I squint at him. He’s just a kid. But when in Rome…
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘But I’m gonna tax you for it – carry these ones to the table for me. I can’t hold five beers in one hand.’
He helps me gather the bottles. ‘You’re pretty matey with Snowie, yeah?’
I shrug. ‘Another Five Mile boy. I’ve known him since we were kids. How about you?’
He shrugs back. ‘Wouldn’t call it besties. I deal more with Barry.’
So now I know where Reggie fits in: he’s a street dealer. Snowie must have Barry currying up a little team to distribute to customers. This is a real operation. And I’ve just scratched the surface.
‘Reggie!’ Snowie looks pleased to see the kid, although admittedly he’s half-tanked. ‘My man!’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m your man,’ Reggie says, dumping the bottles on the table. He nods at Ando. ‘Hey, Ando, how’s it going? Keepin’ your pecker up?’
Ando makes a nasty grin. ‘Why? You looking to make a few bucks?’
Reggie strikes his chest dramatically with one hand. ‘Ando, I’m cut. You’re so gorgeous, mate, you know you’d never need to pay me.’ He snorts at Ando’s expression, makes a royal wave. ‘Anyway, guys, nice to see ya, but Leon’s asking for Harris, here.’
Barry nods. ‘Ah, if Leon’s asking, then…’
‘Harris, you’re on,’ Snowie gives me the thumbs-up.
My spine straightens. Meeting the big boss on the first night wasn’t exactly part of my game plan. ‘So…what do I do? Just introduce myself?’
‘He likes to vet the people he’s working with.’ Snowie grins, like he’s trying to be reassuring. ‘Go on, mate, he won’t bite. Catch you when you get back.’
I paste on my smile, keep it there.
Reggie tugs on my sleeve to get me to keep up as we weave down the levels to a matte black door near the DJ’s booth. I press hard on my cane. ‘Any words of advice before I meet His Highness?’
‘Don’t call him Highness,’ Reggie shoots back. ‘He’s just Leon. That’s it. Keep the trash talk down, he’s a serious man. Apart from that… I got nothin’. I don’t hardly see him. Ignore Mick the Leb. He’s Leon’s minder, and he’s a meathead. Just keep your eyes on Leon and try not to look like an idiot, that’d be my best advice.’
We push through the door into a rabbit warren of grotty dark-painted halls decorated with peeling band posters. We pass the toilets, move further. All this black paint is off-putting. I feel like I’m entering some sort of basement dungeon from a torture-porn horror flick. This Leon bloke must run the joint from his manager’s cave: sorting out booze supplies, setting up bands, hiring and firing employees…and, apparently, strategising for the distribution of crystal meth in his patch.
Reggie leads me until I’m standing in front of another black door. He knocks, gives me an encouraging slap on the back. ‘Have fun.’
I roll my eyes, Reggie scarpers, then a voice sounds from behind the wood veneer – ‘Come!’ – and I’m pushing through the door to meet Leon.
He’s in his early fifties, I guess, and he’s swarthy. Thin crop of salt-and-pepper hair, small eyes, face like melted cheese. Leon sits in an office chair, his body swelling over the sides, white business shirt straining at the seams. A cigarette sends up jet-stream from his right hand as he talks on the phone in his left.
Behind the door, a stocky guy – black hair, black monobrow, black leather jacket – sits on a wooden chair reading a girlie mag, one ankle crossed over his other knee. I’m assuming this is the minder, Mick the Leb. Everything is gloomily lit by a tall standing lamp in the corner of the tiny room.
Leon’s leaning on a metal desk. The desk is normal-sized; Leon makes it look like a kiddie toy. But it seems to go with him. It’s completely covered in crap, as if someone nicked a wheelie bin from behind Officeworks and upended the contents onto the metal surface. I dunno how he finds anything in there. Maybe he has a system. The Fucking Mess System.
At the moment, he’s putting out orders for his bookie. I stand in front of the desk while he makes the call so I get the whole thing in stereo.
‘Yeah, number four in the tenth. Fair Warning, it’s called.Fair Warning. Yes. Yeah. No, mate. Fuck, mate, I dunno, I just back ’em.’ He glances up at me and snaps his fingers, changes the snap into a writing gesture.
I find him a pen under the clutter on his desk, hand it to him. He makes a short scribbled note on a scrap of paper, pockets it. At least it won’t get lost in the blizzard on his desk.
He disconnects, barely glancing at me. ‘Harris, is it?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’m Leon.’ He stubs out his smoke, makes another call. ‘Yeah, mate, he’s here.’ Leon finally looks at me, standing in front of him with one hand on my cane and one in the pocket of my hoodie. ‘Seems all right. I dunno, mate. You’re the one vouching for him. You tell me.’
I straighten a little, keep my hands tight. I’m being sized up in this moment. Plenty of times I’ve been sized up. I’ve been eyeballed by the cops, slouched before potential employers. Fronted barneys at the pub, staring down bigger guys who think they can take me. They probably could take me now. It’d be easy.
