The Cait Lennox Box Set

by Roderick Donald

  “Hey, there’s Eddy. Look, over there, chatting up the chick in the silver top by the bar,” said Cait, nodding in his direction.

  “Who?” yelled Rishi over the music, practically putting Cait’s ear in his mouth so she could hear him.

  “You know. I told you about him before. His dad Tony works for Steve. I wonder what bullshit line he’s throwing now? He really can be a smart-arse. Just like his father apparently.”

  Cait, Rishi, and Dec were sitting in a booth away from the bar having a serious discussion: what’s the next drink? Cait was leaning toward a white wine, Rishi couldn’t make up his mind between a bourbon and a cleansing ale, and Dec was thinking about a rum and Coke.

  “Ah shit it, I can’t decide. Think I’ll have another shot, then I’m sure it’ll come to me,” said Dec.

  As Dec was talking, Eddy unexpectedly sidled up, sliding into the booth midconversation. “Hey guys, how’s it going? What’s happening?”

  Cait looked up, a cold shiver momentarily running up her spine.

  Gross. You really are such a dick, Cait thought to herself.

  “We’re trying to decide what to drink. So many choices, so little time,” said Dec.

  “Yeah, dunno myself, it’s as weird as, isn’t it?” replied Eddy.

  “So maybe I can help you out here. I got some E. You want some?” said Eddy. “Forty-five bucks a hit. Then you won’t have to worry about what you want to drink.”

  “Eddy, you still dealing that shit? That’s just like, so yesterday,” said Dec.

  “Sure. Half the bar’s on. You wouldn’t want to miss out on the party now, would you?”

  “No way, José,” said Rishi, almost out of character for him to be so upfront with someone he hardly knew. “We still want to keep our brain cells. You know what that shit can do to your head?”

  “I tell you what,” interjected Cait, rudely cutting across Rishi and Eddy’s conversation. “Since you’re into E, what about buying us all a drink and we won’t tell the door bitch that you’re dealing?” Cait really didn’t like Eddy, so she figured he was fair game to insult.

  Besides, she had a weird feeling—almost like a premonition—that something was about to go down and Eddy was part of it, so they all needed to keep their distance, and an insult or two would no doubt help see him hightail it out of there and go and annoy someone else.

  “Get real! Do you think I’m a dickhead or something? Gimme fifty bucks first, then I’ll buy the drinks.”

  Silence.

  “Just joking, guys,” said Eddy, picking up on the negative vibes. “Anyway, if you change your mind, I’ll be here all night.”

  With that Eddy removed himself from the booth and continued to work the room.

  “What a tosser. Boring as,” said Rishi. “Now Dec, back to the drinks situation. What are we going to have before Jason gets on the stage?”

  But Cait had momentarily checked out of the conversation. She just couldn’t get that worrisome feeling of disquiet out of her head. Something was wrong, and Eddy was part of it.

  The smartly dressed guy—Mr. Smooth—in the corner of the room near the entrance to the toilets was leaning against the wall, nonchalantly sipping vodka and club soda with a slice of lemon. Or maybe it was iced water? He appeared to be killing time by looking at everyone yet looking at no one, all at the same moment. For all intents and purposes, Mr. Smooth was either taking a break from the now packed dance floor, or waiting for his beau to come out of the toilets. The fellow reveler was a good-looking lad, but not striking. With chiseled, almost Germanic facial features, a square jawline, and all-seeing piercing eyes that darted around the room as if he was looking for his next conquest, Mr. Smooth just leaned there, owning the space. Well built, he obviously wasn’t a person who pushed paper around a desk for a living.

  Whatever, he fit in with all the other similarly dressed males: gelled, spiked hair, designer jeans, top button of his white linen shirt undone, leather wrap around his wrist, a few tattoos peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, black and red Paul Smith sneakers. He was almost hot.

  Yeah, Mr. Smooth was just another clubber out on the town.

  But when he moved, he stood out from the crowd; his stride was confident, purposeful, the space around him appearing to naturally part as he leaned into it.

  As if he was a hunter in the African savannah, Mr. Smooth’s eyes suddenly took on a catlike intensity. He’d spied his prey across the other side of the room. Hunter-Man—a.k.a. Mr. Smooth—tensed imperceptibly, fingers twitching, and moved from the safety of his shadowy corner with a fluidity that gave away his intention to only the trained eye. He slipped away with anonymity, noticed by none of his fellow revelers, and slid his way through the crowd, gliding deftly through the partying throng, taking up his new position behind and out of line of sight of his new conquest.

  The last few partygoers between him and his prey parted momentarily.

  Mr. Smooth pounced and he was there, poised and ready to attack, full of confidence and bravado.

  “Such an easy target,” he said to himself under his breath.

  “We can do this one of two ways,” whispered Hunter-Man into his victim’s ear, pressing one hand hard onto his prey’s shoulder to show he meant business. “Either you come quietly with me, or I’ll drag you out. The choice is yours. Whichever way you look at it, you’re busted.”

  With his free hand, Hunter-Man quickly flashed his police badge in front of Eddy’s face then said, “Let’s go. You’re under arrest.”

  “Oh, get real. Who’s that? Dec, you screwing around again?” Eddy tried to turn around to face his assailant but instead he was being pushed toward the exit urgently.

  “No, and your luck just ran out, party boy.” With that Hunter-Man kept his firm hold on Eddy’s shoulder, but with his now free hand he grabbed him by the belt and frog-marched him toward the door and into the street outside. Eddy’s pants rode up his crack like he was being given a huge wedgie by his mates in the locker rooms after a game of football.

  Oh fuck! Eddy thought to himself as he was moved through the crowd. I’m in deep shit here. This guy’s for real. Cop or no cop, he’s a bloody lunatic.

  “Hey, let me go. You can’t do that, I’ve got my rights,” pleaded Eddy as he was forcefully shoved forward.

  “Somebody help me,” Eddy wanted to add, but it was all happening so quickly he couldn’t get the words out. Instead, by this time he was being half pushed, half carried down the stairs and out into the street. He stumbled, staggering as his feet unsuccessfully attempted to touch the ground, making contact occasionally, and only then with the tips of his toes as if he was floating through midair.

  Start to finish, Eddy’s extraction took less than thirty seconds. It was so quick and efficient that no one upstairs even noticed what was happening except Hunter-Man’s partner, who slipped out unseen from the crowd, and Rishi, who just happened to be gazing in Eddy’s direction, thinking about what a tosser he was.

  As Eddy was forcibly marched past the door bitch and her cronies, they were about to intervene when Hunter-Man’s partner, who was immediately behind him by this point, flashed her badge, giving them a”don’t mess with us or you’re next” look as she rushed past.

  Smiling to herself, the door bitch turned her back on Eddy, instead looking at her own security team with a knowing stare.

  Another misguided kid busted. Dickhead!

  She’d seen it before and knew from experience this was best left alone. If she didn’t see what was going on, she couldn’t be called as a witness. Besides, it was all on CCTV.

  “Jeee-sus Cait, I think your friend Eddy’s just been busted,” said Rishi. They were sitting by themselves finishing their drinks and about to move up near the stage, where Jason and his band were setting up.

  “Oh my God. You’re kidding me. What happened?” said Cait, dragging her eyes away from her best friend Jason, who was making hand signals for her to come and join him.
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  “And by the way, Eddy’s not my friend, if you hadn’t already gathered.”

  “Well, I just saw him being frog-marched out of here by that big dude who was standing by the toilets looking all sketchy that you told me about when you went to the bathroom before.”

  “Shit, Eddy might be a creep, but if they nab him for dealing he’s just screwed his future,” said Cait. “I think he’s just graduated from law school. Like, I‘m sure they don’t let you join the bar if you’re a criminal.”

  Cait had just tried and convicted him.

  “Yeah, sort of weird, eh,” said Rishi. “You mightn’t like him, but still, that really sucks. I hope he’ll be okay.” Rishi may have been full of bravado as a way of keeping face with Cait’s mates, but he always tried to see the best in people. As far as Rishi was concerned, Eddy didn’t deserve to be tried and convicted on the spot, so Cait’s premature assessment of Eddy’s situation was unjustified. And besides, Eddy had to have a good side to him that Cait was obviously overlooking.

  “You know, I had a weird feeling about tonight,” said Cait. “I sensed earlier on that something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Now this. Couldn’t happen to a nicer person though . . . not.”

  “Cait, you mightn’t like Eddy, but cut him some slack.”

  “Oh, piss off Rishi. I’m not into any of your humanitarian shit tonight. And besides, Eddy deserved it. He was always going to get caught at some stage. He’s been dealing that shit for years. I just knew something was going to happen though. It’s like I sort of sensed it. Really weird, that.” With that Cait grabbed the last of her white wine and made her way over to chat with Jason.

  “But . . .”

  It was too late—Cait was already halfway to the stage and out of earshot. Rishi was going to suggest to Cait that after GrafX had finished the two of them go around the corner to the Prince of Wales hotel and grab a table outside to people-watch for a while with a nightcap in hand, without the others. He thought a bit of time alone with Cait would be nice.

  G was still asleep.

  Well, not quite. Half awake and half in a dreamtime REM state, he really didn’t want to stir because he subconsciously knew he’d miss the next instalment of where his mind was taking him. Fantasy dreams were carrying him to a place that would make Jools wonder where his head was at. And he was vaguely aware his dream would quickly dissolve into nothing but a patchy memory as soon as he greeted the new day.

  Fighting the waking reality of consciousness, through a foggy mind G was remembering flashes of having a hugely erect penis while two naked Rubenesque, faceless women with large, pendulous breasts chased him up a set of stairs into a strange but familiar bedroom where his wife Jools was lying in bed reading. Then, with Jools glancing over the top of her glasses at him, the back wall of their bedroom morphed into a transparent screen with a vista of rolling green fields . . .

  G woke abruptly, opened his eyes, and slowly focusing, found himself staring up at the same imperfect spot on the ceiling he’d been waking up to each morning for the past five years. The building pressure on his bladder had dragged him out of the pleasantries of dreamtime, forcing him to enter the world of the living. Also much to his annoyance, he had the beginnings of a headache starting.

  I’m getting too old for this. The thought surfaced through a fog that seemed to be enveloping him.

  G reached over to his bedside table and drained the glass of water he had somehow remembered to place there last night.

  My mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage. Yuck! The realization occurred to him that maybe he had overindulged just a tad last night.

  Twenty years ago I would have bounced out of bed ready to greet the day. Thank God that Open Day only happens once a year. And how sensible was I to leave when I did . . . not.

  It had been a big night. And he’d arrived home late. Very late, considering that Jools had dropped him off at the yacht club for Open Day at 10:30 yesterday morning. G had joined the other members of his crew and had his first drink at beer o’clock—10:35 a.m., to be precise—quickly followed by another two within the next half hour. Fourteen hours later . . . well, the tales he could tell of middle-aged men behaving badly. Thank God the kids hadn’t been there to witness the slow demise of not only G, but all the other revelers who were in that weird time capsule that enshrouded the yacht club last night.

  Or am I just imagining things? Get drunk, fall down, tell lies. Yeah, suppose that was the mantra for the night. Shallow, but predictable.

  Slipping out of bed so as not to disturb his”sleeping” wife, G intuitively knew after twenty-eight years of marriage that Jools was really only catnapping and that she was totally aware of his movements. Steadying himself against the wall, G staggered slightly before gaining his balance, and took a second unsteady pace toward the window. As he cracked the Roman blinds, a dazzling shaft of light pierced the darkness of the room, entering like a spear from the heavens.

  A gray day, he thought to himself, squinting.

  G’s view of the world outside was through sailor’s eyes, taking in the multilayered mosaic of small, dark, low clouds rolling through from the northeast and he noticed—no really, he just absorbed—that even though the slate-colored sky was tinged with remnants of a cold spring sunrise, rain was on the way. Steely clouds puffed full of moisture were rolling in, shrouded with edges of wispy white and carried along by a high breeze, with the beginnings of a silver sun in the distant east trying its hardest to break through.

  It’s going to be a gray day. Gray clouds, gray mood, gray emotions. Great. Will match the way I feel.

  And G just knew that Jools would be in a prick of a mood when she finally woke and decided to speak to him.

  They’d had plans to meet their good friends Paul and Kaz last night for an early dinner at Cicciolina in St Kilda. The plan was to grab a quick meal, then head for drinks at the Espy to see Jason, Paul and Kaz’s slightly rebellious but not-so-unpleasant oldest son. Along with a few of his university friends, they would be making their debut live gig with their garage band, GrafX. The kids had entered in the”Battle of the Sounds” for new and unsigned bands and this was their first big tryout.

  And Caitlyn, Jools's and G’s twenty-three-year-old daughter, was planning on meeting them there. She had grown up with Jason since he was six weeks old, and they were best of friends. They hung out together, gossiping about the comings and goings of”stuff” in their lives, complaining about their parents, and discussing their lovers, real and imagined. They were too close to be boyfriend and girlfriend–Oh my God, get real, Dad . . . Jason, well like . . . he’s almost my brother!—too close to be fuck-buddies, even though the thought had crossed their minds in occasional drunken moments over the years.

  But G had missed it all, much to Jools’s chagrin. He was otherwise occupied partying with his crew down at the yacht club.

  Actually, G had quietly been looking forward to the night. He was into live music and the grunge aspect of the Espy was always appealing. It reminded him of his young, hedonistic lifestyle when he lived in a shared basement flat in a four-stories-up, one-down South Kensington townhouse in London in the ‘70s.

  Or, as the saying goes, what he can remember of it.

  Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll was the order of the day in 1975, and in what order was of no great importance, just as long as the trilogy was experienced on a daily basis. It all depended on how you woke up. In fact, the day of the week was also inconsequential; instead it was more about”the vibe.” So assuming sex occurred the night before, then after a quick bath—that is, if you had twenty pence left in small change for the coin-operated hot water service—there was always the morning joint and a cup of tea to look forward to, and after that, well . . . life was your oyster.

  London during that time was like the center of the universe for a twenty-two-year-old Aussie who was fresh out of university in Melbourne, searching for the meaning of life. It was the tail end of the flower po
wer days and the beginnings of punk, and unless you were totally uncool and into what later turned out to be the American invasion of the English rock ’n’ roll scene, the place was heaven on a stick.

  Well, certainly for G it was. He opened his mind to everything London had to offer and just let loose,”discovering” himself through a mildly drug-fueled haze of”it’s all cool, man” and”if it feels good, do it.” Hash became a daily staple that”kept him in the groove,” the occasional line of coke”cleared his head,” and the acid”expanded his mind.” He hung around with the local Londoners, was accepted into the White Panthers—a loosely coined name for a select group of”locals” who would walk the streets of inner southwestern London being”cool,” helping drug-fucked, out-of-it dudes come down and not get into trouble—and otherwise generally just let loose.

  This brief interlude away from the restrictions and constraints of his strict Catholic upbringing was the making of G. He needed time away from the influences of his past life to find himself, and his unrestricted fifteen months in London during the mid-1970s allowed space for a rebirth. His synapses and gray matter reprogrammed, and like part of an evolutionary process, he changed.

  And big-time. As the saying goes, G saw the light.

  However, it was the rock ’n’ roll component of the trilogy that caused G’s recent flashback—grunge, loud music, and sticky carpet. The drugs had been left behind years ago and these days sex was strictly with his wife, but the third part—his love of live music—well, that was still there, bubbling away just under the surface.