‘Here ya go.’ Leon releases his hands, reaches down to his desk drawer and comes out with a thick multi-coloured bundle. ‘Bonus points. And if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll listen to this pearl of wisdom – don’t go blowing it all at once.’
He tosses me the bundle. Small bills, but a lot of them. There’s about a grand there. That’s my car paid off, and another payment on Dad’s debt. I can almost taste the flavour of release.
‘I won’t.’ I look from the bundle to Leon. ‘I mean, I won’t blow it. I got a use for it.’
‘So I hear.’ Leon looks at me speculatively.
I stopped feeling like I want to piss my pants in Leon’s presence a while ago, but this comment makes me swallow. What does he hear? From who? I’m writing a mental list of what Snowie, or Ando – or even Reggie – might have said about me.
I try not to feel the prickle in my shoulder blades when I shrug. ‘Got bills to pay, hey.’
‘Not your bills, though.’ Leon’s eyes are beady. ‘You don’t gamble.’
I’m gambling right now, aren’t I? ‘Yeah, well, the bookie doesn’t care where the money comes from, so long as he gets what he’s owed. Thanks for this.’
Leon doesn’t sayYou’re welcome. He just inclines his head. I make a quick escape, find Snowie talking on his phone outside the club.
‘Ando’s at the tatt place getting a touch-up.’ Snowie snaps his phone back into his pocket, sees my expression. ‘Not that kind of touch-up, ya dirty bastard. Come on, it’s a few blocks down.’
We catch up with Barry at the Mildura Hotel, where he’s sinking a few beers to line his stomach in preparation for more alcohol later, then wander past the palm-treed traffic island to the corner of Eighth Street. The little shop Snowie’s heading for is flanked by another op shop and a place that sells bikes. It’s black on the outside: all the dark glass reflects the red and green and white flaring from headlights, stop signs. Barry spits into the the street and lopes behind Snowie, tugs my sleeve to follow.
In spite of my man-of-the-world attitude, I have never actually been inside a tattoo parlour before. The place is small, a long corridor with checkered lino on the floor, a counter on the left and vinyl waiting seats on the right. On the wall above the seats, laminated pictures of tatts are displayed in all their razor-sharp colourful glory: cars, tribals, Japanese waves, titty girls, fauna and flora.
The long counter separates the walk-in area from the business side of things. It looks like a barber’s shop, that part. I see mirrors, a bench of white melamine holding neatly shining equipment, racks of ink bottles, desk lamps, white hand towels. A bloke with shaggy ginger hair, wearing latex gloves, is hunched over Ando’s stuck-out leg. Ando’s in a black tank and trackie pants, sitting in what looks a helluva lot like a dentist’s chair, getting work done. The buzz of the needle is loud, like a really big pissed off mosquito, and the tattooist moves smoothly:buzz, wipe,buzz, wipe.
‘How’s it going, mate?’ Snowie leans over the counter to check out the action.
‘S’going good.’ Ando, voluble as ever. He’s got a stubby in one hand. He and Snowie exchange some chat while I check out the flash.
Barry pokes me, pokes a finger at a picture of a busty blonde riding a pistol barrel. ‘Whaddya reckon? I’m thinkin’ of getting that done next.’
‘Uh, yeah, looks good.’ What else am I supposed to say? ‘This mate of my old boss, he got “Angel” written on his bicep. Only the tattoo artist was tanked, so now he’s got “Angle” spread all over his arm for the whole world to see.’
Barry makes a face.
I scan the shop, but my eyes keep returning to the pictures. The designs look flat and weird divorced from their flesh backgrounds. Some of the tatts have a distinctive realistic style: I figure it must be the same artist. There’s photos of newly completed tatts – I squint at them, find them more familiarly real than the flash, if a bit sore-looking. Maybe it’s the time I’ve spent in the hospital, but looking at these photos makes me hear Amie’s voice in my head explaining which kind of wound dressing would work best, which paper tape to use.
‘You haven’t got any ink, have ya, Harris?’ Snowie calls to me.
‘Huh?’ I’m pulled away from contemplating a photo of a koi fish, in lurid golds and reds, gliding over some girl’s back. ‘Ah, nuh. Nothing like that yet.’
‘Yet, he says.’ Snowie makes a big grin and lifts his chin at me. ‘Thought you woulda signed up in Melbourne?’
‘Nah.’ I make something that could look like a disappointed face. ‘Never did. Always too broke, hey.’
‘You got cash now,’ Snowie challenges.
‘Yeah, well.’ I shrug.
I got money in my pocket now, sure. But I had some plans for it – like food, maybe, petrol. Some of it will go to Nick’s forwarding address, some of it will go to Dad, and the bookie, and sorting out the Five Mile bills. I got no plans to decorate myself with it. I’d be better off buying a new shirt.
‘Tell you what,’ Snowie says. ‘I’ll cover you for it.’
‘What?’
‘You, getting some ink.’
The fuck?I want to say. I don’t say that.
