The Slap (14 page)

‘I don’t know, I don’t know where it’s gone.’ Con had started crying again.

He was a weak piece of shit but Harry felt sorry for the boy. Not too sorry. He made up his mind there and then. He’d give him a chance. Sandi would disapprove, but Con hadn’t attempted to lie or bullshit him. He’d give him that due.

‘You’re going to give me a third of your wages every week. I’m going to calculate interest on forty thousand starting today. Deal?’

Con was breathing heavily, he was unable to speak. He nodded.

‘And Con, you dare walk out on me or pull this kind of shit on me again and I go straight to the cops. But before I do I’ll put a wrench through your fucking teeth and I’ll fuck you up the arse with a screwdriver like a faggot at a choir boy’s picnic. You understand me?’

The man’s tears had dried. He stood up. ‘Thanks, Harry.’ Con extended his hand but Harry refused to take it.

‘Fuck off and start work. I don’t shake your hand until you pay me back every cent you owe me. I’ll shake hands with you when you’re a man again.’

There was a moment of fierce hatred and resistance in the young man’s eyes. Then it disappeared and Con lowered his head. ‘Sure, Boss.’

His walk was slow, defeated as he went to work alongside Alex.

Harry checked his messages. An old Italian client wanted him to look at his car. He hesitated then rang back and confirmed he’d meet Mr Pacioli at eleven in Hawthorn. There was also a message to call Warwick Kelly. What the hell, he thought, I might as well kill some time till the rush hour is finished.

He punched in the number and Kelly’s youngest daughter Angela answered the phone.

‘Is your mum there?’

‘How are you, Uncle Harry?’

‘I’m good. How are you sweetheart? Are you getting ready for school?’

‘I’m sick.’

‘Really sick?’

‘Yeah, my stomach hurts.’ The girl sounded offended by his doubt.

‘Guess I won’t get you a chocolate then. It won’t do your tummy any good.’ He grinned to himself at the long silence.

‘I can have it when I feel better.’

Kelly came onto the line. ‘Angela’s sick.’

‘So she says.’ He could hear the girl’s protests. ‘I’m coming over.’

 

Kelly lived in a flat on the Geelong Road and he was there in ten minutes. She was on the phone when he rang the bell; she opened the door and kissed him, all the while speaking loudly in Arabic to whoever was on the other end. Harry guessed from the frustrated tone that she was talking to her mother. He walked past her and into the kid’s room. Angela was lying in her bed, a pink teddy bear on her pillow, watching a children’s show on a small TV. In an attempt to be a convincing invalid, she did not even raise a hand to greet him. He sat beside her and kissed the crown of her head.

‘Did you get me a chocolate?’

‘Yeah, but you can’t have it now. You look too sick.’

‘I am too sick. Put it in the fridge.’

‘Sure, sweetheart.’ He kissed her again. As he was about to leave, she rose and called after him. ‘What kind of chocolate is it?’

‘Cherry Ripe.’

‘Yay,’ she shrieked, and then, remembering, she lowered herself back to her pillow and let out a weary whimper. ‘Thank you, Uncle Harry.’

Kelly was still on the phone and she mouthed at him to take a seat. He sat by the small round kitchen table and looked over the water, gas and telephone bills. He pulled out his wallet and laid out a hundred and fifty dollars on the table. He paid all the bills except for the telephone. He had given Kelly the mobile that she was to use when calling him and he only paid for that. Kelly was a good woman. She only ever used that phone, never exposed him to danger with his wife. He watched her as she walked around the flat. She was tiny, with a cushiony, fleshy arse and large, low-hanging breasts. She was also dark and plump, a real contrast to Sandi’s tallness and Serbian fairness. The difference excited him. She grimaced at him and he cheekily unzipped his jeans and began stroking at his cock. She threw him an exasperated look, then closed the kids’ bedroom door and came over to him.

‘Sure, Ma,’ she said suddenly in English. ‘I’ll bring them over Sunday. ’ With her free hand, she started tickling his balls, then slowly her fingers tapped along the shaft of his fattening cock. ‘Of course I won’t fucking forget.’ Harry looked up at the Madonna staring down disapprovingly at him on the kitchen wall. He closed his hand around Kelly’s fingers to tighten her grip around his cock, and he thrust up and down on his seat, jerking himself into her hand. He pulled at her nipple, twisting it till she slapped his hand away. He was conscious of the young girl watching television behind the wall. He could smell his lover’s sweat, and he kissed her arm, her neck, her hair as she finished the conversation. He shuddered, stifled his groan and blew into her hand. Kelly put down the phone.

‘Look at me,’ she hissed, showing him her coated hand. ‘You’re a pig.’ Then, expertly, as if performing a routine household task, she grabbed a clean Chux wipe, wet it at the sink, and cleaned her hands. She threw the Chux at him.

‘You want a coffee?’

‘Sure.’

He wiped his cock, rubbed at a spot of cum on his jeans, and threw the Chux back at her. Kelly flicked it into the bin.

‘Van called this morning. His equipment has fucked up. He needs some money.’

Jesus Christ. This was not his morning. ‘How much does he need?’

‘A couple of grand.’ Kelly glanced down at the money on the table. ‘Thanks, honey.’

‘Shut up. You know I adore my Lebo chick.’ He grabbed her and sat her on his lap. He wondered if there was time to get hard again and fuck her. He looked at his watch. No way. Kelly turned off the kettle and poured the boiling water into the cups. She sat down across from him, smiling, scratching at her left breast underneath her sweatshirt.

‘Van doesn’t bullshit, Harry. You know that.’

She was right. Van was an old Vietnamese schoolmate of Kelly’s who duplicated DVDs from home. He was sent the original masters from Shanghai or Saigon, mostly Hollywood new releases and some porn, and like old-style travelling salesmen, he and Kelly went around to people’s houses, hosting DVD afternoons and selling the illegal copies. It was a good, steady business and Harry and Sandi had a cupboard full of DVDs they had scored from Van.

‘He’s got the money.’

‘He’s over-extended. Like the nation. He’s cash poor this week.’

Harry grinned. ‘I want twenty per cent of the next drop.’

Kelly’s reply was immediate. ‘Ten per cent and the full two grand in your hand next week.’

Harry laughed out loud. She had balls, Kelly. He thought of Con an hour ago, blubbering like a bitch. ‘Done. I’ll drop off the money to Van this arvo.’

‘Thanks, honey. When am I going to see you next?’

‘Soon.’ She was not his wife. He didn’t owe her commitment.

He drank his coffee quickly, kissed his mistress on the lips and dropped the Cherry Ripe on Angela’s bed. School had definitely started, and secure in her deception, she was sitting cross-legged on her bed playing with her dolls. She hugged him tight. She smelt like Rocco—they must use the same soap. He was whistling as he walked to the car.

 

His mobile rang as he was slowly circumnavigating the edge of the city. It was his own home number that was flashing on the screen and he decided not to take the call. It would be Sandi checking if he had called the lawyer. He turned the music on the stereo up to near distortion levels and rocked along to the churning, violent hip-hop beats. A new model Pajero Cruiser on his left was trying to enter his lane; he didn’t give the prick an inch. He sped ahead and laughed as he saw the furious face of the old fat
malaka
in his side mirror. A twinge of guilt, not uncommon after visiting Kelly, led him to decide to buy his wife roses when he returned to the house that evening. She was right. He had to call the lawyer.

 

At first, the secretary refused to put him through. ‘Mr Petrious is busy with a client.’

‘Tell him it’s Harry Apostolou.’

There was a pause. ‘Is this about an appointment?’

What’s it to you, cunt?

‘Andrew knows what it’s about.’

The casual use of his friend’s first name did the trick. The girl’s bored, supercilious tone changed in an instant.

‘One moment, sir. I’ll consult with Mr Petrious.’

Harry watched from his office as the guys worked on two cars, a Ford ute, a couple of years old, and a late-nineties BMW coupe. Of the three businesses he owned, he liked the one in Hawthorn the best. The site itself was a solid old thirties brick deco building. They built things to last back then. The garage was down an alley off Glenferrie Road and that meant that it was only a short walk for lunch. Glenferrie Road was always busy and Harry enjoyed strolling down the strip, stopping at the Turk’s coffee shop and sitting down for a long read of the paper, a few cigarettes, coffee and a chat to Irzik. The Altona garage was in the middle of ugly bogan suburbia, and though he was proud of the scale of the Moorabbin yard, it too sat off the wide asphalt hideousness of the Nepean Highway: eight lanes of cars, waves and waves of them, they never seemed to stop. And as for finding a decent coffee, forget it. No, he preferred Hawthorn, even the smell of it. A row of eucalypts stretched above the back wall of the garage, lining the railway track that ran parallel to the alley. The air in Hawthorn smelt clean. Not as good as the sea air in Sandringham—no way near as good as the bracing, fresh air on his balcony at home—but a million times better than the stink of salt and sewage in Altona, so much healthier than the dry carbon-monoxide fog of Moorabbin. When Rocco was old enough, he’d close down the yard and get the site rezoned as residential. He’d renovate the garage so it would become a house for Rocco. It would be close to the city, close to the action, a good, safe, rich suburb. No mortgage. His son’s first home.

Andrew’s deep voice interrupted his reverie. ‘How’s it hanging, Doggy Dawg?’

‘They’re hanging right over your lips, bitch.’

Andrew roared like he was at the footy, at that moment when there’s three minutes before the siren and your team is one goal behind. Harry held the mobile away from his ear.

‘You want to see me today?’

‘Yep.’

‘What are you doing for lunch?’

‘Meeting you.’

‘Too right you are,
malaka
.’

‘Where?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Hawthorn.’

Andrew named a pub in Richmond. ‘Meet you at one.’

‘Thanks, Andrea.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Apostolou. You’re paying.’ With a chuckle, Andrew hung up the phone.

Harry rang Sandi immediately.

‘Sorry, sweetheart. I was in traffic.’

‘Did you ring the lawyer?’

‘Done.’

He could almost taste her happiness. She liked white roses, he’d buy her white roses.

 

He bought her a music box instead. He finished up in Hawthorn sooner than he thought he would and had strolled down Burke Road for fifteen minutes, window shopping. In one of the shop windows he had spied a copper-plated box studded with shards of silver and what looked like an Arabic inscription in gold-raised lettering. Sandi liked that Buddhist shit. He went inside and indicated the box to the shopgirl.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she gushed. She raised the lid and the inside was lined with a velvet crush fabric the colour of rubies. As soon as the lid was opened a pleasing oriental melody hummed from within the box. Harry pointed to the script.

‘You know what that says?’

‘It’s Sanskrit.’

‘And what’s that?’ He had no concern about showing his ignorance. He knew his education was limited and he saw no reason to hide it from the young girl before him. He had money and that’s all that mattered.

‘It’s the ancient Indian language.’

She had hesitated. She didn’t know what she was talking about.

‘You don’t know what it says?’

The girl bit her bottom lip apologetically and shook her head.

Harry smiled at her and picked up the box. ‘It probably says
Fuck You, Yank
.’

The girl’s mouth formed a shocked perfect circle and then she laughed out loud. Harry winked at her.

‘Wrap it up for me, honey, make it look nice. It’s a gift for the ball and chain.’

 

Andrew was at the bar with a beer when Harry entered the pub. It had been recently renovated but the new owners had kept as much of the original detailing as possible and any new additions were in keeping with the late Victorian edifice and interiors. Harry surveyed the room quickly, approvingly. He made a mental note to take Sandi there for dinner. He whacked Andrew on the back. The lawyer was sweating, still wearing his suit jacket with his tie neatly knotted at his neck. He was astonishingly thin, a stick insect, and so tall that seated he was eye to eye with the standing Harry. The two men embraced and Andrew called over the barman for another beer. Harry gestured in the negative but Andrew ignored him.

‘
Uno, per favore.
’

‘Mate, I’m driving all arvo.’

‘We’ll eat, we’ll have a coffee. You’ll be fine.’ Andrew looked at him suspiciously. ‘Don’t tell me the nanny state’s taken your soul, as well?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

Harry plonked himself on the stool beside Andrew and stared up at the lunch menu scrawled on a blackboard.

‘Food good?’

‘The food’s fucking excellent.’

It was. Harry had ordered a plate of grilled calamari, conscious that there would be no time to get to the gym that afternoon. Andrew obviously had no such concerns. He ordered a burger and chips and a bottle of wine for lunch, most of which he consumed on his own. Harry marvelled at the lawyer’s ability to eat as much of whatever he wanted and yet never add an ounce to his frame. It was because he never could stand still. Andrew had always been that way, since they were neighbours in Collingwood. At school, one bitch of a teacher with a sadistic streak had spent day after day attempting to beat the agitation out of him. If she saw him jittery or fidgeting she would stand him in front of the class and whenever he moved she would bring a metre ruler smashing against the back of his legs. Andrew would flinch, grimace and try for a minute to stand as still as possible. He never succeeded. By the end of class the back of his legs would be crimson and purple from the whallops he had received. The teacher’s vicious punishments came to an end when Andrew’s mother attacked her at a parent–teacher night by grabbing her hair and slapping her. Andrew was not expelled for the simple reason that he was the brightest and smartest pupil at a school that was dependent on his winning the state Mathematics and English competitions to justify its appalling lack of educational success with the other students in the school’s care. Andrew bore no obvious grudge against the teacher who had hurt him. She was an animal, thought Harry, but schools these days could use some of her ferocity. There had to be a middle path. No one back then had thought of going to the police or the lawyers to deal with their problems. Andrew’s mother had apologised and the teacher had—possibly not with good grace—accepted the apology.