Only If You Have To

Time To Go

I could probably pass the afternoon in Ricky's truck, but I make an excuse instead. I'll see him at AA tonight, we'll plan then. First, I have to get the details. Ricky's a good guy, but I don't even cry in front of my wife these days. I can't. Right now, I’d prefer to be alone.

Being alone, much like hope, is a strange thing. When the sun has seared everything outside into silence the contents of your head can all be heard, and all of them are crying for attention. Even if you ignore them they always exist in the background. Like the sound of water pouring over a dam for so long you stop to notice. I sat, fully draped in sun clothes, on the floor of the phone booth. The things you ignore the most rush at you the hardest, so I work to put my focus elsewhere. The good thoughts, the good news, hope. It's safe to let them over the wall.

Fifty thousand dollars. I'm not even upset that I've given away half the payout before I even know the details of the job. Fifty thousand dollars isn't all the money in the world but it might as well be.

How much does it cost to hire a PI?

How long would it take for a decent one to find Jane?

I could go to Melbourne myself but I wouldn't know where to start. Maybe I'll go there regardless, get medicine for Gina. Buy all the clean water I'll ever need to drink. Take a long hot bath. And one way or another I'll find my little girl.

My feet hurt, they've hurt for years. So much time bracing my feet against rock, wielding a jack hammer and a prayer. In truth it feels like the last decade of my life has been nothing but a tired, resigned drag of the foot towards some impossible goal. Now it all seems wonderfully possible. So possible, it's like I've found my magic bullet, my golden ticket.

I stand up, killing the train of thought. Perhaps this job is too good to be true but there's only one way to find out. And it's a long, tiring walk to the Doyle residence. More accurately it's a long string of tired walks between shade, but I will ring the bell at six pm sharp.

Katie is a walking, smothering vortex of neighbourly affection for the time she spends on the doorstep. Anyone observing will see only hugs, cheek kisses and enthusiastic beckoning inside. I've seen this routine from her plenty of times, she has it down to a fine art now. The act drops in time with the click of the latch inside.

“You did a nasty job on my man's face.” She says, throaty voice harsh but at the same time, somehow, impressed. Her arms lie slack at her sides, looking me up and down.

“Your man” I say, stripping off my sun clothes “has done plenty worse.”

A moment's cheek has me 'accidentally' raise my shirt up past the rib cage as I make myself presentable. I don't have an astonishing physique to wow her with, just a stream of angry scars on my emaciated back. I don't need to say anything else. Her man has done plenty worse to me. Though at this moment I find him making mojitos in the lounge room.

“Al!” he shouts over his shoulder, “back on the wagon or can I tempt you?”

He has his back to me, bent over a polished bar top strewn with bottles and what looks like real, genuine mint. I really want to roll my eyes and leave. I also kind of want to hit him again, it felt good last time. But it's hard to take him seriously right now, I can't see what damage his nose has taken but his voice sounds like a broken foghorn. It buzzes, whines and almost makes me giggle. But if I do any of these I might lose my golden ticket.

Seriously though, the Peter Doyle I remember was much easier to deal with. He just paid the bribes to get what he wanted. If you didn't take them he would threaten you until you did. I'd guess and say that these mind games are a new idea of his. How else is a man smart enough to be basically running this town stupid enough to try the same trick twice in a week? Or did he forget what happened last time he offered me a drink? Maybe I knocked the memory out of him along with those stupid piercings.

Katie wasn't lying. I did do a nasty job on his face. Finally turning around, an icy green drink in each hand, reveals a bridge of bandages running across his face from ear to ear, and another running up the middle, nose to hairline. There must be a mess of stitches under there. And beneath it all is probably a man in a foul mood. He wants to see me right now about as much as I want to forgive him. But we need each other. This is business. I'm not even going to satisfy him by responding to the offered drink, only the cash. I can take a little satisfaction from knowing I did some damage. It will almost certainly not equal what he did to Jane, but sometimes you have to pick your battles.

“Let's get to the point Peter. If I remember the routine then so do you. Put the drinks down. Give me details, give me cash.”

“Details I can give you, cash is on delivery this time. Like I said, very high value cargo. Very rich friend, rich people are paranoid people. And don't ever use my first name again. You call me sir, like you used to.”

“Whatever you say.” I offer him both palms outstretched before belatedly adding “sir.”

Cash on delivery is not a good sign. It either means Doyle's rich friend doesn't trust him, impossible as that sounds, or someone involved is planning a fast grab. That said, if a fast grab is being planned you don't try and pull it on the state's most notorious getaway driver, and you definitely don't ask for him by name. I could mull this all night but what choice is there?

There's always a choice of course, it's just that this one is a magic bullet or a long slow death. I guess this means I'm biting the magic bullet.

“What's the cargo sir.”

“You'll find out when you pick it up. Paranoid friend and all.”

“This paranoid friend, sir. Does he know my name?”

“Al, what do I look like, a man who sells out my friends?”

Again, don't respond, don't give him the satisfaction. The silence can trail all night, I'm not responding. Impressively Doyle waits a good twenty seconds before accepting my silence with a slurp of his drink.

“Ok, have it your way, to business. You'll get the details you need when you pick up the cargo. I give you the address and the deal is locked in. You understand. Now I feel like the two of us have been unreasonable in the past.”

He gestures towards his face and waves a finger in my direction. A lot of history conveyed with two flicks of the hand.

“Anyway” he continues “business is business and business can be very reasonable if we all do what we must. I promise you matey, as long as you make delivery on time this will be the most reasonable job you've ever worked.”

I suck air through my teeth and say nothing for a solid minute. But that's the end of Doyle's spiel. Surprising, when he says down to business he appears to actually mean it. No long-winded conversation here. I always thought his favourite part of the business was drinking with his employees, talking, giving out the details piecemeal while Katie massaged his feet. None of that here, and he dropped the mind games fast. Something is almost certainly up. Peter Doyle is nervous, but it doesn't matter as long as I get paid.

Bite the magic bullet.

“When do I pick up.” I say. Doyle checks his watch. He checks it for far longer than he needs to, until I finally add the word 'sir'.

“In about half an hour. You have left this awful late Al, in fact when you called I was on the phone to our backup driver. My friend wouldn't have been happy to not have the Phantom, but she'd be happy enough with the cargo.”

So, Doyle's friend is a lady. That's interesting. It appears my old boss has changed a lot. I always thought he had married Katie because she was the only woman he could stand. Or maybe she's the only woman he respects. She's certainly the only woman I know who Doyle hasn't left a visible scar on.

“Where do I pick up?” These words are ground out like flecks of strong pepper, bitter on the tongue. And none more bitter than the word “sir”.

“You remember our old friend Mr Bats? He still owns that warehouse.”

Opposite end of town to the Doyle residence, clustered in some low hills. A short drive, a long walk. But Doyle lives close to the Canyon Bar, so it's only a short walk to Ricky. My fingers flex in their pockets. The clock has started. I nod and turn to go.

“Sure we can't tempt you?” Katie says sweetly.

“Sorry” I answer, hoping to sound in control “I have to drive.”

The door knob is in my hand when Peter Doyle speaks up again. I've been waiting for this all the way across the room. The man might love his wife, love his work, he might for all I know genuinely love the pain he deals out as part of his work, but the thing he loves most of all is having the last word.

“One thing to remember Al. Business can be reasonable if we all do what's required. All I require from you is delivery of cargo on time and intact. Do anything other than what's required and our business becomes... unreasonable.”

Of course he waited until there was a whole living room between us before dropping another threat on Gina. I knew it was coming but still, it'd be nice to at least play the 'bigger man' card and not rise to the threat. The best I can do is nod over my shoulder.

“Whatever you say sir.”

Then I'm out the door, sun clothes draped on my shoulder and legs striding fiercely towards the old church. The old, familiar tension and excitement filters through my body like capsules of heat. The stakes against the clock running out are high. But I'd be lying if I said it doesn't feel good to have the clock ticking again.

The meeting is breaking for coffee when I arrive. It smells damp, but familiar and welcoming. I linger on the threshold as I arrive, feeling like I've been tapped on the shoulder. I'm missing something and I should stay here, try to look for it. I'm not even out of the sixty days after all. But the clock is ticking. Ricky is in his usual seat, head down, brooding over coffee. But at my word he looks up, face eager.

“You sure you're up for this?” I whisper in close.

“Of course.” He whispers back.

“Then we have to get to your truck right now. Pickup is tonight.”