Both international and national tourists who had seen the Opera House and the Harbor Bridge and wondered what came next tended to congregate at Darling Harbor. The exhausting maze of boutiques, food and novelty stores could soak up a good couple of hours, and when these tourists reemerged onto the expansive harbor-side walkways, they often had numerous bags of souvenirs to show for it. And although wads of money may have been pleasantly siphoned away, there were frequent shuttle-ferries to the nearby casino for those who would attempt retrieval.
Darling Harbor’s outdoor space was a haven for street performers, for the Australian currency in the pockets of international tourists was as light and whimsical as their fleeting vacation; a coin, a gold coin or a plastic not could be comfortably dropped into the velvet lined cases at the street performers’ feet. The bottom’s rarely remained exposed for long.
The silver statue attracted onlookers with his incredibly pure stillness. People were fascinated by it. They would get into the spirit of it for a moment or two, drop some money and then be on their way. Those who stayed any longer were usually female and were marvelling at the solid pecs in the glittering t-shirt, the airbrushed biceps, the crotch-hugging pants.
Behind the large bee-eye sunglasses, the silver statue was watching them too, his eyes wildly alive, the focal point of his ferocious energy. The money being deposited into his case was of no consequence to him. An insult even. He usually just unloaded it on the first homeless drunk he came across. Or a drug abuser was even better. Let them shoot up with the proceeds of his stillness. There was nothing benevolent about his actions. And if the recipients ever got in his face about wanting more, he would put them down flat.
The silver statue had killed men with his bare hands and, far from losing sleep over it, had awoken the next morning calmer than ever, had found his true stillness. He prided himself on being the most dangerous man in whatever city he happened to be in. Having travelled through some remarkably dangerous cities, he had learnt what that entailed. Set up for years to come with some boutique home break-ins, he was one of the precious few who could afford to be exactly what he wanted to be. And this was it. Painted silver and still. A spider web for the unwary.
It was early on Saturday afternoon, too early for the drunk swaying in the crowd to have a good reason to be in the state he was in. And this one clearly wasn’t homeless either. Hunched over as he was, he was making his expensive wool suit look like five dollars. He was sucking the smoke out of his cigarette like it was marrow out of the bone; the man had probably already been kicked out of the casino for being a drunk, arrogant bastard. Tony McNaught watched him intently with the bitter sweet taste of hatred in his mouth.
The man abruptly pushed past a couple of adolescent girls taking pictures with their phones to get to the front. He stared and he sneered contemptuously. He hawked up something revolting and spat it into the money case. Then he took another drag on his cigarette, admiring his handiwork.
‘Yeah, you stand there and take it,’ he snapped. ‘Just like a good bitch should.’
He flicked the cigarette at the large silver boots and shakily strutted away, trying to hold his head high despite those hunched shoulders.
The silver statue had not flinched, had remained completely motionless. Most notably, the eyes hidden behind the glasses had become deadly still, boring into the drunk. Mechanically, remaining firmly in character, he lifted a hand and swivelled at the waste, as though it had been a coin and not phlegm deposited in his case. Slowly, mechanically his finger pointed at the departing man. He held this position a moment and then the finger retracted and he gradually resumed his regular position. But that was enough. The signal had been given.