Thunder Road (10 page)

A DAY OR SO later, we fired all our stuff into the back of the Subaru and moved out. Devon promised to give Mrs Jacques a forwarding address in a few days but I knew he never would. Being untraceable was the whole reason for moving.

I was pleased to go. I had felt really sorry for Mrs Jacques since Sergei had been taken away: but the whole scene became a miserable one and there was nothing we could do. The cops had been back a couple of times trying to get statements from us, but we were no use to them.

The real surprise was the house we moved into. I should have guessed. It was where Big Martin, Gail and Little Martin had lived. They had been the ones Wes had wanted Devon to move out. Quite a lot of their furniture was still there. The whole thing struck me as a lousy stunt to pull.

‘What’s the story, Devon?’ I was almost afraid to hear what he had done. They were, after all, his friends.

‘Oh, it’s cool. I gave them the truck and some buds.’

‘They were a family, man.’ It still didn’t seem right.

Devon looked a bit pissed off. ‘Yeah, they still are, Trace. They’re a family with a Ford F100 and a good stash. Jesus!
A family
! Where do you get off with that stuff? What’s so great about a
family
?’

I was taken aback by the anger of his answer. ‘Where are they now?’

‘They’ve moved out into the Waitaks. They were going to go anyway. This was just the thing they needed. Everyone’s happy.
It’s cool.’

That was an end to the matter as far as Devon was concerned. I could tell it was a no-go topic.

The little wooden house was sandwiched in between massive blocks of apartments which were all balconies and German cars. Most of Martin’s vehicles had gone from the driveway but there were still the carcasses of dead cars scattered around, sticking up here and there in the long grass. It had a decent chunk of land which backed onto a sort of wilderness next to the railway line.

Beyond the railway line was the Auckland Domain with its hundreds of acres of mown grass, a good dense perimeter of trees and the huge stone museum sited on the top. Pretty idyllic. It had something you don’t get often in the city. Space.

The house itself was old and rotten; no one had fixed
anything
properly for years. It was all black tape and four inch nails. There was the slight stink of piss in every room. I assumed that had been the work of Little Martin. Gail’s art leered out creepily from the walls, with its figures of death and virginal angels. Every now and then Martin had scrawled a line or two of his verse – I assumed it was his – in black vivid marker alongside them.

I went to the preacher,

He asked for my soul,

Preacher man said

‘Sin has taken its toll.

On life’s great beach

You’re just a grain of sand

A lonely speck,

Between sea and land.’

This was beside one of Gail’s paintings of a huge bearded figure, like an old testament prophet in robes, with his hand reaching out towards you.

‘What do you make of that, Trace? I reckon a few acid tabs have been dropped in this room.’ Devon appeared behind me.

‘Gives me the creeps. I reckon the first thing we do is paint the whole place. It’s too much like a shrine to Gail and the Martins.’

‘It might get rid of the smell of piss, too.’

There were two bedrooms: one looked out on the gully and the other on the carport. It had to be mine because Devon claimed first pick. After we had moved our gear in I had this real cosy buzz. Our own place, I thought: we don’t have to consider anybody else. It’s old and it’s shitty, but it’s ours.

‘How long have we got this?’ I asked Devon.

‘As long as we want, I reckon. Wes likes to sit on property and wait until someone
really
wants it.’

This house was our last step towards complete freedom. What a feeling. Like we had opened a door and instead of a room we had discovered a whole new world.

We both sat on the back deck staring out over the gully
towards
the Domain and the glow of the city lights. Devon pushed a joint at me. I took it.

‘It’s like a home eh?’ Devon said, voice soft and dreamy.

‘Better than a home … it’s somewhere where we can be us.’

‘What do you mean?’

I tried to explain.

‘When I was little my father used to say, “Trace, there is a right and a wrong way of doing anything.” I could live with that. When I was about thirteen or fourteen it changed to, “Trace, there is my way and the wrong way”. I couldn’t live with that.’

He looked at me sort of funny and then nodded.

I carried on. ‘There’s something in me that hates being told to do stuff. Maybe there’s a pay-off. My house, my rules – I don’t know. But you reach an age where you won’t take it … so you split.’

Devon stretched out on the verandah floor, the light
catching
his eyes and teeth.

‘At least your old man gave a shit. Mine shot through when I was about ten centimetres tall.’ There was pain in his voice. Neither of us wanted to go there.

I deliberately mis-tinted a whole lot of paint colours so that they were useless to anyone else, then I took them home and for the next few days we painted every wall. My room was dark so I painted the walls, floor and ceiling white. Devon’s room had big windows and plenty of light so he chose deep purple, which took ten litres of a colour called heliotrope. It looked so cool that we painted the lounge and the kitchen the same colour. We were going to finish off all the other rooms with it too but our redecorator enthusiasm ran out.

Next we gathered a few sticks of furniture to make the place truly habitable. A huge old couch from the auctions. Table and chairs from the St Vincent de Paul Society. A tall lamp from the inorganic rubbish collection. It didn’t take much.

It took an extra ten minutes to get to my work from the flat, which meant my attendance began to drop off. I was ready to get the sack. I was even looking forward to it: it’d take away the need to make a decision. But it didn’t happen. Whether I liked it or not I was a regular there now and they were tolerant. Devon claimed that I was ‘evolving away from the straight
currency
’. Which meant Devon’s dope dealing covered most of the
expenses. All I needed work for was spending money. It was a front: just a way of
appearing normal
to the outside world. But with all the cash coming in, appearing normal was really tough.

A few weeks later we went out to see Wes at his cliff-side
mansion
. Devon felt it was time we paid him a social call to tell him where things stood. Although there were a couple of cool old Brit sports cars in the drive, Wes wasn’t home. Joey, Wes’ slick houseboy, opened the door a crack when we knocked. Devon tried to get him to loosen up but he was as jumpy as a cat. He kept saying, ‘Wes onna root. Wes onna root,’ all the time, in a high voice. He was scared.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ I asked Devon.

‘En route, man. On his way home.’

Devon reached in and put his hand on Joey’s left shoulder – near his neck – ‘It’s cool Joey … it’s cool,’ calming him down like you would an over-excited animal. His voice soft and gentle. After a brief pause we were in.

It was good to have a look around during the daytime, before Wes’ huge presence began to fill every crack. Joey tried to keep us in the sitting room but one or other of us compulsively shot off down the various passages looking for I don’t know what: evidence of humanity, perhaps. There was none. No photos or knick-knacks. No little signs that Wes might have come from a family, that he had people somewhere who cared about him. No. He might just as easily have been hatched from some alien egg, fully grown: past programmed in. The house was a cover. Wes was a monster.

At the sound of the V8 burbling up the driveway we quickly regrouped in the lounge and tried to look as casual as we could in the space of 15 seconds. Wes entered, appearing not to even
notice us. He presented his cheek to Joey for a kiss then headed for the drinks’ cabinet.

‘So boys, what’s the news? What do you have to tell me?’ He had his back to us. Me and Devon exchanged looks.

‘We have moved into the Parnell pad.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s great. Thanks very much.’

‘Is that all?’

‘What else do you want, Wes, the twelve prostrations?’

‘No, I don’t Devon. What I want … what I
expect
from you … is a degree of candour.’ The tone was icy.

‘Sorry, Wes. I can’t think what you’re getting at.’

‘You can’t?’ He was leaning against the bar glaring at us. Waiting for an answer. ‘Perhaps you should come back when you can.’

He and Devon stared at each other for a while, silently. Buried in that intense face-off some ferocious, unspoken debate raged and then slowly died to a sulky stalemate.

We left.

‘What was that all about?’ I asked as we drove off.

‘Something’s up, that’s for sure. He’s had some sort of info, but it’s incomplete.’

I had the uneasy feeling that Devon knew a hell of a lot more than he was telling me. But I didn’t push. I knew he’d tell me when he was ready – when he felt I needed to know.

WE KEPT AWAY from Wes after that. I was glad. Those watery eyes, his smooth, hairless face, his cold, blank manner all gave me the creeps. Devon was drawn to him – like he needed his approval. I couldn’t figure out why, but anyway, at the time I had plenty of other things to think about. I was leading this double life of straight guy and dealer. Even though Devon was sure I had left all that stuff behind, I still had one tie to the old world: Karen.

The one thing that Karen’s parents and Devon had in
common
was that neither party wanted us together. We had this life of secret meetings. She would claim to be studying late at the school library, and I would leave work early – I told Bob Bryant that I was doing some Small Business course at the polytech, which got his approval, no worries. Karen and I would meet at Angela’s two or three times a week to talk or drink coffee, but mostly to keep alive that little part of ourselves that had its own demands. The small insistent voice that says, ‘This is how it is meant to be … this is important.’ The words of an old song, ‘Crazy He Calls Me’, kept coming back to me, about the difficult things being done straight away but the impossible taking a little longer.

Most evenings, though, me and Devon would go out together on the Norton. He figured the bike was the ideal inner-city escape vehicle if we got into trouble making a deal. Although Devon hadn’t met anyone who could handle a kilo at a time, the money still stacked up. We were only starting out, but each night we unloaded more money than I could earn in a month.

Wes had claimed that losing his fear had taken the
meaning
from his life; the drug money took all the meaning from my work. It also messed with the idea of ownership. Nothing belonged to anyone any more. Everything was just stuff: cars that came and went, things we bought, even the money itself. It was like nothing was worth anything.

Saturdays were special, though. They were when we would both pile into the Subaru and head for Thunder Road: a
priority
, no matter what else we both had organised for the night. But now, the need to race had lost its importance. Gone were the stare-downs and the challenges. We were there to deal.

We’d get to the strip early. Devon would wander down the lines of cars, swapping money for smoke, while I sat on the wads like the banker in a game of cards. I didn’t like being stuck in the car but the job had to be done.

One night, this figure loomed out of the dark: huge and glistening in his black leathers. It was Mark, Sloane’s side-kick: his tattooed face filling the entire window of Devon’s low-slung WRX.

‘Where’s Devon?’

‘Out walking.’

‘I’ve got a message for him.’ His face was inches away from my own. Huge and impassive. The whites of his eyes glowed but his moko made it hard to read any emotion. ‘We know how much shit he’s moving.’

I nodded. I didn’t know what else to do. Denial was pointless.

‘Dak’s never been part of our operation here. We leave it to the kids. But now we want in.’

‘OK,’ I said, hesitantly.

‘I’ve got a block here.’ I could see a cube buried in his
massive
hand.

‘Two things.’ He reached in and touched the end of my nose with his forefinger. ‘Listening?’ His finger was feather-light, but it seemed to carry a million volts.

I nodded.

‘He does his dealing somewhere else. You got that?’

‘What’s the other thing?’

‘We’re in for a block. Bring it tomorrow. Tell him to be
generous
. Think of it like a …’ he paused, ‘… a goodwill gift.’

He grinned and slowly stood up. For a while he sat on the bonnet, waiting. His back filled my view, and his weight made the front of the car dip. Just when I thought he’d become a fixture, he stood up and ambled off into the night.

When he had gone I felt the overwhelming desire to pee. I hoisted myself out the door and found there was no strength in my legs: they bent like rubber. I had to support myself on the side of the car as I pissed on the tyre. The air was warm and filled with the residue of burnt rubber. I felt light-headed, as though I’d had a brush with death and had lived to tell the tale. Through the smoke I could see Devon approaching.

‘Good timing,’ I said.

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I saw Mark so I hung back.’

‘Thanks.’

‘He was looking for me, right?’

‘Yep.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He wants to use your skin as a seat cover for the Merc.’

‘There’d only be enough of it to cover the steering wheel.’

‘The gear knob.’

We both laughed.

‘Do you want the bad news or the worse news?’

‘Does it make much difference?’

‘Well, he’s got a block for you.’

Devon grinned, and reached for his smokes. ‘That’s cool. A block is a big lump of money.’

‘I thought it was a block of wood.’

‘No, it’s usually ten thousand in twenties.’

‘How do you know all this?’

He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. He leaned back casually on the driver’s door while he lit up. He always played these mentor moments up. ‘I learned it all from the feds up north. It was a real tertiary education. When Charlie Crim
exchanges
money for services,’ he put on this phoney policeman’s voice, ‘he has neither the time nor the inclination to count it. He feels a little … vulnerable.’ He made a sympathetic face. ‘So he uses the trusty block. Fat blocks of bank notes folded in half, all in ten grand lots. They’re passed from hand to hand, never opened, just exchanged. It’s an honour thing.’

‘Here’s five blocks. Gimme your house,’ I suggested.

‘A bit like that. What was the other thing?’

‘Oh, the other thing. He wants us to come back tomorrow with a big bag of product.’

‘And?’

‘And no more dealing on the strip.’

His ‘don’t give a damn’ manner melted away instantly. He turned away, as if to hide his face.

‘I guess we’ve done too well, Devon. He’s starting to lose some customers.’

‘Yeah. It’s the same everywhere, eh. “Go for your life man” and “No worries”, until it starts to affect them and then it’s “Oh no, you can’t do that.”’

‘He wants you back tomorrow.’

‘A final big kiss-off.’

‘A big fuck-off more like it.’

‘Let’s get out of here. I’ve had a gutsful of this place.’

We slid into the WRX and blitzed it down the strip in the wrong direction. Frenzied runners cleared a path for us like startled animals in the headlights. This was Devon’s final ‘
up-you
’ gesture to Sloane. And he did it with style.