Tricky

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Neighbourhood Watch wore washed-out blue plaid pyjamas under a towelling dressing gown. He had old man brown tartan slippers and thick-framed glasses. He had a comb-over starting at a side part, a spit off his left ear. You could see pink scalp through greasy greying strands. He smelled of spilled hot milk and his face was as red as the tank on Wacker’s chopper.

Fetch stood on the front verandah with him. Better he did this than one of the other guys, or it might get real goddamn nasty. It wasn’t Neighbourhood’s fault the Black Pariahs had moved next door. But it was probably the reason for the bags under his eyes, and the depreciation of his neat, triple front, cream brick, three bedroom home.

But no shit, Neighbourhood Watch was going to call the cops this time, unless...

Fetch put his hands out in a placatory gesture, smoothed his accent and ditched the slang. Not that a slightly less ocker tone or the Queen’s English was going to make the difference. He wore a fist full of silver skull rings, and Maisy had thought it was funny to put little plaits in his beard. Shirtless except for the leather vest and the tatts, he didn’t exactly look the picture of conciliation. He looked like ‘lock up your daughters’. But he was the best option Neighbourhood had of not wishing he’d had a second cup of Horlicks, plugged his ears, and gone to bed.

“Mr Thomas—Patrick isn’t it? Yes, I’m sorry. I know it’s late, I know it’s loud. I know it’s not the first time. I’ll turn the music down.”

“It’s the middle of the night. Some of us work for a living you know. I’ve had enough of this. The drugs, the loud music, the profanity.” Neighbourhood pointed out to the lawn in front. It was a wasteland of sand, weed, dog shit and bindies. “Last night there was a young woman out there topless. This is a good family neighbourhood but you people are trashing it.”

“Hey, I understand.” Better than Patrick Thomas, upstanding citizen of Robinson Street, Meadowvale could ever credit. Fetch knew if Neighbourhood didn’t hurry up and take his jammies and his moral outrage back next door things would get real ugly, real quick.

“You frighten my dog, Betsy.”

Neighbourhood was lucky Wacker hadn’t barbequed Betsy and served her sliced thin with sweet chilli sauce. “Yeah, sorry about that.” Fetch got up close to poor Patrick. Steel caps to slippers. All the better to intimidate him into going the fuck home. “You see the thing is, Mr Thomas.” It always amused him how threatening being polite could be when you looked like you were fresh out on parole. “It’d be better for everyone if you went home and forgot about all this. It’d be better if you didn’t come here again. She’s a cute dog, Betsy, and your daughter, Madeline, isn’t it? Yes. She’s cute too. You want it to stay that way, right? So the best idea is, you stay on your side of the fence and you don’t worry about what happens over here.”

Neighbourhood was desperate to back up, bolt down the verandah steps and run next door as fast as the dangling crutch of his jamma pants would let him, but his sense of outrage kept him standing there. Or he’d forgotten how to use his legs.

“Do you understand what I mean, Mr Thomas? You see, what no one wants, least of all your good self, is the cops paying number 10 Robinson a visit.”

Neighbourhood went to object, his mouth flapping open and bobbing, then thought better of it. He backed off, turned tail and went down the walkway to the gate, opened it, went through. Then he protested. Before he went back to number twelve, he left the gate open.

“Oi, Fetch. What was that about?”

Fetch turned to see Wacker in the doorway. All 6ft 4 inches of him. With an impressive girth to match his imposing height, and the evil glitter of his beady black, miss nothing, eyes.

“You lonely, Fetch? You tryin’na make new friends?” Wacker braced his dinner plate sized paws on the doorjamb. “I thought I told you. We keep to ourselves. We especially don’t want fuckin’ nosey neighbours in our business.”

“I was—”

“I know what you was doing. You was having a little chat.” Wacker advanced. All the better to intimidate. “You’re a bit dim, aren’t you boy? If the Reds hadn’t vouched for you, I’d be wondering whether you can piss standing up. Now you do as you’re fuckin’ well told. Get back in there and make nice with my Maisy’s cos. She’s an ugly, fat little porker,” he gave a beery laugh, “but she’s family, and everyone has to do their part.”

Fetch ducked his head and moved past Wacker, eyes on the floor. He didn’t need to be called out over this. His ribs were still sore from the last beating he’d taken. A visit from the boys in blue would be more welcome. And it was two in the morning, and some people did have to work. So if he could find cousin Nikki and get her to slow dance to something less Marilyn Manson and more Hannah Montana, it would mean the neighbourhood could sleep better, and he’d have survived another day as a patch member in the employ of the infamous Stephen Wakenheim, vice-president of the country’s newest and best organised outlaw motorcycle gang. Drug manufacturer, race fixer, cyber criminal, pimp, den of iniquity landlord, and all round good guy. If you liked the idea that he’d done two stints in Long Bay and only last week knifed his own brother to within a heartbeat of martyrdom.

Jesus, wouldn’t Mum be proud of her baby boy now.

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