I gesture around the pub. ‘To be honest, I’m buggered if I know what you and your dad are worried about. Place seems to be roaring along.’
Snowie scans the pub, makes a rueful smile. ‘You know what they say. Everything looks together until it all falls to shit. Jesus, don’t get me started.’ He scratches the back of his neck. ‘Anyway, I wanted to talk to you. Glad you came by.’
As if I rock up every Friday night on crutches, half-tanked, covered in dust, hair stringy with sweat. Which, okay, sometimes I do, minus the crutches. Whatever.
‘Talk away,’ I say, helping myself to a handful of peanuts from the open packet he’s got on the table. Can’t recall having dinner, and peanuts look good right now.
‘You know how I said I was working in Mildura? Said I had a few things going on, right?’ He offers me another shot, which I accept, and pours his own follow-up. ‘Well, if you’re interested, there’s something we can do to help each other out.’
I knock back my shot, raise my eyebrows at him, nice and high. I might be a few drinks in, but I’m pretty sure there was a meaningful gap somewhere between ‘I’ve got a job in Mildura’ and ‘we can help each other out’.
‘What’s the connection?’ I ask. ‘Whatcha saying?’
Snowie leans forward on the table. His hair glows above his gleaming eyes. ‘I’m hooked up in Mildura, mate. I got access to good stuff. Good suppliers. And I got contacts up there, now. It wasn’t hard.’
‘Well, yay.’ I wave my can in front of my face. Snowie’s tried before to get me to deal pot around town. I’ve always preferred to be my own man. I’ll score for myself, maybe help out a mate, but I don’t broker. ‘Plenty of local folks here’ll put their hands up.’
‘But that’s what I’m talking about, ya dope. I don’t need mates down here. I need mates in Mildura.’ Snowie’s gaze is intent as he tears a cardboard coaster to pieces with his fingers. ‘There’s jobs available, hey. I’ve been setting something up. And I need blokes around who can help out. You could make a little moolah to sort out your old man’s problem.’
For a second I think he knows about Dad’s cancer and I’m struck dumb. Then it sinks in that he’s talking about the outstanding bills. Possibly the more pressing concern. If I don’t sort out the bookie, there’ll be unwelcome knocks on the door. And if the tab here isn’t tidied up, Dad will be a bear to live with for the next five months without his regular doses of beer and vodka.
If I go back. That’s still up in the air at the moment.
‘Well…’ My hands are getting nice and loose. ‘Job offers. Sounds good. But I’m not exactly at the top of my form right now, yeah? Not in the peak of fitness or anything.’
Snowie shakes his head. ‘Not a problem, mate, not a problem. You’ll be right soon, and I need guys who’re trustworthy. You’ve always been pretty solid.’ He lifts his head, sees someone at the bar. ‘Ando! Hey, Ando, get over here.’
A hulking figure detaches itself from the bar, makes its way over to our table. Marcus Anderson looks like someone took a member of the Hitler Youth and a WWE wrestler and mashed them together – he’s tall, with a blond buzzcut, and bulging with muscle under his black Jim Beam T-shirt. In about ten years, he’s gonna look like a flabby gorilla.
Snowie and Ando have been tight since Ando moved here about three years ago. I’m not in love with the guy: he’s got a steely quiet and constantly looks as if he’s sizing you up for a fight. He and Snowie get up to mischief when they’re together. But he’s loyal – generally, where Snowie goes, Ando goes too.
‘Your dad’s calling for you,’ Ando says to Snow, as he puts his beer on our table.
‘Ah, shit.’ Snowie scribbles something on what’s left of the coaster and shoves it at me as he rises. ‘There’s me new number, anyway. One sec.’
He disappears to help behind the bar. Ando gives me the once-over as he leans back in his chair. ‘Snowie gave you his number, did he? You thinking of coming on board?’
‘Dunno.’ I shrug. ‘Dunno what I’m getting on board with, for a start.’
‘Not hard to understand, is it?’ Ando takes a pull from his glass. ‘Good job, easy money. No busting your arse hauling rocks, or whatever you were doing at the quarry.’
‘Shot firing,’ I correct. ‘Blowing shit up.’ There was some rock hauling involved but I’m not gonna elaborate.
Ando gives me a little smile. ‘This is better. Just courier packages. Here, there – driving around.’
I try to focus on him for a second. ‘Shifting product, is that what you’re saying?’
He lifts one massive shoulder. ‘If you’re worried about the risk from the cops, do something else. Run messages. Go-between stuff.’
Drug runner. That’s what all this vague language is referring to. That’s what Ando and Snowie are talking about. Hardly the job of my dreams. The offer is tantalising all the same, because it’s an offer. And because of the money – how else am I gonna sort out Dad’s money issues?
But I can’t pay off Dad’s debts if I’m stuck in the local lock-up, either.
‘Nice working environment, is it?’ I smile. ‘Lots of obliging ladies and helpful police officers, plus all the mull you can smoke?’
Ando grins like an eel. ‘Nah, mate. Not mull. We’ve moved on a little way from that. Scaled up.’
His grin makes my nerves ping alive, because I know what he’s talking about. There’s pot, and there’s pills, but there’s only one party in Mildura that everyone wants a piece of: crystal meth. And I don’t want a bar of it.
