into a fist, the notes still inside.
‘It’s for you to use, my friend. What do I need your money for anyway? You go out, you get this lady. Listen to Louie: he knows!’ He tapped the side of his nose, and leered knowingly at Jack.
‘Thanks, mate, much appreciated. You’re right, I suppose. Got to to be in it to win it. Give it a go, I guess.’
‘That’s the way!’
‘Thanks, mate, be seeing you.’ Jack walked out into the watery sunlight with a little spring in his step. He suspected Louie’s gesture was quite calculated. He was fond of Jack, and he’d watched him slowly deteriorate over the years. His small act of generosity would boost Jack’s confidence, which might help in his romantic endeavours.
He got into the cab, doing his best to ignore his aching thigh muscles, and drove towards the city with a new lightness in his heart. He would keep pursuing Farhia, regardless of how remote his prospects of success might be, or how violent those around her were. It was amazing how something as simple as a haircut could have such an impact on a bloke’s morale.
Comfort Zone Page 12