Stark (14 page)

74: SUPPING WITH THE DEVIL

75: ARISTOS

Ocker Tyron sent for his half-brother, Aristos. He had been saving Aristos for something like this. Aristos was the classic talentless little brother, hanger-on, dickhead. He was twenty- eight and had either dropped out of or fucked up everything he had ever attempted. He smashed up expensive cars, spilt booze on expensive clothes, showed off at night clubs and apart from having access to a lot of cash was a complete and utter drag to be with. Dixie, Ocker’s wife, perhaps recognizing a grosser version of herself, loathed him and constantly lobbied Ocker to drop the embarrassing little freeloader. But Ocker couldn’t — his mother would not hear of it.

Aristos was the result of a brief second marriage that Mrs Tyron had leapt into with a Greek baker about a year after her first husband, Ocker’s father, died.

Ocker’s father’s death loomed large in his legend. He always claimed that his father died of ‘being decent’. This was Ocker’s moral justification for being a professional bastard. He said that his dad had been an honest, friendly, fair-minded man, who knew nothing of the law of the jungle. This was why he had died poor, because he was taken advantage of, an innocent amongst the wolves.

This was all in fact complete rubbish. Old Mr Tyron had been a bitter, vicious, small-minded bigot who died poor because he was crap at his job. None the less, Ocker had used his father’s untimely death to leave school and begin, with almost religious zeal, what was to be a life-long career of shitting on people. Hence, by the time Aristos could talk, his big brother was already well on his way to building one of the largest business empires in Australia. This was Aristos’ problem, old Mrs Tyron claimed, and Ocker had to take note because he idolized his mother. Not because he loved her, deep down he didn’t, he didn’t even particularly respect her. He idolized her because he thought it right and fitting that tough, self-made men such as himself should idolize their mothers — also, it drove his wife, Dixie, crazy. The problem for Ocker was that along with Mum came Aristos. Mrs Tyron believed that Aristos’ stupendous lack of distinction was due to his being intimidated from an early age by Ocker’s equally stupendous abilities and success. She contended that Ocker was indirectly responsible for his brother’s condition.

‘You were always there,’ she would say, in defence of her baby, ‘succeeding, winning. How could little Aristos be himself while he was standing in the big man’s shadow?’

‘I suppose I should apologize that we live in a two million buck house, is that it? That you can give twenty grand to the Methodists and make all those tight-arsed matrons green? Do you wish I had dropped dead lugging crates of lemonade for the Popso Brothers, like Dad? Then maybe little Aristos could be a well-balanced personality. Would you have preferred it that way!!’

‘You leave your father’s memory be!’ Mrs Tyron would say, crocodile tears welling in her eyes. ‘If he was here now he wouldn’t let you talk to me like that, big as you are he’d belt you.’

If Dixie was around during one of these carbon-copy conversations she could never resist the opportunity to have a dig at Mother under the guise of standing up for her man.

‘You shouldn’t speak like that to Ocker,’ she would declaim, false eyelashes flapping in time with her false loyalty, ‘he works terribly hard for us. We all owe him a great deal.’

‘Some of us more than others,’ old Mrs Tyron would sneer significantly. It is a strange thing, but those who are linked to a person by ties of blood always feel that they have a greater claim over them than those that the person has chosen to share their lives with of their own free will. Hence Mrs Tyron firmly believed that she had more right to be in Ocker Tyron’s life than had Dixie Tyron, despite the fact that Ocker had chosen to be with Dixie and, of course, he had not chosen his mother.

‘Why, you’re not even family,’ old Mrs Tyron would say to the woman whom Ocker had pledged his life to in the sight of Jesus.

During these confrontations, the cause of all the trouble would normally be still snoring in his bed upstairs and this was bitter gall for Ocker. Aristos’ very physical proximity filled Ocker with barely suppressed fury. There was something so utterly unmanly about a twenty-eight-year-old, healthy man living in his brother’s house, hiding behind their mother. Most irritatingly pathetic of all was the fact that Aristos had even begun to learn his mother’s excuses.

‘I know I’m a passenger, Ocker,’ he would whine in what he imagined was an ingratiating tone. ‘But you know…you’ve done so much, I just don’t know where to begin. I suppose it would be different if you were an ordinary bloke, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad. Then maybe I could get something together, you know?’

It would be impossible to exaggerate the feeling of impotent contempt that this kind of grim effort provoked in Ocker. It made him want to kill. That Aristos should be so witless as to believe that he could hoodwink Ocker with this poorly performed second-hand mix of pathos and flattery, somehow it was almost an insult. It was like when children try and manipulate you and their efforts are so transparent it makes you hate them.

To be fair to Aristos, it wasn’t that he hadn’t tried to take a place in the business, he had, a bit, but he was just a very untalented person.

But now Ocker had a little job which seemed tailor- made for Aristos. He needed someone who had a known connection with the Tyron organization and therefore could invoke its power and mystique, but who was also totally disown- able.

His mother aside, Ocker could easily drop Aristos if he had to. Everyone knew that Aristos was a frustrated dead loss, so if the shit did hit the fan it would be simple for Ocker to disclaim all knowledge of Aristos’ actions. What’s more, Aristos would be dealing with and seeking to manipulate people of perhaps even less talent and originality than he had. The set-up seemed perfect. Who could guess? Perhaps he would emerge from the experience a better and less irritating person.

76: ARISTOS GETS A JOB

A
ristos entered, trying to assume an air of brisk efficiency. He had on a beautiful Italian suit. Unfortunately he shared with his sister-in-law an inability to wear clothes so it looked like a bloody awful Australian suit. He wore shades. Aristos wore shades most of the time. He did this for anonymity. After all, as a major figure in society he needed to maintain some privacy. Actually, of course, the only time wearing shades is anonymous is in bright sunlight. Wearing sunglasses indoors is pretty much guaranteed to draw attention to you. Aristos knew this really, that was why he wore them.

‘Yeah, I got the message to get my ass over here, on the car phone,’ Aristos said pointlessly. But he liked people to know things like he had a car phone. Ocker knew already, all the company cars had car phones.

‘I was actually en route, but you know, when you buzzed I just did a U-eee and burned straight back. So what goes down?’

Aristos was trying to be casual, but really he was very excited, touchingly thrilled to have been summoned to Ocker’s office. Even if it was just for a bollocking it had still given him the chance to swish purposefully through the outer office with all the pretty girls saying, ‘Hullo, Mr Tyron.’

‘Can’t stop, girls. Ocker buzzed me on the car phone, got to get my ass in there pronto.’ For a moment Aristos was the young dynamic troubleshooter of the Tyron empire. He pictured himself as a daringly unconventional Mr Fixit. Gotta problem? Call Aristos. Sure he breaks rules but he gets results. It was a delicious fantasy and whatever Ocker actually wanted him for would not spoil it. What’s more, he would be able to swish out again through all the outer offices with a look of gutsy concentration on his tanned, boyish features, giving the clear impression that he had been charged with some tough make or break assignment. Aristos just bet that any one of those pretty secretaries would give anything to be the first Mrs Aristos Tyron. No, it didn’t really matter what Ocker wanted, he had been summoned, that was enough.

To Aristos’ delight and astonishment Ocker did have a job for him. He was actually going to be given an important assignment. Aristos was so grateful he could have cried. Instead, as he always did when excited, he got carried away.

‘Look this is terrific Ocko, really terrific. I mean, OK, I’m not saying I haven’t got plenty on my plate at the moment, because for sure right? I have. But hey, pressure is something I’m used to handling right? I mean, you know that. Listen, Ocko, I’ve been thinking, we don’t see enough of each other, what say we do some clubs, right? Just us guys, we could drink beer, talk…’

‘Shut up, Aristos.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

‘There’s a difficult and slightly unpleasant job I want, doing,’ Ocker said. ‘So you need a difficult and slightly unpleasant guy,’ Aristos replied, purposefully, not realizing what he was saying.

‘The firm can’t touch it directly, it’s not entirely legitimate, so I want to sub-contract. You’re going to be the liaison, OK?’

Liaison! Aristos could not believe it, he was going to be Ocker’s liaison! And people said he was a dickhead! Yes, well, they were going to have to change their tunes a bit now, weren’t they? now that he was a liaison. Maybe he could even have some cards and letterheads done.

‘Aristos Tyron: Liaison.’

Ocker looked at his half-brother, wondering whether he could trust him and decided that even Aristos couldn’t fuck up such a simple little assignment. It is strange that Ocker, who understood most things, especially regarding human weakness, actually did not fully understand just how stupid his little half-brother was. Sometimes he suspected it, but it just didn’t seem possible.

As it happened, Ocker did not have much choice, he could not use any of his regular employees. In the unlikely event of trouble they would understandably not want to carry the can alone. Aristos had just the right combination of stupidity and family loyalty that meant he would probably even take a custodial sentence if he thought it looked cool and gained him his brother’s respect.

‘Officially, I and the Board know nothing whatsoever about it, right?’

‘Right,’ said Aristos, as if he knew everything about it.

Ocker handed Aristos an unpleasant leaflet with a flaming torch and a cross on the front and explained what he wanted his brother to do.

77: ARISTOS’ MISSION

I
t was an extremely hot morning. It was extremely hot every morning that summer, abnormally hot in fact. But Aristos had no time to consider the weather, he was busy liaising.

The shiny black Porsche purred through the slightly shabby suburb. Whenever it had to stop at the lights the occupant seemed to be rather impressively on the car phone. Clearly a high-flyer.

‘At the third stroke the time will be…’

Aristos nodded thoughtfully as if receiving important news. After a few red lights he reckoned he had had enough of the speaking clock and decided to phone his mother. ‘Mum, it’s Arry. Guess what, I’m Ocker’s liaison! Yeah, it’s very hush hush, I’m on an important job. What do you think of that, eh?’

Mrs Tyron was delighted and immediately rang Ocker to express her approval.

‘You’re a good boy, Ocker, making your mother happy, giving Aristos such an important job. A liaison and all, it must be a very big responsibility.’

‘Mum, I’m just using the little prick as a messenger, he has a company car he might as well make himself useful,’ Ocker explained, beginning to wonder if enlisting Aristos’ services had been such a good idea.

‘Oh, Ocker,’ chuckled Mother, ‘you hate us to see your soft side, don’t you? But underneath you’re just a big sloppy teddy bear, aren’t you?’

It took ten minutes of this infuriating gunk before Ocker could get his mother off the phone. Finally, with ill-concealed fury, the big sloppy teddy bear managed to get the receiver down.

78: IN SEARCH OF THE NORSEMAN

M
rs Gordon?’ enquired Aristos with a winning smile — he could be quite personable when he wanted to.

‘Uhm, well, yes,’ she replied nervously, because the man was carrying a personal telephone and had sunglasses on. Obviously he was a policeman. Gordon was in trouble again. She hated it when Gordon was in trouble. There would be policemen, the local reporter, tearful Aboriginal women screaming abuse at her at the bus stop.

‘Might I enquire, is your son Gordon Gordon in?’

Aristos could see the woman found him fairly awesome. He casually allowed his jacket to fall open revealing the bleeper and the computerized personal memo on his belt. Mrs Gordon thought one of these must be a new sort of weapon, which, had he known, would have made Aristos very happy, because that’s what he always pretended they were. When he clipped his bleeper on in the morning he normally spent a moment or two zapping Klingons with it.

‘Gordon Gordon, is he in?’

Mrs Gordon was no good at lying, especially when she was nervous.

‘Uhm…I don’t know…perhaps…no he’s not. Is he in trouble? Those Aboriginals make up a lot of that stuff, you know, there’s two sides to every story.’

‘He’s not in trouble. I just want to see him, I have an appointment, I phoned him yesterday.’ He paused for a moment and then added, ‘from my car phone.’

‘Oh, I see, an appointment. Well, he’s still in bed actually, it was Friday yesterday. Friday’s his night. You’d better come in.’

Aristos entered making a tiny gesture to an imaginary minder that he should stay by the Porsche and watch the street. The hall was neat and tidy although there were jarring notes. A collection of baseball bats and night sticks for instance, two air pistols and a shot gun, an immaculate pair of red-brown sixteen hole Doc Martens, with red laces. Aristos had clearly come to the right place.

Upstairs, still sleeping, was the man that Aristos had come to see, Gordon Gordon, living proof that there is no God.

79: BLOOD RELATIONS

T
here are actually quite a few skinheads in Perth and Gordon Gordon was one of the more prominent ones. Anyone unfortunate enough to have seen him lying there asleep, under his swastika bedspread, would have been surprised to learn that one of his principal creeds was a thing he called racial superiority. It is strange that Gordon, who had ready access to several mirrors, should be so enamoured of this idea. Because, if somewhere in the universe there does exist a race of tattooed, crop-headed Neanderthals, looking anything like Gordon, whoever they are superior to must be a pretty sad bunch indeed. Gordon Gordon was definitely no great advert for anything, least of all a master race. Looking at his thick neck and brutish forehead the term that sprung to mind was not so much ‘racial purity’ as ‘in-breeding.’

So, where did Gordon come from? What was his ‘race’? The one that he dreamt of fighting and dying for?

Well he’d be horrified to learn that recently scientists seem to have reached a consensus on where Gordon came from. They believe his earliest relatives lived in North Africa.

‘That’s rubbish, I am a fucking Norseman,’ Gordon would no doubt claim, pointing to the crossed axes that hung on the wall above his bed.

But, sadly for Gordon, it’s beginning to look as if we all came out of Africa. The new science of genetics has revealed that the differences between the various supposed human ‘races’ are truly only skin deep. Our lips may be slightly different, but our DNA is virtually identical. This points towards a common root for us all. Gordon Gordon, white supremacist and all round idiot, is a nigger.

What was it that turned Gordon Gordon into a Nazi? Surely not the fact that his first name is the same as his second? This could make a person a bit bitter, but surely is not justification for wanting to kill all the Jews and blacks and gays and commies in the world.

When people feel put upon or inadequate they search for someone to blame.

‘It isn’t my fault.’

It is a cliche, but none the less true, that Nazis are the most inadequate people of all. The proof of this is that they don’t just blame other people for single worries in a moment of pique or angst, they blame other people for their entire lives. Everything bar nothing that is wrong in the life of a Nazi is someone else’s fault.

Pissed off at work? Fucking Jews have got the best jobs, haven’t they? Crowded pub? They let too many queers and scruffs in. Bus is late? Bastard blacks too lazy to drive properly aren’t they?

In literally every area of a Nazi’s life there is a seething, jealous, resentment. An obsessive, corrosive belief that they are not getting what is rightfully theirs, and not getting it because of all the other bastards in the world.