Punters turf, p.4
Punter's Turf, page 4
‘Track wet, don’t bet. That’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow.’
‘They oughta stick a roof over the place like they do the footy stadium. The usual?’ he asked.
I didn’t have to read a menu to know what I wanted. I nodded a reply.
Billy showed me to my table by the back wall and made us both a cappuccino. He got one of the casual staff to make up my pizza and then he joined me at the table.
We were well away from the two staff manning the counter, so I asked him, ‘Been a good week?’
He nodded enthusiastically at me over the top of his cup. ‘Nothing like cold weather to bring ’em in. Fair dinkum, if it rained for another month I wouldn’t complain.’
When my pizza was ready, the young guy working the ovens brought it over and placed it in the middle of the table with a flourish and a cheery ‘Enjoy!’
‘You ever ordered anything else but a Seafood Delight? We got other stuff on the menu, you know,’ said Billy.
‘I’m a man of simple tastes. But maybe I should expand my horizons.’
Billy shook his head. We both knew that next week I’d order up the same pizza I’d been having forever.
‘Hey,’ he said, standing up, ‘I better get back to work. Still on to catch up Monday?’
‘You bet. See you then, Billy.’
I ate the rest of my pizza and sat back in my chair watching the staff bustling about. They were a happy bunch; Billy had selected them wisely. There was a girl called Erica behind the bar. She’d been there about three months, a student I thought Billy had said she was. Always appeared busy with a tea towel, wiping benches or cleaning glasses. I liked seeing that. The young guy who had served my pizza, Stephen, was whistling away and cracking jokes while he juggled checking the ovens and answering the phones. There were a couple of customers ordering takeaway at the counter. But it was still too early yet for the regular dine-in customers. They would start to trickle in over the next hour or so.
I was feeling really positive about Gino’s and how it had come on over the past few months. The renovations were all done, and with any luck, the business would start to grow under Billy’s management and I might even be able to pay myself a wage soon.
My mobile rang and quickly snapped me back into reality. It was Big Oakie.
‘It’s him, Punter. He just called up a minute ago.’
‘What did he say, is everything okay? We still set for one o’clock tomorrow?’
‘No. Change of plan.’
‘Whatta you mean?’
‘He’s changed the time and place. We go tonight, in two hours.’
3
Smith Street, Collingwood, eleven p.m. Looking north towards the Gertrude Street end, the place was swinging. All the bars and restaurants were doing plenty of business. Nightclubs too, with punters queuing up outside to get in. I wouldn’t queue on a night like this to get in anywhere. I was outside a pawn shop at the quieter city end of the street. The pawn shop was shut, of course, its window display of secondhand guitars and cheap watches barred with protective wire mesh. I huddled against the doorway trying to find some cover from the incessant drizzle. Opposite was a Seven Eleven store. I was sorely tempted to wait across there. Grab a coffee and a doughnut; find some better shelter than what this dripping canopy offered.
A man came out of the convenience store and opened a pack of cigarettes. He ignored a rubbish bin and threw the plastic wrapping onto the ground as he lit up with a match. Threw that onto the pavement as well. He drew deeply on his smoke and glanced up and down at the passing cars, then crossed the road and stood a couple of doors down from me. A car came cruising past and stopped where he was standing. He huddled over and exchanged goods with someone through the passenger side window. Deal completed, he took up station again.
‘You waitin’ for someone, man?’
‘What? No,’ I said.
‘A taxi? ’Cause this isn’t a taxi stand. Taxi stands are all up in Victoria Parade.’
Said I wasn’t waiting for a taxi either.
The guy curled his fingers and gave his smoke a final suck then flicked it into the gutter. He was taller than me by a good margin, heavier too. He had street-smart eyes and he used them to sum me up for what I was, an outsider in his territory.
‘You looking to score, then?’
‘No.’
‘Then if you’re not waiting for anything, you’d better fuck the fuck off. You’re in my space, you know what I mean?’
Go to the pawn shop in Smith Street at eleven. Be waiting right outside the door. Don’t move from there until I contact you.
Those were my instructions. I pulled up the sleeve of my raincoat and looked at my watch. It was five past eleven and there was no sign of him. I felt ridiculous in my plastic raincoat. It was the only thing waterproof and yellow that I could find in my garage. It wasn’t strictly part of my designated uniform, but like the backpack, baseball cap, shorts and T-shirt, it was the colour they had requested. To say I stood out was an understatement. I felt like a jockey at a basketball convention.
‘You hear me, man? I said I don’t want you waitin’ round here. You’re no good for business. I’m not gonna tell you again.’ He put his hands confidently back into the pockets of his jacket. Might be carrying a weapon, a knife maybe, hard to tell. He squinted a mean look at me and took another step closer. I must have been a puzzle and a source of annoyance to him. ‘Whatchu dressed up like some yellow faggot for, anyway?’
Another car cruised to a stop and he broke off conversation to do some more business. Good timing, as my mobile phone rang.
‘Punter?’
‘It’s me.’
‘You got the money?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You come alone?’
‘I’m by myself.’
‘Then who’s that loser you been talking with?’
I looked immediately up and down the road for a person or a car. He’d obviously been observing me from close by somewhere, but there was no visible sign of anyone other than the dealer and the occupants of the car he was speaking with. Could they be part of the crew? I doubted it. The car drove off and the dealer turned around and faced me again as I was talking into my phone.
‘He’s just some guy.’
‘Now listen,’ he continued, ‘the 109 tram leaves Victoria Parade in three minutes for the city. Be on it.’
‘Whoa, hang on a moment,’ I said. ‘We had a deal. We get to ask Michelle a question first, remember?’
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ I heard him rustle some paper, perhaps reading from a notebook. ‘Michelle says her father’s best day at the track was the Winter Cup at Flemington last July. Satisfied?’
I let out a breath. I’d have preferred it if she’d answered the question herself, but she must have been alive to have given them the answer.
‘Now go,’ he said, and hung up on me.
The dealer glared at me from the side of the kerb. He looked like he was going to start up on me again, but I got in first.
‘I’m finished with the waiting,’ I said, and took off at a jog.
I could see the tram in the distance. Like he said, three minutes away. Bit tricky running for it, though, carrying the ransom. Bloody pack felt like I was carrying a load of telephone books. Weighed a ton. He’d been right about one thing; Big Oakie wouldn’t have been suited as the delivery man. Then again, I wasn’t so sure I was the right man for the job either.
I hailed the tram a stop down from St Vincent’s Hospital. It only had a few people on board at that time of night and I grabbed a seat up towards the back. The phone rang almost as soon as I sat down.
‘Get off at Collins and Swanston and run down to Flinders Street Station. You’ve got five minutes from when the tram stops. When you get there, wait under the clocks.’
He hung up. Where was he? Maybe following me in a car. Big Oakie and the others were. We’d managed to snatch a brief meeting before I’d taken possession of the ransom money and put into place what plans we could at short notice. Oakie and Veronica were in one car and Tiny and Kevin were in another. There were two lifelines. The first was Oakie’s mobile, which I was carrying, although I was wary of making unnecessary contact as the kidnapper had told me not to talk on the mobile to anyone but him. The only communication I’d managed to Oakie so far was a hurried text message. The kidnapper had already spotted me talking to the guy in Smith Street a while ago, so he must be watching me. Not all of the time, but I wouldn’t know where or when. The other device we had was the D Tracker I’d purchased earlier that day. I’d slipped the tag into the bottom of the pack and Kevin and Tiny were keeping tabs of where I was from a laptop in their car. The plan was that they could track my whereabouts, and when we made the swap they could still follow the kidnappers as they made their getaway.
When the tram stopped at Exhibition Street, you wouldn’t believe it, two transit officers got on. You can’t find them for love nor money when there’s a crazy or a drunk on board. They looked up and down the carriage before making a beeline for the weird-looking bloke in yellow. Obviously looked like a troublemaker.
‘Would you mind taking your feet off the seat, please.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘Didn’t realise.’ Hastily I took my feet down. Usually such a law-abiding citizen, so forth.
‘Can we see your ticket, please?’
‘What? Oh, ticket.’ Yeah, ticket, Punter, the one you forgot to purchase because you were bloody well daydreaming. You’ll have to lift your act, son.
‘I’m sorry, haven’t actually bought one yet from the machine. Just got on and been on the phone,’ I said, waving the mobile in front of them as a legitimate excuse. I rose to get up and one of the guys put a steadying hand on me so that I remained seated. Didn’t like that.
‘Where did you board the tram from?’ he asked. A wannabe copper, they all were.
‘Two stops back. Look, I apologise. Entirely my fault. I’ll just buy my ticket from the machine and we’ll be square.’
I went to get up again and this time he wasn’t so gentle, shoving me back into the seat while his partner looked on.
‘What’s your name?’
Oh for Christ’s sake. I needed a bloody interrogation like a hole in the head. ‘John, John Punter.’
‘Where have you been tonight, John?’
I could have told him to fuck off, but I gave him some yarn about exploring Smith Street and then catching the tram back into the city. He wasn’t buying any of it and neither was his partner, who joined in.
‘What have you got in the pack, John?’
‘What, do I look like a terrorist or something, do I?’ This was great, ten minutes into the exchange and I’m going to have to explain to a couple of transit cops why I’m carrying three hundred large around in a backpack.
‘Just show us what’s in the bag, John, we don’t want any trouble.’
‘No, neither do I. That’s okay, here, you can look for yourselves.’
This time they stepped back while I stood up and fiddled with getting the pack’s straps off my shoulder.
I figured I’d have to take the small one first because he was blocking my exit. He was a fit and wary-looking guy, wary from the drunks who took a swing at him and liars like me giving bullshit lines about fare evasion that he’d heard a hundred times before. I didn’t want a scene, he was only doing his job, and as it turned out I didn’t have to lay a hand on him. The driver hit the brakes sharply to avoid some idiot driver who’d pulled up in front of him. We all fell to the floor like ten-pins, but I was up and out the door before the two transit cops had even picked themselves up.
I shot a look back at the tram to see if they were following: they’d jumped outside and were looking about for me, but I’d disappeared into the night and given them the slip, I was in the clear. We’d gone a block past where I wanted to get off, so I ran down Elizabeth Street and kept a steady jog until I reached Flinders Street. Then I crossed at the lights outside Young and Jackson’s hotel.
Opposite were the famous clocks of Flinders Street Station. Every Melburnian has at some stage of their lives met someone ‘under the clocks’ on the steps at Flinders Street. I think the last time I met anyone there was my brother, David, when I was a teenager. Nothing much had changed over the years. There was a guy in a grubby grey waistcoat selling newspapers and magazines. Half a dozen young lovers were seated on the steps holding hands or cuddling. The usual solitary drunks were sitting around clutching at their paper bags, taking a swallow now and then. A busker was selling jokes. He was wearing a sandwich-board sign that read Jokes – three for a dollar or five for two dollars. He wasn’t bad either, rattling them off to a couple of German tourists. I joined those who were waiting and leaned against the wall under the clocks.
I checked my mobile in case I’d missed any calls during the fracas in the tram. No one had rung. For a moment I thought about texting or calling Oakie, but decided against it. I was far too exposed standing in the open, and if the kidnappers were watching me they’d know I was calling someone. A beggar came by and asked everyone within sight if they had a spare dollar. ‘Just a dollar,’ he said. ‘Who’s got a dollar? That’s all I need.’
Not much of a sales pitch. No mention of why he needed it. I stuffed a coin in his hands anyway and he thanked me before moving on down the steps with the same plea for help. The busker was doing okay. He’d finished with the German tourists and started up on another couple next to me. They seemed to find him amusing and gave him a dollar for the three quick jokes he rattled off.
‘What about you, mate,’ he said to me, ‘you look like you could do with a joke or three?’
‘Not tonight, thanks.’
‘I can give you three jokes for a dollar,’ he said, pointing to the notice on the sandwich board he was wearing.
‘No, really.’
‘How about five jokes for two bucks?’
‘Shouldn’t I get more jokes if I give you two dollars?’
‘That’s the joke, you see.’
‘I get it. But I’m waiting for someone.’
‘I know. You’re the man in yellow. What’s your name?’
Seemed everyone wanted to know my name tonight.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I might have a message for you. Tell me your name, and if it’s you I’ll give you the message.’
‘Punter, my name’s Punter.’
The guy reached under his sandwich board into his shirt and pulled out an envelope. ‘Then this is for you,’ he said, thrusting it into my hands. He was about to walk off when I grabbed his arm and spun him back around against the wall like I meant business.
‘Hey, who gave you that letter?’ I demanded.
‘Jesus, mate! Go easy. A bloke just came up ten minutes ago and gave me twenty bucks to give a bloke fitting your description this letter.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Fucked if I know. Sunglasses, a cap. Wearing a jacket and jeans. Could be anyone. When someone offers you a twenty for deliverin’ the mail, you don’t knock it back.’
I let him go and he snuck off, grateful to get back to telling his jokes again. The note he’d given me was in a plain envelope with no name or address written on it. It said: Take a taxi up to the Hilton Hotel. Wait outside.
At least a taxi would make a nice change from catching trams and dodging transit cops. I walked around the corner to the cab rank outside the station in Swanston Street. There were at least a dozen cabs waiting, so I pulled open the door of the first one in line and jumped in.
‘Where to, chief?’ asked the sullen-looking driver, starting up his car.
‘The Hilton. I’m in a hurry.’
He gave me a look so that I just knew he was going to give me grief. Then he switched his ignition off again.
‘No way. Sorry, mate. But I’ve been waiting in line for twenty minutes and I’m not givin’ up my spot for a five-buck fare.’
Note to self: next time you deliver a ransom, advise kidnappers of Melbourne’s less than obliging taxi drivers. For Christ’s sake. I leaned forward over the armrest and thrust a fifty into his hand.
‘Listen, mate, I normally don’t tip in advance but I really need to go. Like, now.’
‘Sure,’ he said, looking at the note. ‘That changes things.’
I took the opportunity to send a brief text message to Big Oakie and Tiny, figuring that if the kidnapper wanted to ring me, his call could still come through. Making for Hilton Hotel was all I sent. Hopefully Kevin and Tiny weren’t too far away and were on to my movements via the D Tracker.
Three minutes later the guy dropped me outside the entrance of the Hilton. Didn’t even thank me for the tip as he took off in a screeching U-turn. I looked at my watch; it was eleven forty-three. Seemed like I’d been on this goose chase for hours already. Across the road, the odd bunch of football fans were still making their way out of the MCG. There’d been a match on tonight, although it must have finished well over an hour ago. Bombers versus Demons, judging by the supporters’ colours. Sounded like the Bombers had won, the way the club song was being sung and the red and black scarves waved.
My phone rang again – it was him.
‘There’s an eleven fifty-five Frankston train leaving from Richmond Station. Be on it.’
‘Why didn’t you just let me cab it on down there? Save us all the run-around.’
‘Don’t get fucking smart, Punter. You want to see the girl again, you follow the instructions. Right?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I hear you. You’re cutting it a bit fine if I’m going to make it from here to Richmond Station though.’
‘Then you’ll have to fuckin’ hurry, won’t you. You’ll make it if you run through the MCG grounds. Now get goin’.’
Bastard had picked his spot well. If I had anyone following me they would be easily seen in the grassy parklands of the MCG. I set off, trying to balance the heavy load on my back evenly. If I ran too fast, the damn pack would swing from side to side, the straps biting sharply into my shoulders. The best gait was a sort of jog-cum-shuffle with me holding the straps in my thumbs and digging my elbows into my sides so that it wouldn’t swing around too much.
