ThornyDevils (25 page)

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ she replied. ‘Let’s go somewhere more private. My bedroom, perhaps.’ She took hold of Sam’s hand and tugged gently.

‘I could do with a rest,’ he winked.

***

Sam awoke to hear the dogs barking playfully in the yard. Babs had pulled back a curtain and was looking out of the bedroom window.

‘Something wrong?’ he asked in a trance. He rolled to his side to see her naked, smoking a cigarette. Babs’s body was surprisingly well-toned. The light streaming in from the street bathed her in a silvery halo. Sam could feel himself getting aroused.

‘Want to come back to bed?’ he said playfully patting the side of the bed where Babs had lain. The lovemaking had invigorated him. There had been many women and lots of lovemaking in his life, but this was one of the few times that he felt connected both physically and emotionally with a woman. Not since Annie.

‘Soon, darl,’ she replied. ‘Just checking the dogs.’

‘You love those dogs,’ he stated as he rolled back on his back and placed his arms behind his head.

‘Yeah, I do,’ she said as she closed the curtain and stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I’d be buggered without them.’ No sooner had she closed the curtain then she reopened it again, ‘Everything’s fine. Good.’ She closed the curtain for the last time.

‘A bit of a rough area? Sam asked.

‘Well, it isn’t Toorak. Unfortunately there’s a few derros and druggies that live here,’ she replied as she slipped back in beside Sam. He flung his arm across her, as soon as her head hit the pillow.

‘Can you just hold me?’ she pleaded. ‘Just cuddle me, darl.’ Her outstretched arms intertwined with Sam’s. He tried to kiss her but she turned her head away. ‘The sex was some of the best I’ve ever had. Got a few things on me mind.’ They held each other without speaking for what felt like an eternity.

‘Everything will be all right, Babs,’ Sam whispered.

‘I hope so,’ she replied as she looked at the curtains. ‘I hope so.’

‘You want to tell me about it?’ he said as he stroked her hair. ‘I’m an Aboriginal version of a social worker.’

‘I bloody well hope not,’ she snapped. ‘Those cunts. Pardon me French. Those mongrels took Lionel off me when he was a little tacker. I had to fight the frigging Department for years to get him back. They reckon I was an unfit mother. Load of bullshit. Lionel got raped in foster care. Poor little bugger. Fucked him up good and proper.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Sam replied.

‘I don’t really want to say anything,’ she ventured. ‘You’re a good man, Samson, but I don’t want to involve you in me troubles.’ She pecked him on the forehead and sat up on the edge of the bed. He shifted closer to her and lay against her, rubbing her back.

‘That’s nice,’ she cooed. ‘I could write a bloody book about what I’ve done, what I’ve seen and what I shouldn’t have seen,’ she chuckled. ‘It would curl your hair. I’m telling ya.’

‘I can’t wait to read it.’

‘Once I get Buddy and me set up, I’m going to do something about it. I’ve even started a night class in creative writing. People seem to like tragedy-made-good books.’

‘You sound keen, Babs,’ he observed. ‘When do you reckon you’ll be set up?’

‘Pretty soon. Just a few loose ends to tie up and that’s it.’

‘So you won’t be living here anymore, I suppose,’ he remarked as he continued to gently rub her back.

‘I’ll be out of here so quick the Department of Housing won’t even know about it. And we’ll live on a farm where the dogs can run around all day and Buddy can ride his motorbike. And I’ll be able to run some cattle and horses. And some chooks. You have to have chooks on a farm.’

‘Where’s the farm going to be?’

‘I’m looking at a place near me old hometown. Wodonga,’ she replied. ‘Wodonga’s a shithole but there’s some good land near the mountains. There’s a place I really love that’s got a stone fireplace and a big kitchen. All set on fifty acres. And beautiful views of the mountains. I’m going to put a deposit on it soon.’

‘The O’Learys are going to miss you,’ he stated.

‘The O’Learys.’ Babs’s voice dropped. ‘I’ve worked for them for a long time. They’ve got their money’s worth out of me. Doing all their
office work. Being their gofer. They made a lot of money over the years and they paid me minimal wages. Not even a bloody bonus or a ham at Christmas. Enough of them.’

‘But you seem to run the office and the business.’

‘You tell ‘em that. I don’t want to talk about them anymore. It was better when the old fella was in the country.’

‘I’m going to miss you, Babs.’ He sat up beside her on the edge of the bed and placed his arm around her.

‘You don’t have to miss me,’ she kissed Sam on the lips.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I might need a good man around the place,’ she winked.

***

Peter was about to write up a piece on a priest who wanted a sex change operation, just so he could join a contemplative order of nuns. He knew it wasn’t strictly true, but he needed to fill some empty space. He hoped it would be a sellout across the newsagencies in Melbourne. It would be on the television. In everyone’s conversation. Peter had typed the first line when the phone rang.

‘What the…?’ he said aloud as he snatched up the handset and yelled into it. ‘I’m frigging busy, Shazza!’ He cradled the handset between his shoulder and his ear and continued to type as if life itself depended on it.

‘A little bit stressed?’ Shazza ventured.

‘Yeah,’ Peter softened. ‘Sorry. Is this important?’

‘Could be. If you think a phone call from Tony Donarto is. He wants to talk to you.’

‘I almost forgot. Scum. Put him through.’

‘Love to,’ she said as she transferred the call.

‘Hello, Tony?’

There was a pause. A deep breath. ‘Clancy. This Stella. She said I should talk to you,’ Tony said.

‘I know. She’s gone to Sydney and I’m your man. Funny how things work out.’

‘But I wanted to talk to her, not you, you cocksucker.’

Peter held the handset away from his ear. ‘As I told you, she’s in Sydney. You could fly up and talk to her there. There was silence on
the other end. ‘Tony. You still there? You can always talk to me,’ he braved, ‘if you need to talk to someone.’

‘You?’ Tony snapped back, ‘you nearly ruined my life. The wife would have left me except that we’re Catholics.
Vaffanculo. Tua madre si da per niente
.’

‘My mother was a highly principled woman, if you want to know. Fuck you indeed, Tony,’ Peter replied.

Another silence. ‘You speak Italian, you prick?’

‘Enough to understand you. We’re in Melbourne, remember? Little Italy?’

‘All right,’ he hesitated. ‘I’ll talk to you. On my terms.’

‘You’ll talk to me?’ Peter repeated with a jolt. What was happening? Tony Donarto had good reason to hate him and now he wanted to confess all? ‘The same interview as Stella?’

‘But it’ll cost you extra because I have to put up with your fucking ugly face.’

Peter thought briefly of putting the phone down to confer with Bob but something in Donarto’s voice was desperate. Peter had a hunch. ‘Sorry, no deal.’

‘What do you mean? Stella was going to pay me a thousand.’

‘Yes, but as I told you, she and the money have gone to Sydney. There’s nothing left in the pot. Besides, you don’t need a thousand quid, Tony. You want to talk to me, so let’s talk.’

‘You come to my house in Templestowe in one hour. I’ll wait for you there.’

‘All right. I’m bringing a photographer.’ Peter was thinking he might need Dave for security. He also knew that Tony would like the idea of a photograph, vain creature that he was.

‘Make sure you bring a good photographer,’ said Tony. ‘I have a public image.’

Thinks he’s Marcello Mastroianni.

Armed with a cash cheque just in case, signed by a reluctant Bob and with Dave in tow, Peter arrived at Tony Donarto’s within the appointed hour. Of course, Templestowe Tony’s was the ugliest mansion in a street filled with ugly mansions. The whole suburb was overflowing with parvenus. It was the destination of choice for nouveau riche Italian and Greek families who had outgrown their inner city cottages and their working class lives. They had replaced
the battered, cardboard suitcase with Fendi, their native tongue with English and they had realised their dreams. In Templestowe.

Each white mansion was doing its best to outdo the next in over-the-top extravagance and bad taste. Tony Donarto’s was by far the most ostentatious. It was a three-storey villa that looked like it could have been designed by Liberace. Peter and Dave stared at it open-mouthed for a moment as Peter pulled the Stag up in front of a wrought iron gate, pressed the intercom and announced himself. He looked at the stone wall surrounding the house. The bullets holes had been plastered over.
I guess they lowered the tone of the neighbourhood.
The gate swung open slowly.

‘He’s done all right,’ Dave said. ‘You don’t see houses like this in Clarkes Flat.’

‘Or anywhere in Queensland,’ Peter added as he engaged first gear and drove up the paved driveway. It was lined with marble statues, one every few metres, right up to the front door.

‘They look like the real thing,’ Dave said as he stared at them.

‘You think so?’ Peter doubted anything was real. ‘Where are the slaves?’ he added as he stopped the Stag behind a Ferrari.

‘Slaves?’ Dave pondered. ‘Hey, look at that. That’s a Daytona!’

‘Well it isn’t a Kingswood, that’s for certain,’ Peter snorted. ‘We’re here to work, Dave, not admire the view. And stop being so bloody country. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.’

Dave made a harrumphing sound and grabbed his camera bag.

‘And here’s the slave or something out of his personal zoo.’

A huge ape of a man lumbered towards them. He was dressed entirely in black: black pants with a black skivvy and jacket. His biceps were so thick they projected from his body almost at right angles. He had all the demeanour of a nightclub bouncer or, worse still, a contract killer.

‘I hope he’s been fed,’ said Dave.

Peter opened the door and stepped out. Dave followed. The apeman crossed his arms and eyed Peter and Dave up and down before speaking. He might just as easily have been looking at a pair of stray dogs shitting on his lawn.

Have I just walked onto a Godfather movie? Please Mister Mafia man, please don’t whack me
.

‘I’m Peter Clancy and this is my photographer, Dave Tindall. We’re here to see Mister Donarto. He’s expecting us.’

‘Inside,’ the ape-man tilted his head towards a cathedral-sized wooden door.

‘Thanks.’ They walked in the direction of the ape-man’s head.

‘I think the bloke is wearing a pistol,’ Dave whispered, as they approached the massive entrance.

‘You think? I wondered how long it would take you to notice,’ Peter replied as he wielded the heavy iron knocker.

‘No. Just go in,’ ape-man called from behind them. A smirk crossed his face as he waved them inside.

‘Stay calm.’ Peter opened the heavy door. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve seen people carrying weapons. He’s not going to pull it out. It’s all show. Macho crap. This isn’t a movie.’

‘Comforting,’ Dave replied.

They stepped through the doorway, only to be assailed by the interior. It was part Roman, part Renaissance, part Confederate, but mostly high-class brothel. They kept walking, gawking at the tapestries hanging on the walls, the marble colonnade to the side, the gold and crystal chandelier that cascaded from the double height ceiling right down to the travertine floor, and encircled by a massive mahogany staircase, of the kind Vivien Leigh favoured.

‘Wouldn’t surprise me if Tony appears in a purple toga,’ Peter shook his head.

‘What’s this with slaves and togas?’ Dave whispered.

‘Roman history, David. It’s all Roman history.’

‘Looks more like nineteen-fifties Hollywood to me. Too much.’

Peter called out, ‘Tony. We’re here.’ His voice echoed. They waited.

‘Where is he?’ Dave asked.

‘Probably putting on his best toga.’

‘How long should we give him?’

‘I don’t want to stay here much longer,’ Peter replied. ‘This place is starting to creep me out.’

‘Tony,’ Peter called out again, this time louder. ‘Anyone?’

There was a rustle from further inside the house, then an elderly woman’s voice muttering in Italian. The voice drew nearer.

‘Someone’s coming,’ Dave remarked.

‘Nonna?’ Peter hypothesised.

The voice was getting louder and more agitated.

‘She sounds pretty pissed off,’ Dave said nervously.

‘Just wait,’ Peter replied. ‘We’ve probably woken her up.’

Nonna Donarto soon appeared through a doorway wearing a black dress, a black scarf and a crazed, wide-eyed stare. She was swinging a meat cleaver in wild arcs in their direction. For an old woman, she moved swiftly and soon the cleaver described semi-circles just short of their faces. Peter and Dave both dived backwards as the blade shaved their cheeks. They spun around and sprinted for the entrance.

‘Time to go,’ Peter shouted. ‘The door. Open the door!’

Dave got there first and pulled it open. The cleaver sailed past Peter’s head and thudded into the wooden door, as Nonna Donarto screamed abuse.

Outside, still alive, Peter scanned his body.
Not missing any body parts. Maybe messed my pants.
He slammed the door behind him. ‘You all right?’ he panted.

‘I wasn’t expecting to be attacked by a crazy woman,’ Dave replied. ‘She nearly got you.’

‘For a pensioner, she’s pretty strong.’

The old lady was still screaming inside the house and rattling the door, trying to get out.

‘What’s dear old Tony up to?’ Peter wondered. ‘Is the bastard trying to kill us or is it some kind of joke?’

Roars of laughter from the direction of the cars drowned out Nonna. The ape-man was standing near the Stag, doubled over with laughter. Tears streamed down his cheeks and ran through the stubble on his face.

‘Someone thinks it’s funny,’ Dave commented as they walked to the Stag.

‘I didn’t know gorillas could laugh,’ Peter said. ‘I hope he laughs so much he pisses himself.’