‘Near Ouyen.’
‘You got a smoke?’
I open out my hands in apology. ‘Not a one.’
‘Shit.’
‘Harris is gonna be staying for a bit,’ Snowie says. ‘Here in this lovely residence.’
‘Right,’ Reggie says. ‘The lovely residence.’ He glances at me. ‘You got theloveliestroom, then, did ya?’
‘Yeah, for sure.’ My lips quirk up. ‘Bit of gaffer tape oughta cover that hole in the wall, I reckon.’
Reggie grins at me.
‘Okay,’ Snowie says, glancing between us before fixing on me. ‘Looks like you’re sorted. I’ll leave you to get settled in. Meet up at the club later, about nine? I’ll introduce you to the guys.’
He passes me something: it’s a business card from a place called The Flamingos. The address is written on it. Snowie sculls the rest of his beer and fishes his keys out of his pocket.
‘Cheers, then. See you at the club.’ He winks at Reggie. ‘Catch ya later, Reg.’
‘Yep, see ya, Snow.’
Once he’s gone, me and Reggie exchange looks.
‘So,’ Reggie says. ‘You’re gonna get settled in.’
‘I dumped my clothes on the mattress,’ I say. ‘Dunno if there’s much more to settle.’
Reggie makes this expression, where half his mouth lifts up in a lopsided smile and the opposite eyebrow raises at the same time. ‘Well, that’s probably more than the last guy brought with him. This house is a pit. You need stuff? You got a pillow?’
I confess that no, I don’t have a pillow. Or sheets, for that matter, or a whole lot of anything else.
‘You need to go to the op shop on Langtree Avenue.’ Reggie swigs from his Gatorade as I take a pull of my beer. ‘You can get sheets and stuff there for a few bucks. Don’t even smell like piss – they wash everything before they flog it. You play footy?’
‘Ah. Not at present.’ I lift my cane in the air, try not to grimace.
‘What happened to your leg?’
‘I got shot.’
‘Ouch.’ Reggie’s eyebrows shrug briefly, settle again, as if he’s heard worse. ‘Kinda crap, yeah, if you can’t play footy?’
‘No kidding.’
‘If you weren’t disabled we coulda gone to the ground up the road, had a kick.’
‘You got a footy?’ My voice sounds wistful, I’m embarrassed to note.
‘Yep. Gotta play, yeah? Nothing else to do here but walk around, watch telly, and wank.’
‘Not all at the same time, though.’
Reggie laughs, gives me a slap on the shoulder. ‘You’re all right, mate. What’s your name again?’
‘Harris.’ I hold out my hand. ‘Harris Derwent.’
He shakes with faux solemnity. ‘Reggie McCloud. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ Then he caps his Gatorade and pulls the fridge open to toss the bottle back in. ‘Gotta bounce. Stuff to do. Might catch you later at the club.’
