Cleaning Up Page 7

  He and Junior were up for it. Why not, there was fuck all happening up here.

  ‘Whose down there then M, who yer running it to?’ Junior asked.

  ‘Bazzer.’

  ‘Who?’ Junior asked, ‘you mean Bazzer Dougan like?’

  ‘Yeah that’s right, him.’

  Junior shook his head, ‘no way, fuck M, he’s a nutter he is. Even our Wes warned me off him.’

  M shrugged his shoulders and one of the older guys from up the street, Dwayne, called out for M to get his arse in gear.

  Just as M was about to take off, a maroon Jag pulled into the street then slowed down and pulled up right next to them.

  A middle aged guy with long sideburns slid down the window and called out to M.

  ‘Alright son - keeping out of trouble then are yer?’

  He was all bright and breezy, very familiar too.

  M dutifully cycled the few yards over to the driver’s window and nodded his head at the stranger. The guy was no stranger to M though, otherwise he would have told him to fuck off.

  The guy looked around M to him and Junior, ‘whose yer mates then sonny boy? Be a good un’, do the introductions for us.’

  ‘Er right, this is Junior and this here is P like.’

  ‘Pee as in piss, is it son?’ The guy giving him a level look - no smile.

  Pasquale felt himself colour.

  ‘No, no, it’s Pasquale.’

  ‘Pasquale eh, spaghetti head are yer son?’

  He let that go, he hadn’t heard that one since primary school.

  The man waved them to come over to the car, his steady light blue eyes moving over the boys as they approached.

  Pasquale noted that the guy seemed to be a lot more focused on him than Junior.

  ‘You one of those red-hot Latin Romeos are yer son?’

  Pasquale shook his head. He didn’t know what the fuck the guy was on about - like he was tripping or something - fucking weird.

  ‘Ah well, maybe you will be one day.’

  The guy sniffed loudly and peered at the throng down the road, then had a little smile at the scene that was all to himself.

  ‘See you later then boys - it’s been a blast.’

  He gave a cheery little roll of the hand, put the car smoothly into drive and drove the fifty or so yards down the road to the older boys, whereupon he stopped again.

  Pasquale clocked the plates - GYP01.

  ‘Whose that then M?’ he asked.

  ‘Dunno, some business bloke like, knows Dwayne and them like. His mum’s just around the corner, in Sycamore.’

  M wheeled away - not interested in talking about it, ‘you two coming then or what?’

  Fuck it, Pasquale thought, it was getting cold. He rode part of the way down, then turned off to go home. He knew Junior wouldn’t be heading all the way down to the Barrington either. If Junior said that Dougan was a nutter then that was what he surely was.

  SPRING

  MARCH

  The following week the job had started to pick up for Darrin. Moz had seconded him in for an early morning raid on the Barrington estate. The target was a grubby two bed-roomed flat that was home to a long known minor league drug dealer by the name of Sean Manning. Sean’s CV showed a clear pattern alternating between relatively brief visits to the Job Centre and lengthy stays at Her Majesty’s.

  Five thirty in the cold morning and they hit the joint hard, half a dozen of the local plod and a smooth looking detective by the name of Young who was a DS in the drug squad. A dog handler and his pooch, a long eared spaniel by the name of Eric were also there, Eric brought in to sniff out all of Sean’s little hidey holes.

  Manning took the early morning call with remarkable equanimity, considering, blinking benignly at them as they systematically tipped the joint over. His present missus didn’t take the intrusion quite as well though, a volley of expletives that was curtailed by a hissed ‘shut the fuck up’ from Manning himself. Jolika led her off to the kitchen with a soothing smile, whilst Eric and his moustachioed handler came on through to do the business in the lounge room.

  Apart from some smoke and a couple of creatively assembled, state of the art bongs they drew a total fucking blank, which pissed the Drug Squad guy off no end. Moz gave the plods who’d taken the collar the nod to leave and a hastily track-suited Sean was led off to an unmarked car.

  His bit of paperwork around the raid took him a little longer than should have been the case, as their temporary proximity in the main office gave him a chance to chat Jolika up a bit.

  She was an ambitious one too was our Jolika and at length they talked about their career options, the possibility of them moving on to something like Serious Organised Crime Agency down the track. He’d already toyed with that idea for quite a while although he knew that would mean a move away from home. She was cool was Jolika, a level-headed young woman with tasty looking curves, which the unflattering uniform did nothing to hide. She had given up a couple of polite giggles at his careworn banter. Johno was sat at a nearby desk and he had rolled his eyes a couple of times at his bullshit.

  He asked her what she did for ‘fun’ - pushing it a little.

  ‘Ah you know Darrin, the usual; keep fit, lots of shopping, salsa when I can.

  That caught his attention, ‘salsa?’

  ‘Yeah, they do lessons at the Cricket Club you know up near Bridgewater there. We’ve been doing it for a couple of years now, party first Saturday in the month, this Saturday as it happens.’

  He noted the ‘we’ but didn’t ask the question. He kept his look bright and breezy - Mr. Happy Chappy.

  ‘You should give it a go Darrin - you look pretty light on your feet, for a white guy.’

  ‘Hey cheeky - I’ll report you to the Board for that.’

  He mulled it over.

  ‘Hmmm, can’t do this Thursday but might pop down on the Saturday - that sounds good, I’m having it.’

  She nodded at him with a smile. ‘It’s a great way to unwind, lots of fun. It’s like a different world especially for up here, believe you me.’

  Darrin nodded, he believed her. In his mind he was already there.

  Tommy lay in his bed and reproached himself as he replayed the incident. He should have handled it better - no excuses - but, there again.

  He’d caught up with Jimbo and they’d decided on a few beers at his place with a takeaway and a DVD - all well and good. This had necessitated a bit of a hike as Jimbo, who had just moved across town to a nice little two bedroom place down Rosetta Park way, still shopped at the DVD store that was near his old gaff.

  After a protracted debate they’d compromised on the director’s cut of Apocalypse Now something they’d first watched together nearly thirty years ago.

  It was just after tea time when they arrived at the shop and it was busyish with only one girl serving behind the counter. He grabbed the movie and Jimbo’s card then joined the queue whilst Jim hit the offy for a six-pack.

  A couple of youngish guys, a mixed race kid and his white mate, were being served by the girl and it appeared that they were neither feeling nor giving out the love. They were irritated at having to wait a few minutes before getting served. Terse commands to the girl; no please, no thanks, no kiss my arse.

  The girl was flustered and trying hard to keep both her cool and her manners. Sod’s law did its thing and she dropped the disc onto the floor as she was trying to press it down into the case.

  The mouthy one of the pair didn’t like that, tuts and hisses from him and a roll of the eyes from his mate.

  Loudly and stridently, the guy berated her for her clumsiness. ‘Not having that now bitch.’

  She told him it was the only available copy.

  He hissed at her in exasperation.

  ‘Clean it then. Clean it, for fuck’s sake.’

  He half turned and gave a ‘what can you do’ shake of the head to the unsettled queue.

  His mate sniggered and shifted his weight from foot to
foot.

  Tommy reached past the middle-aged woman who was standing between him and the pair and tapped the charmer on the shoulder. The guy spun round, scowled down at the woman then he realised that it was Tommy who had touched him.

  ‘What the fuck yer doin man? Keep those fucking hands to yerself like.’

  Tommy smiled straight at him - goading the fucker.

  ‘Manners.’ He said, with a thrust of his jaw.

  ‘What?’ What you fucking say?’

  ‘I said, mind your fucking manners. The girl is just doing her job.’

  He saw Jimbo arrive back at the door - the usual Speedy Gonzalez with him.

  The other bozo had turned around to face him too.

  ‘Stay the fuck out of it man,’ he said.

  Tommy looked at him then put his eyes back on the mouthy one.

  He saw doubt there - anger - but a little bit of uncertainty too.

  Pride won out though - inevitably.

  ‘Wanna take it further then man - fancy it do yer?’ the young guy said throwing his arms out wide then slapping them against his sides.

  Tommy didn’t even think about it, he pointed to the door. ‘Let’s go tosspot.’

  The young guy hurried out of the store, his mate loping a couple of strides behind him.

  Tommy followed them past the wide eyed girl at the counter, aware of Jimbo’s presence, already just behind his shoulder.

  The pair were ready, waiting a little off the steps that led up to the doors of the store.

  Tommy didn’t bother with any more pre-amble. He’d had enough fucking blather, he took the steps quickly and grabbed the mouth by the shirt front and began to shake him. He brought up his right hand and forced his fist into the guy’s throat and jaw, kneading the knuckles into his neck. Tommy marched him backwards walking through the ineffectual slaps and pushes at his shoulders and chest, backing him up against a wooden slatted fence, hearing the wood pop slightly with the combined weight of their bodies. He felt enraged and he couldn’t believe how physically weak the guy was - it was as if he was scragging a kid, a mis-match. The young guy was bug-eyed now, frightened.

  Seeing the fear made his anger recede slightly and Tommy let go of the guy’s jacket and threw him back at the fence.

  The young guy reassembled his clothes and a little of his dignity and then made another mistake. ‘You fucking white cunt you,’ he spat out at him.

  Tommy leapt at him and grabbed him again with his left hand and this time he popped him with his right. A short cross that travelled no more than a foot yet had enough on it to put him down. As he fell, Tommy’s left hand guided him gently down to the pavement. He didn’t want the fucker banging his head on the hard surface. Tommy put his knees across his chest and rubbed the side of his head into the cold asphalt.

  ‘A fucking racist too, eh cunt?’ A plume of his saliva flecked the guy’s cheek.

  He gave it to him for a few more seconds, grounding his left ear into the unyielding surface. Tommy kept his weight on the guy’s chest and looked around for Jimbo. Jimbo had the guy’s mate in a scrappy half nelson; the beers were resting safely on the hood of a nearby car.

  Ten seconds or so of more, stressing the point, face grinding, and then Tommy pushed himself up. He looked down at his chastened adversary, who made no attempt to get to his feet, coming back at Tommy, this time only with silence and a look of rancorous defeat. Jimbo spun the other guy around and then let him go, and the young bloke stumbled back towards the steps of the DVD store and ended up on his haunches in a kind of jittery crouch. Jimbo deftly swiped the beers up from their resting place and they headed off around the corner to their car. One of the guys shouted out something after them but, if it was a threat, it sounded as hollow as a politician’s promise.

  It had taken him a couple of hours to come back down and he had found it impossible to focus on the movie. He’d wanted to talk it out of his system, even rave a little bit really and Jimbo was willing to patiently listen to his hyper-intense musings and recollections. Tommy felt as naked and raw as a newborn, riding on the rush that the exchange had given him.

  Now it was past two am and he was still awake - preoccupied with it but without any of the high. He saw how it could have all gone wrong, a knife, maybe even a gun - and bingo. But, what the fuck could you do? Stand back and say and do nothing, just let it happen? Mick would have disowned him and right enough too.

  Pasquale was keeping it together - he’d requested that his visits to Tommy be upped to three a week and that had taken her on the hop alright - speechless and wide-eyed for a couple of beats. He’d been to school every day too, although he’d skipped sports on Wednesday, and well, as far as Friday afternoon went - no fucking chance. Junior was picking it up a bit too in his school attendance. And he was back to playing some basketball on Tuesdays and Thursdays down at the Centre.

  No change from M though, out both times when he’d called around to see him on the Barrington. He’d eventually caught up with him at the shopping centre late Friday afternoon.

  It was getting a little bit warmer and the days were noticeably starting to lengthen. It was still light round about teatime. Tommy had recently mentioned something about the spring just a couple of days ago. Equinox had been the word that Tommy had used. He liked the sound of it and had got Tommy to spell it out for him. Equinox - equal day and night all over the Earth - bit fucking mind blowing really.

  When they had met up M had slyly shown them the huge wad of cash that he was carrying, telling them that the food was on him. The money was like a permanent fucking accessory with M now - the fucker was going to need his own security guards. There must have been nearly a grand in the bundle and even Junior, the king of cool, had let out a little whistle.

  M’s phone rang just as they were about to take off for the pizza.

  ‘Yeah Baz- yeah, with a couple of mates now like. Tomorra yeah, yeah what time. OK down the Quays eh, yeah, yeah fuck, nice one. No, no, it’s no problem, sorted.’

  M had pulled well away but he was a regular fog horn they hadn’t missed a word of his end of the conversation.

  M pocketed his phone and came back with a big, self-satisfied smile plastered all over his freckled mug.

  ‘Quays eh?’ Junior said, ‘bit posh for you that M?’

  M did a laughable ‘business is business’ face then pulled away from them again.

  ‘Come on fuck heads,’ he bellowed, ‘let’s get some food, I’m fucking starving.’

  Junior and Pasquale exchanged a look. It wasn’t like M to keep any kind of secret from the two of them. They followed him, both pedalling hard, their stomachs growling in anticipation.

  The upshot of the dawn raid? Sean Manning had given them nothing and he was bailed out for the smoke and the drug paraphernalia. Moz was pissed off about it, insistent that they had gone in too early and too hard, bemoaning the Drug Squad intel’.

  ‘Fucking jokers they are, don’t know their arses from their bloody elbows.’

  Darrin deferred to Mozzer’s experience although he had enjoyed the experience if not the outcome of the raid.

  ‘What’s next yer reckon then Moz?’

  ‘You watch, it will be lots more of the bloody same son; surveillance, lots of constipation inducing man hours and then somebody drops the bloody dime.’

  He caught Darrin’s puzzled expression.

  ‘Informing that is, you bloody peasant,’ exasperated with his ignorance.

  ‘It will probably be mundane,’ Moz went on, ‘you know, the way we crack it - not bloody CSI, not even Starsky and Hutch.’

  Moz shook his head at him again.

  ‘No comprendez eh young Daz? Another cultural reference passes you by - fuck me dead.’

  Darrin let it go and put the shitty mood down to the fact that Mozzer had not yet topped up the blood sugar levels. He was a renowned cranky fucker when unfed.

  That was it for the moment then, more wait and see. He had the weekend off, a piss up Fri
day, fry up Saturday, then the gym and then salsa. See what that new adventure brings.

  Tommy drove up to the tops on the Saturday, parked off near the butty van and took the gentle and then steep incline up to the highest, or was it the second highest, reservoir in the land. He had a few butties in his backpack and a newspaper for a read if it wasn’t too cold when he got up there. It was reasonably busy but, thankfully, not the bloody High Street. The people he passed were both open faced and relaxed, a cheery salutation received and given with pretty much every passing. It was only a half an hour climb up to the res’ and he was pleased at the spring in his step and the lack of shortness of puff in getting up there. He found a sunny spot that also had the necessary wind break of a dry stone wall. It allowed him to sit down and enjoy the tranquillity; some much needed time out watching the shadows of the clouds scud across the hills.

  He took a few deep breaths and gazed into the mid-distance, his eyes fixing on a hawk that hovered patiently over the rugged tussocks of grass that lay to the south side of the water. His mind turned over the events earlier in the week - he was finding them hard to shake off.

  Truth was he’d enjoyed it; the adrenalin, the anger, the fuck it use of his strength. It was in him, the taste for it offset, thankfully, with plenty of self-control. The rage was a family heirloom; present in his grandfathers, his uncles and his dad, passed on down to him through the DNA. Such displays of aggression had been part of his passage of rites, omnipresent in the culture into which he’d been born.

  When he had arrived in Sydney back in the late eighties, he’d been amazed at the lack of agro there, at how chilled were the minor, everyday interactions. You walked down the street and nobody was giving out de-rigueur challenging stares. Nobody displayed the over emphasised ‘don’t fuck with me pal’ shoulder rolling swagger of his home. It had taken him a few months to adjust to but it was all part of a ‘going native’ process that he had readily embraced. He was happy to shed that skin, maintaining the facade just took up too much energy.