Thunder Road (11 page)

IN THE MORNING we decided to do a stock take and
money-count
. There was money under the bed, in the toilet cistern, rolled up and stuck in shoes; there were plastic bags of it in the freezer and stuck in the guts of the TV. It was coming at us from everywhere. Each time we located a new wad, we threw it on the kitchen table. Devon retrieved the dak from places only he knew of. We had been selling and spending without a clue where all the crop and cash were going.

All totalled, our stash came to about eight thousand bucks and less than a kilo of buds. The rest was cabbage and Devon refused to sell that (bad for the rep).

I put it all in a Foodtown bag and weighed it in my hands.

‘Does this look like ten grand?’ I asked.

Devon looked at it sceptically and shook his head. ‘I could get it by cutting in cabbage and shoving it into one ounce bags but I don’t think Sloane will see it that way.’

‘Why don’t we just say “fuck him” and do it our own way in other places?’

‘I liked the Thunder Road scene. There were no narcs, and it was more like fun than hard-out dealing.’ He paused, thinking. ‘But that’s all gone now. Why should I supply Sloane if I can’t deal on the strip? What does that say? That says you and I are bum boys. That says “Fuck us over, Sloane!” and then “Thank you, sir.” That’s not us, Trace. That’s like the end of the line. That’s where you accept you’re just a nobody, and pleased to be one.’

I could tell where he was going with this, but I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or worried because from the beginning it was Devon who called the shots. I liked it that way. I’ve always found decisions hard.

‘There are a lot of scenes in this town, Trace, and the street racer scene is just one of them.’

‘Yeah, and it’s sewn up.’

‘Yeah. So we look for new ones. A friend of mine hangs out in the Viaduct Basin with the yachties. I reckon there’s money there.’ Devon leaned against the kitchen cupboards, arms crossed.

‘No way, man! Poncey guys in shorts and those crappy little shoes without socks. Dev, I’ve got my standards.’

‘Yeah, and one of those crappy little forty foot yachts.’

‘OK so I could go that. What about the clubs and the Uni students?’

Devon thought it over for a moment. ‘There are heaps of people there dealing already … and narcs too. I reckon it’s tricky. Still, worth a go.’

‘At least it wouldn’t mean an image change.’

‘Trace, just see threads as costumes. Something we can slip off and on for effect, so we don’t look like foreigners.’

I considered that. I could live with it if I saw it that way. Part of an act. Not the real me.

‘There’s another reason for changing scenes.’ Devon
straddled
a kitchen chair. He seemed reluctant to go on.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Sloane will be looking for us now. We’ve got to keep a low profile. The Subaru will have to go. Maybe your bike too.’

‘No way. I’m keeping the Norton.’

He looked at me sadly, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Trace,
it’s only a bit of metal. We can get a new one when the heat comes off.’

‘Nope.’ I zipped my lip and grabbed the old
Trade and
Exchange
from the kitchen table. Devon watched me, as I stared at blurry hardware advertisements. He must have guessed I couldn’t be moved on this one.

‘Keep the bike then, but don’t use it during the day time. It’s too unusual, it’s like your trademark.’

After we’d agreed to this compromise, we headed off into town to look for new outfits. It was fun really, because we bought the stupidest most over-the-top clothes we could find. We didn’t care. Big baggy shorts. Hawaiian shirts, nautical jackets and dumb little brown slip-on shoes. I couldn’t believe how much they cost. Devon wore his home but there was no way I could do that. I had to practise wearing them around the house first. One item at a time. First the shirt then the shorts and last of all those shoes. It was going to be tough. Devon thought it was so funny. He looked it too. I never realised how skinny he was. The big shorts made his legs look like broomsticks, and the shirt flapped around on his chest as if it belonged to some big Island dude and he had borrowed it for the afternoon.

As camouflage though, the clothes worked. We went to this bar, the Salty Pig. Devon’s mate Travis was meant to hang there. It was all done out with boat stuff, old divers’ helmets, rope, a harpoon … other junk I’d never seen before but which looked like it came off a boat. We really stuck out at first because it was mostly full of suits, the BMW crowd dropping in after work. The mysterious Travis never showed up at all.

Some time after nine the suits gave way to boat people. We hooked onto a bunch of Swiss who were sailing around the
world. They were desperate for dope. They took us back to their yacht so they could try a sample smoke; there were six of them, four guys and two girls. With their strong accents it was hard to catch their names but there was one girl who was a stunner. Thick blonde plaits like rope and bright blue eyes that lit up her tanned face. She was called Heidi, like the girl in the story. I guess most Swiss girls are called Heidi. It’s probably the Jane or Liz of Switzerland, but I thought it was a cute name.

Their boat was tiny. They had been in it for over a year and it sure smelt like it. No wonder they wanted to buy some smoke. All that time staring at each other across the little cabin. They had money, though. Between the six of them they bought nearly all we were carrying. The next day they planned to sail off down the coast heading for the South Island.

I tried not to smoke too much – that’s important when you’re working – but still I was pretty whacked by the time we squeezed out onto the wharf. Devon was worse; he banged the little WRX three times trying to move it out of the parking space, so I made him get out and drove home myself. On the way back we both had a paranoid spell. We thought we were being followed. It gave me the excuse to blat down a couple of one-way streets the wrong way, stonewalling past the tooting horns and outraged yells of drivers we met coming the other way.

For Devon, though, I guess the paranoia went even deeper. The following day the rally car was gone and he came back with a Holden. I wasn’t impressed. It was like he had sold his soul for the dope: renounced the great petrol god who infuses us all.

‘Devon, what’s happening to you, man? Not even an HSV. It’s a mum and dad car.’

He grinned, jumped out and leaned against the mudguard while he lit a smoke. ‘I thought you might say that, Trace, and
I’m pleased. It confirms my theory.’

‘What theory?’

‘That this humble Holden is the last sort of car anyone would expect to see Devon driving around in. It’s part of going
underground
. You see how far I’m prepared to go? And the fuss you made about ditching the Norton. You should be ashamed of yourself, man.’

Although his tone of voice said he was only joking I could tell that part of him meant it, and I was a bit defensive.

‘You don’t really care about these cars though, that’s the
difference
. For you it’s just about going fast and beating the other guy. For me it’s different. It’s sorta … emotional.’

He smiled. ‘I know that, Trace. I was just stirring.’

The next night at the Viaduct, Devon’s mate Travis showed up. He was with about eight or nine other guys and they were drinking beer like it was some sort of contest. Maybe it was. This time, though we had the clothes right, it was obvious we didn’t fit in. They had all been match-racing … that’s what it took to be part of their group. That and a big capacity for beer.

They were all about the same age, so I guess they had all been to the same school, but no matter how well they knew each other, everything still seemed to be about competition. Whenever anyone finished a can he would crush it on the head of the person next him. Everyone thought this was really funny. Even Devon.

The guy next to me, Greg, made to squash a can on my head. I stood up and faced him. It was suddenly all a bit tense. The talking stopped. Everyone sat, waiting to see what was going to happen. I had that ‘here we go again’ feeling. Then he turned and banged the guy on the other side, who seemed so wasted
he didn’t notice. When the talking resumed it didn’t include me. Devon and Travis went outside for a bit and I was stuck there by myself.

After a while some guy said to me, ‘You sail, Trace?’

I thought for a minute and decided against bull-shitting. ‘I’ve never been on a boat, well, a yacht that is. My uncle used to take me out in a fourteen foot Fyran. Fishing on Lake Taupo.’

This didn’t seem to cut it.

‘A fry pan? Stink boats, we call them. You should try
match-racing
some time.’

Then he turned away. I thought, ‘Too fake for me. I’m not up to it’.

I looked for a chance to slip away. People kept buying a round: ten cans at a time. The pile of full and squashed cans was building up rapidly. I know enough about drinking to know that you can’t pull out until you’ve bought your round. My turn was still about four rounds away. I couldn’t stand it for that long. Greg went over to the bar and ordered. As he was about to pay I reached past him with a fistful of twenties and said, ‘I’ll get these.’

He wasn’t expecting this. For the first time since we came in, I felt I had wrestled back some control. As he staggered to the table with an armload of cans I slipped out the door.

The air outside was at last clear and salty. Devon and Travis sat over by the edge of the wharf, talking. Devon, always super alert, spotted me at once and made a ‘stay’ gesture with his hand that Travis didn’t notice. I sat on some steps behind a row of parked cars, trying to blend in without actually hiding. After a while they stood up and went back inside. Past the bar there was this block of ritzy looking America’s Cup apartments, so new it was hard to believe anyone lived in them. It was like one of those model villages for rich people. Everything perfect,
secure and clean. In front of it was this mint Falcon Ute. An XR8. Quite a rare beast. Someone lit up a smoke in it. The glimpse of face was vaguely familiar. I couldn’t get any closer for a snoop without passing open ground so I walked a whole block to come up behind them. I guessed from the matching red mullets who it was. It was the Taylor Twins. Rebel’s sidekicks. What were they doing there? Nightshift for Midnight Autos? Something caught their attention because they slid low in their seats, so they wouldn’t be spotted.

Devon had come out of the bar and was looking around for me. I stayed down. He headed off towards the car. I had to run for it, back the way I had come. He was already pulling out when I finally made it. I flagged him down.

‘There you are. I thought you’d shot through.’

‘It doesn’t suit me, that stuff. I can’t do it like you.’

‘You just relax into it. See it like a game. That makes it fun. Sure they’re wankers,’ he said as he drove out into the traffic, ‘but what does it matter? We’re not there to make life-long
buddies
. Lighten up, man.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘You wouldn’t even let him squash a can on your head. How do you expect to get on in the world, Trace? It’s a bonding thing.’ He was only half joking.

As we pulled up at the lights I looked back, and sure enough, a couple of cars behind us – was the ute.

‘Do you see anyone trailing us?’ I asked.

Devon glanced in the rear vision mirror. ‘Uh uh.’

‘A few cars back. The XR8.’

‘So?’

‘So it’s the Taylors. They were spying on you at the Salty Sow … whatever that bar was called.’

‘Bullshit. This is not Taylor Twin territory.’

That pissed me off. ‘They were there, and now they’re
following
us,’ I said with more emphasis

Devon turned into a side street and made his way back the way we had come. The ute did the same. Now they knew that we knew – the surprise had gone. We drove for a while in silence, both a bit spooked.

Devon turned to me. ‘OK. So they’re following us, what now?’

‘I reckon we either outrun them or stop and have it out with them.’

‘What do you mean, give them some fist?’

‘No. Be straight. Ask them what the hell they want.’

‘The old direct approach,’ he said in a silly cartoon voice. ‘It might be worth a try. One thing’s for sure – we can’t burn them off in this crate.’

We pulled over and the Taylors drove on past pretending not to see us, and they turned off a little way down the road.

‘Jesus. Cat and mouse stuff.’ Devon did a U-turn and once more headed off home. I kept a look-out and saw nothing. Neither of us talked until we had nosed the car into the carport back at the house.

We made some tea and sat out on the verandah in the dark, smoking. It was our evening routine.

‘I wonder what that was all about?’ Devon mused. He seemed a bit shaken.

‘God knows, but I reckon it’s not good. Do they know where you live? Rebel or any of that crowd?’

He shook his head. ‘They know I’ve moved out of the old place, but they don’t know where I am now. They’ve asked but I’ve made a point of not telling them.’

‘Well, I reckon that’s what they’re trying to find out.’

‘A rip-off you reckon?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘It makes sense. Those Taylors would be up for it. They don’t like me.’

‘How about Rebel?’

‘Doubt it. We’ve too much joint business and I don’t just mean dope.’

‘You reckon he wouldn’t pull a double-cross?’

Devon sat there, burning the hair on his wrist with the tip of his cigarette. I could see this was an angle he hadn’t given much thought to. ‘Buggered if I know. Anyway, it’s been a good night. Travis wants a kilo.’

‘Shit, he must have some money.’

‘Half now, half when it’s sold.’

‘You’ll be waiting forever.’

‘He reckons three days. Yeah, there’s money in them there boat boys. Not that Travis has got any, he’s just a try-hard hanger-on.’

‘Yeah, I picked that.’

‘I’ll get Johnno to bring down a pile tomorrow. It’ll do him good to come to town. Stop him talking to his dogs for a while.’