Chapter 10
One by one the mowers began, signalling the start of the weekend along the peninsular. A cacophony of competing noise belched from overburdened television sets shattered the peace of Max’s wooded enclave. A summer mood had set, luring inhabitants of land-locked suburbia to the long stretch of white sand facing the eternal break of the sea. The lake had become a carnival of colour with gaily-painted sails billowing in the breeze. Flotillas of cruisers decked with beer-laden weekend sailors partied at their moorings. Brigades of picnickers were spreading themselves around the lake’s shore like ants around a glob of honey. It was the mad season that sent the aged scurrying indoors to escape the perversity of humans on holiday.
Rane had wakened with the sun. After three miles of sand jogging he tore into the surf and revitalised his body in the agitation of the breakers. Then he drove himself farther out to sea where he trod water as he waited for the seventh wave. When it came he turned toward the beach and swam furiously. As he crested the roller, he instantly recognised the tugging at the back of his mind. He lost concentration and cursed as the breaker moved away from him and hurled itself upon the shore.
Rane grudgingly acknowledged his hunch and made for the sand. He dried himself and without questioning the logic of his actions, headed off to sort out the nagging trouble in his mind. It was a frenetic Saturday morning. The air was a haze of salt and exhaust. As he walked through the streets of hair curlers and open bonnets with amateur mechanics lost amid the oil and confusion of fuel-injected engines he concentrated on the effect of McLuhan’s calamity upon the family.
Max seemed to have been in a state of irrelation, moving through the motions of reality yet remaining oblivious of it, like a dream in reverse. He had sat on a lonely chair by McLuhan’s hospital bedside, staring at his son’s face. He was silent for a long time.
Dali had not coped well either. When her father eventually returned home after his vigil by his son’s bed she had tried to coax Max out from his gloom. She had nearly screamed in frustration as he moped in his lonely chair by his books. ‘Say something, Daddy!’ she had pleaded with her father as he sat, remote as the moon. ‘You can’t just sit there! There’s nothing macho about holding back your tears. You can at least cry!’
Dali had experienced a feeling of collapsed spirit, of bodily enervation. Without Max to guide her, she had felt the sickening lurch of being rudderless. Her life had changed course and she faced her future with dread.
As Rane walked leisurely by the trees in the reserve, he knew he must revisit the cave. Instead of turning left for his home he continued along the path through the cedars, past the mangroves and up the slope to the ledge. By the time he had climbed beyond the lantana into the mouth of the cave he had become extremely tense. His mind already was slipping into the nether world, as if his seraphic mentor were impatiently beckoning him to hurry.
The walk along the narrow corridor was fraught with a strange and compelling emotion. Rane was confused. There was no definition to his feelings. He was alive with the certainty that at the tabernacle he would be confronted with the answer as to how McLuhan met his horrible fate.
The babble of noise beyond the corridor perplexed him until he reached its end and the door opened inwards to a sumptuous room fitted out as a casino. Like a film on fast forward the incident of that terrible Saturday afternoon impinged itself upon his brain. With dreamlike detachment, like a ghost beyond reach, he saw his brother and the men with dark glasses; he saw the back of the big man in the grey suit as he went to the door and opened it and disappeared from view. Rane then experienced McLuhan’s drugged dull panic and a strange anger of betrayal pervaded the vision.
As if he had tripped along the path somewhere he verged into a blackness that hid all reason and as he struggled to find the light he felt himself being drawn further into the unshining nihility. Then far away he saw the outsized hands and then he saw no more.
A chill had crept into his body and he longed for the sun. After a minute he stepped out from the cave and the memory of what he’d seen kept the chill within his bones.
*
Max searched for a solution to his predicament. His queen’s attack had backfired and the lofty ruler was in danger of capture. There were two options and he chose bluff. Moving his queen forward he was inviting Frank’s queen into the centre of the board.
‘You leave me no choice, mate.’ said Frank as he sent his noble cleric in a diagonal sweep to apprehend the queen.
‘Thanks, mate!’ Max uttered with unbounded sarcasm as he toppled his king in surrender.
‘Think it deserves a beer?’
‘I agree.’
The soft tread up the stairs was Rane returned from the cave. Max searched Rane’s face urgently. But his instinctive hope his first-born was repaired died quickly before he made a smile on his face. ‘Hello matey!’ Max roared sanguinely as he took a beer from Frank. ‘Want one?’ He plied Rane with a drinker’s grin and proffered his beer.
‘G’day Dad. Hi Frank.’ said Rane a little uncertainly. He shrugged into himself and went to the railing. Without direction he asked, ‘Where’s Juno and Monty?’
Frank glanced at Max who ushered him the role of giving an answer. ‘G’day Rane.’ Frank smiled warmly. ‘You’re a bit late. They were here looking for you. Dali’s gone with them to the beach. They said to tell you they’ll be at the surf club end.’
‘Oh.’
Max saw his son’s uncertainty. ‘What’s up?’
‘Where did you pick up the van, Dad?’
‘Shit!’ Max frowned. ‘You’re full of surprises, son.’
‘Why?’
‘Someplace. A friend found it at The Cross. What’s the matter?’
Rane did not reply. He looked pointedly at his father and then directly to Frank and back again. His was the silent questioning look.
‘It’s ok, son, Frank’s family.’
There was no drama in Rane’s recitation. He gave a matter-of-fact rundown of his vision. He began in the cave’s corridor and finished with the onslaught in the storeroom where his brother lost consciousness.
‘I don’t think he felt a thing, Dad.’ Rane said in an effort to reassure his father but the contact with his brother had shaken him severely. ‘I think his pain had ended when his back broke, Dad. But it didn’t cut him off from what was happening to him. Mac knew what was happening until he blacked out.’
Max sat quiet with eyes cold. His loathing was building a mighty edifice of revenge. He wanted the men who damaged his boy. After having spent much of the past few months in isolation he was now returning to life abroad. Apart from moments when McLuhan’s predicament was obviously pressing against his mind, he exhibited a calm and empty visage, with nary a stitch of evidence of after-shock.
Frank was bemused. He thought his friend to be balanced on a dangerous psychological blade and that if he were to sit there for too long without doing anything he ran the risk of emasculation. Why was Max giving credence to what young Rane had said’
Suddenly Max swung round and faced Frank squarely. ‘Dear old Frank!’ he said sombrely. ‘You’re lost, aren’t ya, mate?’
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? Lost? Why would I be lost?’ said Frank in a struggle with a growing sense of resignation.
‘Because it’s true, ya fuckin’ oaf. Rane’s got the Merlin, mate. Dinkum! He’s got the fuckin’ Merlin. And he’s always right. Every fuckin’ time.’
They looked at each other from across the years. It did not require words for their concurrence. ‘I presume we’re off to The Cross.’ said Frank finally.
‘Ya betcha, mate.’ Max was shuffling into his pockets with his hands. ‘Ya wanna drive?’
The black and grey van gurgled along the coast road. The water was silver in the eastern sun. Traffic was heavy. The pre-Christmas rush to beat the Christmas rush was on again. Shoppers packed against each other in merry disharmony. Rane sat next to the window with Frank lounging in the rear seat. Max whistled a ballad that told of times of despair. Then the bearded giant laughed wildly, snapping the song in two.
‘One more and we could be the A Team!’ he roared.
‘I was thinking we’re more like the three blind mice, Max. How do you reckon we’re sane, huh? Going on like this! We’re fucking mad, you know.’
The drive to The Cross was easy on a Saturday morning. Sydney had shut and an almost gentle calm had descended upon its streets. William Street was all traffic lights and bleary eyes as the grey and black van eased east. A Lions raffle for charity was propped companionably by the shop with its erotica. Rane leaned forward and opened the glove compartment. Inside, the cardboard box sat securely under the motor manual. It was full. ‘Wassat, Rane?’ asked Max with his eyes in hectic search.
‘Mac’s supply, Dad. He picked it up in Killit Lane that night. We didn’t smoke it because we were all too bloody stoned anyway.’
The van slipped gently into the curb and the engine silenced. They were away from the hub of The Cross and the street was bright with the morning. A slight odour of urine infiltrated the air. Someone was coughing behind a window. At the end of the small street a group was preparing for a march and their banners were black and red. Max forced a road through this lot and turned into Macleay Street with its trees of shade and pasty people. The fountain in the park was asleep.
‘If we could snatch the prick who ... ’ began Max hopefully as he perched monumentally upon a stone wall in the park.
The hopes of men whose time is past are sometimes soured by memory. Max and Frank had lined these streets with their brief histories. Each had taken part in the drama of The Cross in a way that was to be unique. Indelible memories are confronted with unpalatable things that issue from the present and there is an uncomfortable realisation of this disparity. Max realised with savage irony the helplessness of his situation. He had no pull, he had no say. Young men with muscles and ideas were now in charge and he was dependent on them. ‘Fuckin’ bigheads!’ was all he could say.
‘Dad!’
It was Rane who tugged his arm. ‘That’s it!’ Several women with ice creams turned their heads and stared. ‘That’s what Mac called the bastards, Dad.’
Realisation was instant for Max. He waited for Rane to speak again. The women and their ice creams faded into a frosted image and his pulse was large and loud. He watched as Rane gathered his images and translations of hurt and it was not long before the boy was reciting what he’d experienced.
‘Bighead?’ said Frank in muted comprehension.
‘Yeah, Frank’ Rane went on quickly. ‘It’s clear now. One bloke’s about your size, Dad. A lot darker. Wearing a suit. No colour this time. Only a faded impression but very clear. I didn’t get to see his face. There were three of them, Dad. Suits. Dark glasses. Grey suit. Grey suit. He’s the one, Dad. Grey suit. Big bloke in a grey suit. He’s the bastard who killed Mac’s eye.’
‘Where?’ Max urged his son.
‘Back street slummy club. One of those ... Italian ... coffee lounge at the front ... Italian ... not Italian ... gambling club at the back ... a back door out to the back street ... not a lane but a small ... a small ... ’
The morning was moving into the thirties Celsius and the man from Lions spun the raffle wheel and its clickety clickety ratchet spiked the ear. A curious blend of prostitutes with their faces fixed in professional boredom and Mercedes men with puffy eyes looked on. The old ladies who had emerged from their neatly furnished retreats to crowd Woolworths for a while assembled in secure knots along the street. People seemed to be content to be rather than to be going somewhere.
‘It’s search and destroy time.’
Max decided to return to Killit Lane. It was from there that the trouble grew. His feelings of unease had been justified. The fifteen thousand dollars was cause sufficient for the payback injuries to his son. He would begin his payback there.
The Lane was still in shadows. The metal-plated door to the club was closed. Max curled his fingers into a fist and with shocking force punched the door. They waited patiently. A few minutes passed before he punched again and the door opened. A young man with pencil-line eyebrows squinted in the sudden daylight. He was painted for the stage and mascara had been crudely applied to his eyes. He was panting.
‘It’th clothed! Can’t you read?’
The young man pointed petulantly to the sign on the door. He gasped slightly at its bruised and dented state. ‘Oh my.’ he whispered. Then he straightened and glared defiantly.
‘You’re the croupier.’ Rane stated with some accusation.
‘This prick’s a croop? Fuck me!’ Max curled his lips in a sneer behind his bushy beard. ‘Outta the way, mug!’ He shoved the young man in the face and followed the collapsing form through the doorway. Rane stepped over him. Then Frank followed and put his heel over a pink hand and crushed it. The young man shrieked with pain, like a yelping poodle.
‘Shuttup, sweetheart!’ warned Frank and the young man whimpered in muffled agony.
Two grey women in clothes of austerity pushed vacuum cleaners around the floor. Figures from a medieval pageant, they ignored the commotion and continued their head-down drive through the dust and grime. They had lived their Spartan lives among rough people and they felt they were inviolable.
Frank had lifted the weeping croupier and was holding him at arms length, dangling as a fish fresh from water. A pungent stain was enveloping the young man’s trousers. Shame had engulfed his face and his makeup seemed vulgar rather than comical. ‘Where’s the boss?’ demanded Frank disdainfully.
‘Uh?’ cried the croupier fitfully.
Frank bent his arms slightly and straightened them again in one abrupt jerk. The croupier’s head snapped back and forth and his teeth dug into his tongue. Bright blood gushed from his mouth. Frank threw him away with disgust. The young man toppled back and his arms fought for balance until he allowed his knees to buckle and the rest of him slithered to the floor.
‘Stay there!’ Frank warned. ‘You got any sense you’ll act like concrete.’
Max had found the office behind the mirror. The desk was bare. A hefty filing cabinet dominated one wall. Rane had cursorily rifled its contents in a desperate search for anything that would help them. Max was staring at the casino through the mirror. His was a lost and hopeless stare.
‘This bloke’s office is emptier than a wol’s conscience, mate.’ Frank declared.
Max shook his head and walked out to where Rane was now examining the roulette tables. He was underneath on his hands and knees and his face had that alert expression of the keen dog.
‘It’s not that easy to spot the magnets.’ murmured Rane as he got to his feet.
‘Not a bad idea, though.’ yelled Frank cryptically and the two grey women paused and glared at him. He smiled at them and they quickly resumed their work. ‘Good girls.’
‘Take a gander!’
Max had a single sheaf of paper with writing in a Cyrillic hand. Its logo was in English.
‘Mario’s?’ Frank laughed without humour. ‘It’s all Greek to me, mate.’ Then he moved to where the croupier sat blubbering in blood and urine and asked, ‘Sweetheart! Where’s Mario’s?’
The young man with the pencil-line moustache was staring pop-eyed at the invaders. His mouth was engulfed by his pink, bruised hand and a lurid seeping redness.
‘It’th on the paper, you bathtard!’ spat the croupier and a ruby jet stained the floor.
‘This bleeder’s got spunk, mate.’ Frank said to Max. Then he waved the paper at the young man. ‘The name of your boss, clown! I want it.’
‘If you don’t pith off I’ll call the polith!’ lisped the croupier in a dreadful spray of spittle.
‘Defiant cunt, isn’t he?’ Frank winked at Max and smiled. The instep of his shoe fitted neatly over the young man’s ankle. He ground his foot. Screams and blood came from a painted mouth and the two grey women moved to the end of the room and mowed a strip of carpet. Frank released his foot and waited for the wailing to subside.
‘Mug!’ smiled Frank patiently, ‘Don’t cause yourself grief. What’s the cunt’s name?’
Max and Rane had moved alongside Frank. They were mesmerised by the way the croupier’s tongue wobbled as he spoke. Teeth had cut through most of the red flesh and the flopping chunk was terribly swollen.
‘Hith name ith Mithter Theridith.’ spat the young man with the pencil-line moustache. ‘He’ll thmath you mongrelth to peetheth!’
‘The cunt’s probably used ta foreign flesh in his gob, Frank.’ quipped Max easily.
‘Yeah!’ smiled Frank. ‘It does look like he bit off more than he could chew.’
Max began to the door when he turned and raised his voice. ‘Listen ta me, mug! Or whatever ya fuckin’ name is! What time’s this joint close?’
‘Oh you rotten thwine!’ cried the croupier. ‘You can thee I’m bleeding. I need to thee a doctor.’
‘What fuckin’ time, mug!’ Max seemed to poise on the brink of violence for a second. ‘Won’t be askin’ ya again.’
‘Get fucked.’ stated the young man defiantly and his eyes abruptly shut when the boot reached his mouth. A lot of blood fell on to the floor and when he opened his eyes he saw Frank’s eyes beaming into his. Heat seared into his brain as he realised his tongue could no longer reach his teeth.
Frank had not hesitated. He had rushed in with his boot and crushed it into the croupier’s mouth. Then he merely stooped and rescued the tongue tip from the mess on the floor. He held it delicately in front of the croupier’s sorry eyes.
‘Oh my Jethuth!’
The scream came in terrible stutters.
‘That’s not exactly the answer I wanted, sweetheart baby.’ Frank’s smile had crept back onto his face again. ‘Told you we wouldn’t ask again.’
Frank was about to trample on the pathetic flesh.
‘Thum timeth thwee. Thum timeth four.’
Frank thanked the croupier and tossed the tongue at his swampy groin. ‘Give yourself a lick, sweetheart.’
‘Oh my thweet Jethuth.’
‘Oh goody gumdrops, sweetheart. Now ... ’ and Frank gripped the poor young man’s head in his fingers, squeezing the cheeks and popping out another blob of blood, ‘now listen to me carefully; repeat after me: I SAW ESAU SITTING ON A SEESAW.
Max guffawed loudly.
Rane, in spite of himself, grinned in amusement.
