Roll With It (10 page)

‘Hot yoga. Forty-three-degree heat.’

‘Don’t you fry?’

‘You don’t wear much clothing.’

Jake gulped. ‘When can we meet then?’ he managed.

‘Let me think about it,’ she said.

‘Um, okay. I’ll drop by in a day or two.’

‘Sure,’ she said.

Not ‘don’t’.

Or ‘I can’t wait’.

Just ‘sure’.

Jake was smart enough to get out of there without saying another word.

***

Cecy and Laver were sitting beneath the yellow umbrellas of Retro, on Brunswick Street, next to their bikes, enjoying the sun. Laver suddenly nudged Cecy and nodded silently to an overweight girl in a green hoodie and leggings. Her hair was tied back, face obscured with sunglasses, as she walked very deliberately along the line of parked cars. Cecy was confused as to why Laver had pointed her out until the girl approached a red BMW with a tinted sunroof and pulled out what looked like a tube of indelible lip-gloss. Glanced both ways and started writing on the windscreen with it. Cecy began to move, already listing four or five criminal charges in her head, but stopped when she felt Laver’s hand on her arm. They watched as the girl stopped writing then walked off, eyes straight ahead, desperately trying not to look furtive. They walked to the car and read the damage: ‘I am a wanka’.

Laver was casual as he strolled around the corner, but picked up speed until he caught up to the girl a block away.

‘Let me guess,’ he said loudly as he was just behind her. ‘An ex-boyfriend? Didn’t end well?’

The girl paled as she turned to face the two police, knowing she was gone. Suddenly she raised her chin, unrepentant. ‘He fucked my best friend and then lied to my face when I asked him straight out.’

Laver replied, ‘You misspelt “wanker”.’

The girl frowned. ‘I did?’

‘Hey wait,’ Laver said. ‘I’ve got a better one. What about this: “Penis substitute sports car”?’

The girl smiled, but still had the fear of being arrested in her eyes. ‘I like it.’

‘C’mon, that’s a great line. Go write it on his car and we’ll keep an eye out for the police,’ Laver cajoled.

The girl stared at him. ‘But you
are
the police!’

Laver made a dismissive gesture. ‘I mean the real cops. We’re just drinking coffee.’

Cecy crossed her arms. ‘You have got to be joking …’

Laver grinned at her. ‘You’re on his side?’

‘Of course not, but—’

‘Prick’s got it coming.’ And so they wandered in the other direction as the girl headed back to the windscreen to do the job properly.

‘You didn’t feel any need to enforce the law with regard to damage of property back there?’ Cecy said, incredulous.

‘What?’ Laver laughed. ‘Assault with lip-gloss? Bastard sounds like he got off lightly.’

Cecy shook her head. She wondered if this was just his way of coping with the boredom of his new beat.

But he couldn’t really be that bored. She’d noticed that he didn’t seem to be in such a hurry to get back to the garage at the end of a shift now. Starting to get a feel for the pedals, even if he complained endlessly about his sore legs and butt. He’d actually mentioned that he was starting to enjoy being on the bike, out and about, especially when not partnered with that prick, Standish. Once, in a particularly contemplative mood, he’d said he felt like he was re-emerging into the light after years of being locked in the hard-core dungeon of police work.

And it was true. Laver noticing things on the bike that he’d never seen before, when he was dressed in Kevlar and driving Holden Commodores around the city. Like some of the gorgeous old buildings around town – beautiful Gold Rush Victorian architecture – plus Melbourne’s alleys, weird shops, hidden bars and even the street art. Finding himself marvelling at the stencils and airbrush work in the city’s lanes, while shaking his head in disgust at the mindless tagging, saying, ‘This tagging your initials is just shit, pure vandalism, but this other stuff is really creative.’

Cecy, Ms By The Book, responding, ‘As of April, it’s an on-the-spot fine of five hundred and fifty dollars. Imprisonment of up to two years for the big ones.’

‘That’s crap. Look how much skill goes into the good ones. It must be really hard to perfect.’

Laver pulling out his mobile to take a photo of the art.

So Cecy just knew she was in for a show when they rode their bikes down a back alley, off Hardware Lane in the city, and came across a guy in a khaki jacket, ultra-baggy jeans and a beanie, his face covered in a paint mask, spraying an image of an orange woman in a string bikini onto a brick wall that made up the foundations of an office building. The guy seeing them way too late and tossing down his spray can, saying, ‘Ah crap.’ He looked resigned.

Cecy watching the dude’s face, mask now pulled down, as Laver said, hands on hips, gazing at the half-finished artwork, ‘How about I do you a deal? We can arrest you or you can let me buy you a coffee and ask you how it’s done and how you got into it.’

‘I don’t drink coffee.’

Laver looked at him. ‘The coffee isn’t the important part. Pay attention. I’ll buy you a Coke or a creamy soda if you like. What I want to know is more about this whole street art thing. It rocks.’

And so they spent an hour with the guy. He called himself Monkey, and he said he was sometimes paid commissions to decorate walls in houses or offices. He’d inked the outdoor section of St Jerome’s, a cool bar that recently closed down on Caledonian Lane, and was part-owner of the shop next door that sold T-shirts with his and other art on them. Laver said he’d drop by and check it out, when he had a chance. They parted ways, Monkey waving goodbye, smart enough not to head back towards his artwork just yet.

Later that shift, over yet another coffee for Laver (Cecy having moved to orange juice), Cecy asked whether he planned on making any arrests or landing any fines at all while on the squad. Laver grinned, shrugged and said, ‘What? You think we should have quotas like the grey ghosts? Let the parking officers be the pinheads of the street. The way I see it, we’re around if any real crime happens. That’s enough.’

And it was. The next day, on Smith Street, Cecy felt the adrenalin surge as a woman waved them down, a scarlet splash of blood staining her temple and dripping into her eye. The woman quivering in shock as she told them she’d just had her bag snatched, offering a good description of the thief and pointing to where he’d run a minute or so earlier. Laver unexpectedly pleased, telling Cecy that it was enough time for the thief to have turned around and seen he wasn’t being chased, which would have made him relax – almost certainly a junkie after quick cash for a hit. And, sure enough, moments later finding him, on his haunches in a lane near the Union Club Hotel, going through the bag’s contents. Laver, wearing a new, hard face Cecy hadn’t seen before, suddenly pumping his legs on the bike pedals and landing on the guy before he had taken more than two steps in an attempt to run. Laver planting the thief’s head into the rough tarmac of the lane, twisting the guy’s arm sharply behind his back, Laver’s full weight on him. ‘Good luck finding a score in the detention centre, you arsehole,’ Laver hissed.

When the cops in the wagon arrived, one said to Laver, ‘Rocket, you’re losing your touch. You didn’t kill him.’

Cecy could tell that Laver had to work hard to smile and tell them, ‘You guys are hilarious.’

Laver quiet as they rode away.

‘Do you think you can make it, away from Major Crime and copping shit from other cops like that?’ Cecy asked.

‘As long as I stick to coffee and don’t start noticing all the good pubs around here, yeah,’ he replied. Then he gave her a grin, saying, ‘Besides, I could have a worse life than getting paid to tone my legs and hang out with you, right?’

Cecy thought it wasn’t quite a come on, but not far off.

Brian Salter had been selling cars for twenty-three years.
From the early Kingswoods to the latest science fiction–inspired Holden Special Vehicles, he had sold them all – even through the global economic meltdown that had made even Holden a shaky brand. The tiny lot he had set up on his own fifteen years ago – just one corner block on the Nepean Highway, halfway to Brighton from the city – had expanded to take in more than an acre of frontage. Secondary dealerships with other players in the auto market, like Daiwoo, Hyundai, and even Skoda, had kept Salter’s Special Auto Stadium – he always dressed his lot in sporting themes – in respectable shape.

This morning, Salter was checking that the early morning kids had done a thorough job of hosing the cars along the street frontage. A couple of the Commodores were a little streaky with dust and pollution – the price of being on the southern suburbs’ main artery to the city – and so he yelled at Angelo, the lot foreman, to have them re-hosed.

Angelo shook his head, raised his arms as though to ask, ‘What can you do?’ and started yelling at one of the kids who hadn’t taken off yet.

Salter was heading back to his office when he saw a tall bearded man, wearing sunglasses and a beanie pulled hard over his head, bending over to look inside one of the new Series Five Holdens. Years of experience instantly told Salter that there was no way this guy could buy the $60,000 vehicle. But Salter was proud of his ability to guide customers towards their true level of car and price-range. He was sure he could find something for this gentleman.

He straightened his tie, squared his shoulders and switched on the salesman’s grin as he strode across the lot.

The Wild Man watched the salesman through a reflection in the car’s side window: fat around the middle, thinning on top, in a dark-blue suit that fit badly and a loud red-and-yellow tie. Looking older and fatter than the version of him on the giant billboard overlooking the yard, Salter with a giant pencil on the advert, along with the words, ‘Pencil in a visit to Salter’s Special Auto Stadium today!’ He was walking with an idiotic grin on his face, like the Wild Man was a long-lost son. The Wild Man straightened enough to regard the approaching dealer with disdain.

Salter bounced past a second-hand Datsun and gave the Wild Man a wave.

‘Hello, hello, hello. What a wonderful morning, eh? Straight out of the box. I love it when the morning sun sparkles off the cars. Makes me feel like I’m in the right business, eh? How are you, sir? Can I help you?’

‘I’m just looking.’ The Wild Man wandered away, past a couple of cars, glancing through the windows at the dashboards. Salter took in the broad shoulders bulging beneath the dirty white T-shirt that was scrawled with a motif for something called ‘Spiderbait’.

‘Well, that’s fine. You look as much as you like. Are you after any particular kind of car? We have several individual dealerships for new cars but also an extensive range of potentially more affordable used cars …’

‘No. I’m just looking.’ The Wild Man gave Salter a lingering look, as though to emphasise his point, and Salter felt a slight chill. The guy was tall as well as muscled, and impressively suntanned – the sort of tan Salter spent hours trying to achieve, either under a UV lamp during the Melbourne winter or on his annual mid-winter sojourn at his timeshare townhouse at Noosa.

‘You from around here, mate?’ he asked, still walking fast to try and keep pace with the man who remained a potential customer, slightly threatening or not.

‘No.’ The Wild Man bent to examine a late-90s Subaru.

‘Ah, beautiful little car, that. Four cylinders with the power of a six. Very straight body. Low kilometres. Great sound system.’

The Wild Man straightened, his back to Salter, and turned slowly. ‘I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you fuck off and let me look at cars? Okay?’

Salter drew himself up to his full height – about half a metre shorter than the other man. ‘Well, hey, there’s no need to use that sort of language, young man. I happen to own this lot and I’d thank you to remain civil.’

The Wild Man faced him fully now, then looked over to the massive billboard of Salter and the giant pencil. ‘Civil, eh? How ’bout I shove that giant pencil of yours up your arse and then twist it? Would that be civil enough for you?’

‘Now, hey.’ Salter looked around, trying to spot Angelo. ‘There’s just no need for that.’

The Wild Man smirked at him and gestured at a nearby four-wheel drive. ‘How much is the Subaru, big guy?’

‘What?’ Salter stopped in his tracks.

‘How much is the fucking car?’

‘Twenty-seven thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars. You want to buy it?’

‘You’re fucking kidding. It’s not worth half that.’

Salter started to chuckle nervously, looking again for Angelo. He was way down the other end of the yard, supervising a kid with a hose, not looking Salter’s way once. Salter fiddled with his tie. ‘Now, look, I really don’t think you understand the car you’re looking at. Maybe I should get one of my senior salesman to come and—’

‘You got the keys? I want a test drive.’

‘Well, the keys are in our reception office. I’ll have a salesman fetch them if you’re serious about the car, but clearly we wouldn’t go below twenty-five thousand.’

‘Listen dickwit. You’re the boss of the lot. You have skeleton keys to fit any car here. Hand over the key for the Subaru. Now.’ The Wild Man loomed over Salter, blocking out the early morning sun.