Who Sings for Lu? (21 page)

How many pubs, how many times had Sniper adopted a breezy casual air asking the barman, the publican, ‘Mate, what time does Deano get in?’ Such a common name, he had to give a description: about so high, curly hair, early twenties? What does he do for a crust? Oh, a bitta this and that. Haven’t a clue what he’s up to these days, we’re just old mates from way back.

Starting around mid-arvo every day, he chose an area and went for it. What time does Deano get in, mate? Deano who, mate? Deano about so high, curly brown hair, a serious bloke, me and him go way back. Nope, nope, drew blanks all day and into the night long.

How many pubs should a man do? As many as it took to get his hot little hands on that big lump on offer.
Don’t know who it comes from, don’t care, just want to collect, the middle bloke can take whatever cut he likes, all I know is the bounty is ten a head minus the in-between man’s cut.

They’d been considering the photo he took of Lu, plus the info of her likely whereabouts, to see if Sniper qualified. Sure, Rocky was in the shot but no need to mention him, he was in jail when this shit went down.
But they better send someone good, the bloke’s as hard as they get. Soon I’ll be in the money; take out the family’s ten per cent on every earn and a bloke could trade his wheels up. Or maybe go for a smaller
car with petrol prices heading back up. Fuckin’ Arabs
. Hennessy family tradition, it might even be a familial behavioural trait, to love money in its every sweet description, spondulicks one of his favourites. Sigh, another lovely word consigned to history.

He’d found the other two, though of course no proof it was them, just gut instinct and a few eyes round town who’d seen them
four-handed
in the vicinity around the time of the dastardly deed. See what happened. Got them pinpointed like a GPS locator.

He’d thought about setting Jay and Bron up with a newly made ‘mate’, say someone who’d got a job at the same firm, and extracting the story slowly out via the old mateship thing, mouths loosened by a few grogs. But nah, take too long. Even than this sixtieth-plus pub of fruitless asking.

‘What time does Deano get in, mate?’

‘’Bout three-thirty, bein’ Thursday,’ said the barman. ‘You had a run on his raffles? He plays a straight bat, that kid, everyone says that.’

Sniper could bottle the man’s blood. ‘He wouldn’t like the same bloke winning too often.’ Thinking fast on his feet. ‘Same at the casino. They peg you for a regular winner, you’re out.’

‘Too right. One-way traffic, casinos. You a mate of Deano’s?’

‘Nah. He’ll know me face. That’s his go now, raffles? What, meat packs, prawns kinda thing? Or cash?’

‘The green stuff, what every punter wants.’

Going on three o’clock, enough time to ask his new mate the barman, ‘Do me a favour. When Deano comes in and I’ve got my back turned, just give me a wink?’ Chuckling, put a hand on the old geezer’s shoulder. ‘You couldn’t buy a ticket or three on my behalf?’

‘I get ya. No problem, sport.’

‘I’ll split fifty-fifty, you don’t have to buy a ticket.’ Looking around at this oddball pub sited right on the edge of the notorious Redfern, so reputed because of Aboriginals who totally dominated the area. Scary just walking in here.

‘I’m one of those lucky punters,’ Sniper said. ‘The kind they don’t like, makes them look crooked to the losing punters. A six-pack of chooks, tray of meat, I got uncanny luck.’ Knew the guy would be impressed with uncanny.

Two light beers later, Jonty the barman gives the wink that Sniper’s man has arrived. Just that little flutter of sweet nerves as Sniper never attracted violence or heavy stuff.
Who would find me a threat?

Copping for this Deano in the mirror, and he was definitely in cahoots with the old lush with the boozer’s hooter, both of them busy with little raffle-chit booklets. He’d only seen Deano a couple of times, hard finding a place for him in the memory database. Young guy didn’t look like no violent rapist. Never mind only a mirror reflection to go by. Same thing. Except the writing in reverse on Deano’s baseball cap that read Roosters, backwards. Sydney rugby league team, good they were too.

Like you are, Snipo, at what you do.

Out there in the night of the wretched race, howling to the moon stolen from him and obliterated, too, by the white men’s grog, by the juggernauts of their ever-advancing culture and their crushing monumental contempt, their theft of what he had named himself, their stamping and hot-iron-branding him Aboriginal when he had ten thousand tribal, family names for himself …
Let him drown in the stupefying liquid, sent into a state of collective madness, a plunge into the abyss of self-loathing,
this was what Owen was hearing.

Even in his own drunken stupor of every day of a drinking life fifty years long, he had an awareness of his residential surrounding. Redfern. Its inhabitants feared by the rest of the city like packs of
rabies-infected
dogs, and it was true they were in a shocking, unsalvageable state, and of the worst infection: spiritual. But for once, purely on a pub philosopher’s argument, it was not their own fault; they had none but a small culpability in lacking the fiery pride all men must retain if they are to survive meaningfully. Intelligent enough to figure that out, was old Owen. Why he had kept a few steps away from the abyss drunks usually fell into. Of course he understood the hold booze had even to a member of his white race not violently stripped of its every last dignity.

Even at his drunkest Owen’s eyes and brain still functioned on
another level, like a saved reserve of fuel for when the engine of his mouth totally conked out, since something of a man’s mind remained perfectly unaffected, the part which still saw and cognised things. And he rarely felt the despair of ordinary drunks, especially now Deano had come belatedly into his life.

The grog did thicken his tongue, so come 7 pm, imbibing since Deano’s cooked breakfast and with three to four more hours’ drinking left, he fell further into the world of incomprehensible, spoke like a lost language the tongue of drunks. Yet it was like that of certain telling, truthful dreams: made no sense not to anyone, but eminent sense when you were in the dream and knew how to navigate your way through.

Only an emergency plucked spoken words from another place of some sobriety — like the red button even alcoholics must have, to keep alive and intact what their pathological thirst valued. They developed antennae for danger, to their liquid supply and to physical well-being — though even the most dangerous youths who hunted in packs rarely bothered with an old soak. No challenge, no resistance, like beating up a wet sack.

His brain was not addled by the constant weathering of alcohol. Just the working parts worn down before they should.

‘Don lie,’ he managed to garble to Deano. To his ears sounded perfectly understandable. Second time he tried it, though, it came out, ‘Done larrk!’

Deano said, ‘Talking Swahili again, ya old prick?’

‘Fuggin liss meh.’ In his mind, like right back on top of a wardrobe, the words perfectly enunciated. Just couldn’t quite reach them.

Deano leaned into Owen. ‘What? You’re three hundred sheets to the wind, not three, ya stupid old bugger. Come on, not far to go.’

Took a monumental effort of will and doubtless love for the young man for Owen to say reasonably clearly, ‘Dee? Dee? Kah over dere. Danger. Jush run, son. Run.’

Instincts of being a street kid, a born survivor without the ruthless side, took over instantly and so did his wits as Deano said, ‘Sorry, Owey,’ as he shoved the old boy over, stood a few moments over him pointing as if in anger.

Then took off into the night.
The door buzzer sounded. Jay sitting watching the box. Bron fussing about in the kitchen trying to fry chicken patties and the butter burning.

Laughing, Jay said, ‘Did you order takeaways ’cause you’re burning that shit?’

‘No. And they’re not burnt too bad, can scrape the black crumbs off. Thought it might be your escort girl arrived.’

‘No way, man. I’d never pay for it. What, you order Chinese in case your cooking failed?’

‘Told you, I didn’t order nothing. I’ll get it. Be one of the neighbours.’

Over Bron went to the intercom system, on his fourth beer can, same as Jay, of another sweet Saturday end of the six-day working week, today at time-and-a-half penal rates. Nice. Spending Saturday night at home no problem as the novelty yet to wear off. They liked it here. Liked their jobs too. Liked life, in a fuller sense and perhaps for the first time ever.

Telly up too loud for Jay to hear the person speak, but he turned the volume down, did ever-cautious Jay-son.

‘The landlord sent you? How come?’ was what Jay heard. Got his ears pricked.

‘You’re six D, or do I have the wrong flat?’ the voice said over the intercom.

‘Apartment, you mug.’ Bron turned away so the guy couldn’t hear he didn’t like it being called a flat.

‘Got a gift for you.’

‘Tell him to fuck off,’ Jay called out. ‘It’s a salesman. Fuckin’ insurance or a five-grand miracle vacuum cleaner.’ Remembering just such a salesman recently who’d knocked on their door after somehow gaining access and got given the shove and told if he came back without invite he’d cop it.

Jay got up off the armchair. A beer in hand. ‘Fuckin’ old burglar’s trick that. Ask him the landlord’s name. Can you remember it?’

‘Something-ulos, wasn’t it?’ Bron said, his hand cupped over the intercom.

‘Christopoulos. He likes being called Mister. Ask him. Here, let me talk.’

‘You there, mate?’ Bron stepping back to let Jay take over. Had to give a little sigh.

‘Sure am. Gidday to you.’

‘Gidday to you too. What ya selling?’

‘Nothing. Just got a gift from the landlord.’

‘From Mr Davis?’

‘Christopoulos. Who’ve you been paying your rent to then?’ Bloke with a small chuckle.

‘Oh, that’s right. Davis was our last landlord.’ Did the hand-cupping and whispered to Bron, ‘I think he’s for real.’ But still.

‘Why would he give his tenants a gift?’

‘Mate, don’t ask me. I just deliver for him. The other tenants I delivered to said thanks very much.’

‘For what?’

‘Dunno, mate. Box of goodies from a landlord who’s grateful to get tenants in these tough times.’

‘Why are they tough?’

‘Listen, you sure about these questions? Credit crisis, sub-prime fallout, worldwide recession, they’re what I hear the boss talking about. As if I’d know.’

‘You and us both.’ Jay at Bron who was shrugging he was sure it was legit.

‘Look, I can leave the box down here,’ said the voice. ‘Got your names on it. Leave it in the foyer. Got plenty others to deliver.’

Bron gesturing at Jay to let the man up. ‘A box of free goodies? Push the button, man. Or it’ll be gone by the time we get down there. Why not let the gofer bring it up?’

‘Might be a bomb,’ Jay joked, not that worried, not now. He pushed the door-release button. Smart technology to send a signal all that way and open a big heavy glass door.

‘But I tell ya, if he’s any kind of salesman he gets snotted,’ warned Jay. Not very convincingly, as it was most unlikely.

‘When he knocks, let him wait,’ Jay suggested.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Duh, to use your favourite word. So we don’t look desperate Dans for the box of goodies. Called pride.’

‘What do you reckon is in the box?’

‘Shit, I dunno. We’re not exactly experienced at this, not even at Christmas, eh, Bron?’ They shared a wry grin. ‘I’d say cans of food, baked beans, spaghetti and stuff. Cheap and nasty and we’re meant to owe the landlord a favour for the rest of our lives for a twenty, thirty buck outlay. Smart thinking.’

‘That’ll be the door.’ Bron started for the kitchen.

‘Where you going?’

‘Smell dinner burning.’

‘If there are baked beans I’ll have some on toast. Love ’em,’ Jay said standing there with folded arms like he promised, keeping the man waiting. Another knock sounded.

‘Coming,’ Bron called out, close to giggling. In a half-voice said, ‘G’won, he’s waited long enough.’

It wasn’t one ‘he’, but two of them. Gorillas. One had a gun in his hand. Both with faces to match.

‘Gentlemen.’

Oh, this is not good.
Lu at this situation
. Why am I doing it? Blame Rocky. His stupid idea. All right for him, he’s done his time and he’s a man, he’s tough, doesn’t know the nightmares I have of being locked up that send me crazy. In a cell with a gleeful Uncle Rick who says he has me for life now. Lately a certain big detective has become a cell mate. I couldn’t take prison. Stupid girl, your whole life
stupid
, what have you done to yourself now?

‘Mrs Chadwick?’

To the woman, at once very attractive in an older sort of way, standing at the door she’d opened. When who the fuck else could it be — Mother Mary? Nicole Kidman?

Oh, man, this is so out there I don’t think my legs will hold me up.

Didn’t say anything, only nodded. If a slight tip forward of her perfectly coiffed hair was a nod. Not gloriously beautiful like her daughter, but would have been close, in her prime. Maybe not quite. Jeezuz, now what?

‘And your name?’

‘Oh. Sorry. It’s, uh,’ wanting desperately to give a false name, survival instincts demanding she did. ‘Lu. Luana in full.’
Done it now, kid.

‘Which do you prefer?’

Lulu, actually, from my friends. But you’re a stranger, even if we’ve
said a lot to each other in writing.

‘I’m used to Lu.’

Same barest of nods. Nice trim figure in a plaid skirt, plain creamy top, thin gold chain round her neck and that was it for bling. Eyes strained and just holding back on the anger more probably hatred,
I expected that. Looks better than the newspaper pictures and on the TV news. Shit, I’m shaking all over. Skin’s gone all clammy.

‘Well …’ Well
what? The world’s starting to spin faster and faster, gonna black out any sec.

‘Come in …?’ More question than invite.

She stepped back to let Mrs Chadwick past, not sure of the manners, the procedure of, well, hosting a visitor at this apartment Rocky had arranged, another client of Rocky’s new business hardly two weeks started.

Somehow they both reached the centre of the living room in this open-plan kitchen and living room–dining area. Thirty-eight floors up in the sky, thirty-eight impossible flights of stairs to run down if or when the cops pounced at this woman’s setting up. Did Lu blame her?
Sure I blame her. Be breaking her word wouldn’t it? But no, I don’t blame her. How could I? Oh, why did I agree to do this?

‘This isn’t your apartment I take it?’

‘Hell no.’ Is hell a swear word to these people?

‘A friend’s?’

‘Not even that. Friend of a friend’s. Sit down, if you like.’

‘In a moment.’

Mrs C, what Lu had been calling her in her mind of late, walked over to the big windows affording a grand view of the city. World Towers this building was called: must be two or more. Lu got it mixed up with those buildings the terros brought down in New York. Had been sitting up here waiting for Mrs C, her imagination running wild with pictures of cops busting in and a jet plane coming straight at that window for her and her alone. Piloted by Mrs C and her daughter.

Waiting for a small-talk remark about the view and her response rehearsed in agreeing in a try-not-to-pretend voice. But the bitch said nothing. Just plain nothing. Things spinning again.

This face not for one moment what Claire expected. Of such unexpected beauty, even in this raw working-class woman, all Claire could do to make her planned coolest of openings.
My God, she is frighteningly gorgeous. How could she be the person? And why does she not appear to know her physical qualities? Even my modest, unselfconscious Anna has some idea she is attractive. Not this one.

The complexion could be Eastern European, something Riley had taught her to look for: he always commented on women and their distinctive attributes as if they were thoroughbred horse flesh and now she knew why.
Damn you, Riley Chadwick.
Flawless skin, a slight coppery tan, soft black hair unpretentiously styled, likely all she could afford. Striking green eyes, if diffident and unsure.

A noble peasant face structure in the best sense of noble. Jeans with design-ripped knees, flesh showing how young people do, loose top of light material, almost see-through, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. Very good figure. Not a gram of excess weight.

Of course the kid was very nervous, just as Claire’s own nerves were going off like shorted wires. The smell of a smoker, even if no freshly rank evidence of her habit was present in this apartment. Presumably because it wasn’t hers.

Why am I here? If my husband hadn’t run off, would I have just handed her letter over to the police and let them deal with it? Am I using this as an excuse, a distraction from my personal grief? Which hurts the most, Riley or Anna?

What a choice. Was it wrong if she judged them of equal moment? How about her family in little pieces then?

All those hours of thinking what she would say, the exchange of three letters apiece, a whole lot said Claire’s end — understandably. But now what did she say, of the hundred different questions and things she had clear in her mind to tell this criminal lowlife? The photographs Claire had brought of Anna at different ages, the intention to really give this young miss a piece of her mind — gone. The carefully chosen words, the anguish rehearsed and boiled down to bare essentials so to keep the emotion out of it, at least as much as she could while being in the living presence of, surely, a monster? Gone.

Claire had her as overweight. Plainer than plain bordering on ugly.
Not this. Sure, her common qualities seeped out every pore: you’d never mistake her for anything other than what she was, not even if seriously dressed up. Claire knew that if the girl had attended Anna’s Sydney boarding school those daughters of rich fathers and snobby mothers would have made her life miserable, to put it mildly. She was not blind to certain aspects that went with private schooling, and though she had raised her daughters not to look down on others, she hadn’t actually gone so far as to urge Anna never to follow her peers in being cruel and mocking of a fellow pupil. She assumed — she
knew
— Anna would never do such a thing, since she came home with tales of girls given a terrible time because they were overweight, on a scholarship and therefore ‘subsidised working class’, unattractive, too geekish, all manner of perceived poor qualities which did not fit the upper-
middle-class
mould, the same Claire had experienced at her own private school in the Hunter.

This young woman thought her inner feelings concealed behind that flat-eyed look, when she was clearly someone hurt, broken — though Claire saw no sign of drug use.
But what would I know about life
for hard-nosed city girls?

Not even sure she is reading this situation in the rational way I am. Looks like she’s here under duress, on someone else’s instructions, the same as she said in her first, shock-surprise letter. She doesn’t get it. Guess because she
can’t
get it. You have to learn these things. Were I brought up as she apparently was, how could I possibly be any different?

Now you’re feeling sorry for her, Claire Jennings. And that’s ridiculous, let alone an insult to your poor Anna.

‘I don’t like the idea of being here any more than you do,’ Claire stated. ‘But we’re here.’
Now she’s frowning. A literal type it would seem.
‘I suggest we forget about the awkwardness and just one of us start. Somewhere.

‘And as I’ve come all this way … and I’m representing not just myself but a family …’
Keep a grip on yourself, woman,
‘it may as well be me.’