Chapter 3
The Cross had changed its form over the years. During the forties and fifties, when people were trying to forget the horror of war, it was a quaint place of Bohemianism, a small village offering refuge to the displaced and the eccentric. When the ravaged of Europe were forced to migrate, they brought with them a style of rendezvous that was to impact indelibly upon Australian society. In the midst of a heritage of beer and meat pies grew the era of the coffee lounge; vinyl chambers of vinyl tables and chairs and hissing machines and aroma of coffee beans and a dark haired lady on the till by the door.
They were strange places at first, filled with the sounds, smells and tastes of foreign lands. Gradually as the nation of Australia looked out at the world through television the coffee lounge became culture. Society organised its components at different coffee lounges which became house to Italian, Greek, Lebanese and German expatriates. Australians kept to pubs while the Wogs sat around in coffee lounges.
By the 1960s the ideologue had invaded and laid occupation to these regions of mystery. Art vogue met political activist and philosopher amid coffee, Gitanes and bon homie. Fascists, Leninists and drifters gravitated together in an awkward stratagem against the law that they viewed collectively as another scab on the festering injustice of society.
The Cross drew artists, musicians, poets, deadbeats, beatniks, hippies, the corrupt, the incorrigible, sadists and masochists, perverts, saddies and junkets, poofters and lessos, kamp and queer, butch and bitch, dung punchers and faggots, whores and pimps, harlots and prostitutes, black velvet voyeurs and pederasts, charlatans and Shamans, the introverted and the insane to its heart. A colony of misfits was born.
The Cross was ripe for invasion. It grew fat. Fat and greedy men mobilised to capture the wayward, to capture the droves of lost souls in search of Nirvana, by creating an industry of nightclubs, brothels, casinos and betting rings.
It harnessed the energies of greed to the vicissitudes of human nature and a corruption became endemic to its nature. The paradox of law and disorder in clandestine arrangement.
It was the ‘beginning’ of ‘organised crime’ in Australia. The media baptised certain businessmen as the Mr Bigs of the Underworld, even though these Mr Bigs had been around The Cross for years.
The wayward and the hopeful from the suburbs were drawn to The Cross to wait tables or to sell their bodies from stinking doorways. The more exotic shaved their pubes and shamelessly fornicated on stage. The artful crossed legs with politicians and police. For those who had earned the trust, there was the excitement and prestige of carrying satchels of poison for the wretched. The Cross became more than Sydney’s outhouse; it had become the village of the damned.
*
Killit Lane worms sewer-like from The Cross. A dreadful stench clutters the air. The Lane rarely gets to see the sun, except for two weeks in December when the stench rises above the terraces. Most residents of yesteryear had sold out to casinos and love houses. Killit Lane is a grey and forgotten pathway.
A garden restaurant sits where the Lane twists sharply. The denizens of this Little Russia sit numbly and wait, with their coffee and madness.
Next door, an old Czech couple sits quietly in the glow of the Friday night movie on channel ten. Above, the whores work their mugs on City Mission mattresses. It is an ill-lit lane and it is uninviting.
Rane left his father’s black and grey van in the park at Rushcutters. He knew it would be covered in bats’ piss within the hour. ‘No one’ll pinch it,’ he shouted raucously, ‘too many queers to run over!’
Humped as darker shadows on the lawn, lovers thrust at each other, safe in their communal landscape.
‘In the chill of winter?’ Juno had no response to her incredulity.
Rane laughed. ‘It’s warm inside!’
He walked backward and conducted his companions as though they were an orchestra moving through the park. His hands were fashioning his words into theatre.
‘... you mob throw out a bit of tit. Mac and I’ll be cool with Gerry and he’ll see us okay.’
Kings Cross stood as Calvary above the city of Sydney. It’s a rite of passage to make at least one pilgrimage to The Cross. It would be social atrophy to be ignorant of The Cross.
Rane led his troupe of characters up the grotty back streets to The Lane where Gerry stood guard outside Club 69.
‘Rane, you Turk!’
Gerry gestured generously as he recognised the wily face coming up the steps from the footpath. As they passed through into the casino Gerry eyed Juno longingly, jeans-stretching hips almost wiping his mind. Gerry was a raunchy Maori with a smile the size of Wellington. Scratching his crotch hopefully, he was gesturing to a closing metal door. He sighed and returned his face to the Lane.
The bar was noisy. It leaped out from a black wall and occupied most of the small room. The lights were standard dark red. An ultra violet did cheap tricks on the figures that animated the bar. Rane’s hair glowed weirdly. The portable television on the bar was not working properly. The picture was out of focus and the sound was tormented and shrill.
‘The tables are in the end room next to the shithouse.’ advised Rane with tight lips and a slewing of his eyes. He was a picture of Bogartian subterfuge. ‘If ya wanna smoke, ask Gerry. He’ll fix it.’
Swarthy males were draped over the bar amid dirty ashtrays and stale beer. Juno watched a bald man lift his drink with the coaster attached. His eyeballs converged as he absently flicked it to the floor. An obese slut was at the end of the bar. Her left breast bulged as she slopped in the swill of cigarettes and beer.
‘She’s one of Dad’s!’ McLuhan’s eyes sparkled like fine claret and the beer froth left a glowing violet moustache on his lips. ‘Probably waitin’ for him to show up after all these years!’
They migrated from the bar to the end room next to the toilet. It was quiet. The gamblers’ night was in infancy. A pair of green-haired women attended blackjack while five young men in suits stood absently in a group. They did not play. They stood with beers in hand, waiting for something to happen. Along the walls poker machines were flashing gaudy colours in silent solicitation.
It was eleven thirty when the blonde croupier began her shift.
‘Place your betssssss.’
‘Anyone for another smoke?’ McLuhan asked as they wandered aimlessly about the room. Rane deferred and watched them disappear upstairs.
The five young men in suits began placing bets. The blonde lifted her eyes from the table and smiled lifelessly at her new customers. Rane sauntered over and positioned himself opposite her. Shaded brown eyes greeted him before they flickered and her teeth showed through her smile. ‘Place your betsssss ... ’ she lisped flatly and set the game in play.
A slight tug at the hub tap and the roulette started its slow, inexorable rotation. The white ball whirled against the spin of the roulette and five young men in suits cheered their numbers like punters at the course. She smiled indulgently and sssshed them to silence. The ball fell out of the groove and hesitated before dropping click-click into Black Thirteen.
A groan emerged from the five young men in suits as their bets were scraped away. They plunged again and this time Rane concentrated on the game. Again it orbited and dropped click-click and Rane couldn’t help smiling. Two green-haired women had wandered from the blackjack to watch. They were now recording the game in a notebook. The blonde croupier appeared to ignore them.
Rane stood for half an hour, watching the spin, awaiting an impulse, a percipience that would flash the winning number before his mind. He had discovered another aspect to his remarkable powers. Again the spin and Rane was becoming impatient with the five young men in suits who kept on losing. He wanted to blurt his knowledge to the room.
‘What’s up?’ he said as Juno stared at him with marijuana eyes.
‘Ooops! Mustn’t do that, must I?’ she giggled. ‘But you dooo look odd with your luminous hair.’
Rane became chilled with rain boots on his heart. Everyone had frozen. The wastelands had turned to ice and the faces in the room were etched on wooden tablets. The discord of the far-off television hovered mid-tune and hurt his ears. Then he was deaf and only the familiar winds breathed in his mind.
‘Are ya gunna stand there like that all fuckin’ night or what?’ McLuhan demanded with an oafish grin.
‘Shit!’ Rane composed himself as the chill dissolved in the closeness of the room. He gathered himself the courage and said to his brother. ‘I’ve got an idea I can pull something here tonight ... ’
McLuhan listened and said nothing. His eyes stared uncomprehendingly as he passed over the remains of the fifty dollars Max had donated for the evening. Rane’s blue eyes had stripped him of refusal.
*
The croupier had changed when Rane returned to the game. A fresh-faced man with full lips and pencil line eyebrows was tidying his bank as he encouraged more bets. His voice sang sweetly, lisping his chant to the congregation of gamblers. The room was filling as the night entered morning.
With his stoned entourage gathered around him like plastic extras in a film Rane exchanged the money for house chips and waited for the ball to spin. He didn’t follow the ball around the rim nor did he try to anticipate. He just stared at the hub of the roulette.
At the call of ‘last bets’ Rane mechanically leaned forward and set a two dollar chip on a number. Round and round the ball went until it teetered and fell on Rane’s number. At thirty-five to one his number held the white ball at the end of its merry-go-round. Seventy dollars! Boy!
Juno and Lamont gaped.
‘Nothing like a fluke, eh?’ Rane quipped and collected his winnings. ‘What’s the limit, Mac?’
‘Dunno! Ask him.’ McLuhan tilted his head toward the croupier.
‘One thouthand for eventh and one hundred the number.’ The jut-hipped croupier had well-trained ears. ‘More betth!’ he sang.
Rane held fifty dollars of chips ready as the ball went into orbit again.
‘More betth, laydeeth and gentlemen!’ urged the croupier as Rane piled his chips onto a number.
Dali closed her eyes tightly, as she did during a scary story told in the dark. Her mouth was dry and she pressed her nails into her palms. She heard the ball drop, rattle and click. Then she heard Rane’s number with the oooohh of the crowd. She opened her eyes to let the tears run out.
Everyone was scrambling to the table and the gentle putter soft quiet of the room had been shattered by the crescendo of expectation. Rane bet one hundred dollars. The ball slotted neatly into his number, and a door at the far end of the room opened. Two men, one of whom was exceedingly large, watched as the roar of the crowd told of another prodigious win for the dark boy with the white hair. The two men looked at each other and returned to their position of scrutiny behind the two-way mirrors.
‘Hmmmm! Thmart arth!’ The pencil line above his eye arched as he absorbed the warning signal from the man in the office. ‘Chrith-t!’
The croupier blushed his annoyance. He had thrown the magnet and the wires were correct. There would be consternation in the office when the house closed its doors. His lips moved like buttocks on the run. When the blonde nudged him out of the way he strutted to the toilet and splashed cold water over his make up.
Excitement remained nervous in the room. Rane had won over fifteen thousand dollars and he was leading his group through the cheering throng of gamblers like a rock band leaving the stage. After tipping Gerry handsomely, Rane charged into the street, a libido-bursting gallop down the hill to the park where he became ridiculous among the lovers in the grass.
He had thrown himself about the grass in a frenzy, almost like a man on fire. Vaguely discernible in the patchy light and shadow of the park he slowed and blew an exhausted sentence out of his mouth, a sentence he’d uttered a million times, to be muttered a million times more.
‘Stop the noise!’
The street lamp in its wire basket hung on a wooden pole at the edge of the park. It was a forty-watt signal that it’s okay to hump in the grass. The girl was closer now and she had a loud voice. A disturbing voice that ached his brain.
‘Stop the noise ... ’
She was small and she moved onto him with wide eyes, taking his frustration to the chest. She blended with the night and he knew she was visible to him alone. He took her by the waist and lifted her. When she dropped she closed her eyes and allowed her body to masturbate his flesh. His forearms ached as he jerked his dying thrusts into the girl and he let her crumble onto his chest. Her breathing was deep. He had wet her dream.
‘Hey!’ came the voice and the laughter. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Rane opened his eyes quickly and regrouped his scattered thoughts. The bulge of money was still in place and his mates and family were there. It was two in the morning and no threat of rain and she had drawn close. Her eyes were blue and she was smiling.
‘You okay?’ Juno asked softly and touched his face.
‘Help me up, will you?’ he reached for her and they rose together. ‘Just wanted to feel you.’
*
‘That the kids?’ grunted Frank Donleavy from beneath his pillow.
‘Hmmmmm ... don’t put the rice on the stove yet ... hmmmm.’
Frank studied his wife in the soft light of the radio clock and decided to leave her to her sleep. He donned shorts and his dressing gown and found his sleepy way to the kitchen. Juno and Lamont were laughing.
‘Hi Dad!’ they greeted him waggishly.
‘Jesus!’ Frank declared in mock disapproval. ‘Next time use the bloody eye drops. You two could do with a transfusion.’ He was rummaging inside the cup cupboard with clumsy hands. ‘Have a good time wherever you went?’
They blurted simultaneously then stopped and laughed. Frank could not control his smile. His piccaninnies were growing up. While he waited for their exhausted minds to drop to earth, he spooned instant coffee into three cups and switched on the kettle. Leaning back against the refrigerator he listened to his daughter as she launched into a manic epilogue. When she had finished, Frank’s eyes were smarting.
‘What’s up, Dad? We’ve got over six grand! He was something else, you know! I tell you! Something else. Yep!’ Juno’s eyes were drooping as she began to relax. Suddenly she boggled her eyes. ‘Then on the way home he tells us that he’s going to split the boodle five ways. Here! Look at this!’
Juno began jumping up and down like a Pogo stick with the money spilling from her hands. Lamont had collapsed into a lounge chair. His face was florid from laughter. The banknotes were reckless litter on the lounge floor.
Frank wiped moisture from his eyes and poured coffee. ‘It’s difficult to grasp at this hour. But ... shit! It’s bloody marvellous!’
They drank their coffee in silence. Frank scrutinised his children and wondered how the wrinkles of future worries would change their faces. They were still spiritually clean and they saw the world without analysing their impressions. Or so he thought. He had listened to their ebullition and realised he could no longer shade them from their impulses. Their smiles were youth. Their eyes? They were now different, Frank thought, different from the eyes that went out the door earlier in the evening. Eyes that had conquered and would never look back.
And there was that name!
‘You say you met Rane’s old man?’
‘Dad, he’s terrific!’ Juno proclaimed. ‘Great mountain of a man!’
Juno was showing the infatuation of a tropical summer in her winsomeness. Although she was tired she was sparkling and she exuded an attraction that would be awkward for her in her future.
‘Did you know your dopey daughter nearly drowned herself this aftern ... I mean, shit, yesterday?’
‘Mum mentioned it but ... oh! I see! It’s the same bloke.’ Frank answered with new awareness. ‘Now hang on ... they must all be adopted unless this mountain of a man had three wives ... what’s his first name?’
‘Max!’
Frank shuddered involuntarily. He changed his face and looked seriously at his children. ‘I think that’s enough for the night, you humbug you! Piss off to bed and leave the loot with me. I will secure it somewhere safe. Okay? Now ... off!’
Juno laughed to herself and left. Lamont shook his head, grinned widely and left. Only when Frank had secured the money did he contemplate with sudden clarity the idea of all that cash as a suppository. He then lay on his bed with his thoughts.
*
‘What?’ cried Max.
Nearly ten thousand dollars sat in piles on top of his bed. His watch beeped three in the morning. He jumped out of bed and sent a large block of tens scattering.
‘He was just so cool, Dad.’ Dali rushed with her words as she tidied the banknotes. ‘You would have burst with pride.’
‘I would’ve busted his skull instead!’ Max had wrapped a blanket around his body as he sat on the side of his bed with his bushy face in frown.
‘Shit, Dad!’ exclaimed McLuhan. ‘We’ve got a fortune here and you’re ... I can’t believe it!’
‘Don’t crap me, Mac!’ snapped Max. ‘You might think you’re all clued and wise ... but ... what’s the fuckin’ point?’ Max glared about him and seemed to shrink from the inherent violence of himself. ‘Piss off to bed. All of you! We’ll see about it at breakfast. And you’re on, Mac! Don’t leave it to me. It’s your fuckin’ turn. Okay?’
McLuhan opened his mouth to protest but slammed it shut and left the room. He was not up to his father’s bullyboy mood.
‘Christ! That boy!’ Max said defensively as the others hissed their disapproval. ‘Well? What do you want me to fuckin’ well say? Hey?’
‘Good night, Dad.’ Rane waved a tired hand and left.
Dali remained at the foot of the bed. Her face was quaking as her eyes brimmed with tears. Max beckoned to her and she hugged him, kissed him on his beard and without a word left the room.
He watched her leave but his thoughts were chaotic. His children had entered a world he had wanted them to avoid. But the humour of the night caught hold of him and he relaxed. Then he began to smile as he drew pictures for himself of those clowns down Killit Lane. ‘Fuckin’ dickheads!’
*
The pit boss played with his Bronson moustache. ‘I don’t understand, Mr Tseridis.’ His half image in the two-way mirror was cowering before the other half-image of the ex-wrestler. He let go of his moustache and took out his worry beads.
‘You better understand, Ari, or you work your arse off for the next thousand years. You understand? You don’t understand? I don’t understand, Ari ... how that baboon Gerry let those kids inside! Why does he do it? Maybe Gerry like to jiggijig the girl with the big tits? Neh?’
‘I’ll talk to him tonight, Mr Tseridis.’ Aristotle Seferis was a humble man who dreaded confrontation. His manner was to laugh and hug his children. He hated his work. He had been a teacher once, in another language, in another land. Now he was working in Killit Lane for a man he wished had been aborted.
‘Talk! Talk!’ Tseridis threw his fingers at his employee. ‘Why did the magnets fail? Did you try the wires? Maybe you were too busy pulling yours, neh?’
The ex-wrestler burst into the gambling room and searched the roulette table. He found nothing out of order. It was four-thirty and the covers were being thrown over the tables by staff. Two grey-haired women were stacking glasses on the bar.
‘Mr Tseridis, I’m sorry, but ... ’ Aristotle stammered his contrition but the invective of the ex-wrestler made him cower in mid-sentence.
‘No fuckin’ but! You listen good. Next time this club open you don’t let any malacca win, you understand? Neh? We get my fifteen thousand dollars back. You pull the wires on every pusti. I don’t like nobody winning. This one,’ Tseridis thumped his own chest, ‘is the only one who wins. You understand, neh?’
‘Yes, Mr Tseridis.’
‘Ari?’
‘Yes, Mr Tseridis?’
‘You find that malacca! You drop that bastard onto cement. You understand?’
‘Yes, Mr Tseridis.’
