'It's a spinout to see you, Rod,' he said when he got back to the table. 'Do any of the old boys still hang around here?'
'Yeah, man.' Harris listed off a few names, all of them familiar, none of them the right one.
'So where do you go to score now?' Joss lowered his voice.
Big smile. 'What are you into?'
'I just want some pot, maybe some pills.'
'You know who's selling some great shit right now? Simon Esterhase. Remember him?'
Yeah, you could say that. 'Bullshit. Esterhase? I haven't seen him for ages. Does he still hang around with, ah, what was his name… Cutter?'
Harris's mouth turned down at the name. 'Yeah, man.' He looked around the room. 'Crazy motherfucker.'
'Does he come around here much?'
'Who? Cutter? Nah. I see him around the station sometimes. I think he still goes over to his olds' house a lot. That's when he's not inside.'
Joss laughed hollowly.
'Yeah?' he gathered himself together, spoke calmly, a pulse ticking in his temple. 'You know I wouldn't mind catching up with them again, now I'm doing the whole memory lane thing. You wouldn't know how I could reach them, would ya?'
'I got Esterhase's number right here. I go see him whenever I can afford it. You wanna go out there tonight?'
'Maybe. What about Cutter's number, have you got that?'
'What do you want his number for, man? Don't you remember him? Well, he's a lot worse than that now.' He pulled from his wallet a worn, folded sheet of paper, torn from an exercise book. 'Got a pen? Don't tell Cutter I gave you this, man.'
Joss copied the numbers, both mobiles, onto a coaster and dropped it into his backpack. He'd had half of his latest beer and needed the toilet again. The woman sitting with the two men began crying loudly, but there were no tears in her eyes. She stopped when one of the men raised a fist.
Joss stood, suddenly exhausted. His head buzzed and his hands felt filthy. He looked down at them and they seemed hazy, indistinct. He went to the toilet. When he returned Harris was crunching ice again, looking up at him expectantly, eager to continue the party.
'I'm gonna go, Rod,' he said, leaving his beer.
'Nah, dog, where are you going?'
Joss was already halfway to the door.
He salivated with the scent of coriander, rice and fried garlic as he hit the night air. Isobel would've left him some dinner, of course, but he had to eat now. He remembered there used to be a good noodle house around here somewhere. He wondered if it would still be there.
The streets were quiet. A few late travellers made their way home from work, but it seemed that most people were indoors now, cooking up the smells that were driving him crazy. He turned a corner that seemed familiar and pulled his wallet from his pocket, hoping he had some cash left. He had to walk over to a street light to see the inside of his wallet. Friends since kindergarten, Frankie Danang and Tua Lataafa had always played together well. Whispered, when it was certain they were nowhere listening, their classmates called them Quick and Thick. On the footy field, Frankie ran faster than anyone, and when it came to defence, no one could get past Tua, who was bigger than all of the teachers by Year Six. Today, at eighteen, and already done with school for five years, most people in Cabramatta ducked into a shop, crossed a street or hailed a cab when they spotted Tua and Frankie in the distance. If you got off at the station and saw them sitting there, most people knew it was best to hop back on the train, catch the bus back from the next stop. Better half an hour late for dinner, than the next three days in Fairfield Hospital.
Frankie and Tua had rolling down pat. They averaged five hundred bucks a day, but three grand was their record. Frankie used a knife and Tua his fists. Sometimes a boot was required, but most people were quite obliging within a minute or two. They'd never gone much for excessive violence; had never seen the need, really.
The strategy was simple: approach and ask for a smoke; Frankie – twenty centimetre switchblade punched into the thigh; Tua – king-hit to the face: nose, jaw, depended on the angle as they dropped, really. They used to relive the action highlights over a beer afterwards, but the novelty had mostly worn off by now, and they tended to talk more about football and girls.
Tua spotted this one. He touched Frankie on the arm, nodded his head in the man's direction. The day had been slow. They'd met up pretty late this arvo, and there'd been no one in the quiet spots around Cabra this evening. Frankie had recommended a trip to the Quay, and they had been heading to the station.
Frankie scanned their environment. Perfect. He'd lost count of their hits in this alley. And the guy had a slight lean on. He wouldn't even know his leg had a hole in it until the ambos told him in half an hour or so. No one around, should be sweet.
Still, he didn't give Tua the signal straight away. There was something. Could this guy be a cop? Something about the way he held himself? He didn't seem to have any idea they were there, but…
Tua was staring at Frankie. What? His eyebrows asked.
Frankie shrugged. The blade snicked out by his thigh, a scissor snip in the night.
The signal.
Joss checked his wallet under the streetlight, but its contents didn't register. Nothing in his face or posture had altered, but he was now completely sober. He put a seemingly steadying hand upon the pole and bent awkwardly, pulling at his shoe as though to dislodge a stone. The angle widened his peripheral vision, and he was now certain that one of them was carrying. Gun or knife? The answer was essential in determining his first move. He couldn't tell – the knuckles on the hand holding the weapon were pointed down, but still, it could be either.
Eight metres, seven. Make a decision.
Most places in Sydney, chances were this would be a knife. Guns were relatively scarce, but this was Cabramatta after all, and if there was going to be a gun, it would be here.
Six metres.
He was going to guess knife. Something about the hang of the kid's shoulders, the grip on the object, the fist closed hard, pumping it up. No need to do that with a gun.
Five metres.
Okay, come.
'Hey, you got a smoke there, mate?'
The big one spoke (to distract), the little one moved closer (to strike).
Joss drew in a deep, delicious draught of night air. The effect was soporific, but his senses could not have been more acute. A sensation of peace came with a feeling of alignment. Sometimes in life it was much more difficult to play nice than to just be real. Just you and me, boys. The violence was hot behind his eyes.
'I don't smoke,' he said.
The little one knew, now.
Three metres, two.
Wait.
Frankie realised he had missed the feeling of adrenalin pissing into his gut, the flurry of fear constricting his anus.
This guy was going to need care, he thought. In times to come, he and Tua would talk about tonight. He tried to signal to Tua, to let him know to beware, but his best friend was in the zone, pumping up.
Frankie knew he'd have to go in fast.
He felt his heartbeat in his hands.
Tua knew that somehow he should've been calculating a new strategy, but the first thing he felt was admiration for the guy's block and duck from Frankie's knife. Still wondering whether he could use that move playing footy on the weekend, he found himself on his arse. The cunt had kicked him! He stood and lurched forward, enraged, and he was on the ground again. Huh? No one had touched him, 'cause the fucker was busy kicking Frankie. He stood. He fell. What the…