Who Sings for Lu? (9 page)

Hurry up, boys. Bring your net.

‘Only on a wage, mind. I make the teas and get the bought lunches on the sites for a building firm. Ungrateful bastards, least the Aussie workers are. The new Aussies they’re not so bad. Ya like new Australians, Pat?’

‘You mean ethnics?’

‘I mean foreign guests of our country. But least they’ve got manners, appreciate a bloke’s efforts. Your own Skips treat you like you’re their fuckin’ Abo slave.’

‘Like their chicks more. Yugos, Russians, Greeks and Dagos, so fuckin’ good looking,’ said Deano.

‘I guess. All look the same down there though, eh?’

‘Some better than others.’

‘I take home five-twenty-three, always have about a hundred a week left over. In a year that does add up,’ said Rick.

‘To what, Ricky?’ Deano thought there might be another plan change so they could clean up as well as get revenge for Lu.

‘Savings? Like a year’s worth? Oh no, I wouldn’t pay that much. Jesus.’

‘How much?’

‘For the girls? How old did you say?’

‘I didn’t. And I won’t. You might know a cop or three.’

‘My whole life I never got to know a cop. Who me? Son, if you knew — between us, how old are they?’

‘They? You want both?’

‘Didn’t say that. How much for one?’

‘Dunno. We don’t pay anything. How much you prepared to pay?’

‘Not used to paying for it,’ Rick said. ‘I take it.’

‘Good for you, old fella.’ Deano made as he’d had enough.

‘Never said I wouldn’t pay. But I don’t carry much cash,’ said Rick.

‘Can’t you go to a cash machine?’

‘Never thought of that.’ As a car pulled up, rear lights facing, ahead of Deano.

‘You coming, Ricky?’

‘Aw, I dunno.’

‘See you around.’

‘You never said how much.’

‘You say it.’

‘No, you say.’

‘Shit, I dunno. A grand?’

‘They’re eleven?’

‘Not saying, Rick.’ Dropped the y.

‘That’s a lotta dough, for just —’

‘So go to your grave with it, mate. As if I care.’ Deano stepped up to the rear passenger door of Jay’s old bomb, left Rick pondering.

Next, the crunch of footsteps coming this way.
Nice work, Deano
. If only real life were as easy as this.

Practising her cello took Anna’s mind off any distraction — and just about every minor problem, since she had no majors in her life, hardly lived that it was and from a happy family. It lifted a mood, even if she never got that low, ended real worries like how she would fare in exams and tests, if she was in love or not (yes, no, yes, no, but maybe, or maybe not): nothing mattered with the instrument nestled against her like a child, Anna’s head cocked at a motherly loving angle to it, arm around its long slender neck, bow in the other hand massaging it. For hours she could play, repeating notes and short sequences over and over again. No other thoughts.

Problem was, even in an establishment with other music students any instrument practice got on other boarders’ nerves. She understood that. More reason why she should take up her father’s offer and move into her own apartment, or maybe a house. Invite her friend Madison, a down-to-earth farm girl from Wagga who happened to be musically gifted, to flat with her, Dad could set Maddy’s rental, he’d be fair but no such thing as a free lunch he would say, dear old Dad. Everything had to have a life lesson, but no better father could she wish for. As to her paying rent herself, out of the question.

‘You’ve earned your exemption by being a wonderful daughter, and you’ve worked hard on the farm without pay since you were young.’
Justifying dropping his rigid standards for his darling girl. ‘We owe you for Raimona, never forget that.’

When she didn’t give it a thought, not as if a six-year-old goes out with intent to change the family fortunes. She just felt a connection, an empathy with the big horse. Still did, but as a friend, not the
money-spinner
he turned out to be. She also knew her father’s faithful employee had a lot to do with the business’ success, felt Straw didn’t get enough credit.

One of her male friends told Anna that capital gains in property had gone completely by the wayside, residential and commercial. Didn’t she know of the worldwide credit crunch, of the burst bank, property and every other bubble? Her old man must have more money than sense to think he could get capital gain, let alone from an apartment in Sydney of which there was a massive oversupply. Dearest Dad, pulling the wool, anything to ensure her next three years of study went smoothly.
Lucky me
.

She looked only a little way ahead, except with her music study, and often not beyond the next party. Which would surprise her father as he thought his girl a little angel who did everything with a
long-term
view. To hell with that. She loved a party, occasionally got drunk, smoked the odd joint, enjoyed the stoned giggling, relief from the relentless pace of formal music study, especially classical.
Why not? I was given a good life and who said it has to be a relentless aiming for the jackpot all the time? Like my dad. And has it really made him happy?

Her father’s eye for women did concern her. He thought he was discreet, and certainly she saw no sign that her mother noticed. Funny how cheating on one’s spouse was left off his list of homilies and life’s moral code. If he was cheating and if her mother ever found out, that would be the end of it: she would not put up with it, not even the once; a daughter knew her mother well enough to be sure about that. So why would her father break up the family unit over sex? It wasn’t
that
good, was it?

Poor Mum. Poor dutiful, complete mother. But Anna not so sure what she’d be like as a wife. She could never talk intimately, let alone intimacy, with their mother. Bright, good looking, solid, straight down the middle, happier to be a listener than a talker — not like her three
close friends Sue, Karen and Marilyn, all of whom could talk. But they were fun. Where Mum could never be described as fun, not even for a short burst at, say, a good party at home. She just stayed on the same even keel, drank in moderation, danced but not with abandon, laughed but rarely heartily. And you never remembered anything she said, trivial or important. A person quite content to be in the background.

Still, a daughter hardly spent all her time thinking about her mother or, for that matter, her father.
We have our own lives to live. Our different destinies.
And if her dad would get over any delusion this daughter intended taking over Galahrity Estate, he and her mum could plan their own futures better. Anna was
not
taking over the farm, under any circumstances, and those included the highly unlikely event of falling in love with a horse lover. She wanted a different life, as much as she adored growing up there and had a natural affinity with horses, the wilder the better. Problem with overly doting fathers, they saw things in their favourite children that weren’t true.

Spending her adult years out in Widden or any other valley in the country was not in her plan. Intolerable the thought of growing older and richer and the women having to gather together for cultural stimulation and form their little book and music-lover clubs, go on organised visits to Sydney and Melbourne art galleries, or shopping expeditions. On top of that, to apply her father’s thinking, the gene pool for eligible males was by definition limited in the country. Perhaps she could use that argument: ‘Dad, you don’t want me breeding to poor bloodlines do you?’ Thinking of some gormless wonder from Musswellbrook, Jerrys Crossing or the like.

Living in France for a time had appeal. A nation that loved culture, literature and the arts, cuisine and wine, that appreciated good music in every genre. With very handsome men who didn’t drink litres of beer and swear like troopers and watch sport incessantly. She dreamed of one day coming home with her handsome Frenchman: ‘Dad, Mum, this is Jean-Paul. He’s been fucking me silly.’ Now that would shock them, even Dad, for his angel to be talking like that — let alone doing it.

That latter thought more private defiance of convention than something she would say, not to anyone. Though fucking per se held no illusions for Anna Chadwick. She knew the difference between lust
and love and that sometimes a person felt like one, sometimes the other, and sometimes both at once.

Her guileless mother thought her still a virgin: Anna hated the term and had no respect for the ‘purity’ concept. The Chadwicks weren’t guilt-ridden, Holy-Virgin-obsessed Catholics. When you’d seen a stallion’s huge penis driving into a mare’s vagina, the only purity was the stallion’s scary mating urge which only tanks could stop. Or, from an amusing viewpoint, a mother’s trio of friends and their incessant chattering might put even the rampant Raimona off his sexual duties.

Thoughts of love might occupy a small percentage of Anna’s thinking and of course lust claimed her from time to time. Otherwise she was in a state of no-think, just doing, getting on with the job at hand, studying cello and classical history and structure. And enjoying living away from home.

Breakfast with her father had been great. They had the best smoked kippers, fresh from where else but Pyrmont fish market. Discreet sniffing failed to detect any hint of woman scent. Reading his face for an illicit lover’s self-satisfaction didn’t come up with anything either. He was just Dad, her father unable to take his eyes off his girl but not too over the top. He worshipped her.

The poached eggs were perfectly done. Bread baked on the premises still hot, crusty outside, just how she was told they did it in France. Learning that French women had a cultural horror of being even slightly overweight, let alone of the obesity syndrome afflicting both sexes in Anna’s world, made France even more appealing. She kept herself trim. Unlike many a young woman who did so, it was not to look good for a man or men, but for herself. Learned from her father: do everything for yourself and others will still benefit.

Her friend Madison admitted she found Anna’s beauty intimidating and her presence charismatic. Told her, ‘You have a star-like aura.’

Anna dismissed this out of hand. ‘My looks are what I was born with, and the word “charisma” is thrown around the way movie people do “genius”. As for star-like aura, I think Nicole and Angelina are media inventions, and I’m just Anna. Your animals mooed while ours whinnied. We all crap. So give me a break and leave me out of this star aura stuff.’

Naturally she and Madison shared a love of music, Maddy studying jazz. They listened to John Taverner’s
Protecting Veil
cello work, and Elgar’s seminal cello concerto. Or John Coltrane’s sax recordings, Wynton Marsalis on trumpet.

Maddy had a lover and was considering making it two as she liked another man, she said, just as much. What did Anna think? Not her cup of tea, not even sure she didn’t have moral issues with her buddy’s sexual appetite. Handling one man would be enough.

Bronson and Deano got to Boomerang Place, down William Street from Hyde Park, when Deano glanced left and just stopped.

At sight of this lane, a concrete pathway, with trees along one side and these modern-style lamps the other side bent over like silver
long-necked
birds. Going uphill, where the pathway crested, reared the twin spires of the cathedral, St Mary’s, all sandblasted clean so it kind of glowed this pale earth colour of cleanest sandstone slabs, and was near screaming a meaning to Deano if only he had the brains to figure out what.

Turned to Bron and pointed, ‘Take a look at that.’

Bron looked. ‘At what?’

‘Nothing. Thought I seen something.’

Grinning, Bron said, ‘Since we did the old rapist you been a bit nervy.’ When it wasn’t that, it was something else Deano couldn’t quite figure, not conscience, more a thought his life had taken a wrong and even bad turn.

Hardly another fifty paces when this time Bron got pulled up short. ‘Hey …’

Hey was right. At a fuckin’ big showroom of Bentleys, the signs everywhere said. Bron ogling the gleaming metal chariots while Deano looked back at the pathway, then back at the Bentleys. From one big
unobtainable — God, or salvation — to a showroom of the unobtainable — super-expensive cars. Holy fuck: the price tag of $432,000 on one. Drive-away price, sign said.

Again Deano looked back up that strange tunnel effect and got the crazy thought of being saved, plucked by God’s big hand. Like, lifted up and out of this life to some other place where he could start again, be someone else, not so much the religious experience. Had been getting thoughts lately of going back to Brisbane.

Then, seeing the Bentley emblem of wings, with a B in the middle, he changed it to a D and saw himself rising above this city and heading north to Queensland, good old sunny Brizzie.

Bron said, ‘There’s pros nick these off the street, from parking lots, even fuckin’ owners’ driveways. In a container and ship ’em overseas. Them fuckin’ Asians don’t care if it’s some Aussie’s stolen motor they’re driving round Hong Kong or Shanghai. Why would an Indonesian care if his cool car’s stolen from a Skip? We should do one ourselves. I heard they pay fifty for one of these.’

‘Who does?’ Deano’s wings had suddenly lost chance of lift. He no longer saw a God figure, instead was hearing the old man’s screams.

‘The crime bosses, duh.’ Bron like it was so obvious.

‘There still such a thing?’ Deano asked. ‘I thought they got cleaned out years ago by some corruption-fighting team the government brung in from overseas?’

‘There’s still some around, always will be.’ Bron certain. ‘’Cept most are foreigners. Lebs, Turks, Russians and Asians among their own kind. That’s why they have shootings down in Chinatown.’

‘Why, ’cause no like Missa Wong’s chop poo-ey?’

‘That’s quite funny for you, D. Mood you been in lately. Yeah.’ Bron chuckled.

‘Strangers in our own land, eh?’ said Deano, meaning more himself, personally.

‘You could say that.’ Bron broke into a parody of shuffling Chinaman walk, and went, ‘Ning-nong-ning-nong’, giggling. Then brought up short at another Bentley in the window.

‘I’ll pass on the four thirty-two, thanks. Have the red one at
two-hundred
and ninety-nine thousand, ta very much.’ Looked at Deano
and said, ‘Mate? You seen a ghost?’ At whatever of Deano’s thoughts had leached out and taken over his face.

‘We didn’t kill the bloke.’

‘Came close.’

‘And you’re crying for him?’

‘Does it look like I am?’

‘Sounds like it. Fuck the cunt, what he did to our Lu. Lucky we didn’t do him more damage. Come on, Deano.’

Bron threw an arm around his mate. They walked for a bit.

‘Man,’ Bron said, ‘how good were you at hooking him in that pub? We couldn’t believe it when you turned up with our Uncle Rick tame as a lamb. He fell for your shit. Plus we copped for the grand he drew out of the cash machine.’

‘And who was it stopped you from getting out ’cause every ATM has a camera? Who was it told Jay to park up the street a bit and let Rick walk back to do his cash transaction?’

‘Yeah, mate, they were good calls. But we’re still famous, only anonymously.’

‘I don’t like being on the front page of newspapers, on the TV news. Hearing callers give their theories and opinions on talkback radio. I’m the only one can be identified by the patrons at the Lame Goat pub.’

‘So how they gonna do that — pick you out from four million in Sydney?’

‘It’s two when you take out the females. Then kids and all men older than mid-twenties range. They got ways of reducing it down to like a short list.’

‘Sure. With, what, only two hundred thousand on it? Get real, D. Even if they did get us we’d be heroes once it got out why. As for the publicity, I
loved
the “horrific injuries” tag. Genital mutilation the first day’s headlines. Oh, man. Next day: “Testicles
and
Penis Sliced Off!” And saying —’ Bron changed his tone to mock brevity, as if reading from a newspaper report — ‘“Victim says there were three assailants, he has no idea why they singled him out.” We should send an anonymous letter and tell them why.’ Back to the voice again. ‘“Mr Duncan says he was physically manhandled into an older-model Japanese car he thinks could be an early nineteen-eighties Datsun Sunny.” We weren’t even
born when that car was running around. We’re famous, Deano, just no one knows who we are.’

Deano had stopped seeing the Bentleys. ‘So what’s stopping us writing a letter?’

‘Duh!’Cause it’ll lead straight to Lu. The cops will soon break her, she’s a chick.’

‘They mightn’t want to find us if they knew what went on.’

‘You know, I feel like someone who took part in something special,’ Bron said. ‘Something important. We’re sort of like unknown stars in a way, what we did.’

‘Us, stars? Unknown or known, you got to be kidding.’

‘The hell I am. We’re genuine good guys, mate.’

‘We’re genuine nobodies,’ Deano almost shouted. ‘Not even ordinary people.’

‘Says fuckin’ who?
I
feel good about it. And what’s this nobodies shit? So who are the somebodies?’

‘Bron, you just asking is the answer. Duh to you too, for not holding up the mirror and seeing what we are — or aren’t, to be exact. What’ve we done with our lives?’

‘Hey? I dunno if I like where this is going …’

‘This is the highlight then — cutting off some sexo’s cock and balls?’

‘Jay did the cutting. Ask him. Think you’ll find he’s very proud of himself. Defending his
mate’s
honour.’

‘Not what I’m saying.’

‘As for Lu, she’s the best-looking chick I ever got close to without wanting to touch her.’

‘You wish though?’

‘Did I say that?’ Bron looking a little defensive. ‘For someone who’s not feeling so good about what we did you sure put the slipper into him on the deck.’

‘Cracked him on the head with a rock too — had to. He was putting up a hell of a fight.’ Deano pointed at another car showroom, they crossed William Street to take a look and, man, what to say?

‘Who dreams these up?’ Bron open-mouthed and even Deano was distracted by the sight of three Ferraris sitting there gleaming, as if a
day for noticing things they’d gone past countless times before.

Sculpture in brilliantly painted and buffed steel. Art on wheels. Animal hides turned to leather most beautiful yet still had the growl, even the stitching said something to a couple of common Cross blokes.

‘Could fuck who we liked with one of these,’ said Bron. ‘Haven’t had one since me and Jay had that ho up against the wall. She was hot.’

‘Stoned, more like it. Skank material. See her eyes?’

‘Wasn’t worrying about no eyes.’

‘She wasn’t pussy,’ Deano sneered. ‘She was pus. Sheez, you’re cheap, Bron.’

‘And you ain’t? Yeah, right.’

Back to the dingy pad in Woollo to three letters from the unemployment department: they had foregone their right to draw unemployment benefit for failure to attend job interviews as the law required, blah, blah, blah. That was it. No dough coming in any more.

To Jay in the dingy garage working on his car, had got someone to give it a cheap paint job, from yellow to a horrible red, like an apple more than a week sitting on a shop counter.

‘Deano here reckons we ain’t heroes what we did.’ Bron wasting no time.

Up Jay came from under the bonnet. ‘Considering was me did the dirty part.’

‘And I set the mug up,’ Deano reminded. ‘And we’re not heroes. Maybe loyal mates to Lu is all.’

‘So go call a cop, Dean.’ That dropped ‘o’ from Jay. ‘Me, I’m like Brono, never felt so good in ages. Maybe in my life.’

‘He reckons it’s not such a life.’ Bronson again, like ratting on a pal. ‘That we should look in the mirror and see what we
aren’t
.’

Jay took some steps towards Deano. ‘You say that? About us? Meant to be like blood brothers after what we did together?’

‘I just don’t feel easy about it.’

‘Oh? Don’t you?’ Sarcasm in every word. ‘We do a public good that could put us away for a good seven, eight years — and you don’t feel
easy
about it?’ Jay wiped his hands clean, like he was getting ready to fight. ‘So how
do
you feel?’

Like running away back to Brisbane
, Deano thought. ‘No regrets.
Just scared of getting caught, going inside —’

‘Getting your bum fucked by the heavies you afraid of? Or you just getting ready in case we get pulled —’

‘Don’t go there, Jay. Or you’ll be fighting me right now. I would never grass up anyone. You better know that,’ Deano came right back at him.

Jay said, ‘Come on. Let’s not be at each other. What happens when young punks pull a job, they blow it when they set upon each other. Me and Bron are proud of what we did. You, D, have got your doubts. Let it sit a few days. Go and talk to Lu and see how she feels. Okay?’

Yeah, okay. But something had ruptured. The last thing they intended.

Couple of days later the quartet on a train from Central to Liverpool with a special consignment to deliver in two backpacks, not in keeping with their unanimous aversion to drugs but considered necessary now the boys were no longer entitled to the dole. And if Lu didn’t approve she didn’t say so. Seemed to the boys she’d gone the opposite way of being unburdened from her uncle. Had kind of gone into her shell a bit.

But such was life and so were women: impossible to understand, eh, guys? The walking mysteries in skirts. Or jeans. Or a dress. Or nothing at all. Laughing at that one.

‘Like terrorists on a train, eh?’ Bron from stuff on the television news of some time ago, none knew when, it was in London they thought and the dudes were on trial, so they must’ve been nabbed before they could do the bizzo. ‘Duh, or they’d have bits and pieces of blown-up flesh on trial wouldn’t they?’ Duh was right.

Liverpool. Sitting at this grubby little café at a table outside, table next to them had three likely single mums with squawkers in strollers, one ankle-biter running around being a nuisance, who Deano said was a walking genetic flaw should’ve been put down at birth. The mums talking over each other to claim expertise in how the court system works for their boyfriends, lovers, brothers or themselves. Blah fuckin’ blah.

Deano said they were a bunch of fuckin’ eggs. The guys agreed.
Lu not the slightest interested. Jay and Bron between themselves wondering if she wasn’t as fucked in the head as Deano: they should be celebrating, Jay had urged only yesterday, seeing two of them glum and two still on a high.

‘Used to live down the road in Cabramatta,’ Bron said. ‘My olds in one of their nine-hundred-and-fifty runners from flats they owed rent.’

Jay said, ‘Wow. That’s really interesting. My grandmother used to knit socks for us that we all hated. What’s Cabramatta got to do with anything?’

‘I went back a little while ago,’ Bron said. ‘There’s a big sign middle of the town says:
Discover Cabramatta. A Taste of Asia
. Asia? Middle of a Sydney suburb?’

A thought that sobered.

Plan went off without a hitch. A grand to divide up between three. Lu passed: she got a wage. ‘You guys need it.’

On the train back to the city same bouncy duo in high spirits having dough, even the pensive Deano had cheered up. Lu, well she was about the same, no, maybe happier if just for the boys scoring and at Jay and Bron exchanging wit. Took a while for Deano to notice the old bloke who kept glancing his way.

At Redfern station the man stepped up to the opening doors, turned to Deano and said, ‘Seen you around. Haven’t I just?’ Got off.

With Deano through the gap after him. As the train continued and took away the ‘Hey!’ of Jay’s.

On the platform Deano said, ‘Hey, you? What did you say?’

Straightening to less than an average height the old guy said, ‘Saw you outside a certain pub, having a smoke with a certain person. I’m talking an ordinary ciggie, not drugs. I think you know the pub. In Leichhardt?’

Deano remembered the face then, just another vague one in that sea of defeated men’s faces in a pub, nothing remarkable about him. Though closer to the bloke he had something intensely curious in his eyes, as if he thought a lot. Maybe because Deano was a bit the same. Drank a lot too, by look of the nose. Where comparisons stopped. Deano knew when to stop drinking, mostly.

‘Lame Goat,’ the old guy said as if Deano needed reminding. ‘First you, a stranger your age in this dive for older men and different, I daresay, to you in nature and outlook. Two weekends you show up, Larry-no-mates. Then next thing we see is Rick Duncan’s all the news. In the papers —’

‘On television, on the radio,’ Deano finished for him. ‘I remembered the bloke from his photo.’ With too much menacing stare. ‘Had a chat outside having a smoke, yeah, we did.’

‘Thought you had a closer look than that at him, wouldn’t you say? From what the papers said. I never see the telly, usually I’m legless at that hour.’

‘Dunno what you’re talking about, old man.’