Charade

Benji

After two days of obsessing over that file, Vic decided to show his face.

He sauntered into the newsagency one afternoon wearing his usual polo shirt and shiny shoes. When my eyes flicked up at him, fire shone in my glare.

"Our next session is tomorrow morning in Rundle Mall, the same place we met last time. Eight a.m. – don't be late."

Vic turned away from me and headed for the door.

"Fuckin' wait a sec, Vic." I said irritably. Vic paused.

"Yes?"

"Got something you want to tell me, Mr Absolute Honesty? Mr Rule Two: No Lying?"

Vic frowned, eyebrows furrowed.

"I don't follow," he said.

I clenched my jaw and turned to my left, where our employee lockers were, and grabbed the folder out of mine.

"Think I wouldn't know about it? Wouldn't find it?" I said, throwing it down on the front counter. I sauntered up to him, matching his gaze evenly. "Where did you even get it?" I asked.

Vic leaned over and flicked the folder open, examining its insides. His face gave nothing away.

"I was wondering where this went," he said casually, closing the folder again. He grabbed it and tucked it inside his duster.

"You can't just dig up my past and keep it in a folder. It's personal, Vic. It's not fair!"

"Not fair?" He asked, a glint of anger in his eye. "Having some boy blackmail you with stolen evidence isn't exactly fair either, Benjamin."

"You rob innocent people. Steal from little old ladies and tourists who can't even speak English. And for what? So you can spend it all on nice cars and or boats or so you can buy an island?"

"You have no idea what I spend it on, boy." Vic sneered, eyes alive with anger.

"It doesn't matter! Whatever it is, it doesn't matter! The fact is that you're a thief and you steal what people actually work hard for!"

"It doesn't matter?" Vic asked. "It doesn't matter? My daughter is dying. The money is for her operation, jackass. So forgive me if I think my little girl's life outweighs some rich CEO's ability to buy the latest iPhone."

Vic turned away from me and stormed up to the front door. Dying? What did he mean his daughter was dying?

"Meet me tomorrow morning or don't. I don't care." He spat before ripping the front door open and barging out onto the street.

I stood still, unsure what to say. Suddenly, it made sense. After all, it wasn't like Vic lived in a palace. He home was modest and comfortable, not huge and expensive. He owned his taxi and that was his only car – no Bentleys or Porsches or Lamborghinis. His clothes were all Kmart and Big W, not top-of-the-line runway shit. He wasn't using the money for himself.

My daughter is dying. The money is for her operation, jackass.

And that's exactly what I felt like – a jackass. I looked up, wanting to apologise, but all I saw was Vic's cab take off, disappearing in a sea of metal.

© A.G. Travers 2015