Luck in the Greater West (7 page)

Senior Sergeant Testafiglia motioned for his sergeant to enter the office. Sergeant Rosales hadn't been Testafiglia's first choice. He was Filipino, and as he was the only Asian officer he'd ever worked with, Testafiglia had been dubious about his policing skills. Statistically, there were very few Asians on the force, and Testafiglia had thought that there must be a reason for this. But it seemed the Cebuano police are trained tough and honest, and Rosales had become Testafiglia's favourite officer on the day-shift. He was a family man, had four daughters, and knew the value of keeping family together by having rules and boundaries.

Rosales moved in and took the seat across from his boss.

—One name with priors did come up, he began.

—Do we know him? Testafiglia asked.

—Patrick White. We busted him for possession with intent to sell. He got eighteen months and was let out after six for good behaviour. Miss Caxaro, as you remember, was part of the set-up for his bust. The detective never revealed to her that he was a cop, but it's more than possible this White believes she set him up. She says she visited him about an hour before the attack. She had a
sexual relationship with him. I think we should watch him. This could be revenge, boss. May not be linked to the other rapes. Or he could be the drug link. Supplying the drugs and even tipping off the attackers about girls who smoke marijuana.

—I remember White. Unsatisfying arrest, Testafiglia said.

—Yeah, didn't say yes, didn't say no. Could have more to hide. I suggest a surveillance. Simple day-watch to start with, no overtime.

—Keep me informed. I think you're on the right track here, Testafiglia said.

Sonja's body was the most pure, delicious, aromatic, narcotic, addictive thing. It existed just to fill him with the strongest, most insatiable appetite. But since she'd knocked on his door again, he hadn't eaten much more than human hair. Whitey found it hard to believe when he thought too hard about it, but his luck had changed. He was lucky to have met Sonja, and incredibly lucky that she liked him. He was totally beyond understanding her existence and his unbelievably close proximity to it. There was the age difference thing. But he only thought of this when they were apart, and Sonja had never brought it up. Whitey was on the verge of having something he'd never even hoped for. A relationship where he was in love with the other person.

She came to him daily, after school, and that was six periods too many. Sometimes they'd make love at lunchtime.

Whitey had drugs, and more cash to buy booze and groceries than he'd ever had before, but the smell of the top of Sonja's head was all he needed for sustenance. They lived off the richness of each other, and drank sweat. His foam mattress was heaven, and it floated above and beyond Colyton, Mt Druitt and north-east of
there. He liked to eat her lips at the door at four-oh-two pm, and have her lower spine totally devoured by five.

—Fuck me. I love you, Sonja said.

—Oh, Jesus, you, he sighed.

All that romantic shit; it was true. All those books, all those movies; the authors had gotten a whiff of Sonja. Every single mole, every single hair was love. Sonja was an eclipse. He couldn't get enough of her, but he kept wondering: why did she keep on coming?

He had overwhelming bouts of doubt when she wasn't there. Was her love for him all some kind of warped practical joke to be televised after some clever editing? Or was it some other type of set-up?

Or was she just young?

Human Society and its Environment had been one of Sonja's favourite classes, but she couldn't recall one word that Ms Hunter had said to the class in the last three weeks. She'd sensed they were steering towards the Middle East and Islam lately, but it was peripheral to what really mattered.

Patrick. There really was nothing else. School just punctuated, for way, way too long, the real, beautiful, and totally fulfilling purpose of her life. Patrick. God, the way he touched her. There was soft electricity in his hands. And his smell. She could live in it. She'd taken one of his T-shirts and slept with it draped over her head. And hugged it in the morning. And when he kissed her everywhere, and was inside her, that was what life was about. It was all love. He was a man, but not like her father. She'd seen him drink, but he put down his drink without a second thought in order to hold and drink her.

She wanted to wake up next to him. She wanted to live with him.

But Polly and Peter. And her mother. Her mother didn't know yet. Mum could ruin the whole thing.

Abdullah Najib loved to drive. And he loved to drive when he was whacked. It was insane fun, tearing around the streets where the councils had yet to lay speed humps, stoned and zipping on speed. The speed. Last time he was on the zip he couldn't get a hard-on. He was planning to bring it up with the boys, see if it happened to any of them. But he hadn't worked out how to broach it yet.

He pumped the horn. Abdullah Najib didn't get out of the car, especially if he was driving. He saw the venetian blinds in the front window of Pinhead's house bend. Pinhead's mum looking out. Fuckin' bitch, he thought. Thinks that her son, fuckin' Pinhead, is too good to hang out with me. Fuckin' Abdullah Najib. Cunt's lucky I hang with him. Abdullah didn't call Pinhead Pinhead to his face; none of them did. Not because any of the boys were scared of him. Just because it was slack — the guy did have a long, thin head. But he was funny to be with. And always thinking about pussy. To his face the boys called him Fadi.

 

Fadi Mobahad slammed the front door and nodded slightly at Abdullah's metallic-blue Subaru WRX. He saw the tinted driver's
side window roll down slightly, and knew he'd have to go and cop some shit at the window before he got in.

—Fuckin' mum lettin' ya out? Abdullah asked.

—Yeah, mate. What about your mum?

—What about my mum?

—Nuthin'.

—Let's go and pick up my bitch, Abdullah said.

 

The bong was passed between the WRX's Recaro seats. You had to be careful not to spill any bong water or let a burning pot seed come flying out of the cone. The WRX was cool, but it made you paranoid. Because it was Abdullah's, Ali Nora thought, and passed the bong back. The cone wasn't fully smoked, but he was too stoned already. He was the last of the crew to be picked up before the session, and this made him paranoid as well. It was like coming in on the end of a joke and no one will tell you what it's about. And today Abdullah had brought his new missus too, so both Ali and Fadi were in the back seat. Mia was hot, but a bit stuck up. Italian; I'd only go out with Lebanese chicks, Ali thought — others don't understand what it's like to be a Leb. Different when it comes to just fucking chicks; doesn't matter what they think, does it? Abdullah was going out with Mia though, being romantic and shit. She was just for him. I'd like a girlfriend too, Ali thought, but all the hot chicks I know are mates' girls or family.

 

The car's momentum was acutely felt by its stoned occupants. Only Mia, who wasn't stoned, was enjoying it. Abdullah appeared tense and seemed to be lacking the usual confidence this car gave him.

—You okay, babe? she asked him.

—Huh? Yeah, just freakin' out a bit. Don't want to smash up this dickhead's arse, he said, motioning with a darting finger to the car in front of them. I've had to miss two fuckin' payments on this car already, thanks to my fuckin' suspension from work.

Mia didn't know exactly why Abdullah had been suspended from his job at the railways, but she'd worked out from what he had said that it had something to do with harassment. She wasn't sure she should ask about it. The subject seemed to change his mood pretty rapidly.

Abdullah swung the car into the carpark of the Road Ripper convenience store.

—I'm goin' in ta get a drink, he said.

—Oh, get me a — Mia said, but he'd already shut the door.

She watched him walk away. He had a hot body, she mused. Worked out with weights. Needs to grow out that shaved head though. Apart from that, she wanted Abdullah Najib. She'd never wanted a guy before. There'd been cute guys, but she hadn't
wanted
them. She hadn't wanted to have sex with them.

—Wanna freak Abdullah out? Ali asked her.

—What do you mean?

—Ya know, freak him out when he gets back to the car.

—I guess. Depends, she said.

—Pull up that lever near the front of his seat, the one that adjusts it.

—Why?

—C'mon. Don't worry; he won't get the shits with you.

She leant over and moved the lever. Ali pushed the seat all the way forward. It looked ridiculous, because Abdullah always sat with it all the way back. They laughed. Which was good, as it cut the paranoia that hung thickly between them.

Abdullah came out of the shop with a guarana drink. He opened the door and tried to get into the seat.

—What the fuck? he snarled, but continued to force himself behind the wheel. The three passengers began to laugh.

—Ha fuckin' ha, he said, and smiled.

He released the lever and slid the seat all the way back.

—Good one, boys. Who's the fuckin' smart arse?

Ali and Fadi shut up. Mia laughed and touched Abdullah's leg

—Ooh, poor baby.

He slapped her across the jaw.

She'd never been hit. Abdullah started the car, put it in gear. If he hadn't revved the shit out of the engine and abruptly dropped the clutch, she might have thought she'd imagined it. And the slap only began to hurt once they were out on the suburban roads, which now looked sunless, harsh and a deep green. No one moved their mouths, despite the dryness.

They drove through the streets. The tension wouldn't leak out the open windows, but there was hope when the car pulled up outside Abdullah's house. At least they could escape from the scene of the incident.

—Me and Mia are just gonna go inside for a bit, Abdullah said.

Mia felt threatened, but also a little excited and even flattered that, after not saying a word since the store, he'd included her in his plans. Her mind was churning though. She got out and followed him to the door.

 

Ali ran his hand over his shaved head and looked at Fadi.

—Fuck. I guess we gotta stay in the fuckin' car, hey?

They laughed. Because they'd have to just sit and wait and make it seem as though they hadn't been saying anything about him when
he got back. Abdullah was the undisputed leader of the guys. Partly because he had the WRX, but also because his uncle and one of his cousins were fuckin' hard cunts. Murder and shit. Abdullah had also begun to assert more lately. Since he'd been suspended without pay from his job with the railways for hassling some school girls, and since those gang bangs. Abdullah seemed to know what to do and say to get those chicks to root. It was heavy, being so forthright with the chicks, and so physical. But Abdullah's confidence seemed to make the situation flow, and they fed off each other's actions.

 

Abdullah motioned to Mia to sit on his bed. She moved over to it and touched it lightly.

—Hey, he began. Hey, I'm sorry, babe. You know.

He grabbed her hand. She cried, but didn't want to. It was like when she was a little girl. She'd always been able to bring on tears, tears that would get her warm, soft sympathy, or sway her father's strictness. But there were also the tears that came suddenly, and had embarrassed her, because she could tell that whoever was around — her brother, a friend or cousin — found them inappropriate. But sometimes an experience would trigger in her a deep hurt. Like hearing a baby cry for too long, or seeing a grasshopper being mobbed and eaten alive by ants. She cursed these tears because they betrayed the control she thought she had over her emotions. She knew she had good reason to cry now, but didn't want to do it here, with Abdullah. She had no idea what effect her tears would have on him.

He hugged her and kissed her neck.

—I'm sorry, babe, he said.

She hugged him back. She could feel the tension melt between them. That guy who'd smacked her in the car, that wasn't Abdullah;
this guy here was Abdullah. There was no way she would like a guy like that, a guy who'd just haul out his hard hand and smack it on her jaw. This guy here now, who felt so good, so warm and masculine, who was so confident but understanding; this was a guy she could love. He kissed her. It was so passionate. She got wet. It was so hot. He was rubbing between her legs. This was going to be it. This time she wanted it. She knew he wanted to love her. He took off her jeans. He removed his. Jesus. She'd never had one inside her. Not all the way inside. She wanted it. Abdullah was between her legs.

—What about a condom? she asked.

—Don't worry, babe, he said. I'll take it out at the end.

It went in. It was a shock how quickly. She'd experimented. With the handle of her hairbrush. But she'd done it slowly, millimetre by millimetre. Abdullah just popped it in, and it stung a bit. And it was so hot inside. But he stopped, and she could feel it going soft.

—Fuck, babe. I was so hot for you.

Mia sat on the toilet. The cum was dripping out. She wasn't sure if she should worry.

 

Abdullah was a bit pissed off that he'd come so early, but he was thinking of those sluts: you could just ram it in and blow; it didn't matter what they thought. You were never going to see them again. And they weren't going to tell your mates; your mates were there and didn't give a fuck because they were next. But anyway, Mia was in love with him. She'd let him in now. She was his.

He grabbed her around the waist as they walked back out to the car. Mia smiled at him.

The jets of water from the shower-rose penetrated like when she'd been sunburnt. And she washed until the soap stung. She got it all out, she thought. There was a mark on her jaw too. But she was sure Abdullah loved her now.

She'd only met Abdullah three months ago. Through Deba, a girl from school who'd invited her to a birthday party. Deba was Abdullah's cousin — or some kind of relative. Mia had liked the look of him from the first moment. The way he had control of himself. His muscles, his confidence; the way everyone around him laughed with him. And he'd kept looking over at her. Guys always looked at her, but she had wanted Abdullah's attention. Deba introduced them and he'd taken her for a drive in his car. The car did nothing for her, but he'd kissed her when he brought her back to the party. She wanted to see him every day after that, but Daddy would put an ugly end to it if he found out. He didn't like Lebanese. Peasants and terrorists, he scoffed. He didn't like any boys though, apart from Charlie. And Abdullah was always busy with his mates. They'd spent some time together, but never really alone. Once, in the back seat of his car, they'd nearly done it but then his phone had rung. She knew she wanted to sleep with him: she didn't need her virginity anymore, she'd decided. What was it for? Daddy wanted her to keep it, that was for sure, but she didn't see the point. She was the only girl in her group who hadn't done it. Even Deba, a Muslim, had done it heaps of times with her boyfriend. And it was hot, all that leading up to it. And when it went in, if he'd just done it slowly, and not pushed so hard making it sting — she could have had some more of that. It was kind of nice, what he did, but there was no way that could make her come. She'd heard sex was like that for women though. She'd once heard one of her aunties, drunk on Cinzano, telling her mother that she
had to wait until her husband rolled off and fell asleep to take care of things herself. Mia did like to take care of things herself. But she'd thought that once she let Abdullah do it to her, he would have her screaming and coming all afternoon. Anyway, she'd done it now. And she was too raw from scrubbing and soap to take care of things herself.

 

Charlie knocked on his sister's door. It'd taken an hour and a half to work up the courage to do so. She'd looked a bit pissed off when she'd come in. Abdullah must have said something to her, about the other day, with that chick down at the old pool.

—Yeah? Mia said.

—It's me, Charlie said.

—All right.

She was putting on make-up. After a shower?

—How's it goin'? he asked.

—Not bad.

—How's Abdullah?

—Good.

—Tell ya about the other day, when I hung out with him?

—No. Why, what'd you do?

—Just hung out and that.

She either didn't know or didn't care. The former, thankfully, was more likely.

That chick had gotten away. Bolted off without her pants and started yelling. They'd left the park straight away after she'd run, rather than chase her. Thankfully. Went and had another session with the pot they'd found in the chick's jeans. Abdullah had promised Charlie that next time, next time he'd get his end in. She wasn't an Aussie anyway, Abdullah had said, and wasn't enough of
a slut for all the boys to have a go. He did want to get his end in, but maybe not with a chick who's forced to do it with him. The way her voice sounded when she was running. It made him feel so sickeningly low. But Abdullah had promised that he'd get him laid. And even though the promise seemed more like a threat the more he thought about it, he had to come up with a way of getting out of receiving it. But he didn't want to tell Mia about it. How could he? Abdullah was her boyfriend. And why was Abdullah letting him see what he did to girls? It terrified Charlie that someone, who was now so close to their family, could have such alien ideas. He'd have to play along for now, he thought, because he'd rather have Abdullah think that they were friends than — what would they be if Charlie told Mia, or worse, Dad? Enemies?