Roll With It (13 page)

‘Okay if I hit the bags?’ Laver asked and the guy nodded, while never stopping a monologue: ‘That’s great, Margie. Keep it going. That’s three, love. Lower yourself slowly, hold it for a breath and now come on, you can do it. Push, push, push. Fantastic. That’s four!’

Laver wrapped the tape over and under his hands, through the fingers to protect the knuckles, and around the wrist. Then pulled on his gloves and stretched his arms behind him.

Margie, having completed five push-ups, staggered to her feet and reached for a water bottle.

Laver started on the floor-to-ceiling bag, ducking and weaving while drumming out combinations, his left jab flicking and catching the waving bag every time, the elastic that held it to the roof and floor snapping and stretching. A right hook or jab occasionally straightened the bag back out as it floated past his face.

Then it was the heavy bag and Laver didn’t hold back. Deep rips to the body, thundering hooks. Straight rights and lefts that shook the entire bag, its metal chains clanging and jolting as Laver’s frustration flowed down his arms, all the way from his set legs – knees slightly bent, toes turning in with the punch. The onslaught lasting for several minutes.

Laver stood back, gulping for air, his arms jelly.

Margie, now gently tapping a lighter bag, looked slightly stunned.

The trainer gave him an amused raised eyebrow. ‘Family, girlfriend or work?’

‘At least two out of three,’ Laver gasped.

A sauna and shower took him up to lunchtime, and he felt slightly better. Perhaps he should have gone to work after all. Laver hadn’t had time off in Melbourne in years, and was unsure what to do. The answer, when it came to him, was obvious but deflating.

Of course he knew what to do. It was a step up from visiting his mother’s grave, but not much of one.

His father lived in a semi-detached house in Hawthorn with neat roses in the front yard and a clipped lawn. Neither of which would be the work of Laver’s dad.

Bill Laver was sitting in his chair as usual as Laver kissed his step-mum, Daisy, and came through the front door.

‘Well, look who the cat dragged in,’ Laver’s dad said, putting down the crossword. He adjusted his glasses to better frown at his son, while adjusting the gut that spilt over the edge of his recliner chair, bad comb-over as reliably in place as ever. His face all harsh lines and deep wrinkles from endless scowling at the world. ‘Shot anybody today, Clint Eastwood?’

‘Great to see you too, Dad. Don’t get up. No need for a hug.’

‘I wasn’t going to get up.’

‘I know, Dad.’

‘So. Haven’t you made a name for yourself, hey, boy? Feeling famous yet?’

Laver sat on the couch, the safety of a coffee table and a vase of fresh flowers between him and his father. He wondered if Bill had even noticed Daisy’s flower arrangement. If he ever did. ‘Not any kind of famous I asked for, Dad. He shot at me first. Almost got me.’

‘Almost. Pfft.’ Laver watched his father try to toss his head and shake it in disgust at the same time. Why the hell had he thought coming here would be a good idea?

Daisy walked back into the room with a tray. Coffee for Laver, tea for her and Bill. Biscuits. Possibly shortbreads, by the look of them – pre-Christmas baking. Laver noticed how tired Daisy looked. How haggard from living with this man. But not going anywhere.

His father was pointing a finger at him now.

‘I thought you were the one kid who might not be a fuck-up. I was only saying to Daisy the other day that her kid, Jackie—’

‘It’s Johnnie,’ she snapped.

‘Johnnie then.’

‘He always gets that wrong,’ she said to Laver, giving him a look.

Bill spoke over top of her, ‘The woman’s got three kids and none of them are mine, so what does she want from me …?’

‘God, give me strength,’ Daisy said. ‘We’re married for fifteen years and your loser of a father still needs blessed nametags.’

Laver wondered if, with all his practice lately, he could finish his coffee within a minute and get out of there.

***

Jake looked around to see if anybody in the Groc-o-Mart car park was watching, decided they weren’t, and awkwardly pulled his business shirt over his head, bashing an arm into the roof of the Mazda. He pulled on his new T-shirt and then put the red-yellow-and-green beret on, staring in amazement at himself in the rear-vision mirror before starting the car up and heading towards the city on Heidelberg Road.

He took a while to find a park on Smith Street and walked self-consciously back a couple of blocks to Friends of the Planet, forcing himself not to look into the various bars and cafés to see if anybody was laughing at his new look. Occasionally he let himself sneak a glance at his reflection in shop windows, and couldn’t help grinning. He looked so unlike the usual him.

Bindi was behind the counter – Jake was relieved it wasn’t the bald guy again. But no Lou anywhere in sight. How often could he try to come here twice a day on the slight hope of bumping into her? Maybe he should start swimming again, just to ensure they crossed paths in some capacity, even soggy and out of breath?

Jake bought something called ‘carob’, which he assumed was some kind of chocolate, and headed back onto Smith Street. He stood outside in the afternoon sun, watching the colourful local population drift past and the peak-hour traffic crawl along. It occurred to him that he should buy a bicycle. He could ride in from Kew, to keep fit – and he would have a better chance of bumping into Lou in the bike lanes that seemed to be placed randomly around Collingwood and Fitzroy.

He peered back in the window of Friends of the Planet, but there was only Bindi.

Jake headed home. His mum would be cooking dinner. Best not to be late.

Laver checked his email while waiting for Damian to show
up. Broadbent’s secretary, Linda, had sent one two hours ago, asking him to phone, so he did.

‘He’s not here now,’ Linda told him. ‘He wanted you to come in but we couldn’t reach you. According to Slatts at the mountain bike squad, you forgot to take your mobile with you today on the bike.’

‘That’s right,’ Laver said. ‘You hang out with rookies, you start making rookie errors, huh?’ Slattery was a good bloke.

‘Well, Neil’s gone for the day but he said I could pass on the message. The inquiry is probably set for April. He’ll let you know an exact date nearer the time.’

There was a long pause.

‘Constable Laver?’

‘April.’

‘“Maybe May but probably April” is what he said.’

‘That’s months. What am I supposed to do between now and April?’

‘Neil said you should ride your bike.’

‘Did he?’

‘And keep your head down. Low down.’

Laver didn’t say anything.

‘He emphasised that, Rocket.’

‘I’ll bet he did.’

Out of respect for his gym session, Laver didn’t have a whisky or even a beer. He drank dry ginger until his doorbell went off. Looking into the security camera from the block’s front door, he saw the grainy sepia image of an emo youth with jet-black hair, dark eyeliner and highlighted lips on whiter-than-white skin.

He pressed the ‘talk’ button. ‘No thanks. Whatever you’re selling.’

‘Rocket, it’s me. Damian.’

‘What the hell?’ Laver buzzed him in.

Damian Minack, veteran of the Melbourne pub-music circuit and long-time mountain-biking enthusiast, trudged wearily up the stairs to Laver’s front door, sounding heavy-legged in large Doc Marten boots. His black T-shirt had a grey skull printed on it, between the deliberate rips, and was half-covered by what looked like a black spiderweb draped over his shoulder.

‘Don’t say a word,’ he warned Laver.

‘You’ve just been featured in
Alice Cooper’s Eye for the Straight Guy
?’

‘I said don’t say a word. Just give me a beer.’

‘Do emos drink beer?’

‘No, emos drink vodka-raspberry coolers because none of them are mature enough to handle actual alcohol. I drink beer.’

‘So, you going to explain or what?’

‘As is patently obvious, we have set up an emo band. A few of us put on black wigs and mascara every Wednesday afternoon at a pub near Monash Uni and play for a couple of hours as classes finish. You know my mate Tommy from that punk band, Kitten Sex Frenzy? And Clive from the Freeballing Astronauts?’

‘If Clive’s the one I’m thinking of – the bass guitarist? – I cannot see him doing the emo thing.’

‘He’s a sight,’ Damian agreed. ‘But it’s a solid earner.’

‘Are they actual Doc Martens?’

‘Vintage,’ Damian nodded. ‘Depressingly easy to find, all these years later. Hey! The bike!’

Laver handed Emo Damian a beer as he stood appraising the police bike as though it were a painting.

‘Do I even want to know what the band’s called?’ Laver asked from the couch.

Damian looked at him sideways, grinned and raised his stubbie. ‘The Devil’s Mockery.’

Laver had to nod, despite himself. ‘Yeah, okay. That’s good.’

‘Thanks. Have you heard about the new emo website?’

‘Nope,’ said Laver.

‘Look it up. It’s www dot emo dot com slash wrists.’

Laver tried to laugh. ‘That’s pathetic.’

‘Slays ’em in the aisles at Monash. You know, I’m fast becoming one of the emo headliners. I could pull all the emo chicks I’d want if emo chicks put out. But I think they’re too busy moaning about the world to consider pub-toilet knee-shakers.’

‘I’m convinced you can do better. What happened to Jenny?’

Damian shrugged. ‘Her band’s on tour. Playing Brisbane tonight.’

‘What are they called again?’ Laver could never keep track of the dozens of bands Damian was either in, moving between or mates with. ‘The Vegetarians?’

‘The Dirty Vegans.’

‘Oh yeah, that’s right. So what do you think of my new steed?’

‘Mate, it’s a fucking beauty. I can tell without even riding it. They just gave this to you?’

‘It’s a loaner. But it looks like I’m stuck there for months so, yeah, they’ll let me choose my own bike. It will be better than this, apparently. This is the ageing spare.’

‘Better than this? Holy crap. This makes my bike look like an old dragster from the 70s – and my bike’s worth about three grand.’

‘Really?’ Laver was genuinely surprised.

‘Hell yeah. Those disc brakes are top of the range. See the front forks? They’re quality. I’m pretty sure …’ Damian lifted the frame with one hand. ‘Yep, it’s a lightweight titanium frame. If you didn’t have all that Batman–utility belt cop crap all over it, it would be light as a feather.’

‘We love our utility belts.’

‘Clearly. So you’re hating every minute of riding this baby around, huh?’

‘Well, the bosses have ordered that I’m frozen out by my old squad. As in, police-ona non grata. And this bike thing is kind of a comedown from where I was.’

‘Yeah, I guess. Must be shit. Not getting shot at. Less internal politics. Fresh air. Sunshine. Getting paid to keep fit. Babes in bike shorts … I’ll bet there are babes in the squad.’

Laver had to grin. ‘One or two. Mostly it’s mini-Hitlers behind the handlebars.’

‘Well, let’s face it. They are fucking cops.’

Damian swigged his beer with distaste. Even with Laver, a best mate since school and a career cop for fourteen years now, he still maintained the musician’s hatred of the uniforms who broke up perfectly good parties and occasionally searched you for drugs.

Laver respected that. It was rock and roll.

***

Stig was going mad, waiting for one of the locals to ring him back. It had never occurred to him that it would be this hard to move the merchandise. He figured they’d be in Melbourne for a couple of days at the most, then gone. But he was still here and going nowhere.

Maybe it was that frustration – or perhaps it was just because he couldn’t believe the Wild Man really was that fucking stupid – that found him standing over Wildie, in ever-reliable Xbox-playing mode on the couch, and waving the newspaper at him.

‘The description could not be any clearer if they’d taken a bloody picture of you, Wildie. I said go and get a car, not make page nine of the biggest-selling tabloid in town, you dumb prick.’

Wildie barely looked up from the game, fingers moving confidently among the buttons.

‘Mate, it was two days ago. He gave me some shit so I gave him a little tap. Big deal.’

‘A little tap.’ Stig read through the reported injuries again. Induced coma. Swelling on the brain. Fractured ribs. Grave words from the doctor in Emergency. ‘Mate, we’re trying to fly under the radar here. You might remember a large Queensland crime syndicate that may or may not be wondering where we are? And you make the paper, beating up used-car salesmen.’

‘Why would they be looking for us? We’re dead, remember.’

‘I know we’re dead but Jenssen might decide to double check. He might be keeping an eye out.’

‘So what you’re saying, dickhead, is that Jenssen is sitting up there on the Gold Coast, reading a Melbourne newspaper. Then thinking, “Shit. I reckon a used-car salesman I’ve never heard of way down in Melbourne, Victoria, might have been beaten up by the zombie corpse of one of my dead ex-employees.”’