Who Sings for Lu? (8 page)

A slow smile spread on the big man’s face. ‘Now, ordinarily I might consider that a signal you’re not doing this deal. But … then again …?’

‘I’ll walk with you to your car.’

Something happened, the mood or something about standing there in narrow Best Street, in Woollo, trees throwing evening shadow on houses and people going in and out like an old-time movie in flickering black and white. Yet seemed apt to these people, kind of caught back in time, always a couple of steps behind, like behind in their bills, always, and always fraught and vexed in their emotions, except they kept it bottled up till something made them explode. Well, Lu didn’t want to explode. But did want to express.

Feeling if she didn’t share her secret now, she never would. That it would destroy her, from the inside out even as the oppression was external, of purely physical nature far as the abuser was concerned, but rotting her very core.

‘Got something to tell you,’ she said. ‘On my mind for, like, years.’

‘Years?’ Jay went. ‘And you decide now’s the time? You remember the dough I lent you at long last?’ Not very funny.

‘Shuddup a minute, Jay,’ Lu said. Then told them.

Once she was able to see beyond their stunned silence, she realised only Deano showed full surprise. As if Jay and Bronson had already guessed some bad shit was going down with her.

Jay said quietly, ‘He has to go, man.’

Lu said, ‘Nah, not if you mean killing him. We go down for murder,
pass Rocky on the way out and he can come back four times and we’ll still be in there, locked up. I ain’t doing two life sentences for the creep.’

‘I think Jay means like a broom handle right up your unc’s arse. Right, Jay?’ Right. Something like that. ‘I’m a starter for some of that. See how he likes being on the receiving end. Your own uncle?’ Yeah, her own uncle. Hearing someone say it made it sound both shocking and yet a relief.

Deano had a tree shadow to himself, the lights and landscaping from the council’s recent spruce-up throwing dark shapes like army camouflage. His breathing had changed. Bron lit four cigarettes, passed them round. Something to suck on, to think on.

Finally Deano said, ‘Nothin’ worse than a sexo within the family.’ Looked at Lu, and even though his eyes were shadows, she still felt the intensity. ‘H,e’s not allowed to do that,’ Deano said. ‘Know I haven’t known you long, Lu. But you don’t deserve that. No chick does. It’s not right, is it, boys?’ No, it definitely wasn’t.

‘Where’s he drink?’ Jay asked. ‘His regular?’

‘Comes over from Leichhardt,’ Lu said. ‘But, you know, I didn’t tell you so we could go on some Mafia vendetta.’ Lu getting a bit scared at her friends’ reaction.

‘Who said you’re coming? I mean that’d be giving yourself up, wouldn’t it?’ Jay. ‘This is man’s stuff.’

‘Isn’t everything?’ she said. ‘Dunno why I told you.’

‘Well, you did and that’s it,’ Bron said.

‘Remember what happened to Rocky, Jay?’ Lu to Jay as the other two didn’t know Rocky. ‘That happens I might feel worse than if I’d kept my mouth shut.’

‘Legs shut you mean?’ Jay, with murder in his eyes. ‘Which you’re entitled to. His own fuckin’ niece. What age did he start did you say?’

‘I didn’t. Can’t exactly remember. Nine, ten.’

‘Nine. Or ten.’ The chorus of them just puffed the words softly, as if the only way to express incredulity.

‘You were just a little kid.’ Deano, the newest member yet with the strongest reaction it would seem.

‘Yeah, just a little kid.’ Lu starting to choke up and that just
wouldn’t do.
I’m a Woollo girl. We don’t cry
.

‘So how come you told us now?’ Bron wanted to know.

‘Dunno. Time felt right. Not that I had thought of saying anything. It just came out.’

Bron stepped up and gave her an unexpected hug. The others followed suit. A girl near broke down on the spot.

The boys’ drinking changed markedly, faster and with hardly any talk, as if opening to another version of themselves, maybe with nobility and chivalry, honour and respect all thrown in. Might be their natural integrity had been thrown an opportunity. The vengeful part of men too. For none of the boys felt ordinary any more. Not with the planning ideas starting to come and be thrown into the circle, like cave dwellers round an ancient campfire discussing a pending battle made exciting and deadly by moral outrage.

Dark came over them, the clamour of the guys’ voices rising like knives being sharpened. Jay had eased close and protective to Lu, they had all come closer, like animals looking after their own.

Riley was never good at afternoon naps or even relaxing much. Too many years of fearing the business would collapse from sheer lack of cashflow and a doubting bank. But a hot tub in his suite with a bottle of Italian sparkling water took care of the work-ethic guilt, as did thinking over Tulloch’s astonishing offer.

Tulloch’s offer too high for what he was buying. By about five million. Yet he couldn’t see any possible angle Tulloch might be motivated by. Could be he was seeing future earnings, had just applied too high a multiple. But a Tulloch over-paying? Never. Fifteen million cash was a lot. Sure, he’d made more than that over the last decade or so, but most had gone into expanding the business. This would just sit in a bank, now governments worldwide were forced by bank troubles to guarantee depositors’ savings, and the money subject to less tax due to the shareholding set-up in a family trust. Thinking of conservatively gearing to buy a portfolio of buildings with safe tenants to spread the risk, at a two-to-one ratio of equity to debt.

The text went off right beside him; he wiped a hand on a big fluffy towel, which he thought a bit pretentious, didn’t need to be told the obvious. The room rate reflected that. With exceptional service of course.

It was Anna.

God, hope she hasn’t changed her mind. She can’t turn up now.
Looked at his watch sitting on the broad spa rim, just after six. Maybe he wouldn’t read it.
But she’s your daughter, your special daughter. And if she does turn up
…

Out wid frnds soon, njoy yr meetg. Xxoo

XXs and hugs 2 u 2,
he fired off. He climbed out of the tub.

Looking in the full-length mirror at a fairly flat stomach, not much muscle conformation, a bit narrow of girth to say not such a big heart, legs straight enough but hardly prime stallion limbs.

The face his wife and others said was handsome but unspoken qualification in their tone and he could see why: something in his somewhat shy expression, even to himself. In horse terms, kind eyes. In his heart he’d much rather be the beast, like Raimona was in his early days — still was if approached by all but three people. Even Riley had to be wary.

And yet something there in his face, as if he didn’t truly like himself. No reason not to — a stable enough upbringing, parents neither demonstrative nor verbally encouraging but he didn’t feel hard done by; his father’s entire life revolved around his successful furniture and carpet store in Maitland, mother quite a distant person, as if permanently distracted. None of her children adored her, not like they did her parents, the only grandparents Riley knew. Granddad Sean who doted on him because he took to horses at a young age and carried the family name. When he got left the broodmare farm, certain family members got upset and his parents took his brother Martin’s side — Martin being the oldest. Even twenty-two years later things had not been patched up, his brother hardly spoke to him and his parents were distant. You’d think he had inherited multi-millions and they were left starving.

From day one of taking over Galahrity he was too busy to worry about lack of contact with his family. Even his immediate family took second place to the business. Now look where it had got him.

Staring back at him, however, for just one slightly troubling moment, was a man doubting himself. Doubting his integrity, questioning why he was so looking forward to this tryst. As if his wife, the woman he’d married, did not exist. As if life could only mean something if it was a
prime race horse or a prime woman.

Oh, come on now, Riles. Drop the moral bullshit, this is simply male hormones
. Easier to get on with a second shave of the day to ensure smooth facial skin for a close encounter. Clean his teeth, gargle mouthwash, put a hand on his genitals and give that mirror reflection a defiant, even
self-loving
, rampant-man smile. Picturing himself like his stallion, coming out with two strong handlers barely able to hold him back, fully erect, his penis a beast in itself, rearing up at sight of the mare’s turned sex, plunging straight into her, no foreplay requirements with the equine species, lunging bared teeth at the mare’s leather-protected neck. How would Bella, or whoever, react to that?

It never changed. Something emerged in him the man, the personality, in the private intimate company of a lover. This one or that, it mattered not who. Indeed, a slightly different persona emerged for each individual — and there had been dozens over the years. He was in complete charge, a worldly man, a woman-lover who could hang on her every word, stroke her suggestively mid-conversation, crack a joke, of course tell her many times in an evening how beautiful she looked; he could hold back his sexual urge, take time massaging her, talking softly as he rubbed and squeezed and broke any hesitancy with praise and humour.

Another Riley Chadwick came out, the world changed to the one of his planning, light chatter over the room-service champagne on ice, high-quality hors d’oeuvres the hotel laid on. No smoker attracted him, no matter how beautiful. Though the aroma of Sandy Tulloch’s Cuban cigar that afternoon had Riley considering he might one day take it up as an occasional habit. An impressive, prepossessing look too: a fat Havana sticking out your mouth. A man-in-charge image. Overtly phallic symbolism.

There were ones who started off uncomfortable when first arriving, he could read them on opening the door, the discomfort, the obvious implication sex was going to take place. A rule too that he always informed he was not only married but happily so, this was about sex, albeit best practice, and not for him to offload gripes about a wife not interested in screwing.

Some were confident, not in need of a drink or space-filling talk,
got quickly down to business without any inhibition. One part of him preferred this direct approach. Another thought it too forward. Until, that is, nothing mattered. Then, the moment it was over: what was all the fuss about?

Those who had been with him more than once knew the routine: enjoy best-quality drinks, a few laughs, the woman did most of the talking, he the attentive listener, snacks and the occasional full meal, drawn-out foreplay and mutually enjoyable sex. Then time to leave, honey.

Staying out of town in a top hotel his routine was he’d run a fresh spa, afterwards watch a documentary or the horse racing channel, call his wife to report in, sometimes Anna to say goodnight if it wasn’t too late, or he’d text her. And planning his horse operation well ahead, as he kept extensive records on everything to do with the business, he would often stay up late working, get on the blower to Straw and talk horses, no matter the hour as Straw did not mind in the least.

This end of night he had a large sum of money to think about. The days of bank overdrafts might be well behind him, but fifteen million, in these highly uncertain times that were affecting his business as badly as any, was a massive buffer.

There was Bella to dwell on, how good she was in the sack. Measured not just on his own pleasure but if she achieved climax. For it not to be a two-way street seemed a waste of expensive hotel and the time spent looking forward to it. Waste of a woman, her own sexuality, too. If you were going to do it, then go hard out. Which was Claire’s problem: too inhibited. Good to be with, but not for one moment earth-shattering.

Unlike Bella who had no inhibitions, declared in specifics what she wanted of him; boy did she know herself sexually. She liked, to use an American term, to give and receive head. Her intimate odour a natural arouser, quite different to the Chanel perfume, whatever number she wore. She was thirty-two, she said. ‘Separated, but neither side is hurrying the divorce — no reason why, just indifference and I’m over marriage.’ A ten-year-old daughter her sister was babysitting. She hinted she could stay the night, but to Riley that felt a worse betrayal of his wife than having sex with another woman.

Tonight, their third time together, they’d shown better
understanding
of each other’s sexual needs, perhaps emotional ones too, though he didn’t want to go too far down that path.

Check to see if Anna sent another text. No. Could still be out with her friends, his lovely girl whose eyes he thought questioned him. But how would Anna have got on to him? He was very careful.

He wouldn’t get back to the farm till lunchtime. Never mind. Things had changed. Fifteen million in cash was the next life-changer after Raimona.

Place was from another era, back in the last century. It could well be late ’60s the geezers in this pub were out of — or not out of. Still stuck there. Jesus. In a fuckin’ time warp.

Back in the past, forgotten men who Deano could see had never once been vital; he had grown up surrounded by the same type. In every face, even in smiling or laughing, something bitter tasting twisted each man’s features. Something sour. Not sour you could spit out and replace with sweet or just plain pleasant-tasting. Bile-bitter sour. Men who wanted to vomit up all their pathetic unmanly qualities and start again.

He could see his own father mirrored. Faces made worse by the booze as it slackened the muscles like a slow and sure strangling of self restraint and pride, and there was no need to hide the failure. Bulbous drinker’s noses everywhere, the rheumy eyes, and lips how they pursed together, at every few sentences. A man had to gather his composure, keep the slurring at bay, try to be coherent, least till it no longer mattered.

Deano bought a schooner, sauntered over to an elbow leaner table, parked his elbow and beer on its careworn surface, right by the pool table. Looked around, confirmed his man was in residence — standing right over there. Felt a little tension come on then.
Relax, D. He’d have no idea why you’re here. Stare at the walls, play a game of picking out the
photos, guess who the famous sportsman is.
Beer nice and cold. Could feel it already working on a man’s muscles, calming his brain. Maybe emotions too.

Back with a fresh beer. To Skid Row indoors, the last step before life was over. Kind of frightened him too, like staring into the future and maybe seeing his own face here among his own beaten, never-tried kind. Give-up merchants.
Nah. Not me. No way. Fuck that.

One of those olden-day pubs, still had the old beer signs in the windows and a frosted bottom half so you couldn’t see in. Keep the wives’ eyes out, stop the kids from seeing dad on the piss. Ceramic tiles on the walls to about chest height: plain cream, a shiny glaze, the top row quarter-rounds and smaller, with a pattern. Nicotine-yellowed old-fashioned wallpaper going up to a high ceiling — that fancy ornate plaster stuff, kind of cool if you had nothing else to look at and no one to talk to.

Black-and-white and colour photos, framed, of horses winning some famous race as inscribed below. Melbourne Cup. Doncaster. Golden Slipper. Every Aussie knew of these famous races. Pics of boxers, famous league players. No upper-class rugby players here. Every league player’s face game-battered and a few familiar faces now bouncing at places up at the Cross, gofers for the gangsters, bashers for club owners and debt collectors. More pics of race horses thundering past winning posts, from other eras. How good would that be, to see the horse you owned be first in a big race? How much money would you make? Be the end of any unhappiness, for sure.

Patrons went out for a puff, including Deano he decided: an opportunity to get talking with his man who was heading for a fag right now.

No, he could wait, even if hanging out for a fag. Patience, they’d all agreed. ‘Or it’ll look so obvious you went there with an agenda, Dean.’ They dropped the o, his mates did, when it was serious shit, called him D when things were going well or one on one, Deano in general.

Had his mark from the photo Lu gave him, bloke a few years younger in the shot but it was him all right, confirmed for the second time, standing over there on his Pat Malone, SEXO screaming from his eye-darting existence, hair combed across the skull how baldies
everywhere do, a day’s facial hair, funny weak eyes, a stupid grin like he’d won a twenty dollar line at the bingo and felt he’d done something clever, or as if about to resume a conversation with someone. Chin of a weak man, set back from the upper lip cleft diving down to a skinny throat on a rakish body with its violating dirty old man’s cock. Of all the bad things Deano had done in his life, committing sexual crime was not one of them.

Drinking alone, but with that eye out for conversation with anyone, Lu’s Uncle Rick clearly a Larry-no-mates. Deano had ignored the solicitous looks, he’d keep, let him go out for a puff; sipped at his beer, glanced a few times at his watch, took in some more of the human surrounds. Men who could say they weren’t defeated because they never entered the race, the fighting ring. Just stayed outside it, the cheek to criticise everyone who tried, downing their beers, changing into even lesser men who would go home later and beat up wives and kids, some sexually abuse their own kids, terrorists in their own homes.

The odd younger man but none his age — worried it might make him look suspicious. Couldn’t do anything about that now. No intention of ever coming this way again at any rate. Not as if they were going to murder the bloke. Just serious enough injury not to invite too ferocious cop interest, figuring cops wouldn’t give a sexo like Rick that much of their time.

Knew the barman was weighing him up, would be unable to place his face, though Deano was no neon-sign ill fit: these were his kind of people, like his parents’ generation, same type, same pissheads, same gene pool. Just older versions. He could be the son of one of these losers in the barman’s eyes.

Trouble with drinking on your own in a quite crowded bar, it affects you more. A litre of beer and he was ready to go, just walk up to the dude and publicly accuse then haul him outside into the dark and put some slipper into his balls and head.
Settle, Deano, son.
Watch a horse race in the meantime on the box, of no interest to a young man. Hear the announcer say something about a horse being out of Raimona. At first thinking that was a country, till he realised it was either the father or the mother. Big deal. He didn’t care if the horse was out of fuckin’ Africa.

Outside the heat was bearable, and though there was a smokers’ open air area out back, most chose to stand out front, on the street among steel-shuttered small shops selling second-hand books, tropical fish and food for fish, dogs and cats claiming to be on super special. They could see the action, traffic and young louts and hoods on the street; could always duck back inside if the trouble got too near. Traffic a constant flow down on the Paramatta Road. Less so this side street. He’d play it cool to start so the bloke didn’t get suspicious.

‘How ya goin’?’

‘Yeah, all right,’ Deano answered without looking at the bloke.

‘Fuckin’ smoking laws, eh?’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘What laws are there for them then, eh? Eh? Who tells them what to do, what not to do? What’s wrong with a bloke enjoying a fag? He ends up with lung cancer that’s his lookout. Right? You agree?’

‘I do, mate. Too right.’

‘Ain’t seen you around before? Well, saw you last weekend, as you would a stranger.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What wind did you blow in on? We’re more a pub for older folk. Would’ve thought a young bloke like you’d be down on the Paramatta Road, drinking at one of them trendy places, a café, a wine bar, whatever they call them. Heineken’s what they drink don’t they? And wine. In a
glarse
.’ He did a mock accent well short of the mark, even to Deano’s ears.

‘Not me. I drink Tooheys on tap. Get more bang for your buck. Like it quiet. Just moved here. Flats are cheaper out this way.’

‘Than the city? You betcha they’re cheaper. By a country bloody mile, mate.’ Uncle Rick edged closer. ‘By a country mile. How much ya paying?’

‘Ninety bucks. Shared room.’

‘That’s reasonable. With who?’ His eyes got suddenly darting. ‘Not a pretty sheila, ya lucky young bastard?’ Old Rick chuckled, showed his rotted teeth that had breathed foul air over suffering Lu.

‘No, mate. In my dreams.’

‘In yer dreams is right. Sheilas these days. I thought they turned it up more than in my time — do they?’

‘Dunno. How often did they turn it up in your time?’

‘Not bleeding much, I can tell you. Fuckin’ missus, I’d be lucky if she gave it once a fuckin’ month. She doesn’t watch it the thing’ll heal up. As if that’ll be any missing. I’m lucky to find it. You heard the one about how do you find a fat woman’s hole?’

‘Yeah.’ Deano found a little grin. ‘With flour, right?’

‘On the wet spot. Bloody funny that one is.’

Uncle Rick paused then, weighing Deano up. ‘A man’s not made to get it once a month. Is he?’

Spilt the sentence. To draw Deano in, have an escape route. Or confirm.

‘Is he, I say?’

‘No. Guess he isn’t.’

Deano drew hard on his cigarette, held it in to do its stuff, let it go. Wasn’t looking at Rick directly, just in his wider vision, to give him room.

Room to come out with a leer, a glance around, couple of quick sucks at his fag and come further into Deano’s cave behind a cloud of smoke.

‘All men are born to fuckyfucky alla time, hah?’ Rick, in the strangest of accents.

‘You got it.’

Two steps closer. The eyes right at Deano.

‘And I bet you done your share, eh, ya lucky bugger? Fuckin’
given
it to ’em? Rammed it right up the ole twat hole? Her cakehole, might as well, seeing it’s a hole. Eh? Eh?’ Chuckling.

‘Cakehole?’

‘Her mouth, son. Her north and south, we used to call it in my day. Kids don’t use rhyming slang anymore. Then there’s her, uh, a-hole?’ His laugh more an uncertain cackle, eyes flickering all over Deano trying to get a read.

‘Aw, dunno about that one.’ But without a disapproving expression. Didn’t want to scare the bloke off.

‘Well not
yet
.’ Rick’s eyes went wide and he giggled. ‘Some say it’s the ultimate experience. Ya know, with the tightness and all. Eh? Whaddaya reckon?’

I reckon you are going to suffer, that’s what.

‘Pat’s the name,’ Deano introduced. The grip back surprisingly strong for a man exuding weakness.

‘Rick. Or Ricky. However you like. Join a bloke for a beer then?’

‘Maybe later, Ricky.’ The man reacted to being called Ricky — looked like it made him feel loved for himself.

‘Just whenever you feel like it, Pat. Or just join me for the next smoke, you want?’

‘Sure. Waiting for my flatmate.’

‘He’s a bloke? Or?’

‘With two horny sisters, don’t tell the world.’ Deano now with his own leery grin. Had it all figured out, how he’d lure the man.

Rick just stood there. An old man wanting to be young, to have more young females sexually, at opportunity denied him because of age and character and all the other crosses against his name.

‘Horny? Two of them? Sisters? Peas from the same dirty pod?’

Yes, Deano nodded.

‘Sisters?’

‘Yep. Blondes.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘Lucky is right.’

‘Same age, round about, as you? Or what?’

Deano’s turn to look furtively around. ‘A bit on the younger side.’

‘Mate? Don’t be sorry about that. We’re men, aren’t we? A
ninety-year
-old bloke would be happy to die on top of a youngie. Wouldn’t you when you’re ninety?’

‘If I live that long,’ Deano said, like he had no chance. ‘Like what age we talking for her to be?’

‘Old enough to have a hole. The two down there and one on her face. If you don’t count the nostrils and the earholes.’ That laugh. ‘Come on, son.’ His hands splayed. ‘Any age as long as it’s out of nappies.’

‘They’d want to be a whole lot older than that.’
Careful, Deano. You’ll blow it
.

‘Sure. I wasn’t saying, like, a baby, or a toddler — how old are these sisters? Horny you said? Dirty, lucky little bastard. No offence. And you’re not little.’

‘None taken. How old are they? Jesus, Ricky, I don’t know you.’

Up a hand came. ‘Stop, right there. None of my business, right? Right. Say no more, mum’s the word, my lips are sealed. I’m going back in.’

Yet he gestured Deano lead.

At the door Uncle Rick tapped Deano’s shoulder. ‘If they were, say, fourteen, what’s wrong with that? Coupla years this side of legal, big deal. Eh?’

Deano shrugged.

‘Even younger, say twelve. I mean to say, they’ve got hairs, little tits, that age.’

Deano said, ‘Some have hairs and
big
tits at age
eleven
.’ This was going better than he’d hoped. Got Rick turned fully around.

‘What’d you say, son?’ Deano just looked, to say:
You heard
. ‘After you, Pat.’

In the wake of Rick’s awful chuckle, sent from the bowels of somewhere putrid, Deano had a slight change of plan to do with the damage intended.

Rick kept trying to catch Deano’s eye and when Deano let him, he gave a fellow conspirator’s grin or wink back. A half hour later Rick indicated smoke time again and he headed for the door.

First Deano lifted a hand to say he’d be out in a sec. Fired a text on his cell:
Fish on da line. Cum get us
.

Outside, several other smokers, all drunk, with clothes that hung off them like trying to get away, or the contents were diminishing. Same age group as Rick, ten years younger and ten older range. Deano kept his distance so as not to make his mission obvious, and the mark kept his own because what he had to say was not for other ears.

Deano strolled up the street, out from the pub’s lighting. Behind him Rick said, ‘Hey? You going?’ Deano kept walking a few more paces. Stopped and started texting.

Heard Rick say, ‘Oh. Private stuff.’ That chuckle.
Gonna suffer, old man.

After sending the text Deano stood there. Out of the verandah lighting and with the nearest street light a good twenty metres away his
face wouldn’t be visible to, say, even Uncle Rick, who called out, ‘Don’t tell me they’re on their way?’

‘Who?’ Deano called back.

‘The sisters?’

‘In a way, they are. Mates coming to pick me up. Go see them.’

No response for a few moments. Other smokers headed back inside. Rick lighting another fag. Traffic headlights going by.

‘Lucky you,’ Rick said. ‘I said, lucky you.’ Louder the second time.

‘Might catch you next time, Ricky?’

‘Catch me this time if I was, like, invited?’ Fighting with himself, Deano could tell — what he wanted by instinct and his nature, the risk he was taking. ‘Pay the price, too bloody right I would. Who wouldn’t? I’m staring at sixty. Still get a rager on like I’m sixteen.’