Flank Street

by A. J. Sendall

  ‘You wanna get Indian takeaways?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure. Then we can sit here, eat, and admire the view.’

  I called the place two blocks away and, being used to Carol’s appetite, ordered enough for six. When it arrived and I unpacked it, Meagan looked wide-eyed. ‘Hungry, Micky?’

  ‘Better to have too much, rather than not enough; don’t want you telling people I’m a cheap bastard.’

  We ate at the bar with Albert Collins in the background and the movement of the harbour before us. For the rest of the night we forgot about Carol and Frankie’s, as we smoked, drank, and then fell into bed after midnight.

  Ronnie’s Place

  The next month was a smoky blur of alcohol, clubs, and fast women. I doubt if I thought about working even once. I was just out for hell in any of the forms you find it in a big city, and I found most of them. Dawn would be breaking when I rolled home, and evening arriving when I woke hung-over and ready to do it all again. Money was running through my hands like mercury.

  In the few lucid hours between waking and drinking, I knew I had to slow down, to stop blowing all my cash, and Carol’s. I thought of it that way—as Carol’s. Carol, who came to me in my twisted dreams, her mouth gaping in a tortured scream of terror and agony as the sharks ripped her to pieces day after day. Always the same look of terror and confusion in her eyes, and my name on her stretched lips.

  Some days her accusing look would keep me sober for a few hours, disgusted with myself for what I’d done, other times her screams would drive me straight to the bottle. Her ghost haunted me and I had no reason to complain.

  I don’t remember when I first went to Ronnie’s. It was probably a couple of weeks after Meagan’s first visit, about three or four weeks after Carol’s last swim.

  I’d been drinking with a stripper in a club called The Cage. She was leggy, blonde, and kind of soft. Most of the strippers and pole dancers were rough-mouthed, part-time hookers, but Polly was clean. She seemed almost innocent, although I was soon to learn she wasn’t. We ended up going to a private gaming room after she finished her shift at The Cage, which was another of Johno Brookes’ clubs. Maybe she saw me as well-heeled because of the way I was throwing money around, tipping the bouncers on the door and the waitresses at the table. I seldom sat near the stage amongst the raincoats who got off on tucking five-dollar bills under G-strings.

  In the cab going there, I asked, ‘Do you play the tables, or just hang out watching?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m not exactly a high-roller, but I love the roulette table. It’s almost ceremonial, the way they call last bets, spin the wheel, and sort of flick the ball around it.’

  ‘Is that why you dance, to make money for roulette?’

  ‘I dance because I like to. You seem to like it as well.’

  ‘I had nothing better to do,’ I turned and looked out the window.

  The cab pulled up outside Ronnie’s. I paid with a fifty and told him to keep the change from a twenty-dollar fare. We walked through the club to a small door in the rear corner. The big guy standing beside the door eyed me suspiciously, smiled at Polly, stepped forward, and opened the door. A brief smile passed between them. The doorman got a twenty. There was another huge doorman on the other side. He knew Polly and frisked me.

  I remember a waitress giving us flutes of champagne when we walked into the gaming room, and standing next to Polly, watching her lay my hundred-dollar chips on whatever took her fancy. She won some and lost some, and was ridiculously happy doing it. Win or lose, I didn’t care. We were having fun, getting close, and I wasn’t thinking about Carol or sharks. We must have stayed a few hours. The sky was the purple of pre-dawn as we rolled out of the cab and into my apartment.

  Regardless of how long we’d been there, I was hooked. Polly called me a week later, asking if I wanted to meet up. I agreed without hesitation, despite being hung-over.

  Taking Polly to the gaming room at Ronnie’s became a regular thing. There was no fixed day or time. I figured she worked odd hours and days, and was at the disposal of whoever ran her club. My guess was Johno Brookes, fronted by an oily-haired weasel in a silver suit, and controlled by Ray. I’d seen Ray in there a couple of times, but had never spoken to him. He didn’t seem to notice me; however, guys like him see plenty without reacting.

  I’d started playing the tables instead of just feeding chips to Polly, sometimes beside her at the roulette table, but increasingly at the blackjack table. Something about the game fascinated me. I saw myself as a big winner just waiting to happen. I might as well have thrown all the chips on a single number on the roulette table, but at the time, I thought I had it over the dealers. Numbers and logic had always been a strong point for me, and I thought I could apply that to an almost random game. I lost without caring about the money. It was the challenge I was after. Some nights, Polly would be flush with cash. I never asked her how, or where it came from. She would be on a high those times and blow much of it on the tables and the rest up her nose, even dropping some on blackjack beside me.

  After a couple of months, the gambling became more important than time with Polly. She obviously felt it, but said nothing. We would still hang at my apartment or go for a meal before hitting a club.

  One night, as we sat drinking at my harbour-view bar, she asked me how I made so much money. I hesitated, and then said, ‘I’m a hit man.’ I don’t know why I said that. Maybe I saw myself that way after the mayhem of the past few months in Sydney. Maybe it was a hunch.

  She laughed briefly, looked at me wide-eyed. ‘Are you serious?’ There was excitement in her eyes.

  I laughed back at her. ‘Course not. I’m just messing with you.’

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘Whatever earns enough to interest me. Right now, I’m between jobs: on the lookout for opportunity.’

  ‘But you are a crim, aren’t you.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Just something about you; I’ve known a few and you remind me of them.’

  ‘You should keep better company. Seems like we both have undeclared incomes. That coin you throw around at the gaming tables doesn’t come from dancing tips.’

  She eyed me suspiciously, lit a cigarette.

  I slid one from her pack, lit up, and said, ‘Got a sugar daddy you haven’t told me about?’

  ‘I’ve got a lot of things I haven’t told you about.’ She pulled smoke into her lungs, looked out of the window. ‘We hang out, go out, but that’s just a part of my life: the part I share with you. Same as you. I don’t ask why you get pissed all the time and have nightmares. So don’t ask about my life. Okay?’

  ‘Sure. Whatever you say, Polly, but where does that cash come from?’

  She told me to mind my own bloody business. I should have done that, but I’ve always been a curious bastard. Given what I knew about her, that she danced in a b-grade club and had an affinity for roulette, my guess was she did have a sugar daddy, or she was running baggies or bricks for Ray. The first option didn’t mean anything to me. The second piqued my interest, as it might be a way in for me. I’d never been involved with drug running, but it could get me close to the underworld and lead to contacts I needed.

  I poured her a drink. ‘How do you get on with Ray?’

  Her face stiffened. ‘Ray who?’

  ‘Come on, you know who I mean. He runs the club.’

  She sipped the vodka and chained a cigarette. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve done a couple of jobs for him. So have you.’ I was fishing, but my gut told me she had. Now her eyes confirmed it. She was wary. Maybe a little pissed-off.

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘No. You did just now when your jaw tightened and your eyes narrowed. You don’t usually chain-smoke either.’

  ‘Is that how you got this place?’ she said, looking around the lounge. ‘Running errands for Ray?’

  ‘In a way.’

  She fell quiet, just smoking
and staring out at the harbour. Eventually she said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said with genuine surprise. ‘Relax. I’m not out to screw you, or dog on you. You and I come from the same world. We should be able to accept that we both have hidden things, and leave it at that. There’s no agenda.’ I reached out and touched her hand, but she pulled it away.

  She tossed down her drink, then stood. ‘I’m going to head home, Micky. See you another time, eh.’

  ‘Sure.’ I buried my disappointment.

  When I heard the downstairs door bang closed, I poured another drink, swallowed it, and cursed my own stupidity. I had to push and probe, and fuck it up.

  It was late, but not late enough, so I called a cab to take me to Ronnie’s, had another drink while I waited.

  Before the cab arrived, I took a thick roll of cash from under the floor, and jammed it in my pocket, maybe twenty-thirty thousand. I lost it all at the blackjack table. I put it down to being more pissed than usual. The next night I stayed almost sober and returned to win it back, dropping ten thou in the effort.

  With just a few hundred left in my pocket, I propped up the bar, looking around. The winners were easy to spot with their exultant faces and flowing drinks. There were a couple of single guys at the bar, losers like me, from the looks of them, and at the far end, a woman that caused me to choke on my drink when our eyes met.

  I felt the heat build in my face as I locked eyes with Carol. She held my gaze for a five-beat, turned and said something to the bartender. They both laughed. Others seemed to be laughing as well, sharing some universal joke from which I was excluded.

  It couldn’t be her. But at that time, with alcohol running through my veins, I knew it was. As I stared at her, the shark bit again. A blood spurt hit the bar and her sardonic smile turned into the familiar death scream that visited me every time I slept.

  She must have been aware that I was still looking at her as she turned to face me again with a searching look on her face. Then it hit me. It was the sister from the picture on Carol’s wall: or was it? Was my mind messing with me? I’d seen Carol’s screaming face every day. Maybe this woman just looked like her and my mind was doing the rest. I screwed my eyes shut and looked again. It was her, no doubt.

  My first thought was to turn and leave. I had no way of knowing if she’d seen Carol and me together some time. I felt like she recognised me and knew what I’d done. She turned away and I continued to watch her through the reflection in the mirrored wall behind the optics.

  When I caught the attention of the barman, I indicated another drink. He poured a shot of Jameson into my glass, lifted the twenty.

  ‘Her name’s Heather,’ he said, laid the change on the bar. When I looked again, she’d gone.

  Carol had spoken of a Heather. Was that the sister, or a friend? Then another memory slapped me in the mouth. She was also the woman Lenny had been with, just after I started working for him. She’d recognise me, and who knows what big-mouthed Lenny might have told her.

  I had one more drink before leaving, hoping she’d reappear so I could brace her and gauge if she was a problem. She didn’t show. I took a cab home and fell into tortured half-sleep.

  A Job for Ray

  Seeing Heather in the club shook me. Looking back, I’d say it was as much to do with the amount of alcohol I’d been drinking, as seeing a ghost. I stayed sober the next day: the first time in weeks. Polly hadn’t called and I doubted she would.

  It was a good opportunity to turn things around, to straighten out, and get on with life again, but like so many opportunities in life, I blew it.

  By midday I’d packed, determined to get on the boat and sail away. It was a good time of year to head to the islands, or better still, through Torres Straight and on to Bali, where I could chill out for a few months. With a canvas bag packed and ready at the door, I looked around the apartment at all the meaningless toys I’d bought; then I thought about being on the boat again, about sailing and seeing sharks, and the nightmares that would bring.

  I threw my clothes back in the cupboards, re-hid the gun and valuables, called a yacht broker at the marina, and listed her for sale at a give-away price. He was surprised, but I made up some bullshit about a relative being ill and I needed the cash to care for them. By the time I was finished, he was ready to give up his commission and sell it for nothing. Then I slept again until late.

  It was dark when I woke. It always was. I’d almost forgotten what daylight was, other than that pre-dawn glow in the east as I rode a taxi home. I looked at my phone, the only clock I had: ten-fifteen. The blackjack table called, but with it came images of Carol at the bar.

  It was four nights before I went to Ronnie’s again. Polly hadn’t called, so I left a message on her phone to meet me there, if she felt like it. When she hadn’t shown by midnight, I passed through the small door, raised my arms for the mandatory frisking, and then headed to the roulette table. She wasn’t there. I thought she might have been. I laid a thou on the top left corner. The ball fell in number two and my pay out was eight. An hour later, I’d blown it, and another nine, at blackjack.

  That’s how things went for the next month, until one night I reached under the apartment floor for some cash and it was empty. I stuck my arm right down, thinking I must have knocked it further under the floor. I got a torch and a mirror, but it was all gone. I still had a small stash in the car as getaway money. I counted twenty-five thousand. I could blow that in one night without breaking a sweat. Then what?

  That night was the first one I’d spent at home for more than a month. I was restless, and paced as I mulled over how I could have blown so much cash so quickly. I briefly suspected Polly of stealing it, but realised that wasn’t possible. She’d never been in the place alone and there was no way she could break-in without me knowing.

  I avoided the pearls that once lay around Carol’s neck; they were hidden alone in a ceiling cavity. Fencing them would be difficult without a trusted contact, and I didn’t want to look at them. I fell into bed at dawn and slept badly.

  When I woke at lunchtime, I called the yacht broker again. I needed to sell the yacht fast. He’d had an offer fifteen thousand below my asking price just that morning. I told him to raise them five, and settle. It would only bring in ninety thousand, but that would keep me going for a while.

  I remember feeling better, knowing I’d never have to set foot on my yacht again. It was such a reversal. It had always been a comfort and means of escape, temporary or permanent. Now it repulsed me.

  I sat and thought about the thousands of miles we’d travelled together across most of the oceans of the world, and how I’d laid it all to waste in one rash moment. Funny how that can happen—one thoughtless action and your whole life is changed forever. It wasn’t just Carol I threw to the sharks that day; it was a part of me. The side of my life that’d brought me more real pleasure than any other, torn apart as effectively as she had been. I could have combined that life with her, and be sailing, drifting along over blue water under a tropical sky. Now the thought of being at sea made me reach for the bottle.

  I got through that day sober. It was the first time in a while. As the evening turned into night, I felt lonely for maybe the first time in my life. I’d always been independent, self-reliant, but that night I was missing something. I felt empty. Perhaps it was knowing the yacht had gone, that I was truly alone, stuck here in Sydney with a handful of enemies and no real friends.

  I called Meagan. She was too busy at the bar to talk for more than a few seconds, but said we could catch up some time: nothing specific, just a line to get rid of me. Polly’s phone didn’t answer. I guessed she was dancing, at the tables where I wanted to be, or saw the call was from me and ignored it.

  My change of fortune didn’t seem real. Just a couple of months before, I’d felt I was on the path to the good life: safe jobs and easy money, a great apartment and some contacts building up, Carol as some sort of combatant or ally, depe
nding on the day and if she was telling lies or truth, Meagan as some fun company once in a while. Life had felt good.

  Burning bridges had always been a problem for me, that and fast women like Polly. Polly who’d led me to Ronnie’s and roulette, blackjack and being broke. It wasn’t really her. It was just something waiting inside me, looking for a way out. It was still there, banging around inside my head and gut.

  I didn’t want to sit and drink alone in the apartment, and I didn’t want to go to the gaming room in back of Ronnie’s, in case Polly was there. Maybe they wouldn’t let me in anyway; she’d been the key, and now I’d pissed her off, I could be jammed.

  I paced, smoked, and paced some more. I kept thinking about those pearls and what I could sell them for. Carol had said a hundred grand, but a stranger like me with no real street cred, I’d be lucky to get half that. I took them out and looked at them, then put them away, before getting them out again ten minutes later. I knew I couldn’t sell them, couldn’t give them away. I’d end up doing bird for sure. I just didn’t have those sort of contacts in Australia.

  At eleven-thirty, I rolled out in the Falcon and headed to Iron Cove Bridge a kilometre away. I parked and walked across the bridge towards Drummoyne, dropping a Scotch bottle full of pearls over the rail in the middle. If anyone saw me, I’d look like another bum walking around in the cold drizzle, pulling booze from a bottle. It tore me in half to dump them like that, but my survival instincts said ‘Do it!’

  After walking the bridge both ways, I drove to Crown Street in the city. There were a few massage places on Crown and I felt like getting lost under the flow of sensual hands. It worked while I was in there, but I came out to face the same empty world and wanted to go back inside where everyone smiled and nothing was real.

  The night was cold and wet, close to freezing. I hadn’t expected that in Australia; it made me long for the tropics even more. It also added to the feeling of cold isolation.

  I left the Falcon on Crown and took a cab to The Cage, where I watched Polly dance on the small, semi-circular stage. She saw me but didn’t react: no smile, no nod or provocative gesture or move.