Married for 15 good years, then five bad years. His wife’s menopause awoke a demon in her, which, in partnership with her testicle-shredding psychotherapist, killed the relationship stone dead. He was shit on her shoes. While she was on an all-female health retreat out of Mullumbimby, he walked out the front door of their Paddington house, put the motor bikes in the trailer and drove to Eden. He landed a top floor flat with a 270-degree views of the ocean in Imlay Street. She could have the house. Fuck it.

He was Lebanese Australian and proud of it. Spoke fluent Arabic to himself while doing the dishes and staring out to sea. Spent a month painting the place and fixing the hot water system. A large Tunisian rug lay on the lounge floor with red Ikea cushions. Rock music pumped out through large TV speakers and on weekends, he’d watch his beloved Carlton. He built three large bookshelves out of Tasmanian oak to hold the books. Two Tim Storrier paintings of a fire raging across a desert and a star cluttered night sky, hung on the walls. He’d sit on his balcony and watch the sea turn from a deep green in the morning to aqua blue in the early afternoon. On hot days, he’d swim out the front amongst the pelicans and cormorants.

The first day he drove into town the cops wanted to see his ID. Checked his record and found he’d served time in Grafton for selling commercial quantities of hash. Ancient history. They jotted down his particulars. Said they’d see him around. A Lebanese jailbird built like a brick shithouse, sticks out like dog’s balls in Eden.

If he was looking for a woman – which he wasn’t – the personals ad would say he was in his early 50s. Into fishing, cooking, motorbikes, weights and Rumi. He was 6’1” in the old scale and worked out. He liked dancing, rock n roll and getting up early. If he was looking for a woman – which he wasn’t – he’d like to cook for her and maybe more. That hunger was still there. But so was the memory of his wife, pecking at his liver. In truth, he was 63 with cactus kidneys. The renal specialist said he had three, maybe four good years left.

xxxxxxx

An old hail-battered navy blue BMW pulls in to his car space under the flat. A woman in her mid 30s, with short black hair grabs the suitcases from the boot and hauls them up the stairs to the flat below his. A young boy staring down at his phone, dawdles behind carrying a black rucksack. The landlord said a new tenant was moving in. Tony was annoyed. He liked having the place to himself. She’d also parked where he washed the motorbikes.

The following Friday night, New Order blasted out of the TV sound system as he stirred the mussels through the linguini. Plenty of garlic, parsley and a dash of white wine. The woman appeared at the front door, wearing bare feet, cut off denim shorts and a yellow singlet.

“Any chance you can turn the music down?”

“What?”

“Any fucking chance you can turn the fucking music down?”

Tony turned the stove off and walked towards her with his shirt off. His muscular chest and arms covered in tattoos. On the inside of his left arm, in heavy black text, running from the elbow down to the wrist, were the words: ‘The Brotherhood’. She took a step back. Tony clicked the remote and ‘Krafty’ bit the dust.

“Sorry, I’m not used to having people around. I’m Tony”

“I’m Paula, sorry about the language. I don’t normally say ‘fuck’ except when things fucking piss me off”

She stood with hands on hips staring at him, thinking, Jesus, not another Mad Mullah; an escapee from Lakemba. Then she saw the beer in his hand and a framed picture of Alex Jesaulenko’s Carlton jumper on the back wall.

“Welcome to the Ismay Street Mosque,” he said smiling. “Just in time for late afternoon prayer. Have you eaten? Bring the boy if you want, there’s plenty to go around.”

“Bobby’s face is buried in a computer screen. He’s not big on food”

The food smelt good. She thought about being raped and murdered by this smiling Arab and how her body wouldn’t be found for weeks. He’d kill Bobby too. They’d be buried in the sand dunes. The headlines would say domestic violence victim and her kid go missing. Police suspect foul play. Then her counsellor’s voice pipes up and says ‘you’ve got to go out and meet new people, Paula – take a chance.’

“Sure I wouldn’t be imposing?”

“You’d be imposing if I didn’t invite you. I’ve got beer or beer. Come in and I’ll get a shirt.”

They sat on cushions and twirled the linguini and prised open the mussels. She knocked off the first beer quickly and a second was plonked in front of her. She looked around his apartment. Stuff you wouldn’t find in a flat with a guy living by himself. Art and books.

“Did you buy the books buy weight?”

“I used to teach History, Arabic and English at high school”

“You don’t look the type,” Paula said, knocking off the second beer.

“Who does?” He got her another beer. “As I’ve had four beers and feeling vulnerable,” he said, “I should confess that before I taught history, I did a little time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Before that, I rode with an outlaw motorcycle gang. I’ve been naughty”

“So you taught history and you’ve got some history. I always wondered what happened to old bikies?”

She bit her lip as she realised the offence. Tony rolled off his cushion and laughed. She saw the muscles on his thighs flex.

“We end up alone pissing five times a night in a rental in a country town. I was married for 300 years to a woman who inherited three houses and $2 million is shares and cash. She didn’t work. Just bought stuff and travelled the world. I taught in the western suburbs and looked after the dog. When the dog died, I threw my wedding ring from the railing of the Great Pacific Drive in to the sea. What’s your story?”

Paula took a short breath. She’d told it before.

“Bad relationship, violent partner, packed the car, took Bobby and we’ve been on the run for 18 months. Whenever I find a place, he somehow finds out and comes calling. He’s like a recurring Herpes outbreak but with a foul temper.”

“Can’t the cops help?”

“You’ve got to be joking. He is a cop. Drug squad”

She had good legs and a nice face. A small scar below her left ear and nice green eyes. A huskiness in her voice. Probably cigarettes. She’s on the run with a kid. Can’t be easy. Before he met his wife, he knew plenty of girls like her. They had post graduate degrees in getting mixed up with fuckwits. If he has another beer, he knows the 30-year age gap will collapse leading to a cluster fuck of wanting and needing and thinking about her and maybe avoiding each other in the supermarket.

“I’d better get back to Bobby before he finds Pornhub,” she says. “Thanks for the great food. Maybe I’ll catch you around some time. Return the favour”

He watched her get up. He turned his head to look at the stove so he wouldn’t stare at her arse.

“Maybe the kid…”

“Bobby. His name is Bobby”

“Maybe Bobby would like to go for a ride on the back of one of my motorbikes. Just around the car park”

“Maybe he would. I’ll ask.”

xxxxxxx

There was a queue at the butchers. The two women in front of him wanted ham sliced off the bone. The butcher’s beer gut hung over the low counter. Lionel was an affable chap but after a half a bottle of bourbon, could turn nasty.

“Well if it ain’t my old mate, Ahab the Arab,” he said as Tony stepped forward. “We have some special cuts of camel today. A bit chewy but very tasty”

“Lionel, maaaaate. I’m thinking of having a BBQ with 50 of my Leb mates next weekend. A couple are just out of Long Bay. We’re going to roast a goat, dance like Dervishes, fire our AK47s in the air and then we’ll entertain some virgins from the school netball team. You in?”

Lionel saw the mayor’s wife standing by the door, all ears, while inspecting the seasoned salts.

“Ha ah, Tony. You’re a dickhead but I love you. A bag of chops, chicken for the kebabs and two steaks. Every week, the same order. Don’t you like variety in your diet?”

“Yeah, I sprinkle a little prejudice on my meat every night.”

xxxxxxx

An almost full moon rose behind her as she walked from the sea in a green bikini, towelled her hair and made her way up the path to her flat. He stopped reciting Rumi’s poem about the good woman for the good men and stared at her. She was beautiful. She was also young enough to be his daughter. When she was born, he’d already ‘retired’ from The Brotherhood – no one really left – and had just finished his three years at Grafton. The downstairs shower pipes rattled as he pictured her taking off that green bikini and letting the water wash off the salt. Then he saw himself naked in the shower cubicle, washing her back.

As the water ran through her hair, Paula decided Tony could take Bobby for a ride. He needed to get out more and Tony, while not a great role model, was friendly. She caught him staring at her arse but he looked away. She liked that. Liked to be considered attractive. For a hard man, there was something gentle about him. The books and the paintings but more than that. He listened. A quality as rare as rocking horse shit in men.

Tony went to the fridge, grabbed two ice cubes and squeezed them hard in his hand. Spanking one out in the bedroom would make him melancholic, so he watched an old DVD of Carlton winning the 1995 Grand Final against the Geelong. He then took a cool shower and lay in bed and was on the edge of sleep when he heard her talking outside on her mobile. Her ex knew she was on the South Coast. He wanted to visit. He was copping an earful but below the blistering language there was a tremor in her voice.

In the dream he’s 12 and trying to eat a pie with sauce at the footy but it’s hot and running all over his hand. He’s lost control of it. Then he’s standing at his father’s funeral and he’s still carrying the pie. Then he’s in The Brotherhood club room taking the oath for full membership and the president, David McTavish, gives him his patch and smiles as he punches him hard in the guts and the boys lay in to him and pour beer over his head and AC/DCs ‘Highway to Hell’ let’s rip and the drinking begins. Next morning, sick as a dog, they drive him to the Gertrude Street tattoo parlour and the club’s name is written in heavy black ink on the inside of his left arm. Life member.

Bobby sat nervously on the back of the Harley. It was the Harley or the Triumph Speedmaster and he chose the Harley. The half helmet rolled around on his small head. Tony revved the motor as Bobby laughed and hung on tight. Paula waved and they were off, slowly around the car park. Tony switched on the helmet microphone.

“You OK mate?”

“Yeah, good fun”

“Why’d you pick the Harley?”

“Because it’s totally outlaw”

“How about we open this old girl up and you can hear the note?

“What note?”

“I’ll show you”

Bobby signalled to Paula they were going up the hill to the lookout, turn around and come back. He got a worried thumbs up.

“Hold on tight compadre, we’re going to ride”

Tony opened up the throttle, quickly changed from first to second, reached the top of the hill with the pipes roaring. They crested the hill, went past the lookout as he changed up to third, turned on the power through 80 kilometres an hour, hit fourth gear and cruised down the coast. The trees just a blur.

“You hear that note going up the hill”

“Yeah, it sounded like something out of the Book of Relations”

“Revelations?”

“Yeah, that one too. Can we do it again?”

Tony looked in the rear vision mirror. One happy kid, bordering on delirious.

“We’d better go back and check in with your Mum”

They cruised slowly in to the car park and Tony could see he was going to cop it. She looked at Bobby’s face and the anger fell away. She took off his helmet and lifted him off the bike. He didn’t run inside. He just stared at Tony and the bike.

“You could hear those pipes in Melbourne,” she said and laughed. “It appears you’ve got a new convert,” as she mushed Bobby’s hair.

Tony parked the bike next to her car and walked back with his hands in his pockets; walked with something on his mind.

“Was wondering, in the light of my success with mussles and linguini, not to mention motorbike road safety, whether or not you’d like to have a picnic with me on the beach next Saturday night? That’s if you’ve got nothing planned, like replacing the timing chain on the BMW or elbow deep in French polishing”

“Well, I was going to wash my hair and re-upholster the lounge but I reckon that’s a better offer”

xxxxxxx

It’s just a picnic for God’s sake he told himself as he picked the most expensive olives, pickled octopus and cheese in the IGA. He’d roasted a chicken Lebanese style and bought a good bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. No easy task in Eden. He saw on bin night she had a taste for the stuff. He’d stick to beer. He cleaned the picnic blanket and was all set and it was only 9.00am. Only another nine hours to wait.

Bobby was running around the front lawn pretending he was a motorbike, when Tony heard Paula’s mobile phone ring. He could hear her talking in her bedroom, just below his.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she said. “You come around here and I’ll blow your head off… Oh yeah, who’s the tough man now? Remember breaking Bobby’s arm? You’re as weak as piss. If you’re sworn to protect, God help us all.”

There was silence and he pictured her with the phone to her ear, reliving previous conversations with the same result. Going over the same ground. The same cut and thrust, then parry and defence. Her ex wasn’t going to let her go. Tony pictured the cop pulling her around the bedroom by the hair and smacking her in the face. That scar below her ear was no papercut.

His guts stirred as he remember the code. McTavish used to tell members about protecting women. A throwback when the club was young, before the drugs and the killings.

When he was 19, he went with McTavish and Bruce Sweeney, the Sergeant at Arms, to see Carlton play Richmond at Princes Park. At half time a group of men were hassling two young women. Lifting up their skirts and pushing them around. Tony stood back as McTavish and Sweeney walked over, went up to the biggest men and kicked the shit out of them as the women fled. They didn’t stop kicking the shit out of them until half a dozen security guards threw them out. Tony found them having a smoke outside the ground.

“Hey Tony, you vertical stack of cowardly shit”, McTavish said. “Next time you see that, I want you to go in hard and I mean fucking hard.”

Sweeney put a hand on his shoulder. “Just remember Lebbo boy.” He wasn’t smiling.

That was 40 years ago.

xxxxxxxx

Her toes squelched through the warm sand from the day’s heat. She made her way to where he sat on a large picnic blanket, a small fire burning brightly in front of him. His face in shadow and then darkness. He’d gone to a lot of trouble and that made her nervous. She half imagined they were at an oasis in an old movie and soon she’d hear camels braying. She chuckled and looked at the stars flung across the sky. When she was a girl, her father taught her the names of the planets and constellations. She’d wanted to be an astronomer but men and short-term thinking got in the way.

Tony patted the sand next to him but she sat a couple of metres away and stared at the spread of food: roast chicken, smoked fish, olives, pita bread and dips. Enough for four.

“Just to clear the air,” she said, “even though you’ve gone to all of this trouble – and my son thinks you’re some Mediterranean God – I’m not going to sleep with you. It’s not an age thing. It’s just that I don’t want to fuck up my life any more than I’ve already fucked it up.”

Tony looked forlornly in to the sand and then stared out to sea.

“But I’ve bought pickled octopus. Surely that’s worth a hand job”

She laughed, grabbed a plastic cup and held it out as he poured the wine.

The stars reflecting in the water moved as tiny swells lapped at the shore.

“You could have bought Bobby,” he said.

“He’s got pizza and he’s going to watch ‘Easy Rider’ on Netflix. He’s started pricing second hand Harleys, thanks to you.”

He watched her eat. Heartily, like a man. No airs and graces.

“Tell me about your ex-wife. Do you still keep in touch”

“Did Sampson keep in touch with Delilah? We speak through our lawyers. The settlement will drag on for years. If I’m honest, I wasn’t much for sitting around the BBQ with her arty mates. I remember one of her best friends put on an opera about Patrick White’s, Voss. It’s hard enough to read let alone have someone sing it at you. I said she should have put on an opera about Michael Voss, the three time Premiership Captain of the Brisbane Lions. No one laughed. No one got it.”

“But hey, you fit the inner suburban progressive multicultural fantasy. They should be peeling you grapes at dinner parties.”

“See the tatts, the attitude and the junkyard dog mentality? They see me walking down the street and they cross the road. They got their politics from The Guardian, rather than thinking for themselves. I was a streetwise Arabic-speaking Lebanese terrorist with a library. Contradictory signals. People hate that. Enough about me, how about you and what’s his name?”

“Bruce”

“Can’t get more ridgy didge and Anglo than ‘Bruce’. Did he drive a sports ute?”

“Big red one. Oh shit, he was alright in the beginning and then he’s start controlling me. Telling me who I could and couldn’t see. Then he started getting physical and he hurt Bobby. It was ‘see ya’ later’ after that. Here’s the kicker. He used to get a cut from the drug dealers to look away. Must have some bloodhound in him because where ever I go, he turns up six months later. There’s more but that pretty much brings you up to date.”

“You reckon Bruce will turn up here?”

“I know Bruce will turn up here. He called and said he’s on his way”

“What does Bobby think of him?”

“Scared. Bruce ain’t Bobby’s father. Long story”

They stood and saw the shallow water turned a luminescent blue. Tiny sea organisms were putting on a light show. They walked in to the water and their hands brushed and then stuck. They looked up at the stars and then down at glowing water.

“Would you mind not talking for a moment,” Paula said and gave his hand a squeeze.

xxxxxxxx

Bruce rolled up during the morning Easter egg hunt in the sand dunes. He walked from the ute carrying a basket of chocolate eggs and a malevolent stare. Walked like a man who demanded respect without earning it. Small, stocky and hirsute. Wore Old Spice for those downwind. Paula called Bobby over and he slipped his hand in to hers.

“It’s good to see, ya honey. You’re looking good,” he said. “Hi Bobby, me old mate. The Easter Bunny called at my motel last night. Thought you might like these,” raising a small wicker basket.

Bobby took a quick look back at Tony and then up at his Mum.

“I told you to keep the hell away from me and Bobby. There’s more AVO’s on you than flies on roadkill. Get back in your car and just go”

“Jesus honey, it took me ages to find you …”

“Not much of a detective. Go or I’ll call the …”

“Cops? Good luck with that. I had a chat with the local boys in blue. Tell me you’ve shacked up with a Lebanese jailbird, which I presume is you mate?”

Tony walked slowly towards him, locking in the stare, assessing his height and weight. Keep the chat to a minimum. There’s no one around. No witnesses. Bruce won’t like that. A cop alone trying to deal with an angry man. This has to be quick. Pop the left knee first, break the nose and then some face dancing. Answer questions later like Paula’s, ‘what the fuck did you do that for? Now I’m really in the shit’ and Bobby will cry and remember him by his fists like he remembers Bruce. The Tactical Response Group will fly in with assault rifles, keen to rub out a mad Mullah, a hummus hugger, someone decidedly not from around here. The media will interview Lionel the butcher, who’ll say he got suspicious of the deceased after he was invited to the gang rape of the local netball team.

Bruce backed away as Tony pulled a list from his back pocket.

“Hey Bruce, come ‘ere, lets chat, chew the fat, have a chin wag, a yak, in the local vernacular. I got something that might interest you. Something pertaining to your career”

“What like a kilo of hash? That’s your scene”

“Even better. I got names. Here’s a sample: Tuan Nguyen, sits under the Coke sign on Williams Street most nights. Illuminated by coke but deals buckets of smack. Peter Smith, deals from home in Eveleigh Street. Tanya Halder, hawks the fork and about 100 grams of heroin a week. Ring any bells?”

Bruce walked from behind the ute and stood in front of Tony.

“Where’d you get those names?”

“Friends in low places. Three of these noble citizens are willing to testify that you’re on the take.”

“Never heard of ‘em”

“The list goes on. I’m no HR expert in a tight skirt, blonde hair and red nails, but I’d say it’s career ending. So get back in to your penis substitute, put your balls in gear and fuck off”

“I can’t see you living much longer. She always did like a bit of rough”

Bruce revved the motor, dropped the clutch and roared out of the car park.

Tony stood back and waved, “Thanks for popping by”

The sun beat down. No sea breeze. Paula called Bobby over.

“Hey little one, can you take the eggs and put them in the fridge. Don’t want ‘em to melt”

“No way!” as he ran up the stairs to their flat.

“How did you get those names?” Paula asked.

“People think dealing drugs is an underworld activity. It ain’t,” Tony said. “Everyone knows everything. A couple of phone calls here. A favour collected there. It all comes out.”

“He’ll be back with some mates and they won’t be happy to see you”

Tony looked at a pelican circling high in the sky. He liked pelicans. Ungainly on land but graceful in the air.

“Aren’t you worried?”

He shrugged. He’d sent the list to the NSW Police Commissioner and the Independent Commission Investigating Crime. Attached a cover note with all the relevant details about Detective Bruce Dickson’s little earner. Bruce was going to jail. The Brothers will finish the job inside.

“Anyway, you’ve bought me some time and I’m very grateful,” she said. “I expect you at my place for a seafood BBQ about 7.00pm. Only one problem. I don’t have any seafood or a BBQ”

“I can fix that”

He wheeled the Harley out of the shed and rode slowly in to town for prawns, cooked crabs and eggplant.