Black Angels???Red Blood (4 page)

“Their mothers and fathers were like that.”

“I know,” Tim said.

“Locked up in concentration camps,” Charlie adds. “And fed poison.”

“I just feel so sorry for them and their kids. Nothing's changed in two hundred years for them,” Tim laments.

“Ah, well, don't let it get you down. There are strong people in the community still fighting for them,” Charlie said. “Forget about it, you'll only run yourself in circles. By the way, the old fella dropped by.”

“Did he say anything?” Tim asked.

“He said he'd catch up with you.”

Tim was feeling very tired and bloated from the grog and the dope and lay down for a rest. When he woke it was coming on dusk. He felt much better and was glad he had a friend like Charlie. The house was quiet and Charlie wasn't home. He had a lingering shower and a cup of tea, then went to look for the old Lawman.

Tim had gone strangely quiet as he walked. Another black death in custody. When the anger got the better of him he spoke out loud, “What Lord, couldn't you find any decent people to bring to this country? Only rapists, murderers and thieves who hate black people. We're sick of the garbage. Our country is not a dumping ground for white trash.” Tim paused and looked up and said to an invisible spirit, “And don't shake your head at me.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Tim learned from the lady the old man was staying with that he'd gone to the pub to play the card machines. That was an hour ago and Tim hoped he would still be there. He found him sitting by himself at a machine with a couple of hundred credits up. The old man smiled at Tim as he sat down beside him. The smile, to Tim, seemed to have a deeper meaning.

“Trying to take on them whitefellas by yourself.” The old man nudged Tim. It didn't really surprise Tim that the old man knew what he was up to and he was glad that somebody knew his comings and goings. “There's lots of us around. You don't have to go and do it by yourself,” said the old man.

“I know, it just moves too slowly for me,” Tim said with an impassive and reflective look on his face, and then added, “There's been another black death in custody.”

“What were you going to do, Tim?” the old man asked gravely.

Tim stared at the poker machine while all of the different avenues of thought were processed and then replied in a resolute manner tinged with defeat. “I really don't know.”

He lifted his right hand as if to continue, but the old man
intervened. “That's why you need us”—he pointed his finger at the space that Tim was staring at—“to tell you what to do.”

“Get this through your head,” the old man continued sharply. “The whitefellas don't own this land, it's only a matter of time.”

Tim came out of his extended stare at the poker machine to acknowledge the authority of the old man. “You're the boss.”

“Have a beer,” the old man said and when Tim returned they made a toast to land rights. The beer tasted surprisingly sweet to Tim and went down easy. It gave him a taste for it and he started thinking about the nearest automatic teller machine, when the old man struck a jackpot.

“That's what I've been after.” The smile on his face told the story. “I won't have to go busking tomorrow. I'm gonna cash it in right now.”

The old man came back with a wad of notes and slipped Tim a fifty. There were about 40 credits left and the old man suggested that Tim play as well. They sat and played it out for a while, cracking jokes about radical whites, the Nazi types. Tim had another beer and the old man declined.

The publican had been watching them and had caught some of their jokes. He had a long hard look at Tim. Tim caught his gaze and realised what it meant but left the smile on his face. “The publican's a bit hairy.” He motioned to the old man.

“Blacks walking out with this much money, of course he would be,” the old man said matter of factly. To change the subject, Tim told him about meeting Sylvia. “She's really nice, an actor, and she does a few other things as well.”

“Really?” A look of surprise crossed the old man's face. “What's she look like?”

“Pretty, about 165 centimetres, shoulder-length black hair and about twenty-five, I guess.”

“I know that one. My niece,” said the old man.

“True?” Tim said with a completely new demeanor.

“She's a good woman. Knows her business.” The old man didn't press the issue and there was a slightly awkward silence between them. The old man stood up telling Tim that he was going to make tracks and suggesting he come back for some yarndi. Tim declined and said that he was going up to the Royal for a drink. “To celebrate,” he added.

“Make sure you shout them other Koories,” the old man said on his way out.

Tim finished his beer, and as he was leaving he smiled mockingly at the publican.

Across the road he met up with an old friend, Sam, who was heading in the same direction. They greeted each other in a warm and friendly manner. Tim thought Sam was a bit of a classic. Highly educated yet prone, like Tim, to bouts with the bottle. “Where are you off to?”

“Goin' over to Newtown,” Sam answered.

“Drop into the Royal for a drink?” Tim asked. “I've got a few quid. I'll shout ya a couple.”

“Gis a lend,” Sam came straight out with.

Tim laughed and handed him twenty dollars and they set off for the pub. Tim was thinking about the night he had been down on his luck and badly in need of a friend. Sam had shown up, and they had raked up five dollars between them, gone to Newtown and had both had a ball.

About two hundred metres from the pub, two uniformed police in a small paddy wagon pulled them up and asked the normal series of questions. Neither Tim nor Sam were concerned with their presence. After they moved on, Tim
told him that he'd been at the bottom pub on Abercrombie Street.

“That's a coppers' pub. What'd ya do? Give ‘em cheek?” Sam asked.

“They must have heard me.” I was telling this old fella that the coppers should go to Tony Mundine's gym and fight one on one. Instead of gangin' up like they do. I said a few other things as well.”

“How long are you in town?” Sam asked.

“A week or so. Don't really know,” Tim answered.

“You bumped into that old fella from WA yet?” Sam asked when it dawned on him the reason. Tim was in town.

“Saturday arvo. First day in town,” Tim answered.

At the Royal Tim was greeted by the barmaid. “Hello, long time no see.”

“G'day. I'm back in town for a few days.” Tim said, returning her smile.

“What are you doing now?”

“Still unemployed. But I'm working on it.”

She took the money from Tim in exchange for two schooners while motioning to Sam. “Are you back to break the TAB again?”

“Yeah, we'll do that too,” Sam responded as he headed for the guide. The pub was not busy, maybe half a dozen people besides Tim and Sam. Tim lingered at the bar for a chat. This pub used to be his regular when he came to Sydney for long spells. Later he joined Sam for a look at the greyhounds but didn't care to bet.

“Did you win some money?” Tim asked.

“Last week. Two grand,” answered Sam as he filled out a ticket.

“You would've had a rage,” Tim said.

“So did half the blacks in Redfern.” Sam laughed. “I
spent the whole lot in Eveleigh Street. Woke up next morning flat broke and went and asked this lad I gave five hundred for a lend of fifty.” Sam's acid tongue was working overtime and he added, “They wouldn't even give me enough for a feed, the fucking arseholes.”

“Well, at least you go and spend your money there.” Tim knew that Sam had done more for blacks in Redfern than a lot of well-paid workers would take years to do.

“Charlie ended up cooking me a feed and throwing me twenty.” Sam reflected. “Drunk, see. If I'da gone straight to Charlie's...”

“If only,” Tim agreed, and they both did a nasal “Yeeeeaaahh.”

“I reckon I can win this trifecta.” Sam enthusiastically crossed off numbers while studying the fluctuations. “Wanna go halves? Three dollars it'll cost.” Tim agreed.

Sam picked the trifecta which paid around $150 and complained that the roughie should have run third and paid double what they got. Tim was happy as he was not used to winning. Sam reinvested his winnings but Tim pocketed his. They ordered more beer and went and sat in the pool room.

“Do you remember when I last saw you?” Tim asked.

“Yeah, that was a fuckin' good night.”

“I got picked up by the coppers after you left,” Tim said. “About some stolen goods from the pub we were at. They took me back to the police station in the paddy wagon.”

“Where? Newtown Police Station?”

“Yeah. When they opened the back up there were three uniformed coppers standing there. They asked me for my movements that night and the first thing I said was I had a beer with Wally at the ‘Shaky' and the three of them in
unison took one step back. They closed the door and came out a few minutes later and told me to piss off.”

Sam laughed out loud. “Wally must have some reputation.”

“I didn't even mean to do that, it's exactly what we done,” Tim responded.

“What'd ya thieve? Anything?” Sam inquired.

“You know me, I don't thieve,” Tim answered firmly.

“Naah, there's no fuckin' future in that.” Suddenly Sam jumped up, eyes glued to the TV screen. “Go, you little pisscutter.”

“You should've come in with me on that one, Tim. This'll pay a few hundred.” Tim was used to Sam winning big, while he considered small fish sweet.

“I might pick this up in Newtown,” Sam said.

“Want to have a smoke before you go?” Tim offered.

“Yeah, I'll have a smoke with you,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together.

They went out and had a smoke. “If I don't pick up a woman, I'll meet you back at Charlie's later on tonight,” said Sam as he headed off to Newtown. Tim went back into the Royal for a couple more drinks. He wished he had gone with Sam. The pub had almost emptied and he was starting to feel lonely. Apart from the barmaid, nothing held his interest. He slowly picked himself up and said goodnight to the barmaid, and left to go back to Charlie's, hoping to bump into someone to talk to on the way.

When he arrived back at Charlie's the house was empty. There were a few Koories on the street. Tim sat on the doorstep. Two women walked past and asked him for a smoke and he obliged. They made small talk and finally asked him if he wanted to throw in for a carton and go to
their place for a drink. He reluctantly said no, preferring to wait for Charlie.

“You sure you don't wanna come?” the taller one half pleaded, knowing that Tim would more than likely have some pot on him.

“Naah, I'm waiting for Charlie to get back.”

“You don't know what you're missing out on,” the taller one said over her shoulder as they went on down the street. He could hear them laughing out loud and Tim guessed the joke was on him.

When Tim had lived in Redfern a year ago, there were several different women dropping in for tea or dinner. A lot of them were white social workers or uni students and their visits made a few of the younger black men in the community a bit standoffish. After they realised, via the Koori grapevine, that he wasn't sleeping with any of them, some of the men even started to say “g'day”.

Tim wasn't feeling so lonely now. The women's attention had sparked him up. It was nearing ten o'clock and like clockwork down cruised the local constabulary, windows wound up aggressively, staring at the Koories from the protection of their police cars. Tim stared back and followed them with his gaze until they were well down the street. He was just about to call it a night when Charlie pulled up in his beat-up HQ Holden.

“The old Holden is still going!” Tim remarked as Charlie hopped out of the car, almost tripping on the seat belt.

“They go forever, mate, didn't you know that?” Charlie cheerfully responded.

“What? Didya get lucky?”

“Ya could say that. I scored a pound for a grand,” Charlie enthused.

“That's alright. Shit, everybody's got lucky today,” Tim said.

“I wouldn't bring it back to Redfern. Not with these pigs crawling all over the place,” Charlie said.

“The old man won five hundred on the card machine and Sam won a few hundred on the dogs,” Tim announced.

“It's the calm before the storm, Timmy,” said Charlie. Back inside, Charlie told Tim about a hippie from Nimbin who didn't know the going price of dope. “I pulled out the grand on the spot. Really nice heads,” he said as he showed Tim a sample.

“You over your little phase yet?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah, had a good sleep. Went to the pub with ten bucks and come home with a hundred.” Then he added thoughtfully, “The old man had a yarn to me.”

“All in good time, things will happen,” Charlie maintained brightly.

“I just want to get away from all this shit up here,” Tim said tapping himself on the temple. “Have some fun for a change. You know.” And he got up and shook a leg Mroody style.

“Well, let's have a smoke and go up to the Judgement Bar in Darlo and look at some women.”

“‘Look' being the operative word, I guess,” Tim said with a wry grin.

“For me mate, not you. You can attract them. You've got the knack.”

“Yeah, sleep with the wrong one and ya may as well be knackered.” Tim laughed.

“Just put a condom on, you know. Condoman, be game, don't be shame,” said Charlie, carrying on the joke.

They were both laughing by now. After a quick smoke they locked up the place and headed towards the busy
intersection hoping to hail a cab. “Yeah, drive on, ya prick. Our money's not as good as whitefellas'.” When a cab finally stopped, they harangued the driver about the lack of respect shown to Koories trying to hail a cab. The cabbie answered simply, “We're not all like that.”

Louise has just scored some heroin. She withdraws the needle and slumps serenely into a world where her anxiety and depression are lifted from her mind. Her eyes close and her pretty little face looks angelic apart from the dribble coming from her mouth. The crashing down of the door wakes her from her drug-induced sleep. Louise panics absolutely and jumps out the second-storey window.