‘No shit.’ Reggie grins, gulps like he’s parched, gulps until the bottle’s empty.
I blink at him. ‘What’d ya do to your hair, ya crazy fucker?’
‘It was itching me,’ Reggie says. He pitches the bottle at the sink, takes off with a snorting laugh.
There’s a little silence in the kitchen. Me and Steph look at each other across the table, both our jaws clenched.
*
‘Nice work,’ Leon says, ‘taking that packet to Ouyen.’
I shrug. I’m wondering how nice he’ll think it is if he learns one of the receivers got busted. Or maybe he doesn’t care – what’s gone is gone. Not like anyone can trace it back to him.
‘All right. Now go to this address.’
He waves a scrap of paper which I pluck from his fingers to read. ‘What am I doing in…Tulane Road?’
‘Let’s call it collecting the rent.’ Leon smiles, which looks unpleasant. Someone should tell him not to bother. ‘Should be a packet for me. Bit of cash, and some product samples.’
‘The new stuff?’ My head lifts.
Leon is cagey. ‘Just samples, like I said. Nothing substantial yet.’
If we’re getting samples that means it’s not far off. Could be a matter of days. I’ll have to let Amie know.
‘Talk to Skunk,’ Leon goes on. ‘Scruffy-looking guy, wears thongs. Be nice and he’ll offer you a beer.’
‘Great.’ If his name’s anything to go by, Skunk might offer me more than a beer. I tear the scrap of paper into pieces.
‘Don’t bring the whole package back here,’ Leon warns. ‘Give the samples to Snowie, then let me know when you’re coming in with the rest.’ He dismisses me with one hand. ‘That’s it. Happy travels.’
It’s not until I’m in the Pitbull that it occurs to me: Leon and I sounded so casual. I’ve started to relax around him. It’s unnerving because I thought I’d kept my guard up. I don’twantto be comfortable around Leon. He’s not the kind of guy you want to take for granted. And one slip by me when my guard’s down…
I wonder what’s caused the shift in me, then realise straightaway what it is.
Leon is a businessman. He does a lot of really bad shit, but it follows a logical pattern. He might have Ando break someone’s legs, for instance, but it’s not because he dislikes them. It’s because he’s trying to get what he’s owed, or because someone’s done the wrong thing for the business, or because they’re a competitor. Sure, he might get pissed at them – maybe he takes it a bit personally. But for Leon, it’s generally not personal. It’s all business.
So his actions are explicable, reasoned. There’s no drunken whims or paranoid delusions or volcanic eruptions of anger. He’s a lot more predictable and considered than my dad, for instance.
And that’s what’s made me relax. Knowing Leon has a system, has logic, is easier to handle than my father by a wide margin. Dad’s actions are erratic, explosive. Dealing with Leon is a cakewalk by comparison.
The thought is freaking me out as I get closer to Tulane Road. Clouds play tricks with the sunlight on the street as I park the Pitbull near the corner and walk in. Nicer part of town, this. Lawns are tidy, plenty of bottlebrush in flower on the pedestrian verge, roomy on the road. Not quite the Paris end of town, but getting there.
The house I’m heading towards is a pleasant-looking cream weatherboard on a rear-sloping block. Blue trim edges the window frames. The garden’s overgrown but nothing looks out of place – except for a muddy chewed-up section of grass on the verge out front. Some idiot’s parked his big-wheeled car here and then burned off. Bad manners, some people.
I open the gate, follow a concrete footpath around to the left – a closed-up look to the front entrance suggests it’s rarely used. Past a Hills Hoist, wooden stairs lead up to a kitchen door at the backside of the house. Rosellas startle out of a jacaranda nearby, fly off in a shrieking whirl. It all seems very country-suburban.
I keep my hands in my hoodie pockets as I take the stairs to a white-painted door. I’m about to knock when I see the deadbolt on the door is snibbed: the door isn’t locked. Friendly of them. I’m not used to friendly. And what the hell are any of Leon’s people doing, being friendly? Something makes me stay my hand and call through the door instead.
‘Ah, g’day? Mate of Skunk’s here, come to say hi?’ No answer but the rosellas’ screeching call. ‘Folks? Anyone home?’
That’s when I lift my hand to try a knock. The door creaks back under my knuckles. I get a strange whiff of sourness, a sudden premonition, but it’s too late. I can’t unsee what I’m seeing now, as the white door swings wide.
It’s the kitchen of the house, of course. Sink on the right, under the glass louver windows. At the end of the narrow room, the fridge. This would be a nice place to live: lots of natural light, airy, the blue-trim theme carried on inside the house in little details like the skirting boards and window frames.
On the left, an aluminium camp table with a dead girl resting her head on it.
She’s looking right at me. Her skin is grey. She’s wearing a long hippie skirt, and her dirty-blonde hair hangs down in the classic flower-child style. A hole in the middle of her forehead is coated in black blood. Flies are hovering around it, and around her chapped purple lips.
