Roll With It (12 page)

The sun was starting to come out but Laver went back to his window seat at Mario’s and ordered a third coffee, guaranteeing himself a headache.

***

It was lunchtime, and Jake’s battered Mazda was making the increasingly familiar journey back to Smith Street. He grabbed a park on the north side of Johnston, among all the brand-name seconds shops that seemed to have more expensive sports gear than most retail shops, and walked past the picture framers and the bead shop, a gallery and a pawn broker. The walk was good for him. He’d been avoiding the pool for days now, not wanting Lou to recognise him in Speedos and wet hair, panting from doing laps – at least not at this delicate stage of their courtship. He felt the usual thrill as he got closer to her shop.

But Lou was nowhere to be seen in Friends of the Planet. A small man, balding and with a neatly trimmed beard, was behind the desk of the grocery section, reading a book with an ominous black cover entitled ‘2012’. He smiled at Jake as he came in, then went back to his pages. The café area was busy, all sorts of Smith Street wildlife chowing down on salads, curries or lentil burgers. Jake wandered towards the merchandise stands and poked around among the T-shirts and cruelty-free shoes for a while, keeping an eye on his watch and hoping Lou would turn up.

Eventually he drifted into the clothing section and found himself in front of a mirror, taking stock.

Jake was wearing his standard work-wear: grey business pants and a collared white shirt he’d bought at Myer. As he studied his black business shoes, Jake realised with a start that his everyday work-wear was almost identical to his old school uniform. Just add a red-and-green tie with the school crest, and he was back in year 12. His hair was a little longer now, and his face had lost some of its puppy fat, but he could still be looking at a dodgy school profile pic, those ones taken in front of a smoky-blue curtain every February and sold in packets of different-sized images. Even if you’d blinked mid-shot, as Jake had a rare talent for doing.

And here he stood, in this shop of colour and passionate causes and belief in a better world, wearing his corporate uniform. Jake thought about Lou and her crazy hair and even crazier fashion sense. He saw himself at the edge of something, a new awakening, a potential new
him
, and wondered if this shift was something to be pursued.

At that exact moment, he saw the hat. It was an oversized, baggy green, red and yellow cap, like a mutated cross between a French beret and a baseball cap. There was a large green leaf sewn into the left-hand side of it, above the short brim. Jake had no idea what kind of leaf it was. It looked vaguely like a thin oak leaf, but spiky on the edges.

He checked to make sure nobody was paying much attention before he tried on the hat. It swam in colour on his dark hair and made a mockery of the sweat-stained white business shirt. Jake went back to the racks of T-shirts and looked through the mediums. He disregarded all the white shirts and went for colour. There was a black one emblazoned with the words, ‘Is that the truth or did you read it in the
Herald Sun
?’ A blue one had a picture of a whale with the slogan, ‘Not having a whale of the time in the Southern Ocean’ and a logo for some organisation or something called the Sea Shepherd. A green one said ‘Economic Rationalism Isn’t’, which made no sense at all, while a purple one had a bright picture of a nuclear sign with a black handprint over it, surrounded by the words, ‘No weapons. No uranium. No war. Reclaim the future.’

Jake briefly considered an orange T-shirt with a picture of a cartoon chicken and the words ‘Nice chicks don’t murder for dinner’. But then read the tag inside, which said, ‘For Vegans Only’; he’d never been into Star Trek.

In the end, Jake went for a Sound Relief T-shirt from the big charity concert. It was black, but with a swirl of colour as fire met water. Jake hadn’t gone to the concert, but he remembered the event. And now the shirt was on sale.

At the counter, Jake almost lost his nerve when the bald man sneered at him after he’d replied ‘Yes’ when asked if he’d like a plastic bag. But Jake held firm. He liked whatever was stirring inside.

He bought the T-shirt. And the beret.

‘See you around, Marley,’ said the man.

Jake had no idea what he was talking about.

***

‘I seriously never thought I’d say this, but in Queensland the crims have got more fucking class than in Melbourne.’ The Wild Man sat in the driver’s seat, arms folded, staring at the tacky fast food outlet they were parked in front of. ‘I’m not going in there. If their tough guys are going to lounge around at the outside tables, I’m going to as well.’

‘So you’re my “tough guy”?’

Stig grinned at his partner until the Wild Man replied, ‘I’d fucking want to be or you’d be utterly screwed. Just remember for once that you’re supposed to be the smart guy and get the deal done.’

Wildie ended up not even getting out of the car, just dangling a lit cigarette out the window from his right hand and gazing insolently at the beefy white guys trying to pose just so. They were wannabe made men decked out in summer fashion, all singlets, groomed hair and gold chains: straight from central casting for
The Sopranos
. Wildie wondered how many of them would last five minutes in Sydney’s Long Bay Jail, where he’d done most of his time.

Stig was inside, at one of only two occupied tables, sipping a thickshake and talking to a haggard-looking, unshaven man in a dark blazer but with a gaudy Ed Hardy T-shirt underneath. The man an ex-boxer and a very large player in the Melbourne underworld. The other occupied table was his right-hand man, looking bored and reading a tabloid. The fast food outlet’s staff made the occasional crashing or banging noise out the back, in the kitchen.

‘I was very sorry to hear about your brother,’ Stig said.

‘Which one?’ The ex-boxer stared at him, sizing him up.

‘Both of them. And your uncle.’

The man almost smiled. ‘Which one?’

‘Yeah, the war sounds like it was like that. Fucked up,’ Stig said, shaking his head.

‘Whose side were you on, Mr Smith? I can’t recall.’

‘I was Switzerland. Unaligned. I wasn’t involved in, umm, merchandise at all at that point.’

The man sipped on a cola. ‘Fair enough. So why are we meeting, Mr Smith?’

‘As per my email. You’re still in business?’

‘Always in business, Mr Smith. With considerably fewer rivals than I used to have to worry about.’

‘But only a minor role in the
Underbelly
TV series. You must have been gutted about that.’

Stig worried he may have overstepped, but the man smiled. ‘They got my name wrong, too. Blessing really. Otherwise I’d be signing autographs when all I really want to do is make a quiet point or do a deal.’

‘Well, speaking of deals, the pipes I have to offer are of the highest quality,’ Stig said. ‘Best materials, from the north. Only because of over-ordering that they’re even available at this price.’

‘Easy mistake to make, given the speed with which the Global Crisis hit,’ the man said. ‘The housing market is a rollercoaster.’

‘I can pretty much have them in Melbourne within a day if you’re interested.’

‘Depends on the price, Mr Smith. I’m not short on pipes. This would be an investment, need storage. Depends on warehouse space.’

‘The price can move around a bit but my boss would want at least two hundred and fifty.’

‘How many pipes are we talking again?’

‘Twenty or thirty tonne. High quality, like I said.’

‘Still, two hundred and fifty is a lot for spare pipes. I might just buy some local pipes as I need them.’

‘You’d regret that,’ Stig said.

The man was instantly hostile. ‘Would I, Mr Smith? And why would I regret that?’

A table away, the right-hand man looked up from his paper.

‘Not like that,’ Stig said, backpedalling. ‘We’re all friends. I’m just saying that once you tried one of these northern pipes, you’d appreciate what you were paying for.’

The man’s face was an impassive mask again. ‘Craftsmanship, Mr Smith?’

‘Exactly. Quality craftsmanship.’

‘When would I need to let you know?’

‘Sooner the better. I won’t offer them elsewhere until I hear.’

‘I’d appreciate that, Mr Smith.’

‘However, waiting on your reply does put me in something of a position, so I’d appreciate an answer either way as soon as you’re able.’

The man’s face was unreadable. The right-hand man stood and walked over to the door, a full three seconds before his boss stood and headed towards that exit. It was clear the meeting was over, but then the ex-boxer stopped and turned. ‘Mr Smith, there wouldn’t be any problem with me making a few phone calls to the north to check the authenticity of these pipes, would there?’

‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. Not everybody in head office knows that we’re offloading them at these kinds of prices.’

‘Is that right,’ the man said.

‘In fact, extreme discretion would be much appreciated,’ Stig said.

The man looked at him steadily and then nodded. ‘You have my word, for now. But pipes can be a dangerous business. Call me tomorrow.’

The sleep thing was becoming a problem, Laver decided, as
the alarm went off forty minutes after he’d dropped into his first deep sleep of the night. He woke with his arm splayed out across the empty side of the bed. Marcia’s side. Cold. Laver felt the heaviness and stared at the sheets for a long moment. Then looked around and was relieved to see that bastard Coleman had disappeared again.

He finally staggered out into the lounge room and stared at his police bike, propped up against the wall near the door. He’d optimistically brought it home in the backseat of his car last night, with the idea of going for a decent, leg-building ride after such a slack day at work. Two whiskies in, he’d admitted that wasn’t going to happen.

This morning, he didn’t even bother hacking across to Collingwood or phoning. Just emailed Slattery, with the subject line: ‘Sore arse’.

He wandered down to the local café for breakfast. Over eggs, he read the paper and was stunned to feel his eyes swim when he came across an article about police culture with a giant graphic of a gun pointing straight out of the page. He read the first two paragraphs and was smart enough to stop right there. Laver reached for the sports pages and wished the footy was on, so he could get really interested. Cricket only engaged him to a certain level. It wasn’t a passion like AFL – but it was enough to offer a distraction for blurred eyes.

Laver tried to remember the last time he had actually cried. When his grandmother died, about five years ago? No. He’d been sad, desperately sad, but hadn’t cried. He’d been the rock for his aunties as they cried their eyes out.

When his dog had died, when he was a teenager? He’d bawled then. He remembered lying on his bed, wondering if he was going to throw up from crying so hard.

And the Callum thing. Talia’s ruthless exit. Losing his wife and his son. He’d unravelled back then, no doubt. Could that really be the last time he’d cried? Man.

Walking home, he assessed his state of mind. He felt frayed. Like he was losing his grip and didn’t know what to hold on to, which move to make. He was in this ridiculous holding pattern, his career possibly ruined, and there was nothing he could do. Nobody he could convince that he was the same cop, the same detective who had never put a foot wrong in all those years.

And then there was Marcia. For a time, they had soared. She hadn’t minded the long hours, the sudden disappearances, the stuff he couldn’t talk about upon his return. She’d found all that exciting and liked her independence. Made Laver believe again. Laver tuned in often enough to start to feel his walls descending at last; feeling the lonely, bitter years that followed the sudden brutal departure of Talia, and Callum, falling away at last.

He’d meant it when he said they should get married – but then, that side of his life sorted, he’d gotten back to work. And was slightly annoyed by all Marcia’s questions about the actual wedding plans, the details. Not realising until now that she hadn’t even asked for a while. Realising with a jolt, he wasn’t sure if she was still wearing the ring.

Laver went to the gym. Maybe riding the bike around wasn’t making him as tired as he thought and his body needed to be more exhausted so it could rest and shut out his mind – his dreams of dead birds in his house. Coleman’s ghost.

Even with police shiftwork, Laver rarely found himself at the gym on a weekday morning. It was full of women who’d presumably managed to ditch the kids for a few hours and lowlife types that Laver pegged as waiters or maybe musicians. Which reminded him that Damian was coming around tonight, pre-gig. It was lucky he had the bike at home. Damian would love it.

Laver lifted some free weights, sweating, grunting and crashing them to the floor, despite the frowns from the mother’s club, who were working more gently on the various fitness machines. It still wasn’t enough. A converted squash court upstairs housed a boxing set-up, but when Laver arrived he found it already occupied by one of the resident personal trainers who was egging a woman in her fifties through arm-shaking push-ups.