One Night Out Stealing (12 page)

He knew a Jane once. She got killed in a car crash. Wasn’t her driving neither. Never is the woman. They only get to die, or end up horribly injured, in wheelchairs even, in the name of the driver’s manhood. Like Jube’s manhood is on the road, encased in the act of speeding. Jane’s boyfriend was driving. She got killed and he lived. Guy still drinks most days at Tavistocks. Plays the tragedy to the full, even though it happened a few years ago. They do that, do Tavi regulars; they squeeze every last drop from everything and
anything.
Life, even. But their life: in the fuckin pits.

It’s always the woman gets hurt or killed, same as they get beaten up – in the name of manhood. Poor Jane. Even if she was a bit of a typical Tavi scrubber, she didn’t deserve to die. No-one does. Not even Jube. Enough of that, Sonny shaking his head in a deliberate gesture to ward off darker thoughts.

The Cossack dancers, that’s what’s next. He got the tape, read the handwritten title again: Georgian State Dancers. Frowning. He thought Georgia was in America: tough-guy country, where the whites’re like Jube McCall, cept they hate anyone with dark blood like I am. They hate the world, from what a man understands, like Jube does. (Ahh, but come to think of it, so does every Tavi regular hate the world. It’s the condition, brother. Part of being the
condition
, hahaha.) He reverently placed in one of his drawers the
piano-playing
duo. Mine. They’re mine, and definitely not for Jube’s eyes.

The dancing was stunning. Had Sonny standing up and stay standing in open-mouthed astonishment that such virtuosity of movement could exist. Disbelieving. This was a Pandora’s Box, the whole experience, from first sight of that huge modern house
thrusting up out of the dark of angles and slopes and protrusions, to now this. He hadn’t even touched the beer can he’d started before the tape came on. He rewound it then started it over. This time he did a couple of imitation steps to the male members of the troupe: guys in Cossack dress, high leather boots and billowy shirt sleeves and fur hats.

Sonny fancied himself a dancer – of crude skills compared to this lot, but endowed with an inborn rhythm, an understanding of beat and how to express it in body movement. Lot of Maoris could. Must be in the blood. Hah. Like crime is too? He thought of the high proportion of Maori people in jails. But shrugged it away: I ain’t no genius, don’t ask me why this is so. Like I said, might be in the blood, a certain passion, a subsequent lack of control, cos the passion got the better of the mind and common sense went out the window. Hell, I dunno.

Was past eleven o’clock when the tape was through for the second time. Jube’d be coming home soon if he hadn’t picked up a woman and gone somewhere with her. But Sonny wanted to see one more tape, and enough beers in him to say to hell with Jube coming in on him. So fuckin what? He my boss or sumpin? He sorted through the tapes. Tried one that said Verdi’s
Nabucco.
That’ll do.

Bor-ring. How anyone’d want to watch this kind of crap was beyond him. But he kept watching if only that he became a little bit interested seeing people dressed up like they were. And then
something
happened: group singing… Man, that’s kinda cool… Sonny listening and watching hard now, as the voices began rising, then they fell again, then – LAAHHhh – as they reached up, grabbed a high note together. Man. This wasn’t bad after all.

It got so that Sonny saw the triumph in the song, even though it was in foreign language; it was the way the singers built and built, how his own skin broke out in goose pimples and his chest swelled up, even his chin was lifting higher and higher, as if someone’d told him: Stand proud, man! Lah-DA-DAAAA!!! dadada, lada-da-
da-da
, it went like that, men and women in a kind of ordered frenzy. Melodic, sure. But alive –
alive,
cuz.

Sonny wanted to be part of it. Of them. The group. In song. In joy. Of meaning. Of learning. Of being a member of a something that’d got itself organised and then trained into doing this. Opera? He guessed that’s what it was. Man, for all he knew they might be men and women prisoners putting on a musical over in, where? I
dunno, Russia? Italy? Germany? What kinda language is it they’re singing? Then sounds from outside had him sighing, and he quickly stopped the tape playing, readied himself for the Jube and probable company onslaught.

(Man, this is unreal: from that world on screen I been watching all night, to Jube arriving in his throaty-engined car with its specially designed exhaust he is convinced really impresses people with its growl. He’d be in the company of, what, a Tavi scrubber, or a girl from the massage parlour around the corner to the Tavi, and there’d be a few hanger-ons cos Jube was flush with bread, and hanger-ons they’re no different to flies zooming in on free pickings. They’ll be sucking up to Jube, playing on his stupid vanity, arms around each other thinking they’re all mates even when they know they’re not, they’ll be stoned as well from dope, all arvo and night toking, and the shit’ll be pouring from their mouths as it has been all this time getting out of it. Yet still they don’t, and won’t, know.

HAHAHAHAHA!!! Jube’s cackling laughter.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
!! Another couple of cacklers with him. And was that the softer giggle of a woman Sonny heard? Oh well. Can’t beat em, join em. And he opened the door and closed it quietly after him. Hey, Jubesy babe. Flat. Sonny’s welcome, flat.

Endless, man. The days. And the nights. Just endless.

Was bread did it. Having plenty of readies. That’s what was doing it – lettuce, man. Loot. Three and a half grand of it. Oh, and that gear stashed in the spare room (and that fucking Sonny thinks he’s gonna keep that stuff he clouted on, the stereo and tv and even a Persian rug, he’s got another think coming. It’s ours. Not his.
Ours.
In fact, was me who told him to grab the Persians, that ignorant brown prick wouldn’t know a Persian rug from a Persian cat – HAHAHAHAHA!!)

Day started when it started, ya know? HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Well it starts when a man wakes up, course it does, it could hardly start when he was asleep – HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Yeh. Might be morn. Might be the arvo. Didn’t madda. Ya juss woke up when ya wake up. And first thing’t hits you when ya do is that you ain’t broke. You ain’t broke, you’re rich. Like in
rich
. And as you’re reaching out for your first smoke of the day the grin’s starting to spread already: Hey, I’m rich. HAHAHAHAHA!! Mmm-uh, so the smoke tastes even better than it anyway does.

Ya lie there smoking, grinning away, and going over the night – well, the day too, seein it started at, what, usually by twelve – in your mind of that booze ya drank (and bought for people), the joints you smoked, and the laughs ya had all arvo and night till seven when the Tavi closed and you all moved up the street, through the bus terminal, to another pub of your regular going, and drank more piss, went outside to dack up with a few of the boys, back inside for more laughs, maybe some crim talk and a bit of good ole bullshit. For free. Well, may as well be free since it was only stolen money giving a man (and some of his buddies) this good time. So that’s how the day began, the way it started – in a way – of you
laughing and getting up soon to go do it again. A-fucking-
sweet-gain
.

It’d been like this for, what, a couple of weeks? Years? Hell, who knows, and who the fuck cares – HAHAHAHAHA!!! Might be you woke up with a sheila beside ya: huh? where’d she come from? But afraid to check her out too closely in case she was a dog, cos she was sure to be at least half a dog – what else would a guy like Jube McCall pick up bring home? Elle MacPherson – HAHAHAHAHA!! Chance be a fine thing, eh Jube?

Ya know ya musta chatted her when you were out of it, that she musta got more and more beautiful the more double rum and Cokes ya got down ya; rolling over to her, with eyes part closed, but a morning hard-on that’d satisfy a fucking elephant (cept I don’t fancy an elephant – HAHAHAHAHA!!). Grab her hand and shove it down on the old fulla, just to let her know you were ready for her, and let her touch what she was gonna get. Feel that for a boner, babe. And waiting for her to respond. Hey? You awake? Ahh, now that’s more like it, at her giving it a squeeze and a few pumps with a hand that’d be thirty, forty (hope she ain’t fucking fifty; God, I’d die) and a Tavi heart going on a hundred. Grabbing a handful of her box (man, least it’s nice and hairy) and rubbing your mits all over the hair, then a finger probing for the crack (hope it don’t just fall in, that there’s a bit of resistance). Feeling yaself drawn to her naturally, of wanting to kiss her, but not wanting either because she’d have morning breath and your own breath’d be hardly Old Spice; and anyway something about kissing a mole, a Tavi mole, the intimacy of the act (I dunno) that turned a man right off. (Reminds me of my old lady, me mum. As if I was kissing her.) Yet still drawn to the face, till she said she wanted a smoke first. Fuck the smoke. Ya wanna smoke, babe, get down on this cigar, hahahahaha. And shoving her head down under the blankets. She protesting, This early in the morning? What, ain’t it your shift? hahahaha! Geddown, woman.

(Now, what day did that happen? I can’t remember.)

Jeezuz wept, but I need a bloody torch down here!
HAHAHAHAHA
!! Don’t you worry bout no torch, babe, you won’t have trouble finding it. It’s long and hard and sticking up in the air – HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! But she threw the blankets off. And don’t shove it right in neither. I’ll choke. No, I wouldn’t do that to you, babe, Jube as the mouth’d enveloped his cock, and he looked down
at the sight and it pleased him mightily, her tangle of hair part veiling her mouth with his tool sticking out of it. Ahh, babe … Closed his eyes. Opened them again when he heard her tell him, And don’t you come neither. I hate come. Oh no, babe, I won’t come. (Just a little shoot, maybe. Hehehehe.)

The act of being done arousing other feelings in him too. Of a certain hatred welling up. For her, the scrubber. For all women who allow themselves to turn into scrubbers. Hated em. Women,
scrubbers
, my mother, the fucking lot, even as he found pleasure in being mouthed by the same. Even as he felt his climax – the first, mind – building. He hated.

URRGGGHH! Mmmmmmmmm – UHH! Jube spurting and the scrubber choking. He with his hand tightly down on the top of her head, keeping her there. She struggling, having muscle spasms. He wanting to punch the bitch. Then he was spent, so he sighed and groaned at once and let go his grip. And up she came: YA CUNT! I COULDA CHOKED TA DEATH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Jube didn’t care. And he easily parried her feeble blows aimed at his head as he told her, Go brush ya teeth, bitch. You’re dribbling. HAHAHAHAHAHA!! (God, but you were born with one sense of humour, Jubesy babe. Hahahahaha.)

Now, was that a couple of days ago? Man, I can’t remember. But she sucked good, and when I got hard again she weren’t too bad in that department neither. Might be worth a try again some other time. Nah, too much of a dog to look at.

But damned if he could remember what day that was; he didn’t even know her name.

Wasn’t only the fact that he was richer than he’d ever been in his thirty-five years on earth, was the stuff stashed in the spare room (and Sonny’s room, the cheeky bastard) and to top it off there was the unemployment benefit stacking up in his PostBank account that the dumb government mugs paid in automatically every week without fail. The rent, or his half, got automatically taken out in turn from the same account, and with a rental supplement it hardly made a difference to the dole, so it was near on one twenty a week. Not much when ya live the life, but ya get by; and there’s a whole city out there of dumb-arse straights working for a living that you can pinch a bit from. (Or a lot, hahahahaha!) It was too good to be true.

Waking up, and getting round to thinking next about turning
himself into a dealer. Smiling at that. Feeling very nervous in his stomach too, at the prospect, the status he’d gain. Not to mention the big bikkies. Very big. As for Sonny’s crap about it being worth a big sentence, hell, wasn’t anything worth that now they had so much form? And not as if it was smack or coke, no way, not my scene, I never touch the stuff, even as a user – a potential one that is.

Picturing himself driving an American left-hand drive, symbol of the big dealers, of getting the looks from everyone, of envy, jealousy, admiration and not a little awe. Awe, cuz, cos ain’t many in our world can pull up the necessary bread in bulk to buy a reasonable quantity. No, they just live hand to mouth, as the counsellors in prison tell us we got to stop. Oh yeah? How? Well, Jube had the how now. (I have it.) And thinking of that made him near ball with happiness, though he wouldn’t have, not him. (Do tough guys dance? Hahaha.)

Outta bed; think about being a dealer again soon. What’s to eat? Into the kitchen. Man, it stinks in here, don’t that fucking Sonny clean up after him? Oh, forgot: was me and a couple of the boys last night. Or was it the night before? (Hahahahaha!) Don’t madda. I don’t give a fuck. Looking in the fridge. Nothin. Only Sonny’s leftovers of some Chink takeaway food. He can keep that vege three bits a fatty meat, it ain’t for Jube. And come to think of it, a man ain’t seen Sonny down at the Tavi in, what …? A little surprised that he had no idea; a little worried – but just for an instant – that this wasn’t a good way to be. Not when you didn’t even know what day it is. But what the hell.

Sonny came up in his mind again; thinking about the lil jerk, his stand-out difference among his own kind, or meant to be his own. But when Jube thought about it, Sonny’d never been one of them – (Though have I? Course I have. Have I?) – lil black shit, too much thinking, that’s his trouble. He’d be alright if he didn’t think about every damn thing. Plus he wants to go straight, but hey, don’t we all? Does he think I don’t wanna live in a nice house drive a flash car, have no worries bout bills? But how?

Thinking then of his money stashed inside his mattress, where even an experienced burglar’d be pushing to find the slit along the join line into which he’d slid a good portion of the money (but not all of it or a man couldn’t flash his roll, hahaha), and glad – glad – of having it because it represented so much, perhaps virtually
everything, of the crim mind, the crim number-one goal in life: to have money. (But why? Oh well, have to ask Sonny that. He’s the thinker, I’m the doer – HAHAHAHA!)

Looking around the kitchen and realising the mess was his, not Sonny’s, oh no, not Sonny fucking Mister Clean Mahia, his voice echoing in the thin walled room. Jeezuz I’m starving. Getting out the foil container of Sonny’s, may as well take a look; looks like chicken … more’n three bits too. Maybe I should try it. Nah, deciding not to. Grab a pie on the way to the Tavi. What time is it anyway. Ten past eleven. Well, I’d better hurry, hahahaha. Might miss my noon deadline of the last few weeks. Or is it days?

No time for a shower. Don’t madda, everyone else in there stinks the same; some’ll’ve been up drinking all night and carrying on this day; some out stealing in the night and’ll be wanting a drink to settle the old nerves, and to celebrate, specially if they struck it lucky. As well sell gear, even at eight in the morning when the Tavi opens; ya never know your luck, might be a wharfie come in from night shift. They got plenty, have wharfies, fifty grand a year, min, a man heard they get, lucky bastards, though who’d work a fucking nightshirt loading ships? Not Jube, thas for sure.

Out to his car parked on the street. Varoom, varoom,
hahahaha
. And away we go. Warming it up for a few moments then planting the boot. (Oo, I love this.) Roaring down the street, knowing some’d be hating it but plenty others’d be admiring a man, how he drove his car, even the sound of it’d have more’n a few green with envy. Eat ya fucking hearts out, fuckers.

At the intersection having to stop for a long flow of traffic. Tapping fingers on the leather-wrap steering wheel, smoking,
looking
at the world passing by, at a group of Pacific Island people, mostly women, hating them, for being fat, every one ofem, for wearing them big long dresses that go to the ground (Any wonder, too, it’s to hide the fat. Who’d root one a them? Not even I would.) with them stupid flowers, they even have shirts with the fucking things plastered over em. Fat, always smiling, and laughing, and fussing over their fat little kids, what do they eat the day long getsem so gross? Them and Maoris, just the fucking same: fat, lazy, and aggressive when they’ve got a few beers in em. Cunts, all ofem. (Even Sonny?)

Even Sonny. He used to be my mate. But he changed. Sumpin happened to him. Stir-stick, that’s what it probably is. Gunning into
a gap in the traffic, waving out his window, thanks, mate. Why can’t they all be like that? Joined in the slow flow, easy about that – to start with. Then getting wild that it must be some cunt, a woman he’d bet, somewhere up ahead driving two mile a fucking hour not thinking bout no-one else, oh no, just her selfish self. So pulling centreward to check out what was happening, but couldn’t tell. Left, and seeing there was space enough to get a car up there – if two wheels went up along the footpath, hahaha. Let’s go!

Tooting his triumph as he raced along half on the road half on the pavement. Ya mugs! Ya straight fucking mugs! Feeling not only triumphant but bold. As if that was what separated him, Jube McCall, from other people: his willingness to do this kind of thing. Finding a space at exactly the right moment and into it, laughing, shaking his head at himself his mad boldness; knowing it was the quality about himself that was gonna make him a dealer. Boldness. Guts. (I got spunk.) Hey, a dairy. He slammed on the anchors. A pie.

A group of them gathered round a table, elbow height, who sits down in this joint, man, it’s bedda to stand, y’cin see wha’s happening round ya, the fights, the whispering, the huddles of crime plan, of scam scheme, of rort rip-off, and ya wanna hear the variations these people get on taking the Social Welfare to the cleaners – it’s art – and anyway, standing is sumpin crim types – and their associates – kinda seem to prefer. To keep on guard, maybe.

Air heavy with smoke, cigarette smoke. (Too early for a joint, for most of us: spoils it getting the high too early. Bedda to wait till, what, round mid-arvo. Yeh.) Fags being dragged at, rolled-up make your owns, hanging on bottom lips and stuck to the skin, jammed into the corner of the mouth tough-guy style (like on the movies, kiddo); smouldering away in overflowing ashtrays centre-table, burning against match-sticks, filters, on the built-up pile of ash debris, mounds of black and grey pile-up with protrusions jutting out, could be mini-versions of a discarded building site; burning away between nicotine-stained fingers, near all of them bearing tat marks, symbols of their worldly status: LOVE and HATE and MUM (but hardly ever DAD) permanently etched, some fingers trembling with the shakes of too much the candle (and the smokes, cuz) burning at both ends; jugs spread over the table, and glasses –
plenty beer, bro! – cos Jube was buying. Eight, nine, ten dudes and a cupla sheilas, and around that same number of jugs, though the group kept getting added to so Jube was always gonna be behind in matching it for jug buys, though who gave a fuck, long as there was
some
jugs there for filling up the ole glass. (What, it has to have a fuckin name on it, cuz! Hahahaha.)

Tats, man. Everywhere. Tats. Marks of each his and her past and still burning present; windowed behind layer of skin over hands, up arms, around necks and up under throats, beneath eyes, on forehead, on chin, and ear lobes, you name a place. The passport that got you in where nothin else would. (Yet how do our numbers still get penetrated by undercovers?) The passport to crim country, even though it was the same country, borders had to be passed within. The electric-needled entry to crim territory; the cotton wound around a needle and soaked in ink woodpeckering designs like passwords, cuz. To getem in with their ink-pictured own.