Floored (4 page)

Fetch limped around the corner towards 10 Robinson and decided his backup plan of pretending he was rolling drunk was the way to go. It’d stop him having to be too coherent about the events of the day. It’d explain the injuries, his running late with deliveries, and the loss of his bike when it was discovered. It wouldn’t stop the trouble he’d be in, but he could legitimately lie down and not get up when Wacker laid into him. Everything ached. He didn’t think he’d fare all that well defending himself after being chucked off the bike. If he looked pathetic enough it might stop things getting too rough.
Big hairy might
.

He slowed up and sent a short text to Stud using their code, a trade of fantasy stripper photos ripped off a website. His girl wore cowboy chaps, a holster, a ten gallon hat and a lot of skin. There was enough battery in the new handset to get Stud’s response to show he’d received the new number. Stud’s girl was a Goth warrior princess with one breast bared and a sword in her hand. Almost tasteful. For Stud.

Official business taken care of, he had homework to do. He took out the half bottle of Bundy from his saddlebag. A good long swig and then another, and then he doused the front of his shirt and jeans in it. If he couldn’t be paralytic he had to at least smell like it.

If Driver could see him now, she’d think he really was the beast he looked. It’d been a nice distraction spending the afternoon with her, after the crappy start to the morning and near disaster of the bumper-car fun. A woman who wore all her clothes and spoke in a quiet voice. She had a good figure on her under that uniform. Hard to tell size, women’s sizes were a mystery. He wished he could’ve seen her face. Really all he could see were full lips and lovely clean skin. She’d kept her head down or averted as if she didn’t want to be seen. Maybe shy, maybe cautious. Which brought him to the phone stalker.

He wasn’t happy about that. No way it was a customer. No ring, not a skerrick of jewellery, so no husband, it had to be an old boyfriend. Or someone she owed money too. That was a possibility. It was an expensive car, but she might only be the hired driver, not the owner, and her clothing was cheap, both the fabric and the cut. She obviously packed her own lunch and supplies, another pointer that she was frugal or broke.

There was no way she’d show up tomorrow and that was for the best. It’d been a dumb idea, a moment of weakness to ask her to. At least he’d been smart enough to keep her away from Robinson Street.

When he was a couple of houses away he started singing, Chumbawumba’s
Tubthumping
, a kick-A drinking song. He sang the one line, about getting knocked down and getting back up again, over and over slurring and stumbling more than his knee wanted him too. That helped with the slurring.
Fuck it hurt
.

He sang a bit louder when he was outside number 12. That was to prompt Neighbourhood Watch to stay the hell inside his house tonight.

When he got to the front steps of number 10, he dumped his bag and sat, belting the line out again. It brought Maisy out.

“Fucking hell matey, are you in trouble. You didn’t make one delivery on time. And being drunk on the job—you really are a dickhead.”

“Aw, Maise, don tell Wack.”

“You told the whole street, Fetch. Nuthin’ I can do. And what’d you do to Nikki? She went out this morning doin’ somethin’ for you an never come back.”

“She never?” he said, eyes half closed, but watching Maisy carefully.

Wacker’s woman wasn’t stupid, despite the way she chose to speak and the impression she gave by wearing next to nothing. She was more than a match for Wacker intellectually, but he dominated her physically, and not in a good, mutually acceptable, everyone’s having fun way, which didn’t explain why she stayed with him. That Fetch had never understood. He’d gotten close to Maisy. He played the hopelessly devoted lapdog, and she mothered him, she told him stuff he’d never find out otherwise.

“Oh darlin,’ what happened to your pretty face?”

He hung his head. “I didn’t see him coming, Maise. But I won.”

“Didja darlin’. Come on inside and I’ll clean you up. You better tell Wacker the truth now, you hear. He had two calls to complain about you being late this afternoon and you know how he hates that.”

He let Maisy drag him upright and leaned heavily on her as she moved him down the hall and into the kitchen. Wacker was at the table, a newspaper, open at the racing form guide, spread out in front of him. Since the clubhouse burned down; arson, a selfie for the insurance, this is where you found him. He was smoking a joint, but Fetch knew it wouldn’t make him any mellower. He didn’t even look up.

“What the fuck is your excuse?”

“Wack, I—”

“He got in a fight, Wack. You know he’s a stupid bugger, leave him alone.”

“He is a stupid bugger, Maise. Too stupid to work for me. Clean him up and cut him loose.”

Standing behind Maisy, Fetch tried to keep his expression blank. But this was a change. Wacker preferred to sort discipline issues out by brute force. Being beaten by the guy was bad, but being cut loose was deadly. Blokes who got cut lose had fatal accidents and their relatives got a visit from Maisy all dressed up like a
Women’s Weekly
reader, bearing a sizable donation to help with the loss.

Fuck, maybe something else was going on here. He was only an entry level delivery boy the VP’s wife had taken a shine to. She’d taken him in like a lost puppy and Wacker had indulged her. He was too lowly to warrant disappearing. Shit, he’d been careful, real careful, no mistakes, no slip ups, in more than two years, aside from the risk he took with Nikki this morning, and forming a quick inexplicable attachment to a hire car driver, and inviting her back into this mayhem.

Neither Wack or Maisy gave a twist about Nikki. Truth told, maybe Maisy was pleased she’d gone. She’d have kicked up a storm about it if she’d cared.

He couldn’t connect the dots on this by himself. He needed to talk to Stud, but not now. Now he needed to see how serious Wacker was. The big guy still wasn’t looking at him, not seeing his award-winning performance as drunk, fucked-up delivery guy.

“Wack. I’m sorry. I’m real sorry. It’s me birthday. I didn’t think you’d mind me havin’ a little drink.”

“Why didn’t you say, you silly bloke?” said Maisy, throwing her arms around him. “You know Wack, that little bitch Nikki ran out on him.”

That got Wacker’s attention. He looked up. “Did she now?”

“She took my money, Wack.” A logic slip. He can’t possibly have known she did because he hadn’t been in his room yet, but it went through to the keeper when Maisy said, “Little slut, on your birthday and all,” making the event timeline slippage redundant, and confirming him as another year older, a year closer to his real thirty-two years of age. “You get outa my sight, Fetch. Not a fucking peep from you tonight.”

“But it’s his birthday, Wack.”

Wacker silenced Maisy with a look that could carve flesh into ribbons and have the living wish they were dead.

“You have pick-ups to do tomorrow. Six of them. Every fuckin’ appointment better be on time. I get one call about you being late, and I don’t care what good standing you were in with the Reds, you’re out in the cold.”

Fetch nodded.

“Tell me you understand, fuckwit.”

“I understand, Wacker.”

“Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

He should’ve been relieved not to have to throw a fight. He should’ve been grateful for the hot shower and the chance to lie down. But he was wired with worry. In his room he sent Stud a text. A Lara Croft girl with a long plait and sprayed-on cat suit that was slashed to the waist. She had a knife strapped to her knee and a fierce expression on her face. She was their signal something was off. He lay on the bed and looked at the ceiling, water-stained and paint peeling, waiting for Stud’s response. If Stud sent back a picture of a big-eyed anime girl it meant he was investigating at his end. If she carried a stuffed toy it was to give him an all clear. It meant whatever he was worried about was likely localised to the club and not something bigger picture.

His phone beeped and he downloaded the picture. Anime girl kissing a Great Dane. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor, his knee protesting at the sudden movement.
Crap
. That meant hold tight. It meant something in the broader gang world was happening, but Stud couldn’t be sure if it was linked or not. It meant be on your guard.

There was another party that night. Fetch was a good little boy and stayed in his room, taking the plate of food Maisy delivered gratefully. Tonight, activity was centred on playing
Call of Duty Black Ops
. Less painful for Neighbourhood Watch to live with, but still hard to sleep through all the killing. Not that Fetch was going to do much sleeping. Being crept up on by a sixteen year old in her underwear, and the picture of an anime girl with flame red hair and bright green eyes with the horse of a dog, had cured him of the need for sleep.

When he left the house the next morning its occupants were still in Noddy Land. The beauty of that was he didn’t have to face Wacker again and no one had noticed his bike was missing yet. He could lay low, do his job and hope Stud had more news by the end of the day.

He should’ve walked around the corner and phoned a cab, his knee would’ve enjoyed that more. But he hobbled the ten minutes to MacIntosh Street for no good reason. Driver knew he was dodgy. Not the ideal customer. There was no way she’d show up.

She was early.

6: Normal

Fetch could’ve kissed her. For no good reason except she’d made him happy by showing up. His little piece of normal. It’d been a long time since he’d hung around normal. The closest he’d come in months was a sixteen year old who wanted a fast track to bikie moll status. One who was hopefully home wearing more than her underwear, dreaming up a less fatal delinquency.

He leaned in the driver’s window. She’d been reading the paper while she waited. She might not have seen him walk up. Might not have figured he didn’t live at number 32. Nothing he could do about it if might wasn’t on his side, he needed to get off his leg.

“A woman like you couldn’t get a better offer?”

She shrugged, her lips tipped up into a tiny closed mouth ghost of a smile, but he couldn’t see her eyes behind sunglasses. “I can’t fault a good tipper. And to be honest, a woman driver makes most people nervous. Even other women. The tips don’t exactly flow.”

He laughed. “You don’t make me nervous, Driver.”

“No. I figured that.”

He opened the door and got in the back. She started the engine.

“How’s your leg?”

“Feels like trying to bend a watermelon. Thanks for asking.”

“You cleaned up that graze. I was worried it might get infected.”

He grinned at the top of her hat in the rear-view. “You were worried about me?”

Her head shot up. He met sunglass eyes. “Professional courtesy.”

Fuck, they were flirting
. Lock that shit down right now. No room for normal. Certainly no room for bantering with a woman in uniform who he’d very much like to see outside of those drab black and whites. Who he’d like to see smile and mean it. He didn’t even know what her hair looked like or what her name was. That’s how starved he was for normal after two years in the biker badlands.

“Yeah well, no need to worry about me.”

He got brisk and gave her the typed list of addresses with the pick-up times written against them. She took the cue and put her eyes on the road and they made perfect time for the first two pick-ups. He sat slightly sideways in the back, his aching leg stretched out on the seat, his head resting on the window, and kept his trap shut and his vigilance exercised. He shouldn’t have got in the Statesman. He should’ve tossed her some cash and sent her on her way. She did not need to be tangled up in this mess. He’d wait till they did Station Street, the next stop, and ditch her. He could pick up an ordinary taxi there easy enough.

Once he’d made that decision he felt better. Until they pulled up outside the Station Street address. Things were not normal. There was an ambulance in the driveway. He had her drive past and park in an adjacent street. He walked back to the house. The ambulance was still in the drive. Whatever action was going down, it was happening inside. He had to get in there.

He stood a few houses back from the old weatherboard and worked through his options. Fetch wasn’t supposed to know he was delivering orders and the occasional special drug delivery. He wasn’t supposed to know the pick-ups were all about cash laundered from the club’s various businesses. Of course Fetch was a thickhead and that’s the only reason he was trusted as a delivery boy in the first place. But Fetch was also frightened to within a millimetre of his tattoos that if he didn’t make a pick-up, Wacker would fuck him up. And after screwing up yesterday, Fetch would be fully sick out of his head with worry. What would Fetch do? Would he bolt because this wasn’t normal and he’d been told to avoid anything that wasn’t normal, especially things like ambos and cop cars? Or would he blunder in anyway, because he was inclined to forget things?

He should text Stud. But it might be nothing. He’d never been to the Station Street address before, it’d never come up in the rotation. If he bolted he’d be missing a piece of the jigsaw. He’d be a face short in the line-up. That was the decision made then. Fetch was all about the blundering.

He covered the distance between his resting place and the house. The front door was wide open. He knocked. He got a weak, “Come in,” followed by a more hearty, “Door’s open.”

He went down the hallway and in darkened lounge room found Granny and two paramedics. One was rubbing her knobbly bare feet, the other packing up a portable oxygen machine. They’d all been drinking tea with Arrowroot biscuits.

“Did Stephen send you?” Granny said.

When he nodded, she said. “The cake tin Maisy wants is in on the kitchen bench through there. Tell her she can keep it as long as she likes.” She winked at him. She actually winked. Whatever was going on here, one foot in the grave Granny was enjoying it.