Dark Summer (21 page)

Pelong got up, went back to the globe and refilled his glass; he pulled down the northern hemisphere, closing the bar, not asking Leroy if he wanted a refill. “That's gunna be awkward. We had a shipment come in from Bangkok, the weekend. It's all ready to go on the street.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Pelong. It's too much of a risk, they pick me up—”

“That's a risk you gunna have to take, ain't it? You don't get paid what you do, Leroy, for sitting on your arse waiting for everything to be safe. You pick up the stuff this evening, the usual place, and you tell your customers it's available, only the price is going up. This fucking war business in the Gulf, it's gunna be a, what-they-call-it, a godsend. You tell 'em Iraq was a main place we got the stuff from, they ain't gunna know no difference.”

“Do we get any smack from Iraq?” He wanted to giggle at the rhyming, but managed not to.

“I dunno. Fucking dates is probably all we import. But the hopheads you sell to, they ain't gunna know no difference. So the price goes up and you start selling tonight, okay? I don't wanna hang on the stuff longer'n we got to, case these other bastards start muscling in. I think things are gunna get dirty.” He didn't look perturbed. He leaned on the globe, his huge hand obliterating most of the Middle East, though he didn't know it. He had no mind for geography, he knew only his own territory, which had no map. “You carry a gun, Leroy?”

“Shit, no! I never went in for the stand-over stuff, Mr. Pelong—”

“I ain't talking stand-over, I'm talking protection. For y'self. I told you, it's gunna get dirty. These guys start muscling in, breaking more necks, you ain't gunna be able to talk y'self outa trouble. You'll need a piece. Here.”

He went to the desk, opened one of the drawers; it contained half a dozen hand-guns. He took
out
a Colt .45 automatic, though Leroy wouldn't have known it from a howitzer, laid it on the desk and put two boxes of ammunition beside it.

“You better carry it with you alla time, in case. You know how to use it?”

It was politic to say yes: “Sure.”

He picked up the gun, trying not to be too gingerly about it. He was wearing a pale blue shirt with long sleeves and the cuffs turned back, just so; white cotton trousers, tight in the right places; and white shoes with no socks. He had thought he looked gorgeous, just right for a visit to the seaside boondocks, but it was not the right gear for an accessory like a gun. Pelong saw his problem.

“You carry a gun, you gotta wear loose things, otherwise it stands out like a horny cock. Here.” He handed Leroy a large manila envelope. “You better start wearing a jacket or something, something with pockets in it. Or maybe a shoulder holster under your shirt.”

I don't believe this.
He had been a criminal since he was twelve years old, but he had always dodged the violence; except against women, and you never needed a gun with them. “You think they'll come looking for me?”

“I dunno, Leroy.” Pelong couldn't have sounded more indifferent. “Just keep looking over your shoulder, that's all you gotta do.” He led the way out into the big entrance hall. “Hey, Luisa, Leroy's going!”

Mrs. Pelong appeared at the top of the marble stairs, came clack-clack-clacking down them in her high-heeled sandals. “Come out again, Lee-roy, come for dinner and bring a girlfriend. You've got one, haven't you?”

“Dozens of 'em,” said her husband. “You want a whore having dinner with us?”

“Why not?” The smile was a mile wide, every inch of it false and mocking. “It won't be the first time. We have whores here all the time, Lee-roy, every time Sweetheart invites his business associates and their women.”

“Jokes all the fucking time,” said Sweetheart and turned on his heel and went back into the study without saying goodbye to Leroy.

Luisa
Pelong opened the front door, looking Leroy up and down. She was in the mood for a man and this one looked all right. She had been upstairs having a secret drink, but only one; two drinks and she was a danger to herself and any man within clutching distance; her Mount of Venus turned volcanic. But this young stud, she decided reluctantly, was too close to home.

“Actually, my hubby is a real softie underneath, a real heart of gold. You musta noticed that?”

He looked at her: the smile was still there, but the dark eyes were mocking. He got the feeling she fancied him, in a coldblooded sort of way. He had never been to bed with an older woman; he was fastidious, uncertain of the wrinkles you'd find under the pants of someone over thirty-five. “Sure. Sure I did. He's a—a sorta father-figure.”

“You think so? Geez, I hadn't thought of that. You think he might make Father of the Year? Bye-bye, Lee-roy. Don't get killed or anything serious.”

She shut the door on him and he went down the steps and out the gates before the Rottweilers came out to do something serious to him. Once in his car he sat with the air-conditioning turned full on, not so much to blow the heat out of the car but to blow the disbelief out of himself. He was not naïve: he had always been on the fringes of danger and he knew the consequences. But he had never seen himself being actually engaged in a war, being given a gun and told to defend himself with it; that was for stupid bastards who joined the army. He was suddenly afraid, surprised at the trembling of his hands on the steering wheel. He looked at the manila envelope, at the shape roughly outlined in it, then he shoved it in the glove-box, started up the car and drove back out of the mirage to the real world.

He parked the car in a lane off William Street, debated whether he should take the gun with him, decided against it, locked the car and walked three blocks down to Palmer Street. The police watch on Sally Kissen's house had been removed. He let himself into the house with the key Tuesday had given him, shouted “Tuesday? Ava? You home?” and walked in on the two girls in the living room.

Tuesday was all ready for the evening shift, dressed in gold fishnet stockings, black underwear and a gold basketballer's jacket with UCLA stamped on the back. Ava was in a blue cotton wrap and was drying her long blonde hair.

Tuesday
got up and kissed Leroy. “You want a beer or a cuppa coffee or something? I got heaps of time.”

“Nothing.” He sat down on the purple and red lounge. “What's the matter with you, Ava? You not going out? You got the curse or something?”

“No.” She looked at him from under the white waterfall of her hair; then she threw it back and said bluntly, “I'm finished, Leroy. I'm giving it up.”

“Giving what up?”

“The game. And the smack, too. I'm going home, I called my parents today and they said they'll have me back. I'm going home soon's I've done the programme.”

“What programme?”

“The drug rehabilitation bit. I met a nice girl this morning who's going to help me. She said it won't be easy, giving it up, but I knew that.”

“I don't believe this.” He shook his head, an act. “You decide what you're gunna do, you don't even talk to me about it? What sorta shit is this?”

Tuesday was standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen, looking apprehensive. “Leroy, honey, don't get angry with her—”

“Shut up!” He didn't look at her, just stared at Ava. “You're outa your head if you think I'm gunna let you go just like that!”

She returned his stare, continuing to dry her hair with the slow rubbing of a towel. “What'll you do, Leroy? Beat the shit out of me? You lay a finger on me again and I'll put this right through you.” She shifted slightly in her chair, produced a carving knife. “I'm not kidding, Leroy.”

“She's been waiting for you,” Tuesday offered from the doorway. “I been trying to talk to her—”

“Didn't I tell you, shut up!” He couldn't believe the way this day was turning out. He had read his horoscope in one of the Sunday papers and it had said today would be full of joyful surprises; it was full of surprises, all right, but none of them was fucking joyful. “Ava, I'm not gunna let you walk out on me like this. Who you gunna go to when you want the stuff?”

“
You just don't get the point, do you, Leroy? I'm giving up on the stuff—or I'm going to try to. While I'm with you and Tuesday—no offence, honey—I'm never going to give it up. Just get it through your wog head, Leroy, you and I are finished.
Finished!
”

She had never dared to talk to him like this before; she had always been more independent than Tuesday, but she had always gone just so far and no further, had always known who, in the end, held the whip. Or rather, the smack. He looked at Tuesday, still standing in the kitchen doorway.

“You got any stupid ideas, too?”

“Honey, no! I
need
you, you know that—”

“Don't tell him that,” said Ava; she sounded weary, as if she knew it was fruitless to advise Tuesday. She was turning the carving knife over and over in her hand, as if whetting it on an invisible steel. “He's got you, but you don't have to tell him.”

Leroy stood up. His head had suddenly started to ache, he wanted to be out of here before he blew up. “I'm going now. You'll be back, Ava. When you can't do without the stuff, you'll be back.”

“Goodbye, Leroy.”

Tuesday said something to him, a sort of cry, but he didn't hear her, just turned his back and went out of the house. He went back up to his car, anger growing in him with every quick step. When he got into the car (would you believe, there was a parking ticket on the windscreen? Jesus, what a day!) he reached for the glove-box, took out the envelope, felt the gun through the thick paper. He was tempted to go back to the house in Palmer Street, let Ava have the first shot he would ever fire right between her eyes. Then he began to cool down, put the envelope back in the glove-box and sat back. The bitch was the least of his problems at the moment.

He drove out to Newtown, three or four kilometres from the Cross. He found a parking space in a side street, got out and locked the car. This was a tough area, a mix of street gangs, not all of whom lived around here. Some of them were skinheads, a species that frightened him: he was a wog, a dandified one, too, a natural-born target for their violence. He locked the car, hoped the windscreen wouldn't be smashed by the time he got back, or the paintwork scratched; then he walked quickly round the corner
into
King Street, the narrow main street, and into the cake shop. The window was empty of cakes, the display case also empty, and the owner was busy cleaning up. He looked up as Leroy opened the screen door and came in.

“You're always on time, Leroy.” He was middle-aged, running to fat, as if he ate too much of his own product; he wore a yellow T-shirt streaked with flour and a flour-dusted apron. He was as olive-skinned as Leroy, but the latter had never thought to ask him if he was a wog. Somehow the owner, for all his amused and friendly eyes, was not the sort who invited such questions. Leroy was secretly afraid of him, though he did not know why. “Your order is all ready for you. A nice passionfruit pavlova.”

Leroy took the large cake-box, managed to share the joke: “Bit heavy for a pavlova, isn't it?”

“Depends what base you use. Here, sign for it. You know how the boss likes to keep the books shipshape.”

Leroy signed the small book, thanked the owner and left. All the heroin that came in through the airport or wherever came to this shop, where the owner cut and packaged it. Leroy knew he was not the only dealer who came here to collect, but he had never met any of the others and he knew enough not to be too curious about them. Each dealer had a time and day to come and the instructions were also a threat: don't ever come any other time. Leroy had often wanted to look at some of the other signatures in the receipt book, but had resisted the temptation to ask the owner for the opportunity.

He went round the corner into the side street, was relieved to see there were no skinheads in sight. He opened the boot of the car, lifted the lid and was leaning in to put the cake-box on the floor when he felt the sharp prick in one buttock. He tried to turn his head, aware of someone behind him, but his neck was suddenly stiff, as if it had been broken. He felt his breath suddenly go, then something happened in his chest and he fell forward. Far off he heard the voice, he couldn't tell whether it was a man's or a woman's, say:

“Goodbye, Leroy.”

6

I

MALONE WAS
at home watching
Derrick,
on SBS, wondering why, on television, a German detective could, without ever changing expression, solve a crime in an hour, when the phone rang.

“Another one, Scobie. Newtown police have just found Leroy Lugos hanging out of the boot of his car, just off King Street. You want me to pick you up?”

“Where are you?”

“I'm at home, I been watching
Matlock
on video. That Andy Griffiths, he's a genius. I wish we were as good as him.”

Malone hung up, gave Lisa the bad news. “Don't wait up for me.”

“Did you think I was going to?” But she would; or at least stay awake in bed.

“Dad—” Maureen and Tom were asleep in their rooms, but Claire, who had just finished her Year 9 homework, had come into the living room and slumped down on the lounge beside her mother. “How long are those guys going to be guarding us?”

“Why? Are they getting on your nerves?”

“In a way.” She pushed back her blonde hair, a gesture that was an unconscious imitation of her mother. He loved all his kids equally, but if ever he lost Lisa, God forbid, she would live on in Claire. “They're nice guys—”

“Especially Dick,” said Lisa with a sly smile.

“Yeah, he's
really
nice. But I can't bring any of my friends home—Mum says no, not till everything's back to normal. When's that going to be?”