Quota (7 page)

The pub was old. Not just in its architecture, but in its mood. No one had spent anything on this building in many years. The doorway carpet was shiny and it clung slightly to the soles of his shoes. Bar to the right side, seating to the left. A dining room out through swinging doors, with the lights dimmed. There were about eight people in the room if you included the bartender, and they were all staring at him.

The bartender was a big man without sharp edges. He occupied a space between bar and wall that seemed made for someone smaller. As Charlie entered the room, he was bent almost double, scrubbing away behind the dishracks where the plywood of the bar had turned soft and mouldy. There were racks piled on the floor beside him and he was squirting jets of pink cleaning fluid into the dark cavity as though targeting a spider.

The jaws of a long-dead shark grinned down from the wall above him as he scrubbed. Flanking the jaws, a few framed shots of grinning fishermen, a beer ad, a novelty Jim Beam mirror, and a dogfight of beer-can planes hanging from fishing lines. Stubby holders, beef jerky, pictures of stunned-looking greyhounds with elaborate ribbons around their necks like pageant queens. All of it tinged with a golden patina of ancient nicotine. Behind the cooking smells, Charlie could discern the ghost of the long-ago smoke. Sometimes he thought fresh smoke would be better.

Three old men and two honey-coloured backpackers were deployed around the bar. The backpackers' beers had gone flat—they were engrossed in writing what Charlie took to be diaries. He made a mental entry on their behalf: s
tuck in windswept shithole
.

One of the old men struggled to scoop his change from the folds of the bar towel into the front pocket of his cardigan with a clubbed left hand. A shit-brown cancer had parked itself on the man's cheek, and as Charlie watched he dabbed at it with a handkerchief, a tiny counterassault on the forces that seemed to be decomposing him where he sat.

The old boy headed for the door. The bartender stumped off to the storeroom and returned with a pile of clean folded tea towels. Charlie stood in silence at the bar as he began unloading them. Eventually the bartender regarded him with a puzzled look, smiled through his beard and plonked both fists on the bar.

‘Yes mate?'

Charlie ordered a beer and took up the stool that had been recently vacated by the old man. It was still warm. The other drinkers were eyeing him now. The bartender flipped the draft tap and swung a pot glass beneath, watching him too. Charlie took his wallet out and began pulling it open in various directions in a vain search for cash.

‘Not to worry,' said the barman. ‘I'll open a tab. We got eftpos.' He went to the sink and brought back a clean dishcloth, rinsed it under the tap and placed it on the bar in front of him.

‘You might wanna…' he pointed vaguely at the blood.

Charlie took the cloth and started wiping in an arc around his jaw and across his nose. Neither of them spoke.

The bartender picked up the remote and flipped to the news. The regional weather girl, so pregnant that her belly obscured the whole of Gippsland, said the rain had three more days to run. Charlie raised the pot glass and drained it; stared back at the bartender, who picked up the pot glass without further prompting and began to refill it. There was silence for a moment as the beer swirled in over the foam tracks of the first pot. He spoke in a quiet, slow rumble.

‘See it's Friday night and it's pissing down out there. You walk in alone, wearin a business shirt looks like a Swans jumper, all that blood and shit round your neck. You've even got smudges on yer cuffs where you wiped yer brow…'

‘I hit a kangaroo.' Charlie raised his eyes and looked straight at the big man, searching his face.

The bartender passed a look over the blood-spattered shirt. ‘Not an axe murderer, then.' He placed the pot in front of Charlie, froth spilling over one edge and forming a pool on the bar towel. ‘But you got that bag at your feet and every time someone's moved, you've checked it like there's a bomb in there. The clothes are very Melbourne—well, apart from the blood—and you got indoors skin. Indoors hands too. College hair. Youngish, but you weren't a footy player. And you speak…very…carefully.'

He moved in towards Charlie, grabbing the beer taps for emphasis. ‘So you'd be the guy the cops were sending about the Lanegan boy.' He grinned and moved off down the bar towards the till where he busied himself changing a receipt roll. ‘How'd I do?'

Charlie swallowed deeply and put the empty pot on the towel again. ‘My name's Charlie.'

‘Good,' said the bartender, taking the pot to the taps once again.

‘And you are?'

‘I are Les.' He proffered his hand and Charlie shook it. By now the old blokes along the bar had given up pretending they weren't listening. They watched Charlie without any self-consciousness as he lifted the new beer and took a chunk out of it.

‘Leshter,' called a little man in a beanie. He had no teeth, and his bristly white stubble was stained to sepia under his nose. Les ambled over and the old man prodded his glass with an index finger. Les attended to the refill as the drinker poked coins out of a pile towards him. ‘He here 'bout the Murchishon thingy?' he croaked, apparently happier to direct the question to the bartender than to Charlie himself.

‘Yep, I think he is,' said Les.

‘
Haph!
' barked the old man. Charlie couldn't pick it for scorn or phlegm, but the small eyes under the beanie were firmly fixed on him now. The knotty index finger came up off the bar towel and was pointed directly at him, the eyes sighting him along the knuckles.

‘Doan you go believing anything that Lanegan cunt tells ya, lad. I tell you now…' he swept the finger along the bar as though gathering consensus from unseen allies, ‘he's a lyin dog. An' whatever he tells ya, it's all fuggin malarkey. Ya fuggin come ere an ya… ya come ere thinkin we'll juss be sayin “oh hello missa policeman, can we help ya wiff sommen?” an' all the silly ol country fuckers'll be linin up'—the hands swept expansively around him now—‘sayin, oh yeah, it was this bloke what did it, or this bloke or whaddever.'

‘Easy, Mick,' said Les. He picked up Charlie's empty and poured again.

‘I'm not your lad,' said Charlie quietly, half-inclining his head towards the old man.

‘Whah?'

‘I said I'm not your lad.' Charlie stared straight back over the rim of the glass at him.

The old bloke's eyes widened. For a second he seemed to be making a choice.

‘Nah nah nah. You know it,' he turned on Les. ‘You know it ya big prick. Issa good pub. He's jussa cunt.' He turned his palms upwards, as if to invite a counterargument. ‘An' he was up to no good, an 'is brother got shot. Why you wanna go takin down good peeble who a running a good pub. Huh? Fuck yas.'

‘Last warning, Mick.'

Mick rose and drew deeply into his lungs, hawking up a big ball of snot. He opened the door half an arm's length and shot it into the night. The cold air swirled around them again and Mick fell silent like a sullen child.

‘Sorry,' said Les to Charlie, who had slumped an inch or two on his stool.

‘Guess you people've got me pegged, eh.'

Les assessed him with a faint smile. ‘Mate,' he looked down the bar and lowered his voice as he leaned in towards Charlie. ‘In my job you can't go judging people. You take that poor old bastard who just left. Got nothing in the world. Got no one. I can tell you exactly what he had in his shopping bag.' He counted off the items on his fingers: ‘Tinned sausage, Lipton teabags and antacid. If today was Thursday, there'd be a carton of Winnie Blues. Government gives the old guy a pension, takes it straight back off him in sales tax on the smokes. Hey? Fuck me.'

‘Nasty looking cancer on his face,' said Charlie.

Les shook his head. ‘Been watching that thing growing for weeks. It's creeping up towards his eye. Started to weep, did you notice?'

‘I did.'

‘You wonder why he fucking bothers at all. Why wouldn't you just wander off into the scrub like a crook dog and, you know, lie down? Warm, dry spot somewhere in the leaves and the twigs…' He shook his head and shrugged.

Charlie thought for a moment. He tapped away at the side of his glass, collecting cold condensation on his fingertip. ‘You were right before. I need to talk to Patrick Lanegan.'

‘Oh yeah,' chuckled Les. ‘Not much of a talker. He's in a bit of trouble, eh?'

‘Depends on how you see it, but no, I don't suppose he is.'

‘He's already spoken to the cops hasn't he?'

‘Well, I can't really discuss that, but I'm not the cops anyway. I just need to have a chat to him about things.' Charlie was getting himself in a hole and he knew it. ‘Can I have another beer?'

Les walked off with the glass. ‘It's
leeegal
, is it?' he tossed over his shoulder.

‘You're very nosey aren't you.'

‘It's not about bein nosey. See, if it's legal stuff, you don't want to go to his house. The welfare, the cops, that's how
they
do it. Lob up to the front door and start bangin. He absolutely fucken hates it. And wouldn't you?'

He flipped the tap shut once again. ‘If I'm just
nosey
, then I'm sure you don't need to know that Paddy the boy will be at the footy tomorrow and you can try hassling him there.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Fine mate,' he replied dismissively. ‘He prob'ly won't talk to you anyway.'

Two hours passed without further discussion between them.

Charlie steadily drained the pots that were placed in front of him, relishing the dull glow that was slackening his mouth and slowing his mind. Every half-hour or so the beer would send him to the urinal, where he'd stare at the tiles, breathe in the sharp disinfectant stink and study his blurred face in a chipped mirror. He tried washing away some of the animal blood around his eyes, but only smeared it further into the creases.

Les called time at one. Charlie fumbled the card out of his wallet and placed it with exaggerated precision on the bar mat in front of him. Les sighed through his nostrils and walked to the back of the bar. He swiped the card forcefully through an EFTPOS terminal.

‘What's your PIN?'

‘Sorry?' Charlie raised his eyebrows.

‘WHAT'S YOUR PIN NUMBER?'

‘You're not serious.' said Charlie. ‘You want me to yell it out?

Bring the bloody thing over here.'

‘Cord's not long enough.'

‘Mate, you're not having my PIN. Thass a—' Charlie broke off, corrected himself. ‘
That
's a breach of the bank's regulations, and you could be…anyone.'

‘I
am
anyone, pal, and you're not leaving here till I get paid. What's the number?'

Charlie ran both hands through his hair. A light dusting of bloody flecks had formed under his forearms on the bar, rubbed from his skin by the pull of his sleeves. At least two of the old farts had stopped their conversation and tuned in. ‘Tip the cunnupside-down an' shake im Les,' offered Mick from under his beanie.

‘I'll come round the bar and type it.'

Les placed the EFTPOS unit back on the bar and put his hands on his hips.

‘Been very patient with you tonight, young fella. But you're not coming round my bar.'

His face was resolute. ‘How 'bout I cancel that and put it through as credit. You can sign the slip over there and we're all square eh?' He offered a smile.

‘I doan have credit. You seen the interest rates on those things?'

‘Well,' said Les. ‘This is a hotel. People sometimes pay for their beers with plain old cash.'

There wasn't a word being spoken in the bar anymore. Les squinted with frustration. He put both hands on the bar and drummed his fingers.

Charlie had his head down. Out of the unexpected silence, he yelled at his feet.

‘Five six six three six six.'

The old farts set up a chorus of emphysemic laughter and one began to clap. Charlie wobbled as he leapt from his stool and confronted them.

‘Yeah yeah. Five six six three six six…easy one isn't it? Even a couple of deadshits like you two oughta be able to commit that'—he pointed viciously at his temple—‘to memory. Huh? Get it through ya thick…fucken…heads? It's London, it is. I met her in London, an if you type the fucker into a keypad you'll find it says
London
, so OKAY?' He swivelled around and took in the remaining drinkers with a wild look. ‘FIVE SIX SIX THREE SIX SIX any FUCKEN questions?'

Silence returned and Charlie ran the back of one hand across his mouth.

‘I dinner think so.'

Les wordlessly placed a page from the waitress's pad in front of him. In a neat cursive, he'd written ‘Charlie—bar tab—March 6', and then listed the beers. Charlie took it and swept it into his pocket without speaking as he fumbled in the other pocket for his keys.

Les shook his head. ‘You're not driving.'

For an instant Charlie was caught at a childish post-tantrum crossroads, unsure if he was going to resume hostilities or crumple.

‘You asking me or telling me?'

‘Telling you. Where are you staying?'

‘I wanted to ask you about a room and I got sidetracked.' He was now very much in retreat. He didn't care: after a couple of days he would never see these people again.

‘We don't have rooms, mate.'

‘Well what's going on upstairs with all the little attic rooms you can see from the street?'

‘They're not rooms.' He pointed at the ceiling tiles. ‘Might've been once. Now it's just a false ceiling and roof joists.' Les was rolling the bar towels up as he walked the length of the room. ‘Barry Egan's dog got loose up there one night, little highland terrier thingy, before he got the staffy. Chased a rat up the old staircase and ran around on the top of the false ceiling, tiles going
whoomp whoomp whoomp
as he ran…see the three white tiles over there?' He pointed to a pale spot above the cigarette machine. ‘That's where he fell through…dog, rat, ceiling stuff, whole bloody show come crashing down on Don Whittle and his missus. Absolute pisser.'