Chapter 58

 

 

Detective Senior Sergeant Brad Roundtree parked his arse on a seat and studied the accused seated throughout the room. Always complicated when picking their vocations, he mused, because they weren’t lumped together by how smart, worldly or wretched they were, no, they were lumped together by a common denominator, a denominator he was forced to listen to, the guilty confessions that always sounded the bloody same, a record stuck in a groove. Shit, I can talk. Here’s me again, having to deal with this same old crap. He stopped lamenting long enough to notice how quiet the room had become, how the prick seated in front had turned and now stared at him with puppy dog eyes.

Brad took the hint and slowly forced himself from his seat. After he’d risen to his full one-eighty-five centimetres, he declared with a burnt voice, “My name is Brad and I’m an alcoholic.”

 

Another AA meeting finished, another few hours feeling lighter on the toes. It helps, concluded Brad, walking across the church car park to his car. Or is it merely another addiction? At least you can’t die from attending AA. He coughed. The bloody cigarettes might do him in though. His therapist’s gentle words, nurture yourself, came to mind. Yeah, well, for now, ciggies were a mother’s tit. Nurture. The idea bounced around his brain—sit in a café and order a cappuccino. After all, it was Saturday.

Thought only. As always, he felt lighter after an AA meeting, but the afternoon heat acted as a counterweight. The car park offered no shade. His car was a fucking oven. He lit a cigarette instead and b-lined to his air-conditioned house.

 

 

Soon after he entered his home, the front door chimed. A premonition followed him back down the hallway—he should have gone for that coffee.

He opened the door. Even though the black haired male behind the flywire wore a casual white T-shirt, mauve corduroy shorts and leather sandals, he appeared sophisticated. Immaculate actually. Too immaculate. The tiny, bottom lip scar read like a history lesson—this bloke knew the street.

Brad’s observations stoked his premonition—if he was still on the gear, most likely the gear had just found him.

“Brad Roundtree?”

Not good—he still needed to dust off a few outstanding debts. “Lift your shirt. Turn round.”

His visitor obliged.

“Name?”

“Lon.”

“What can I do you for, Lon?”

“We have a common friend.”

“Friends can fuck you over.”

“Frank.”

“See what I mean.”

“I heard he was a friend in need to you once.”

Brad waited silently in the cool dark air. The city’s heat brewed at the entrance. He unlocked the screen, walked back to the kitchen, sat at the table and waited.

The moment Lon appeared at the doorway Brad asked, “Do you use?”

“Light. Not heavy.”

“Good. Want a coffee?”