Chapter 63

 

 

For the fourth time in five minutes, Lon glanced at the kitchen clock inside his apartment. Finally, six-thirty pm—time to stop staring at police headquarters.

On the way out, he grabbed his car keys and the Red Cross soup patrol locations he’d printed off the internet.

 

Wellington’s streetlights lit up in domino effect all the way to the Perth Arena. Two worries crowded Lon’s mind as he drove beneath them. One. Too many soup stops and halfway houses. Two. Even if he did find Sid, shit, they couldn’t concoct a more outlandish plan if they tried. He recalled what Ewen had said at the farmhouse after finally pushing his idea across the line, ‘We need a bit of faith.’

Faith—how did my uni lecture describe it? It’s the inverse of anxiety and you can’t feel them simultaneously. He couldn’t, so his resolve bobbed between both. Sure, Ewen’s neck protruded the farthest, therefore Ewen had the last say, arguing his point, ‘Sid’s educated; tidy him up and he becomes an unknown.’ He lifted his fingers off the steering wheel and flicked the tension from them. He quickly clenched the wheel again. Didn’t Frank say the unknown often brings on the crims’ undoing?

He checked the rear-view. For what, he wasn’t sure.

The first mobile kitchen would start serving in five minutes and a crowd had already gathered on the Pier Street corner. He pulled into the T intersection car park, parked in the far corner and strolled through a city emptying itself of workers. He rested against a building’s plate glass window. Thirty metres away, twenty people milled around waiting for food, some enjoying a friendly chat.

No Sid.

A white Mitsubishi van pulled in and a teenaged African girl jumped out from the front passenger’s seat and slid the side door back. She and the male driver, a stout, middle-aged Caucasian, started serving. Both wore Santa hats.

Society waited in the soup line. It actually shocked Lon a bit. True, a few characters in the line, young and old, indigenous and nonindigenous, needed a wash, a haircut, or a shave, wore poor-fitting clothes or recycled, high-vis workwear, but in-between those rough-cuts stood men in suits, and women in office clobber. One individual, a male lounging only twenty metres away, singled Lon’s interest. In the dim light, the male looked vaguely familiar… Yes. Lon shook his head in disbelief—a uni classmate. His age? Roughly thirty-five but with his beard and thinning hair, soccer shorts, thongs and baggy green T-shirt he looked fifty-five. What’s his friggen name? Lon closed his eyes, and rifled his mind…Brian. If the guy still owed on his HECS debt, the government wouldn’t see it soon.

After receiving sandwiches and a polystyrene cup of soup, Brian turned round. Forced to about-face, Lon fronted his own reflection in the plate glass window. It dominated his attention until his classmate’s image drifted into view. Cars escaped the traffic lights and accelerated along Wellington Street. They passed Brian standing on the street corner, hoeing into his sandwiches, his awareness stretching no further than his hands and what they held.

The reflection became another way to watch out for Sid, except Lon stood there window-shopping an empty office foyer. Plus tonight, for some unknown reason, his reflection pained him, and the more he glimpsed himself, the slimier he felt. To lessen the guilt of not talking to Brian, he reminded himself that he needed to talk to Sid and no one else. It was a piss-weak excuse.

By the time his classmate drained his cup, placed it in the bin and headed off towards the town centre, Lon needed to turn away from himself.

The Red Cross fed the last person. The male driver noticed Lon, lifted a cup to him and received a headshake in reply. The girl slid the van door shut.

 

Lon drove to the Red Cross headquarters for the next stop and watched the gaggle from across the street. Stale urine wafting from the garden beds reminded him of Ewen’s childhood chemistry set. After ten minutes of serving, the van door slid shut again.

 

On the drive to Wellington Square, Lon baulked at his absurd selfishness, pissed off that the homeless could eat three hot meals a day, which meant if he didn’t find Sid tonight he’d be up at six am to do the rounds again.

He checked the rear-view.

He pulled in near the Square, wandered toward the toilets and lounged against a swamp mahogany, one of many tree species that corralled the inner-city block of lawn. On the grass, forty dwellers mingled like buyers and sellers at a shopping trolley swap meet. Far off at the reserve’s northern boundary, three streetwalkers in short skirts paraded themselves on the poorly lit footpath. Across from the girls, a tall Christmas tree glowed in a dark office window.

Lon knew that residents had petitioned against the Red Cross and Salvos using the Square as a soup stop. Populated, he reasoned, but not unruly.

As if on cue, an aboriginal screamed, “Why don’t you git back to yer own fuckin country.”

Maybe not.

An Asian teenager carrying a swag sauntered away from an aboriginal group sitting on the ground near the toilets. The teenager continued towards a crowd congregating beside the footpath.

Dusk smothered the city. Lon reflected on summers in Victoria where the evening veil took hours to close. Here, in Perth, dusk dropped from the sky.

The white van pulled in, its headlights panning across the dark park. Each person, ignited as a snapshot within the beams, had rendered the park more sinister than it actually was.

Behind the Mitsubishi, a yellow Ferrari 458 accelerated towards the city centre. Half a mill of motorcar, mused Lon.

The moment the Red Cross driver skirted round to the van door, he noticed Lon and wasted no time in striding over and fronting him. “Can I ask what yah doing lobbing into every stop if yah’re not interested in the grub?”

A reasonable question, thought Lon. “Looking for someone.”

“I gotta ask caus’ some pricks take advantage of the destitute in ways yah cannot imagine.”

“I understand. But I’m delivering a message.”

“If I know em, I’ll pass it on.”

“I need to meet him myself.”

A moment passed between them. The driver’s pug face and crooked fingers suggested he’d gone a few rounds against life.

“Take my photo,” said Lon. “If I meet Sid, I’ll get him to okay everything with you.”

“Sid.” He nodded. “We often serve him.”

“Which stop?”

“More towards the tail end, yah know.” He paused. The guy’s wide stance displayed pride. “If yah’re gunna tag along, might as well pull on some serving mitts.”

Latex gloves on, Lon dispensed sandwiches. To stop himself from glancing down the queue, he concentrated on the inevitability hanging over the people he served. Facial features, if not already, would soon head south; crescent moon mouth, bags under the eyes, limp hair, hessian sack skin. Like white-collar crime doing time, the inevitability may also come from an understanding that life, at any moment, could easily supersize the cruelty.

An aboriginal woman thanked him. “You’re a beautiful person. God bless.”

The blessing didn’t penetrate. The inability to understand his fixation on survival had blocked it.

A police siren wailed in the distance. It reminded him of his twenties. Normally, it wouldn’t. The sound grew louder as a police sedan blew through the lights and floored it down Wellington Street, dragging attentions with it.

The line dwindled to four. Lon lingered in ambivalence. Hold back as if slowing the expected no show from Sid, or speed it up so the charity cases before him would disappear from both sight and mind.

They did from sight, the line now empty.

Suddenly, a fifty-year-old Middle Eastern male in grey business pants, white office shirt, baseball cap and sunglasses appeared from the darkness beneath a Moreton Bay fig. The guy marched straight up to the service door.

“We’ve still got five minutes,” said the driver, interest spiking his voice.

Lon was lost for a reply. His attention lay with the coffee skinned office worker who hid his food close to his body, crossed the road and disappeared into a darkened side street.

Upon noticing Lon’s silence, the driver tried to lighten a look he’d come to understand. “Yah know, some sleep really rough. Pride like pebbles in their bed.”

Lon stared at the lonely side street. Someone tapped his arm.

The African girl pointed across the park to Sid pushing his forty-four towards them.

The man they’d waited for parked his trolley on the grass and sauntered over to the van. He said hello, graciously accepted the food and carefully walked his soup and sandwiches back across the lawn to his trolley.

Lon’s gloves felt like a disguise. He left them on and walked to Sid, now resting against his forty-four. “Sid.”

“True. Since birth.”

“We have a common acquaintance.”

“Do we? Who are you?”

“Lon.” He took off a glove and offered a clammy hand.

“My hands are a bit full.” Sid tasted his tomato soup.

In a lame attempt to connect, Lon said, “It actually does smell okay.”

“What, think they serve us pigs’ slop?”

Smart reply. Ewen may be spot on. “No.”

Sid bit into a sandwich, chewed with his mouth closed, and swallowed. “So, Lon. A common acquaintance.”

“Ewen.”

“Paperboy. A right old mess he’s dropped himself into.”

“Interested in helping him out of it?”

“You’re not shy in the request department.”

“I’ll add cash.”

“Drug money?”

“No. He’s innocent.”

“Innocent?”

“Take my word.”

“I don’t need to. Anyone can see his bust was baloney. How much cash?”

“One hundred thousand before the job. One hundred after.”

“Sweet Mary Jane. How many balls need swinging onto the block?”

“None. In and out, we hope. You’ll need to act though, as in pretend to be someone you’re not.”

“No problem. After thirty years lecturing philosophy, I can act, bullshit and hypnotise. Act what?”

“Government worker.”

“You wouldn’t mind narrowing the range a bit would you?”

“A spy.”

“Against who?”

“A businessman. In and out. Fifteen minutes. Possibly another meeting soon after.”

“I’m guessing I know the businessman, and you’re probably guessing I haven’t much to lose.” He eyed Lon. “Have I now. The world wouldn’t miss me.”

“That’s not the angle. I’d probably choose someone else. Who, I have no idea. It’s Ewen’s gig. It’s his call. A gut choice he said. He also said you’d understand.”

“Go with the guts.” Sid raised a toast with his soup cup. “Obviously, we need to plan. But not here. Where?”

“My apartment. We start work on you tonight. You’ll camp in the spare room.”

Sid drained his soup. “Ah… filled a hole.”

Lon waited.

“So when’s the acting gig?”

“Tomorrow. After the Western Times hits the streets.”

From across the park two scratchy male voices hurled abuse at each other.

Lon’s left hand sweated inside its glove. He peeled the latex off. “I know it’s a hasty call. No time for a safety induction.”

“Inductions cover arses, finito. And judging by the amount of money, mine is not the only bare arse.”

“Exactly. You in?”

“Forty-nine percent. You need to convince me two-percent more back at your place.”

“Okay. Shall we go?”

Sid patted his drum. “Only if you drive a ute. My bet is you own an Audi or BM.”

“Very intuitive.”

“As is Ewen.”

Lon handed him his address.

Sid gripped his trolley handles. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”