Marriage & the Mermaid (Hapless Heroes) (12 page)

“Sleepy,” she said and handed him the cereal box, then she walked straight past the bathroom, shed the towel and flopped onto her bed.

Baz went around to the other side of her bed, picked up the edges of the quilt and draped it over her, then he let himself out of her rooms, deciding he’d ask her the questions over lunch. He had to be firm with her. Set boundaries. But when he left her and went to see how Ted was faring in the media room, Baz realised his father actually had the edge when it came to unpredictability. While Gene Kelly was
singing in the rain,
Ted was tap dancing around coffee tables, balancing by grabbing the backs of the armchairs that faced the huge projection screen.

Baz propped himself in the doorway, cereal packet in the crook of his arm and wet clothes in his hand, suddenly feeling as exhausted as Venus had looked only moments ago.

She wasn’t his only problem, and in fact, she was the lesser problem.

Perspective was an ugly thing.

Chapter Thirteen

R
andolph Budjenski clicked the
end call
button on his new
iPhone,
the one with the fake customer ID. Satisfaction sang inside him like the wailing opera singers he’d just pretended to adore. He pulled off his head–set and turned to give Poss a grin. “Stupid fucker thinks he’s smarter than me,” he said from the broken beer–stained table they’d scrounged from a nightclub. “But I’m all over him.”

Possum grinned back, the huge brown eyes that gave him his nick–name momentarily narrowed as he dragged on some weed. For a second Rand was flung back in time to the moment he’d first seen the kid lying in a back alley, beaten and gang–banged to within an inch of his life. He’d literally pulled Poss out of the gutter and somehow the stray had gotten under his skin. The little brother he’d never had. Annoying as hell, but endearing all the same.

“You’re a player,” Poss acknowledged, holding his breath to give the gunja its best shot at intoxicating him. “Got the Di Caprio looks. Got the class to go with it. A true artist,” he added, then blew the smoke from his prematurely clogged lungs into a long thin stream. “Was it the old dude?”

“The son,” Rand said, getting up from the table to stretch. “Thinks he’s warned me off.”

“How much in this action?” Possum asked, eager for the juice. “Enough to buy fresh weed?”

“For a month,” Rand lied, and nodded when Possum whistled. The truth was, this sting would keep them in luxury for life – it was the one Rand had been waiting for, had been working towards – but he wasn’t about to spill details to a stoner like Possum who might blurt it out to the low–lives at the pub. The last thing Rand needed was some hopeful trying to muscle in on his prime gig.

Better to keep it hush and work the angles himself. The first thing he needed was to check that the home address he’d hacked out of the old man’s ISP database was correct, and that he actually owned the place, which equaled: Property Worth Acquiring. Then there were the legal technicalities, but that was do–able.

As a street kid, Rand could get Legal Aid on tap. So all he had to do was make up a problem and then steer the conversation into theoretical areas. The latest ‘suit’ at the aid office was particularly easy to drain. Rand had told her he was writing a short story about an inheritance problem and now she fell over herself trying to help. Young and eager. They all started out that way. Give her a year of being played and she’d find some reserve. At the moment, though, she was an opened treasure chest of information Rand was happy to plunder.

“Gotta stretch,” he told Possum, and paused at the couch to slap his bud’s hand on the way to the pile of clothes where he found a not–too–smelly denim shirt and pulled it on over his cut–off jeans. “Gunna rain?” he asked, looking through the pile for the taslon jacket he’d found at the train station.

Possum closed his eyes and sniffed. Rand wasn’t sure how the skinny little rat lying in his filthy jocks could smell anything other than dope and his own stink, but as far as weather–gauges went, Poss was near infallible. Country breeding.

“No rain,” Possum said at last, then took another drag. He held the reefer out to Rand who gave up his search for the jacket and shook his head.

“Might stop off at Trixi’s Parlor,” he said and winked. “Won’t have no fun with a limp gunja–dick.”

Possum laughed so hard he nearly fell off the sofa, but Rand knew it was just the dope. Impossible to have a decent conversation with his illegal dependent when he was stoned 24/7. “Ah man,” Possum said, tears brimming his eyes. “You break me up.”

Rand saw his
Nikes
under the chipped glass coffee table, but when he pulled them out covered in mud and what could have been vomit, his goodwill evaporated. Fucking Poss. “You shit–for–brains,” he said, and straightened to kick the lounge. “You cost me a bucket and you do fuck–all.” He pointed at the mound of pizza boxes in the corner. “Stop ringing the man for food every time you’re stoned.” Then he waved a hand around their filthy squat. “And clean this fuckin’ place up before I get back.” He threw a note at Possum. “Take the clothes to the Laundromat.”

“Sure,” Possum said and snagged the twenty, crumpling it in his fist.

“Don’t spend it on piss,” Rand warned. “Or pizza.”

“I hear you, man,” Possum said, and laughed at his own attempts to struggle upright on the sofa, his fingers getting caught in the burn holes. “I’ll be straight. I’ll be your little cleaning skirt.”

“Fucker,” Rand said and shook his head – knew he shouldn’t have given Poss a twenty. There was no way he’d go to the Laundromat with that. He’d spend it on anesthetic. They all did when they came to the Valley.

It had taken Rand four years to clean up to the point where he could function. At seventeen, he was making a good living now on scams. But Possum was only fourteen. Rand shouldn’t expect him to be as responsible. Particularly with his history. But the only way to make him be responsible was to give him responsibility. Rand didn’t need a social worker to tell him that. He’d learnt it the hard way.

So he gave Possum money and tried not to get shitty when he blew it. One day the kid would do the right thing. And until then, well, it was only a twenty.

“I’ll be back,” Rand said from the door.

Possum had already sprawled back onto the sofa and was fondling the note against his scrawny chest, smiling a dreamy stoner’s smile.

“The Laundromat!” Rand said loudly. “And remember to lock up.”

From his prone position, and with eyes closed, Possum gave the thumbs–up.

Rand shook his head. “Fucker,” he said again softly as he let himself out, locking the door carefully behind himself so they wouldn’t be ripped off. It had taken him months to get the money together for his laptop. He’d hate to lose it, but the rule was that you shouldn’t get attached. Rand knew that. You tried to protect your stuff, to protect yourself and your people. But shit happened. And when it did, you got over it and moved on.

Rand prayed every night that shit wouldn’t happen to Possum, and he checked him every day for needle–marks, warning him he’d be out on his arse if he came home with any. But it was probably only a matter of time. Before he’d gotten into hacking, Rand had done prostitution. Georgie–boy, the old queen who’d pimped him, had been all that had kept Rand from using. Unfortunately George and his genteel ways were gone. The pimps who worked the Valley now were vampires who happily got you hooked up so you’d be stuck working for them forever.

Well, as long as your ‘forever’ lasted. Two days ago Lilly–white had washed up OD in the strip club gutter. Thirteen. Man, that was fucked. But Rand had to shut himself off from that. Lilly–white hadn’t been his people. It hadn’t been his job to protect her. Possum was Rand’s people, and once he had this scam landed and the engines switched off they’d been living in the lap.

Living in the la …

God, Rand longed for that. In a real house like real people, wearing clean clothes and bathing every day, like on the sitcoms.

Eating fruit.

Oh yeah. “Bring it home, Randy boy,” he told himself softly as he set off down the back stairs of their squat, leaping past the broken steps and not putting too much pressure on the timber hand–rail that was only holding on by a few rusty nails. At the bottom he paused to look back up at the old condemned boarding–house he and Poss had called home for the past two months. Fire trap. He knew that. He also knew he’d left Poss in there stoned and smoking.

But if you don’t turn up when the man orders you to …
Rand forced himself to walk away. Responsibility. He had to give Poss some. But that didn’t ease the sick apprehension in his gut. He fired off a silent prayer that Poss would still be there when he got back.

Chapter Fourteen

T
he kitchen door slammed open and Baz turned away from the pantry he’d been browsing. “Dad? Why aren’t you napping?”

“I’m going for a walk on the beach.” Ted said, marching towards the back door. “The house stinks of fish.”

Baz darted across and cut his father off. “It doesn’t stink,” he said, taking his father’s hand off the doorknob and closing the back door. “And the beach is not a good idea. The storm’s passed over but the weather could be circling back around. I don’t want you caught down there by a high tide.” Baz glanced at the kitchen clock. It was almost four and he’d been so busy reading the Power of Attorney forms he hadn’t checked on Venus.

Baz
had
found time to ring Randolph Budjenski, which had been incredibly stupid. He should have gotten his father to sign the forms first so he wouldn’t have been lying about that, but after realizing how much he had to lose he’d gotten desperate. Not his finest hour, but at least now he was reasonably confident that Rand was out of the picture.

The next step was getting his father to sign, and broaching that subject would be the hardest part. The old man had been impossible to please this afternoon, just when Baz wanted him amenable to signing forms.

“I’m sure it’s low tide,” Ted said, looking past Baz to the window, although he’d only be able to see the cliff top from there, and not the tide line.

“But I want to go with you, dad, and I need to start getting dinner ready now. Can we go tomorrow morning?”

“I want biscuits,” Ted said, and walked past Baz to the open pantry. “Where is that new housekeeper? Why isn’t she baking?” He walked inside and started picking boxes up. “I’m sick of these bought biscuits.”

“You love
Iced Vo Vos,
“ Baz said, and pushed past his father to reach up onto a high shelf. “Here.” He pulled a Tupperware container down. “These are the ones you like.”

Ted waited until Baz had taken the lid off to turn up his nose. “I had them yesterday.”

“You have them every day,” Baz said, trying to hold onto his temper.

Ted shook his head and stood with his lower lip stuck out petulantly.

“Fine!” Baz said and snapped the lid back on, shoving the container back onto the shelf. “Go hungry. I don’t care.” He pulled his father back out of the pantry and shut the door. “Eat grass. It’ll be good for your liver.”

“Grass? Will it?” Ted frowned.

“Sure. Cows do it all the time.”

“Is this some new diet?” Ted wandered over to the window and looked past the wind–battered rose garden to the sodden lawn. “The grass is very short out there.” He turned back to Baz. “And didn’t that make people sick during the Irish Potato Famine?”

Baz wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. “Look, are you hungry or not, dad?” he asked, suddenly tired of the whole conversation.

Ted narrowed his eyes and ducked his wavering head, staring at Baz as though trying to see into his soul. “What time is it?” he asked at last.

Deep breath.

“Four in the afternoon, dad. Two hours until dinner.” Too late for afternoon tea anyway.

Ted thought a moment longer then said, “Am I hungry … ?” He waited, as though expecting the answer from Baz. When it wasn’t forthcoming, he added, “How long is a piece of string!” then smiled idiotically as though he’d just made a huge joke.

Baz felt suddenly tired. “You don’t have a clue, do you, dad?” he asked.

Ted winked and nodded, as though they were sharing a secret joke. And perhaps they were.

Only Baz wasn’t in on the secret. “I’m getting us an early dinner,” he decided. “Party pies.”

Ted clapped his hands together, an uncoordinated effort, but he didn’t seem to notice that. “A party!”

“Yep. A party.” Whatever it took. “You have a shower and get ready, dad. I’ll prepare the food.”

“Good, good.”

Ted was smiling happily to himself as though his dearest wish had been fulfilled and, watching him, Baz felt an unexpected stab of emotion. When the complexity, the barriers and the aloof manner that Baz had always hated about his father were stripped away, the old man was really lovable. Not that Baz could ever bring himself to
think,
let alone say, that he loved his father. But neither could he deny that at odd times a kernel of warm fuzziness opened inside his chest.

A very uncomfortable kernel.

“Don’t be long,” he called after Ted as the old man toddled out of the kitchen and disappeared. Baz knew from experience that the party pies only took twenty minutes, and Ted had been known to spend an hour in the bathroom, doing God only knew what. And as Baz didn’t want to think about his father naked, he fussed instead with the party pies, lining them up on a tray and concentrating on that. In fact, he was so deep into the line–up that he’d completely forgotten he had more important things to worry about than his father’s odd habits. Until the phone rang.

Baz snatched up the kitchen extension with a curt, “Saltwood.” A vain effort to retain his anonymity.

Not for long.
“Mr Wilson, it’s Constable Moore.”

Baz listened to the policeman’s smooth, deep voice with trepidation as he related the pathologist’s findings. They weren’t pretty, and Moore’s description of small blue–green scales imbedded in Steve’s broken chest caused a hot, sick feeling to wash up through Baz’s body. He hadn’t noticed them on the corpse because he hadn’t looked at it closely. But he’d sure as hell seen little blue–green scaly things on Venus’s fingernails.