by Alan Duff
Out in the night they swiftly loaded Jube’s boot, and all the rear-seat area, as well at Sonny’s feet with the variety of items, from television to several Jube-selected Persian rugs, to the stereo set-up, video recorder, and Sonny’d added the box of video tapes as a last-minute remembering. They pulled, without haste, out of the carport; and the hills where the east must be were just the faintest hint of a new day beginning, as two thieves of a long and eventful night swigged on stolen German beer and exchanged grinning glances at each other in the dash-lit semi-gloom. And they drove down the winding hill of suburban Wellington by the sea.
No rush, no rush, uh Sonny? Nah, man, no rush. Don’t want to be pulled over for speeding till we’re home and hosed, eh cuz? Chuckling. Looking across at his partner in an unforgettable crime, and chuckling.
Down on the flat they drove alongside the sea, with the upthrust of city buildings still part alight to greet them and the new day fast coming. Both their windows down and a breeze coming in smelling of sea and telling of early-risen squabbling seabirds. And a couple of joggers running past, towards them; two guys, they could’ve been cops, or lawyers, as Jube laughingly remarked. Though he didn’t, as Sonny might have expected, give them any fingers sign or yell smart-arse comment at them. Just drove with eyes straight ahead, beaming all over.
Hey, Sonny remembered, you never showed me the photos. Oh? Didn’t I? Come on, Jube, you got the pictures too. What, ya want it all? Thought you said you weren’t into sex and stuff? I ain’t. But – But what? But I wanna see what a woman of that kind of, uh, you know, class. Money and class, that’s it, what she’s like with no clothes, no fancy jewellery – She didn’t have no fancy jewellery anyrate. Whatever. Juss gimme a look, will ya. So Jube fiddled around in his back pocket grumbling that it was a fucking nuisance, couldn’t Sonny wait till when he wasn’t driving? And he handed over three photographs to Sonny. Check them out.
Sonny hit the inside light, taking a breath as he did. It just did not seem possible. He looked. Naked as the day she was born. Good tits. Big patch of brown pubic hair. Could’ve been out of a sex magazine – No it couldn’t, Sonny in the instant realising. She was by a waterfall, leaned against a rock. Her hair was wet from swimming, unless she’d been under the waterfall. So what’s the big deal about this? Took Jube by evident surprise. Ya mean, the big deal? She’s starkers, that’s the big deal. So? Ain’t we all every day of our lives damn near? We – Sonny, are you taking the piss? No, man, I’m not. I’m only – Three and a half grand each in cash we come away with. Three and a half grand each. Plus all this gear near bursting the car at the seams, and then we find the lawyer cunt’s secret side – his porno side, remember, Sonny-fucking-Mahia – then I manage to find photos – photographic evidence, Sonny-fucking-Mahia – of more porno carry-on, and here’s you asking me whassa big deal? As Sonny fanned the next two photographs out. The same. At the waterfall. But in a different pose. One with a highly suggestive smile, and one leg placed higher and quite apart from the other so offering a broader view of her snatch. But it was hardly pornographic. The next she was standing with her legs together with her hands up in her longish brown hair and she was laughing. And what a beautiful smile she had too.
You wanked over these downstairs, I bet? Well, I – Ya did. I know ya did, Sonny laughing. But Jube shrugging, and Sonny could tell he wasn’t saying all. But too much money, too much twist of events to start challenging Jube. Taking lingering looks at each of the photographic studies, wanting to imprint them in his mind as nothing more than they were: studies of naked womanhood, though what a woman. What a woman, what a house, what finds, though Sonny not sure on the husband; as if he had some God-given right to reverse being in judgment on a respected member of society. The same he and his buddy were now feeling wealthy on. With their vehicle everywhere crammed with easily sellable goods. Plus the evidence Jube was sure he was carrying. Might use it one day, Sonny, with that smart-arse smile crims get when they think they’ve got life sussed out with yet another harebrained scheme.
Homeward.
7
Straight up the main highway north to Auckland. Jube restrained, but frustrated at having to keep his speed down so they wouldn’t have reason to be pulled up by the law.
Back home, their run-down rental house in a run-down city suburb a stark reminder of who and what they were, where they’d just eight hours ago come from. It might’ve been a dream, it wasn’t for the cash and the goods they were unloading out back where Jube’d driven down the drive and parked right up at the back door so nosy-parker neighbours wouldn’t have suspicions aroused. Stacking the stuff into the spare room, and Jube beside himself with not joy but glee, chortling that it was like having an extra bank account sitting in store in your spare room with all them Persian rugs, the tv, the stereo, and Jube’d grabbed a couple of paintings just in case they might be worth something. Even a hundred’ll do, eh Sonny? Buys, what, twenty jugs a piss, eh mate, hahahahaha.
Showered, shaved – well, Sonny anyrate, Jube’s face too sore to be shaving – into clean clothes and off into town. Money to spend.
A menswear shop. Pretty posh one too, up the main drag. Queen Street. Trying on different garments; hard to choose when you get the bread to buy what you want, never happened like this before. Ever. In and out of the changing cubicles, making fun of it to cover both their self-consciousness of doing the unfamiliar, as well as their happiness at being richer than they’d ever been before.
Each with his facial wounds, but Jube by far the worst with his eyes blackened up and bruising yellowing; looking at each other in the next try-on of trousers and shirt. How do I look, Son? Man, that face don’t look too clever. Wonder what the shop guys think? Fuck the shop guys, man. We don’t go asking em about their private lives. Okay okay, only wondered. So how do I look? Sonny presenting himself outside Jube’s changing cubicle. Ya look like a Maori boy who got a punch on the snout, but that’s alright cos all you Maoris’ve got flat noses, hahaha. But, other’n that, ya lood good, buddy. Jube looking Sonny up and down. Real good, Son. At Sonny in navy cotton trousers and a grey denim shirt.
Jube decided on what he liked: white cotton trousers with a fancy, bright-coloured shirt with billowy sleeves. Pleased with himself as he stood eyeing his reflection in the mirror, and Sonny thinking Jube was the big buffoon who didn’t have no idea how he looked, but nodding at Jube seeing the man’d made up his mind. Do I look the biz or do I look the biz, cuz? Hahahaha. Ya look good, Jube. (He looks terrible.) Tell me I look like a drug dealer, Son, tell me. Ya look just like one, Jube. Thank you, my main lil man. Grinning all over at his reflection, couldn’t take his blackened eyes off himself. May as well look the part if I’m gonna join the ranks, uh Sonny?
Sonny taken by surprise. This was news to him. But he shrugged. Whatever turns you on, bud. No turn-ons about it, there’s bread to be made in dru – Hey! Ya wanna tell the whole shop? Sonny hissing at him. Alright, alright, wasn’t no-one around anyrate. So, at his reflection, I look the goods, right? Right. Pair a shades and ya won’t even know I been in a rumble. And – Jube turning to point a finger – them dogs’ll keep, Son. They’ll keep. Make my pile with you-know-what, now I got the capital, and I’m going back. Ya know that bout me, don’t ya, Son? That I got a long – a looong – memory. Yeah, bud, I know that. And shades’ll do the trick.
They both had to settle for their trousers being pinned up because they were wearing them straight out of the shop, as with the shirts. The guy gave em a look Jube took offence at when he paid for his purchases by peeling off from his thick wad of fifties, playing the man about town. The fuck ya lookin at, pal? Ain’t ya seen bread before? Sorry, sir. Sorry, sir, he says, eh Son? Leaning across the counter, tapping the shop assistant on the chest, So tell me how much you earn a week, bud? Sonny telling Jube to leave it; and they paid for their purchases and left, with Jube giving the assistant a parting scowl.
Out on the street – crowded. Mid-afternoon on a Friday, and a nice
day it was too. Shoes. We gotta get ourselves some St Louis blues, boy, Jube with a contented chuckle as he led them striding down main street. Into the first shoeshop they came to. Out again; it was a women’s shoeshop, hahaha. Jube bought a pair of cowboys with fancy scrollwork, pointy toes and a bit of heel that a tall man didn’t need. Cost two twenty-five. Sonny opted for a pair of plain blacks at ninety-nine ninety-five. Jube tossed the five-cent coin change of Sonny’s off the counter. Keep it, pal. See what you can buy with it. Out they went. Jube laughing.
Down to the car parked up a side street Jube was sure the parking-meter cops wouldn’t go near, to a ticket under the windscreen wipers. He grabbed it and tore it to shreds, stomped on the bits with his new heels for good measure. Sonny catching Jube’s look to see if people were watching. Oh, I forgot to buy shades, Jube suddenly remembered. Ya getting a pair too? Nope. You go, I’ll watch the car for another parking ticket. Yeah, you do that, and if the guy gives you a hassle, stall him till I get back. Jube with an evil look, and Sonny thinking maybe this new-found moneyed state was doing something to Jube; as if he was out of control, all hyped up.
Sonny watched the unmistakable figure of Jube as he came back along the pavement, with an exercise-yard-style sway to him and wearing his smoky-lensed shades, the loudest shirt in town and more so with the stark white of trousers that already had knees in them from Jube’s bowed legs. Boob-walkin, shaded, fat walrus mo and a few days’ stubble not hiding the self-satisfied grin he had on.
Stopping a few paces back from Sonny in a theatrical gesture. Laughing. Snapping his fingers and going for the driver’s side of the car, patting the smudgy-grey roof affectionately, Hey, car. Sonny getting in other side. Jube tapping the smelly leather-wrapped steering wheel, All I need is a left-hand-drive Yank tank, bro, and people’ll think I’m the real thing, big-time dope-dealer. Not the hard stuff, mind, I wouldn’t touch that. It stinks, does smack. Turns your punters into corpses and ya have to keep finding new ones. How do you know that? Sonny wanting to know. Cos I go around this world we live in, Sonny Mahia, with my eyes open, that’s how.
Leaving in a screech of tyres cos Jube spotted a trio of dudes who’d likely be impressed with a bit of burnt rubber, and telling Sonny, See what them punks think of the horses we got under that bonnet, Son. A sly look in his rear vision to see if he had made the big impression. A smirk of satisfaction that he had. Now, where to for cellies, buddy? Cellies? Oh cellies, yeow. Celebrations, Son, you got it. So where we gonna start? Hahahahaha!
They decided on a bar in central city, down Vulcan Lane. Gimme two double rums and Coke, my man, Jube to the bartender in a loud voice. Showing off to the maybe couple of dozen drinkers, men mostly, in suits, in casual clothes, smartish dress the standard, but not loud like one of the new arrivals was. Sonny glancing around in embarrassment at Jube’s loudness and his flashing the roll of fifties.
Hey thanks, man. Jube handing a drink to Sonny and leading them, boob-walk style again, over to a corner standing table, his head going from side to side with his bouncing, shoulder-rolling gait. Cheers, toasting to Sonny’s glass, clink. Yeah, cheers, man. Jube downing half his glass in a gulp. Mmm-uh! Wiping the spots from his walrus. Lighting a fag and offering Sonny one too.
Next round your buy, Sonny. But then again we ain’t exactly gonna have an argument about it now, are we? Hahahaha. Jube looking all around him for who was impressed with how wordly, how self-assured, how fucking cool was this dude walked into their bar. Though Sonny couldn’t see no-one impressed.
Back with a refill. Cheers. Cheers. Here’s to us, Son. Two best thieves this side and the other side of the Bombays, hahahaha. Drinking. And Jube glancing frequently down at himself, his new look. Same as his eyes went all over the bar, specially when he said something loud and intended for attention; but still no-one hardly giving him a glance. So it began to show in Jube first getting louder, and when that didn’t work, he got restless and disgruntled. Ain’t our kind of joint anyrate, uh Son? Oh, I don’t mind. I’d drink anywhere right now.
The buzz of normal conversation not changing – no loudmouths here, other than the Jube one – just ordinary working people rewarding emselves a few beers after an early knock-off on a Friday afternoon. None of that Tavi staccato howl and yowl, of dudes and sheilas goin off their faces with all the variety of things that afflicted em. No. Just ordinary folk in social intercourse. Nothing tragic in this bar, no fights, no mad incident on the simmer, no self-centred crazies breaking out in their pus-infected emotional states over the world they hated (and the world hates them back). Just ordinary folk.
Smoking and drinking steadily, too steadily for Sonny’s liking, he liked to warm up to this pace, not go straight into it. But hell, it was a special day, and he had his share of glancing down at his newly clothed state with plenty of his own pride. Jube not doing much talking no more. Four double rums each, it should’ve had em both buzzing. Cept it didn’t; Jube because no-one was paying him any attention, and Sonny because Jube’s mood was spoiling it for him.
Another double rum with Coke. Jube muttering how the other patrons looked like Christmas presents, unwrapped Christmas presents that no-one wanted, in their all-the-same fucking suits and ties. Looking at Sonny, Not like you and me, buddy – (and the word buddy hitting a right spot in Sonny’s heart: as if their destinies were always fused, and the world around them, right now in this bar, taking no notice of Jube; but nor did anything about them have Sonny feeling like one of them either.) So Sonny nodding meaningfully, Juss me and you, buddy, you got it, Jube. Touched his glass against Jube’s: To us doing it again, bro.
Ya think it’s the tats, Jube? Sonny stabbing a guess at their obvious, if unstated, uncomfortableness in this bar of straights. Huh? The tats, your tats, your hands, your throat and that; maybe these kinda people don’t like us for that? Oh, don’t they just? Jube taking the leap from wonder to certainty. Well they cin go fuck emselves. And downed his drink. Let’s get outta here.
On the way out Jube stopping, looking around him challengingly. To a cluster of men standing around looking at a television screen, a cricket match on. Cricket sucks! Jube booming. Then he spat a big hoik on the floor. And so do wankers who watch the wanky game. Marched out, with a not-agreeing Sonny behind.
Down the street, Get outta my fucking way, ya straight eggs. Jube in a mood. Ducking into another bar. Gimme two double rum and Cokes. Looking around them, at what kind of bar it might be. Turning to Sonny, Now this looks better. At it mainly being worker types, plus old men seated around tables probably talking about the war they’d fought in a hundred years ago. Taking their drinks and going to a sit-down table near the old codgers. Cheers. Here’s to us. Again, hahaha.
Sonny listening in on the old men’s conversation, how they do in plenty of public bars that Sonny’s spent an adulthood frequenting, always checking out somewhere new in case it –? In case it held the answers, to life, to why a man goes from bar to bar as though he’s gonna find them. The answers, that is. To life confusing, to life always off course, out of balance with the world, the functioning world. (Whilst we, the low-life thieves of this world, we steal from them, and when we can’t find the get up and go to steal, we accept their handouts. Cos we’re lowlifes, that’s what we are.) Sonny lifted his glass in another toast, a bravado one to break up his thoughts: Here’s to the best burglars both side of the Bombays, hahahaha. But Jube was already lost to him, Sonny could see; a sullen, almost menacing picture of man supposed to be adult. (Kid, more like it. Just look at him, sitting there hating the world. Can’t help himself. Loaded with more bread than he’s ever had in his life and still he’s hating the world.) So Sonny took his attention to the table of old men beside them.
(Listen to em, talking about the war, the Second World War, they fought in.) Sonny looking at the men, their uniform greyness of hair or else none at all, the lined faces, leathery necks and hands; and yet in listening, seeing how animated they got, seemed they were, a large part of each and
every one, set in concrete. Back there, when they were young men at war; recalling the bombs, grenades, cannons and rockets and rifles all blazing away. (They’re stuck back in that time frame. Kind of prisoners really. Of an event. So their minds are frozen back there too. Same as us, me and Jube. Cept we were born into our event, and our event is social. It’s a social prison we were born into; some get out and others don’t.) Listening to the men exchanging war tales. (And me? What’s so great about me?) Sonny sighing, finishing his glass, getting up to fill his and Jube’s again. (And Jube’s right: I do think too much.) Walking up to the bar, trying to switch his mind into no-think mode.
Back with the drinks. Cheers, Jube. Yeah, cheers. I wanna woman, it came surling out of his cut-lipped mouth. Yeah, well, don’t we all, cuz? Never said I wanted a girlfriend – I don’t. Too much hassle, too much this, Where ya been all night, Jube? Your tea’s cold, Jube. Ya never take me nowhere, Jube. Fuck the bitches. Cunts, that’s all they are the lot ofem. Sonny narrowing eyes at Jube, asking, What about the woman in the photos? Think she’s – Yep, she’s no different. Old Chinese saying, Sonny: They all look the same upside down. Sonny only able to shake his head at Jube’s warped view of womanhood. And Jube grumbling on about what fucking use was it having lots of bread with no fucking woman to celebrate with you? I’m going for a piss. (Leave you to it, Jube.)
Out in the toilets, glad of the quiet, the break from Jube’s gloom, his lip-curling talk whenever he was on the subject of women. Pausing at the mirror to take a sneaky look at himself, head and grey-shirted shoulders. Pleased with himself, how he shaped up, patting his hair, I need a decent haircut, that’ll do the trick.
He’d not felt like this, as good as this, in a long time. About as good as that feeling of stepping outside prison gates to freedom. That exhilarating sense of feeling you could do anything, that nothing of the confusing world that’d helped get you inside in the first place could bother you this time. Not this time: this time I’m gonna do it all the right way. (But how long does that resolve last?) As long as the dough does that the Social Welfare gives you on presenting your release papers at the nearest office – the first one you spot from your taxi, hahahaha – a whole three hundred and sixty-two bucks, which feels like a fortune, and, added to the lousy fifty bucks you’ve managed to save from your meagre jail earnings, ya feel like a millionaire.