One Night Out Stealing (17 page)

Fifty.

Fifty for what?

The rugs.

Fuck off.

No, you fuck off. Fifty for the rugs – each that is – and two hundred for the paintings as a favour for your disappointment over the rugs. And Jube standing there, deep in his humiliation as his mind went through the rapid process of rationalising. Then he sighed, lit a cigarette, drew deeply on it, blew frustrated smoke in jetstreams, and said, Yeah. Alright. And Percy smiled, offered his hand, which Jube took instant delight in staring at without taking the fat-digited object in his hand. Then Percy followed Jube out to the car and they drove to a carpark, where the rugs and the paintings were transferred to another vehicle, and Jube delighted again in not taking Percy’s handshake a second time. They went their separate ways.

Took a little while of driving before Jube could settle himself down. By then the processes had him fixing on the money he had in total, just over four thousand dollars, and just a deal away from doubling. Then he’d do it again. So the lightness of being returned, and he felt kind of invincible, and very very clever, for having turned the morning’s grim situation into so much in so short a time, despite the rip-off Percy the fence. He’d keep. He’d get his one day. (Soon as I’m rich from dealing I’m gonna hire some heavies, have em around me, send em out on memory catch-ups – hahahaha – to ask em who the fucking hell they think they are now. Hahaha. Varoom, varooom.) Picturing in his mind the looks of surprise and then abject apology (but no way, bud. No fucking way) at sight of Jube arriving with his heavies, seeing himself in drug dealer dress, flashy the way they do. With style. Panache. And that certain arrogance of men with money – lots of it.

He drove south, along the motorway, to arrange a meet with a drug contact. And he thought of the rugs, the tens of grands’ worth
of handmade rugs from far-off Iran, or Turkey, how it was ironic that their price at source was added to along the way then the process went back to original again: a lousy fifty each. And for what? So the proceeds can be pissed up against another hotel stainless-steel urinal like all deeds of criminals do? The waste did occur to him, which was why he laughed, hahahaha, because it was such a joke. Such a joke.

The snow fell. The credits rolled up on screen as the bells tolled. Sonny filled with a wanting for woman. Not just any woman, but her, the one in the photographs with her hair in wet strings and the sparkle in her green eyes of water and sumpin else naughty, but pure still, about her.

The bells stopped tolling, the screen went white, and Sonny stared at the photographs, at the screen then back to the photos again, shaking his head. No way. Can’t even fantasise a woman like her. So he flopped back on the bed, let his mind play snatches of music from the tape, wondering too what was becoming of him.

Jane. That name again came to mind. (That’s it: Jane’ll be her name.) Of this imaginary woman of his yearning since the other, Penny, Mrs Harland in the photographs, was unavailable. Because she was unreal. But Jane …? He conjured up a picture of what she’d look like, decided she couldn’t have any resemblance to Penelope Harland, that she’d have to come from the world he knew. Tavistocks. That’ll do. I’ll have met her at the Tavi. He closed his eyes to let the images take shape; and a face, of a woman, soon formed, and she weren’t nothin special, not of facial feature nor anywhere near of that suggestive sexuality in the eyes and languid poise of the stolen photographs. Nothing like that. Just a Jane. A plain Jane for plain Sonny.

So talk to me, Jane. No virgin neither. No such thing at the Tavi. I’m no virgin, Sonny, he could hear a voice in his mind telling him. Saw himself cupping her face in his hands, telling her it’s alright, who said virgins’re any great cop? It don’t madda, Jane. It don’t madda, honey. But Sonny, she was saying back, I’ve slept with a lot of guys around here – Shooshing her with a gentle hand over her mouth, Don’t madda to me, Jane. It don’t. (Cos I’ll find her purity spot. I’ll locate the place in her secret being that ain’t been touched,
tainted, poisoned by the Tavi bar inhabitants. A place that’ll be just like mine, like the place I found through these tapes here, even in the photographs beside me of her, Mrs Harland; a place of my own purity, that ain’t been touched – no-one can touch it, I know that now – no madda what I been through. No madda what. And maybe it’s been there all this time – Of course it has, Jane. In my secret being and your secret being too.) So talk to me, Jane.

She’ll have a tat or two, of course she will; to signify where she’s come from and where she assumed she was headed. (Till me, that is.) Sonny smiling up at the ceiling, hardly knowing if it was evening yet or still the arvo. Didn’t matter. Nothing maddas, cept me and Jane. You still there, Jane?

The tats’ll be a boob dot under her right eye, from a borstal lag when she was young (and mixed up, and hurt –
hurt,
dear Jane); seeing in his mind a set of big brown eyes, pools of some potential that no-one else could see, not even her. (Come to me. Come to Sonny, he’ll unnerstan.) See in them eyes the hauntedness of that borstal experience, when she shoulda been a girl, a teenage girl growing up normal. Which Sonny unnerstans, he really does, and Jane’d get to unnerstan too if she’ll put her faith in a man his own potential. He’ll know of her pain and confusion at having her teenagehood locked up in a penal institution when she was – (how old, Jane? Sixteen? Seventeen? Me, I was sixteen. You dig where I’m coming from? Sixteen, Jane, and they had me in there, a prison of grilles and tiered landings of cell rows and bellowing guards and going mad kid crims.) It ain’t right, ain’t natural, it’s a fundamental violation of womanhood, specially young womanhood, to make her a prisoner. No madda what she’s done. Not ’nless it’s murder, and even then check it out, check it out, it might be her rotten old man she done in. (Oh Jane. I’ve suffered the same. I had my teenagehood taken from me too.) It just ain’t right that a young woman (or a young man age sixteen) should be locked up, have a card stating her sentence in a metal frame on her cell door, saying who she is and what she’s done. Oh Jane. Talk to me, hon. I’m listening.

And I’d have her on the bed here, naked but not dirty naked like I’m Jube ready to attack, to sexually spear her. Naked and snuggled up under these blankets and clean sheets. And giggling at the smallness of the bed forcing them so close together, Now don’t you be touching me, Sonny Mahia. Hahaha. Making out she’s coy, and not the (apparent) slut she’s been her sexually active life. But Sonny
with his touching hand on D for don’t, let her tell her story first.

… of herself. Telling of herself. But only because a man kept urging her, gently he urged her. Tell to me, Jane. My hand’s fixed on D, but oh, I can’t help my fingers just barely touching the hair down there of you. It ain’t moving, my hand ain’t. So talk.

He’d move his hand away, from down there, as she did talk, because of what was coming from her. Moving up to under her breasts, resting flatly and neutrally there. Sonny? Sonny? Yeow? Ya promise not to tell? Ya promise you won’t tell no-one I tell you my story? He was hearing it as clearly as if she was real, he surely was.

Oh Jane, I wouldn’t tell no-one. Ya promise? I promise, Jane. Cross my heart – Don’t cross your heart, that don’t mean nothin. Just look at me – no, don’t look at me, I’ll get embarrassed – just tell me in my ear you promise not to tell. (I promise, darling.)

Sonny, I – Choking on it, her story only got to opening point. Jane? Jane, it’s alright, Sonny’s here. I won’t be laughing or nothin. It don’t madda –
But
it
does!
It
does
madda, Sonny. I know it does, I know it does, I never meant it like that – Reaching out his arms in the reality of room dreaming and hugging the object, the person in his mind. Tenderly. With love in his heart. And his hand on D. Oh Jane.

Turning the pages back on her past. Juss this lil girl I was Sonny … in the dark. The dark meant to her her sleeping place. Her comfort and resting and thinking place. Of, you know, Sonny, innocence? Oh I unnerstan, Jane. Ya do? Oh I do, honestly, Jane. Innocence, ya know? Innocence, like, exploring itself. Thinking about the world. The world the child lives in. You know? (I know, hon. I know.) My dreaming place too, Sonny. The dark, the dark I might have a bad dream in and so I call my daddy: Daddy? Daddy? You know, Sonny?

Daddy, Janey’s scared, Daddy; she had a scary dream. Ya know, Sonny?

Called from the dark, meant to be her sanctuary that Daddy is allowed to come into but only to comfort Janey had the bad dream. Juss a lil girl, ya know, Sonny? (Oh!) Sonny stifling a real sob escaping from his unfettered imagination. Oh Jane.

The dark that Daddy was meant to come rub a girl her
forehead
, whisper to her everything’s alright, it’s alright, darling, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s here. The dark. Daddy. Daddy in the dark. Daddy? Daddy? I had a bad dream, Daddy.

Daddy in the dark groping – Uh! Ya know, Sonny? (Oh Jane.) Daddy in my dark room making it darker, ya know? Rubbing me –
uh
!
Oh, it hurting so, Sonny, it hurting so much. My thing. But my heart more. So please, Sonny, don’t you be touching me and probing me; not me the kid wanting to have the bad dream rubbed away, a daddy hand on forehead, on little kid cheeks all flushed with pain and confusion. Not there, Sonny, ya unnerstan? The dark, the dark my daddy came into –
he
came
to
give
comfort
to
himself.
You unnerstan, Son? So please please don’t touch me there, not tanight, not when I’ve told you my story. Morning eh? I’ll let you have it in the morning?

No! Not have. It. Not have it, Jane. I don’t want
it.
You unnerstan? I want your story. Tha’s all. Feeling sleep taking him even as he dialogued in his mind. Jane? Ya hear me, Jane? I got a story too. But you tell yours first. And Jane? I got something else. Right here in this room. It’s, uh … well, it’s hard to explain. You have to experience it. But it’s so
unreal,
Jane. And I And I. Me and Jube, Jane. It was me and Jube one night, stealing. Ya know, Jane? Sure you know, hahaha, you’re a Tavi girl, and I’m a Tavi boy. Was. Were. Both of us
were,
Jane. Not soon. Not even now. Not after you’ve seen these tapes, Jane. Jane, I stole em. I stole my own life back from out of nowhere. Ya know, Jane? Yes, you know, I can tell. Oh Jane, don’t make me keep my hand on D for too much longer. I won’t hurt ya, ya know I wouldn’t. I do it gently. Gently, Jane. Come to me, come to me. Jane …

He went through the big wooden gate, with barbed wire on top running the length of ironclad walls, right round the perimeter that Jube could see; first checked out by a tv camera eye, closed-circuit job Jube figuring; his escort speaking into a mike that he’d brung someone to do business with the Prez; someone the other side unlatching something steel-
sounding
on the gate and the big door swinging open. Remarking to his escort that it was hardly different to the big ole gate to the slammer, hahaha. Though the escort didn’t laugh. Nor did he when Jube commented that the compound they crossed to the main
headquarters,
which was really a house changed a bit to suit the purpose, that it was like a jail exercise yard. Escort only mumbled, yeah, if you’re lookin for that sorta thing, and Jube thought the man’s manner had suddenly changed from when they stepped onto his territory. Different from the easy manner of Jube meeting up with him in the bar they drank at, the escort’s gang, of having a few beers with him, telling the man, Billy, the nature of his business and then they’d driven here in Jube’s car. Didn’t seem the same man.

But Jube was buoyed by the money he carried on him, as well amazed and delighted at how sustained was the feeling of having money, the air it put under his feet, the cockiness it gave to his walk, the feeling of invincibility it gave him, even here, right inside a gang headquarters. (So fucking what?)

Across the compound Jube noticing how well kept the lawn was, was going to make a joking remark on that but decided better not. Up some steps and across a short stretch of olden-day
verandah
, Billy led them inside.

Place was like the lawn, surprisingly neat and tidy. Spotless. The gang emblem in form of big red and black flag with a motorbike in profile outline, skull and crossbones with the skull wearing a
helmet centred the flag, and SKULL RIDERS arched over the whole emblazoned in black over red. The room could have been quite a good-sized hotel bar; there were speakers set up on the stage, and a stand, like at a church, from which Jube figured the president himself must make his speeches, or whatever it is presidents of gangs make when they’re talking to their men.

Yeah, just like a church (where the tired prison priest steps up to deliver his tired sermon to a bunch of crims who aren’t there to hear his waffling crap, they’re there to get out of their cells, they’re there to play swap and trade and buy and sell games, of tobacco and dope and chocs, that could just as well and better take place elsewhere in the prison, and with less risk, but that’s boob for you, and
boob-heads
, they seize on anything elaborate to justify their stupid existences, it’s drama they want more’n not getting caught at illicit and illegal goings-on) there might even be something sacred to the place that Jube wasn’t yet aware of, so he’d better mind his p’s and q’s. Not that he was frightened or nothin. How could he be? These were his own kind, more or less. In a way. Sure, they were ganged up, with membership dependent on how ya fared at being a hard nut as well bold and criminally inclined, but that ain’t no big deal to an old hand like Jube McCall, not as if he’s come in from a monastry, hahaha. (If I wanted in with the Skulls, I could.)

Billy led them to a bar. How about this. Billy went around the serving side asked Jube what he wanted to drink. Oh, a beer’ll do, Bill. What kinda beer ya got? But Billy’s eyes narrowed defensively for some reason, only one kind isn’t there? (Huh?) Uh … Jube didn’t know how to answer that one, so he flicked his eye to the chiller where the labels all lined up DB, so he said, DB, bud. My beer too, hahaha.

A quart bottle plonked on the counter. That’ll be four bucks, Jube. And Jube staned grinning – till he saw Billy was serious, he had his hand out. You’re not – Four bucks, man. House rules.
No-one
’s exempt, not even the Prez. And Jube felt sure he saw a fervent light in Billy’s eyes that wasn’t there before. He paid, And have one for yaself a course. Thanks. Jube hoping Billy’d be impressed with the size of the wad he peeled a fifty off; disappointed that Billy wasn’t.

He watched as Billy rung the till for eight bucks, took the change out from the drawer, came back handed it to Jube, counted aloud as he did, Forty, and two dollars, thank you. So formal. And
not self-conscious about it. Discipline, it appeared, ruled in here. (Okay? HAHAHAHAHAHA!!) Jube inside at his quick-thinking humour, and he had stifle his giggle.

Only him and Billy and not much chat from Billy’s end, so he must be just a junior around the place. Same reason he was the contact for the dope wholesale; the man was a soldier. But Jube didn’t mind being in the conversational chair, not with the high he was on with having four grand in cash; and he talked about this and that, a bit of rugby league, big-hit tackles and spear tackles, hahaha, and stiff-arms and all-out brawls, hahaha, and then he was on about making contact with the Skulls, with Billy here, that he’d chosen them rather than one of the Maori gangs cos he wasn’t dealing with no Maoris, no fu – When he saw Billy’s face go cold. Staring at Jube. Hey? I say sumpin wrong? What’d I say?

Ya said a word’t don’t never gets said in here, man. And I mean,
never.
Those people, they’re blacks. Or niggers. Or coons. And Jube nodded (I get the picture). Or black cunts, eh Billy? Hahaha. Yeh, you could say that. Or coon dogs, hehehehe, Jube catching on real fast. You got the story, Jube, Billy’s face lightened up.

HAHAHAHAHA!! Oh I got the story alright, Billy. Jube leaned forward, Bill – all earnestness of facial expression – I
hate
the black cunts, I do. Pointing to a scar under his right eye, another one slicing his top lip in two, See these? Who do ya think did that to me? Was Ma – Was fucking coons, mate, that’s fucking who. I hate em, mate. You know how the arseholes are: one minute they’re almost normal, almost civilised, next they’re nutting off at nothing. You’re telling me, Jube. Yeh, you know don’t ya? It’s in their blood, Billy. They’re bad. Bad. Got no principles. Hah, they couldn’t even spell that word, though – hahahaha – nor can I, come to think of it. HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Jube glad that Billy joined him in laughter.

He swept an arm around him, take this place. Neat as a pin. Be too clean for them black animals. And they stink. You ever been close to one? (Oops. Careful, Jube, careful.) Smell em from ten feet away. In here they’d feel right out of place. Know why? Too clean for em. Jeezuz, I don’t have to tell you, do I, Bill? You’ve been around. Jube eyeing knowingly the tats on Bill’s rolled-up sleeve-exposed arms. He pointed at the tats, I know them tats, mate. I know where you’re comin from. We both know what the cunts’re like when they’re inside ruling the joint when outside ya can’t gettem to organise a decent shit. They’re fist merchants, mate.

Oh? Bill looking askance. And what makes ya think we white guys ain’t? Oh, not saying that, man. Not. Hell, wasn’t that long ago I had a brawl with four ofem – and the minute Jube made the exaggeration he knew he’d made a mistake, that this guy wasn’t buying it that he, tall and mean as he knew he looked, he would have to be one hell of scrapper to handle four, specially if the four were Maoris, and he felt his face redden but he had to finish it even though it ended lamely – all on my jacksy, and they got stuck into me over a game of pool. As usual, eh Bill? Trying to rope Bill in, to sort of smother the lie, and inside cursing himself for not telling the truth that it was three on one, and he had held his own, very well in fact. (Why the fuck did I have to throw in one more?) So naturally I went down. But I gavem sumpin to think about. Pointing to his right eye scar again, as if that’d retrieve the lie, but Bill’s cold eyes telling Jube no such thing. Anyrate, like I said, Bill, I hate the black bastards too. Black – Yeah, man, you said so.

Jube took the hint. Had to. Had to stay on his toes. Now that he was right inside gang headquarters, even if he was sorta like one ofem in that he was white and he didn’t like Maoris neither, though he didn’t have a thing about em that these guys must have, judging on Bill here. So he foot-shuffled about, stared at the gang flag, the floor, the ceiling, around him at the set-up of tables no different to an ordinary bar, the tables were probably stolen from a pub, one at a time over a period, because they were standard elbow-height pub tables with the hole in the centre for the ashtray and steel bits to put your feet on as you talked and smoked and leaned on your elbows and of course drank since that’s one of the whole points of life, ain’t it, to drink to get drunk, to smoke cigarettes, get stoned when you can, and oh, get a fuck when ya could. The whole point.

He took his sweet time with drinking the bottle, keeping just behind Billy, who wasn’t doing much talking still; and when he did, it lacked sumpin, Jube wasn’t quite sure, friendliness or sumpin. Then Bill bought Jube a bottle and they drank that one a bit faster, which loosened Bill, made him more the guy he seemed, and he didn’t mind Jube asking about his life, what’d made him a Skull Rider; it was just two dudes chatting the time away at a bar that coulda been an ordinary pub bar on a quiet Monday arvo, nothin special.

Bill’s story weren’t no surprise, just a standard story same as everyone else’s, you know, having a bad upbringing, hating his old
man or his old man hating him, hardly any ofem hated their mums even when she was a bitch, it just never got said. The gang made him feel he belonged, that he was someone for the first time in his life. Everyone loved each other in the gang. No shit, we love each other closer’n brothers, Jube.

So they had another bottle on that one, and Jube got to tell his very similar story except it didn’t end in him joining a gang, but he did know the legendary Ace, did Billy know him? sure Billy did, don’t everyone? They laughed at their late friend in common and Jube was half drunk enough to tell Billy the poem he wrote and had put in the
Star
In Memorium column, his very own tribute to a good mate there in black and white for the whole of Auckland to read. Man, it kinda freaked me out, eh, knowing so many people would read it. But Ace, you know don’t ya, Bill, he was worth it, weren’t he, mate? Oh yeah, he was alright. No doubt about that. The first dudes started coming in, in twos and threes and fours, going up to the bar getting served by Billy and eyeing Jube over while they waited for their drink, though it was no big deal, not as if it was eyeballin or nothin, just kinda half-hostile curiosity, with no hellos or nothin; half ofem had shades so it was hard to tell if in fact it was half hostility, it might’ve been, it mightn’t.

Jube chatting in between arrivals to Billy, and Billy chatting back quite another person. Glancing around him every little while, just to check out the human scenery, noticing how there wasn’t one without a beard, it must be part of the uniform; how a lot of em had them cutaway-sleeve sweatshirts so the denim jacket over it, also without sleeves, looked more or less one piece, gave em a bulked-up look, so that the ones without real muscular or solid arms poking out from the prevailingly hairy shoulders looked like pinsticks, or with padded-up torso that hardly chilled a man with fear. (Fuckem.) Tats were the order of the day, which Jube had long ago in his life stopped noticing except for an indication maybe in familiar initials or names tattooed of a prison, a borstal lag with maybe dates, otherwise he never saw em, no reason to. Tats are tats.

So when’s the Prez arrivin, mate, any idea? Soon. He’ll be here soon. Think I should buy a round of drinks, Bill? Jube in a half whisper. Man, why’d you do that? They got bread. We ain’t coon gangies here, we know how to look after our money affairs; you wait till you meet the Prez. You can buy me one you want, though. Sure, Billy. Whyn’t ya move into sumpin witha bit more … Trailing
off because Billy’s look said that wasn’t a good suggestion, dunno why, but it wasn’t. So Jube changed to rum and Coke. Doubles.

He fingered the bulge of money notes in his jeans pocket frequently. Made him feel good. Like, real good. So was the rum starting to work, boy, was it working on a man’s head today. Must be just topping up my alcohol-loaded system. (Hahaha.)
Exchanging
pleasantries with Billy the barman, nodding to the different gang dudes who arrived or came to the bar for refills – of beer, most ofem. Not one gave him a return greeting and a couple ofem gave him really heavy pegs. Though he weren’t worried. Not really. Not with the dough in his kick and the double-charged rums working away. And he was here on invite, or he wouldn’t be here now would he? (Hahahaha!) nearly laughing out loud at that. But checked himself.

He brought up the game of rugby league with Billy, did he follow the game? Nope. Sport sucks. (Oh.) Ya see some big hits in league, though. Still sucks. Too much training. Too much listenin to some prick telling ya run here run there; I’d givim run some coach starting shoutin in my fucking ear tellin me to run here run there. Only one guy I listen to and that’s the Prez. And Jube could see the fanaticism in Billy’s eyes. When Billy swept an arm out at his surrounding fellows, told Jube, Ask them, man, what they’d do for the Prez, his eyes wide, and quite mad, Jube got a touch nervous. Like someone’d turned on an alarm inside; this other voice, the one’t exists in everyone and says things out of the blue might even be the true blue, saying the alarm shoulda gone off long ago. But Jube just one drink, it might even be several, too far gone to heed properly what his instinct was saying.

And when the Prez did arrive, big and bearded and impressive and self-assured that he was, he shook Jube’s hand warmly when introduced by a deferential Billy, This here is Jube, Prez. He, uh, wants to buy some bulk dope. So Jube wasn’t the slightest bit worried, not with the warmth in the Prez’s smiling blue eyes. He looked a lot like Jube’s late hero, Ace, the one he’d composed the ode to. Cept Ace was meaner-looking; not as big, specially not barrel-chested like this big dude, but Ace had something special about him.

The Prez asked Jube how long he’d been here in the place, he asked had Billy been looking after him like a good Skull Rider should, and Jube laughing said he couldn’t’ve asked for better and
smiled at Billy, who nodded gratitude back for Jube scoring him some points with his beloved Prez, and Jube asked the Prez what he was havin but Prez said no, on me, and bought Jube another double rum and Coke, which made, what, seven or eight he’d had, plus the beers, plus the beers he’d had at the pub where he got taken by Reuben to be introduced to this druggie contact cos they were a tight, organised group, hard to get close to, and they weren’t free, open and reckless like the dumbo Maori gangs with their access to large quantities of dope, those black coots’d sell it to anyone, which is why they were always getting done cos some undercover’d busted em – again. Which reminded Jube: Course I coulda gone and done the biz with one of the black gangs …