But shit, can he play footy. I handball it to him, he receives on the fly, kicks it a mile, runs to fetch it back. Most kids his age can’t kick over a jam jar, but Reggie has real power in those little sticks of his. He’s fast, does a good feint, and talks strategy like a pro. If he was playing in the local league I’d back him for sure.
He seems more like a kid when he’s doing this. When he slouches in at the house – watching TV with Kevin, picking up whatever he’s come to pick up, shooting the breeze with Steph in the kitchen – he seems older. He’s got a good line in bullshit patter. He flops on the couch, smoking cigarettes he’s cadged and making snarky commentary, for all the world like a street-smart kingpin. But now, watching him drop the ball onto his boot, kick it like he’s in the Grand Final, gallop around with a grin on his face accepting the imaginary applause of the MCG crowd, I can see how young he really is.
I dump my cane to do a bit of receiving, nod my chin at him. ‘Why d’you throw down with Ando all the time? I mean, you don’t seem like a complete idiot. But around him you act like you’re looking to get your head smacked in.’
‘Ando’s a dickhead.’ Reggie shrugs, kicks unerringly.
The ball lands right in my hands. ‘Jesus. Stop the press.’
Reggie laughs. ‘I dunno. He’s too easy. I mean, what, he’s gonna get upset about somethingIsaid? And he’s so up himself. Just cos Leon gives him private jobs he thinks he’s King Shit.’
I handball back, my Spidey senses tingling. ‘What kinda private jobs?’
‘You read the papers?’ Reggie glances at me, rolls the ball laces-up to drop another shot. ‘Gotta read the papers around here, mate.’
‘What?’ I almost fumble the catch.
Reggie lopes over, pulls a folded newssheet out of the back of his jeans, shoves it in my direction. It’s a page from a recent copy of theSunraysia Daily. ‘Check it out.’
I read the headline on the page Reggie’s folded over. ‘Man hospitalised after home invasion. What’s this?’
Reggie waggles his eyebrows. ‘Not a break-in, that’s for sure. Your fella, Ando. That’s his work.’
‘Ando’s not my fella,’ I say, distracted. I scan the first paragraph of the article. ‘This guy got a punctured lung? Christ.’
Reggie whisks the newspaper away, tucks it down the back of his jeans again and covers it with his T-shirt. ‘Just so’s you know, yeah? It’s not all beers at the club. You’re playing with the big boys now.’
‘I knew that.’ I nod, but my forehead’s creased, I can feel it. ‘I mean, yeah. I knew that. We’re not in Kansas anymore.’
‘What?’ Reggie screws up his nose.
‘Forget it.’
‘Just…’ Reggie scans around before looking at me. ‘Watch it, okay? Ando’s risen up the ranks real fast around here. Now he does the tidying up for Leon. Someone gets shirty, Ando straightens them out. Someone can’t pay, Ando makes sure they pay. I heard he knocked a bloke in Buronga. When Leon wants something done, Ando gets it done.’
‘He knocked a bloke?’
Reggie makes a little gun-finger, shoots it at the turf. ‘Fffttt. You’re gone. They send you back to Five Mile in a box.’ He slaps my shoulder with his gun hand, grins. ‘Hey, don’t get the wind up. Just passing on useful info. Go back to Flamingos tonight and give Snowie a smile, eh?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ But these new facts have my mind running fast. I thought Mick the Leb was Leon’s muscle, but maybe that’s not the real story. Mick must be just Leon’s security. Ando is the real standover man. And, on special occasions, the hit man. The sarge will wanna hear about it – but do I need proof or something first? I can’t just go on hearsay, can I?
And if Ando’s that heavy, what’s Reggie doing stirring him up?
I catch Reggie’s eye. ‘You should watch out, too. Unless you wanna end up with something punctured yourself. Hospital, mate – s’not all it’s cracked up to be, I can tell you.’
Reggie laughs. ‘I look after meself. I can play the good boy – and I can run a lot fucking faster than Ando can. What about you, though?’
‘Hey, I’m Teflon.’ I tap my chest. ‘All the shit slides off.’
Reggie’s eyes get serious. ‘What about bullets? They slide off, too?’
All of a sudden the day looks less bright.
Things pick up, though. I do two late deliveries, and the last package of the evening is to a guy at a house in Red Cliffs who sends back a handwritten note that seems to make the bossman happy. He leans back in his chair at the metal desk with his hands behind his head, massive elbows out, looking frighteningly like Jabba the Hutt in a party mood.
‘Finally,’ Leon says. ‘Some fucking good news.’
The sweat stains under his armpits are like dark maws. I try not to stare. Bass from the club is deadening the carpet beneath my feet and light from the streetlamp outside filters in strips through the filthy blinds.
