"Of course."
He moves a little further away as we stand in the dark. Behind us, the lights still glow proudly in the night. This is the moment of truth.
Lua says, "You never lived in our house, Ed. Did you?"
There's no hiding it now. No way out.
"No," I answer. "I didn't."
We observe each other, and I can see there are many things that Lua wants to know. He's about to ask when I see him pull back. He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions.
What it is is what it is.
"Bye, Ed."
"Goodbye, Lua."
We shake hands and walk in our different directions.
At the end of the road, just before I go around the corner, I turn one last time to see the lights.
It's the hottest day of the year, and I've got a day shift in the city. The cab has air-conditioning, but it breaks down, much to the disgust of everyone I pick up. I warn them every time they get in, but only one gets back out. It's a man who still has his last lungful of a Winfield in his mouth.
"Bloody hopeless," he tells me.
"I know." I only shrug and agree.
The stone that Lua Tatupu gave me is in my left pocket. It makes me happy in the festering city traffic, even when the lights are green and all the cars remain still.
Not long after I return the cab to base, Audrey pulls into the lot. She winds her window down to talk to me.
"Sweating like crazy in here," she says.
I imagine the sweat on her and how I'd like to taste it. With blank expression, I slide down into the visual details.
"Ed?"
Her hair's greasy but great. Lovely blond, like hay. I see the three or four spots of sun thrown across her face. Again she speaks. "Ed?"
"Sorry," I say, "I was thinking of something." I look back to where the boyfriend stands, expecting her. "He's waiting for you." When I return to Audrey's face, I miss it and catch a glimpse of her fingers on the wheel. They're relaxed and coated with light. And they're lovely. Does he notice those small things? I wonder, but I don't speak it to Audrey. I only say, "Have a good night," and step back from the car.
"You, too, Ed." She drives on.
Even later, as the sun goes down and I walk into town and onto Clown Street, I see all of Audrey. I see her arms and bony legs. I see her smiling as she talks and eats with the boyfriend. I imagine him feeding her food from his fingers in her kitchen, and she eats it, allowing enough of her lips to smudge him with her beauty.
The Doorman's with me.
My faithful companion.
Along the way I buy us some hot chips with lots of salt and vinegar. It's old-style, all wrapped in the racing section of today's newspaper. The hot tip is a two-year-old mare called Bacon Rashers. I wonder how she went. The Doorman, on the other hand, cares little. He can smell the chips.
When we make it to 23 Clown Street, we discover that it's a restaurant. It's tiny, and it's called Melusso's. Italian. It's in a little shopping village and follows the small-restaurant ritual of being dimly lit. It smells good.
There's a park bench across the road and we sit there, eating the chips. My hand reaches down inside the package, through the sweaty, greasy paper. I love every minute of it. Each time I throw the Doorman a chip, he lets it hit the ground, leans over it, and licks it up. He turns nothing down, this dog. I don't think he cares too much about his cholesterol.
Nothing tonight.
Or the next.
In fact, time is wasting away.
It's a tradition now. Clown Street. Chips. The Doorman and me.
The owner is old and dignified, and I'm quite sure it isn't him I'm here to see. I can tell. Something's coming.
On Friday night, after standing outside the restaurant and going home after closing, I find Audrey sitting on my porch, waiting. She's wearing board shorts and a light shirt without a bra. She isn't big up there, Audrey, but she's nice. I stop for a moment, hesitate, and continue. The Doorman loves her and throws himself into a trot.
"Hey, Doorman," she says. She crouches down warmly to greet him. They're good friends, those two. "Hi, Ed."
"Hi, Audrey."
I open the door and she follows me in.
We sit.
In the kitchen.
"So where were you this time?" she asks. It's almost laughable because usually that question is asked with contempt to unreliable-bastard husbands.
"Clown Street," I answer.
"Clown Street?"
I nod. "Some restaurant there."
"There's actually a street called Clown Street?"
"I know."
"Anything happen there yet?"
"No."
"I see."
As she looks away I make my mind up. I say, "So why are you here, Audrey?"
She looks down.
Away.
When she finally answers, she says, "I guess I missed you, Ed." Her eyes are pale green and wet. I want to tell her it's barely been a week since we last got together, but I think I know what she means. "I feel like you're slipping away somehow. You've become different since all this started."
"Different?"
I ask it, but I know it. I am.
I stand up and look into her.
"Yes." She confirms it. "You used to just be." She explains this like she doesn't really want to hear it. It's more a case that she has to say it. "Now you're somebody, Ed. I don't know everything about what you've done and what you've been through, but I don't know--you seem further away now."
It's ironic, don't you think? All I've ever wanted was to get closer to her. I've tried desperately.
She concludes. "You're better."
It's with those words that I see things from Audrey's perspective. She liked me being just Ed. It was safer that way. Stable. Now I've changed things. I've left my own fingerprints on the world, no matter how small, and it's upset the equilibrium of us--Audrey and me. Maybe she's afraid that if I can't have her, I won't want her.
Like this.
Like we used to be.
She doesn't want to love me, but she doesn't want to lose me either.
She wants us to stay okay. Like before.
But it's not as certain anymore.
We will, I try to promise.
I hope I'm right.
Still in the kitchen, my fingers feel the stone from Lua in my pocket again. I think about what Audrey's been telling me. Maybe I truly am shedding the old Ed Kennedy for this new person who's full of purpose rather than incompetence. Maybe one morning I'll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.
It's a good thing, I know.
But how can a good thing suddenly feel so sad?
I've wanted this from the beginning.
I head back to the fridge and get more to drink. I've come to the conclusion that we have to get drunk. Audrey agrees.
"So what were you doing," I ask later on the couch, "while I was at Clown Street?"
I see her thoughts swivel.
She's drunk enough to tell me, at least in a coy kind of way.
"You know," she embarrasses.
"No." I mock her a little. "I don't."
"I was with Simon at my place and we...for a few hours."
"A few hours." I'm hurt but keep it out of my voice. "How'd you manage the strength to get over here?"
"I don't know," she admits. "He went home and I felt empty."
So you came here, I think, but I'm not bitter. Not at this moment. I rationalize that none of the physical things matter so much. Audrey needs me now, and for old times' sake, that's good enough.
She wakes me a bit later. We're still on the couch. A small crowd of bottles is assembled on the table. They sit there like onlookers. Like observers at an accident.
Audrey looks me hard in the face, wavers, then hands me a question.
"Do you hate me, Ed?"
Still stupid with bubbles and vodka in my stomach, I answer. Very seriously.
"Yes," I whisper. "I do."
We both smack the sudden silence with laughter. When it returns, we hit it again. The laughter spins in front of us and we keep hitting it.
When it calms completely, Audrey whispers, "I don't blame you."
The next time I'm woken, it's by a cracking at the door.
I stammer there, open it, and there in front of me is the guy who jumped my cab. That feels like an eternity ago.
He looks annoyed.
As usual.
He holds his hand up for me to be quiet and says, "Just"--he waits, for effect--"shut up and listen." He actually sounds a touch more than annoyed as he continues. "Look, Ed." The yellow-rimmed eyes scratch me. "It's three in the morning. It's still humid as hell, and here we are."
"Yes," I agree. A cloud of drunkenness hangs over me. I almost expect rain. "Here we are."
"Now don't you mock me, boy."
I reel back. "I'm sorry. What is it?"
He pauses, and the air sounds violent between us. He speaks.
"Tomorrow. Eight p.m. sharp. Melusso's." He walks away before remembering something. "And do me a favor, will you?"
"Of course."
"Cut down on the chips, for Christ's sake. You're making me sick." Now he points at me, threatening. "And hurry up with all this shit. You might think I don't have better things to do, but as it happens, I do, all right?"
"All right. It's only fair." In my stupor, I try for something extra. I call out, "Who's sending you?"
The young man with the gold-rimmed eyes, black suit of clothes, and brutal disposition returns up the porch steps. He says, "How the hell would I know, Kennedy?" He even laughs and shakes his head. "You might not be the only one getting aces in the mail. Did you ever think of that?"
He lingers a little longer, turns, and trudges off, dissolving into the darkness. Blending in.
Audrey's behind me at the door now, and I've got something to think about.
I write down what he told me about Melusso's.
Eight p.m. tomorrow night. I have to be there.
After sticking the note to the fridge, I go to bed, and Audrey comes with me. She sleeps with her leg across me, and I love the feel of her breath on my throat.
After perhaps ten minutes, she says, "Tell me, Ed. Tell me about where you've been."
I've told her once before about the Ace of Diamonds messages, but not in any detail. I'm so tired now, but I do tell her.
About Milla. Beautiful Milla. As I speak, I see her pleading face as she begged me that she did right by her Jimmy.
About Sophie. The barefoot girl with--
Audrey's asleep.
She's asleep, but I go on speaking. I tell her about Edgar Street and all the others. The stones. The beatings. Father O'Reilly. Angie Carusso. The Rose boys. The Tatupu family.
Just for now, I find I'm happy, and I want to stay awake, but soon the night falls down, beating me hard into sleep.
The yawn of a girl can be so beautiful it makes you cringe.
Especially when she's standing in your kitchen in her underpants and a shirt, yawning.
Audrey's doing this right now as I do the dishes. I rinse a plate and there she is, rubbing her eyes, yawning, then smiling.
"Sleep okay?" I ask.
She nods and says, "You're comfortable, Ed."
I realize I could take that comment badly, but it's a compliment.
"Have a seat," I say, and without thinking, I look at her shirt buttons and her hips. I follow her legs down to her knees, shins, and ankles. All in a brief second. Audrey's feet look soft and delicate. Almost like they could melt into the kitchen floor.
I make her some cereal and she crunches it. I didn't have to ask if she wanted some. Some things I know.
This is confirmed later, once Audrey's had a shower and dressed fully.
At the front door, she says, "Thanks, Ed." She pauses before speaking again. "You know, out of everyone, you know me the best, and you treat me the best. I feel most comfortable with you." She even leans close and kisses me on the cheek. "Thanks for putting up with me."
As she walks away, I still feel her lips on my skin. The taste of them.
I watch her all the way up the street, till she turns the corner. Just before she does, she knows I'm standing there, and she turns one last moment and waves. In answer, I hold up my hand, and she's gone.
Slowly.
At times painfully.
Audrey is killing me.
And do me a favor, will you? Cut down on the chips, for Christ's sake.
I hear the words of my friend from last night again.
All day they come back at me, along with the other statement he made.
You might not be the only one getting aces in the mail. Did you ever think of that?
Of course, there was a question mark at the end of his words, but I know it was a statement. It makes me think about all the people I've run into. What if they're all messengers, like me, and they're all threatened and desperate just to get through what they have to do to survive? I wonder if they, too, have received playing cards and firearms in their letter boxes or if they've had their own specific tools provided. It would all be personal, I think. I got cards because that's what I do. Maybe Daryl and Keith were given the balaclavas, and my mate from last night was given his black outfit and his cantankerous demeanor.
By quarter to eight I'll be back at Melusso's, minus the Doorman. This time I'm going in. I have to explain it to him before I go.
He looks at me.
What? he asks. No chips tonight?
"Sorry, mate. I'll bring you back something, I promise."
He seems happy enough by the time I leave because I've fixed him a coffee and thrown some ice cream in it as well. He almost jumps from paw to paw as I'm putting it down for him.
Nice, he tells me in the kitchen. We're still friends.
I must admit, I even miss him a little as I walk to Clown Street and Melusso's. It feels like we were in this one together, and now I have to finish it alone and take all the glory.
That is.
If there is glory.
I've almost forgotten that things can go wrong and be difficult. Exhibit A for that was Edgar Street. Exhibit B, the Rose boys.
Now I wonder what I'll deliver this time round as I walk through the door of Melusso's restaurant into the all-consuming smell and warmth of spaghetti sauce, pasta, and garlic. I've kept my eyes open for anyone following me, but I haven't seen a soul who looks interested. There are just people going about what they always do.
Talking. Parking crooked.
Swearing. Telling their kids to hurry up and stop fighting.
All that kind of thing.
Now, in the restaurant, I ask the plump waitress to put me in the darkest corner.
"Over there?" she asks in amazement. "Near the kitchen?"
"Yes please."
"No one's ever asked to be seated there," she claims. "You sure, mate?"
"Positive."
What a strange fellow, I see her think, but she takes me over.
"Wine list?"
"Sorry?"
"Would you like some wine?"
"No, thanks."
She lashes the wine list from the table and tells me the specials. I order spaghetti and meatballs and lasagna.
"You expecting someone?"
I shake my head. "No."
"So you're going to eat both?"
"Oh, no," I answer. "The lasagna's for my dog--I promised to bring him home something."
This time she gives me a look that says, What a poor, pathetic, lonely bastard, which is understandable, I suppose. But she says, "I'll bring you that just before you go, okay?"
"Thanks."
"Any drinks?"
"No, thanks."
I refuse all drinks at restaurants because I figure I can buy a drink anywhere--it's the food I can't cook that I'm here for.
She leaves and I survey the restaurant, which is half full. The
re are people gorging themselves, others sipping wine, while a young couple kiss over the table and share their food. The only person of interest is a man on the same side of the restaurant as me. He's waiting for someone, drinking wine but not eating. He wears a suit and has wavy combed-back hair, black and silver.
Soon after I get the meatballs and spaghetti, the night's significance comes to fruition.
I nearly choke on my fork when the man's guest arrives. He stands up and kisses her and puts his hands on her hips.
The woman is Beverly Anne Kennedy.
Bev Kennedy.
Otherwise known as Ma.
Oh, bloody hell, I think, and I keep my head down.
For some reason, I feel like I'm going to throw up.
My mother's wearing a flattering dress. It's a shiny dark blue. Almost the color of a storm. She sits down politely, and her hair actually flanks her face very nicely.
In short, it's the first time she's ever looked like a woman to me. Usually she just looks like foulmouthed Ma, who swears at me and calls me useless. Tonight, though, she wears earrings, and her dark face and brown eyes smile. She wrinkles a bit when she smiles, but, yes, she looks happy.
She looks happy being a woman.
The man is very much the gentleman, pouring her some wine and asking what she'd like to eat. They talk with pleasure and ease, but I can't hear what they say. To be honest, I try not to.
I think of my father.
I think of him, and immediately it depresses me.
Don't ask me why, but I feel like he deserved more than this. He was, of course, a drunk, especially at the end of his life, but he was so kind, and generous, and gentle. Looking into my meatballs, I see his short black hair and his nearly colorless eyes. He was quite tall, and when he left for work, he always wore a flannel shirt and had a cigarette in his mouth. At home, he never smoked. Not in the house. He, too, was a gentleman, despite everything else.
I also remember him staggering through the front door and lurching for the couch after closing at the pub.
Ma screamed at him, of course, but it lost effect.
She nagged him all the time, anyway. He'd work his guts out, but it was never enough. Remember the coffee table incident? Well, my father had to put up with that every day.
When we were younger, he used to take us kids places, like the national park and the beach and a playground miles away that had a huge metal rocket ship. Not like the plastic vomit playgrounds the poor kids have to play on these days. He'd take us to those places and quietly watch us play. We'd look back and he'd be sitting there, happily smoking, maybe dreaming. My first memory is of being four years old and getting a piggyback from Gregor Kennedy, my father. That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.