Sugar did the minding, he did the
thinking. He was fucked if he could see Sugar doing business with Bauer and the
Sydney outfit, for example.
Sugar? he said. Think about it,
all right? Take a couple of days off. See the girls in Calamity Janes, get
your end in, and well talk about it on Monday, okay?
The best solution, he thought, would
be to give Sugar the sort of muscle work hed respect. Maybe Bauer could use
him.
He walked Sugarfoot out of the shop
to the street. Sugarfoots Customline was parked outside the takeaway joint. He
clapped his brother on the back, returned tothe storeroom, went out the
back door and got into the Statesman.
His car phone was top of the range.
He tapped out Bauers number in St Kilda. Placida or whatever her name was
answered in her Manila whorehouse accent: Who is speaking please?
Get me Bauer.
The handset clattered in his ear.
Bauers raspy voice came on the line. Ja? Amazing the way Bauer still
said Ja, even though hed left South Africa fourteen years ago.
Its about Calamity Janes, Ivan
said. Are you delivering the take to Sydney on Monday?
Ja.
Tell them I found out whos been
skimming off the top.
Who?
One of the shift supervisors.
Ellie.
There was a pause. Ivan went on: Want
me to handle it?
No. Theyll tell me in Sydney what
to do. Ill deal with it when I get back on Monday.
Whatever it is, take my brother
along. I need him to pick up a few clues so we dont have to keep bothering
you.
Your brother, said Bauer
repressively.
Sugarfoot, Ivan said. Hes okay.
He just needs someone to show him the ropes.
* * * *
Four
In
his big Customline outside the takeaway joint Sugarfoot was resting his head,
waiting for his knot of bitterness to ease. Then the pain and the shame and the
need for comfort told him he couldnt stay out here all night. He fired up the
big motor and drove away from Bargain City, over the Westgate Bridge again and
across to his place in Collingwood. He drove slowly, one hand on the wheel, one
shoulder against the door. He believed that if he moved he would fracture.
He reached his shabby terrace house
feeling as though hed been away for a week. The lights were on. The others
were home, fuck it.
He went in by the back porch. In the
laundry he ran cold water into the sink, leaned over, sluiced out his mouth,
and washed the crusted blood from his cheek and forehead.
On the way through to the stairs he
paused in the kitchen doorway. The wood stove was alight, softening and warming
the room. Tina had her numerology chart open on the table. When she was not
reading it or absorbing energy from crystals, she volunteered at Friends of the
Earth. Rolfe was tinkering with a bicycle lamp. He wore shorts all winter and
the high point of his day was running five times around Victoria Park. As far
as Sugarfoot was concerned, they were both off the planet. Luckily the house
was big enough for him to avoid them most of the time, and they were too up
themselves to be sus about what he did for a crust.
Tina glanced up, her face as
tight-arsed as ever, then down again. Usually she wore overalls but tonight she
had on what looked like a T-shirt the size of a tent over purple tights and
about a dozen other garments, so Sugarfoot still had no idea what sort of body
she had. She didnt notice his cuts and bruises.
He went upstairs to his room and
closed the door and drew the curtains. He had all night and he was going to
ease his mind.
He got out his trunk and unlocked
it. With the .32 now in Wyatts hands, all he had left in the way of handguns
was a replica, a Colt Python .357 with the six-inch ventilated barrel. But he
had a Winchester riflea .460 magnum, blued metal, burled walnut stock. The
genuine article. The problem was size and noise and getting rounds for it.
Sugarfoot dreamed of close work with a sawn-off Remington eleven-hundred
shotgun firing pellets the size of .38 slugs.
He had a few grams of Columbian
left, hidden in a plastic bag in his shoe
thinking. He was fucked if he could see Sugar doing business with Bauer and the
Sydney outfit, for example.
Sugar? he said. Think about it,
all right? Take a couple of days off. See the girls in Calamity Janes, get
your end in, and well talk about it on Monday, okay?
The best solution, he thought, would
be to give Sugar the sort of muscle work hed respect. Maybe Bauer could use
him.
He walked Sugarfoot out of the shop
to the street. Sugarfoots Customline was parked outside the takeaway joint. He
clapped his brother on the back, returned tothe storeroom, went out the
back door and got into the Statesman.
His car phone was top of the range.
He tapped out Bauers number in St Kilda. Placida or whatever her name was
answered in her Manila whorehouse accent: Who is speaking please?
Get me Bauer.
The handset clattered in his ear.
Bauers raspy voice came on the line. Ja? Amazing the way Bauer still
said Ja, even though hed left South Africa fourteen years ago.
Its about Calamity Janes, Ivan
said. Are you delivering the take to Sydney on Monday?
Ja.
Tell them I found out whos been
skimming off the top.
Who?
One of the shift supervisors.
Ellie.
There was a pause. Ivan went on: Want
me to handle it?
No. Theyll tell me in Sydney what
to do. Ill deal with it when I get back on Monday.
Whatever it is, take my brother
along. I need him to pick up a few clues so we dont have to keep bothering
you.
Your brother, said Bauer
repressively.
Sugarfoot, Ivan said. Hes okay.
He just needs someone to show him the ropes.
* * * *
Four
In
his big Customline outside the takeaway joint Sugarfoot was resting his head,
waiting for his knot of bitterness to ease. Then the pain and the shame and the
need for comfort told him he couldnt stay out here all night. He fired up the
big motor and drove away from Bargain City, over the Westgate Bridge again and
across to his place in Collingwood. He drove slowly, one hand on the wheel, one
shoulder against the door. He believed that if he moved he would fracture.
He reached his shabby terrace house
feeling as though hed been away for a week. The lights were on. The others
were home, fuck it.
He went in by the back porch. In the
laundry he ran cold water into the sink, leaned over, sluiced out his mouth,
and washed the crusted blood from his cheek and forehead.
On the way through to the stairs he
paused in the kitchen doorway. The wood stove was alight, softening and warming
the room. Tina had her numerology chart open on the table. When she was not
reading it or absorbing energy from crystals, she volunteered at Friends of the
Earth. Rolfe was tinkering with a bicycle lamp. He wore shorts all winter and
the high point of his day was running five times around Victoria Park. As far
as Sugarfoot was concerned, they were both off the planet. Luckily the house
was big enough for him to avoid them most of the time, and they were too up
themselves to be sus about what he did for a crust.
Tina glanced up, her face as
tight-arsed as ever, then down again. Usually she wore overalls but tonight she
had on what looked like a T-shirt the size of a tent over purple tights and
about a dozen other garments, so Sugarfoot still had no idea what sort of body
she had. She didnt notice his cuts and bruises.
He went upstairs to his room and
closed the door and drew the curtains. He had all night and he was going to
ease his mind.
He got out his trunk and unlocked
it. With the .32 now in Wyatts hands, all he had left in the way of handguns
was a replica, a Colt Python .357 with the six-inch ventilated barrel. But he
had a Winchester riflea .460 magnum, blued metal, burled walnut stock. The
genuine article. The problem was size and noise and getting rounds for it.
Sugarfoot dreamed of close work with a sawn-off Remington eleven-hundred
shotgun firing pellets the size of .38 slugs.
He had a few grams of Columbian
left, hidden in a plastic bag in his shoe
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