20. Bang for the buck

Harley had two regular customers call that evening. The first was Olivia, phoning for a pickup from the Australian Defence Force Academy.

She and Harley went back years, starting with an act of charity to a drunk, penniless, cold and emotional officer cadet walking back along Constitution Avenue one rainy night.

Olivia repaid Harley’s initial kindness with loyalty, and whenever the cadets scored a night away from their studies, she would call him up, usually with a few mates, and they’d split the fifteen dollar fare, exchanging news on the five minute ride into Mooseheads, where the cadets did their off-base drinking.

“Five months until graduation, Harley!” Olivia exclaimed as she thumped into the passenger seat beside him. She wasn’t heavy, but she was tall and well-built and red-headed, and if Harley spotted her in a taxi queue late at night, he’d pull up beside her instead of taking the passengers at the head of the line.

Two other cadets took the back seat. Once the cab was outside the academy grounds, they leaned in closer, holding hands, swapping a quick kiss. Olivia looked back and rolled her eyes at Harley. They shared a smile.

Sometimes it had been Olivia in the back seat. Cadet affairs tended to be short and intense, and five minutes in a taxi could seem like a whole passionate night. Harley kept his eyes on the road at such times, turning up the radio to give his passengers some cover.

“You’ll be over the hill next year, Officer Cadet Price,” Harley observed.

Olivia groaned. “Over the hill” meant transferring to Royal Military College on the other side of Mount Pleasant. Another year of study, another graduation, this time as a junior army officer.

“Another year of late cabs and nosey taxidrivers and awful jokes, hey, Mister Barnardo?”

“You’ll miss me out in the real world. You’ll wish you were back in Canberra.”

“I’ll be doing what I’ve always dreamed of doing. I’ll miss you, and I’ll miss Canberra, but I’ll be getting on with my life.”

Harley looked across at her. “There’s a war on in Afghanistan. You want to be out there, instead of here?”

Olivia looked out over Lake Burley Griffin. The big roundabout at the bottom of Anzac Parade. Parliament House, National Library, Questacon, floodlit in the night. And a fleeting glimpse past Harley’s nose of the pearl lights in their graceful curve leading up to the Australian War Memorial, where the memories of those who served and those who died were kept fresh.

“If life was easy, it wouldn’t be so sweet. There’s got to be a contrast. Hard and soft. Service and reward. You know what I’m saying?”

“I know you’re someone special and I don’t want to see you hurt. Or in danger.”

“I’m a big girl now, Harley. I can look after myself.”

Harley smiled again. “You need me for a lift home, I’m here.”

They drove in silence, swinging onto Constitution Avenue, onto London Circuit, making an illegal u-turn and parking in a bus bay.

“Here’s twenty, Harley. These two are buying the first drinks.”

“Might see you later, Olivia?”

“Might. Might come home early. Wednesday’s not a big night.”

The second call was from Sharkey. Not far from Mooseheads to Erstwhile Garden. Not in terms of distance, anyway.

The bullet came in through the top of Harley’s window, scored a hot crease along the roof lining, hit the roof with a clang, and wedged itself behind the passenger side visor.

“Holy fuck, Batman!” yelled Harley, who had had the benefit of a classical education. He stood hard on the brakes.

“Just keep driving, Harl,” said Sharkey, whose education had been more practical. “That was the second shot, and most guns have more.”

“Bloody hell! Was someone shooting at us?”

“Yeah.” Sharkey was twisted in his seat, looking out through the rear window. “I think we’re okay now.”

“Fuck!” said Harley, looking at his window. The glass had shattered into a classic bullet-hole surrounded by a web of splinters. As he watched, a shard wobbled loose and dropped into his lap.

“You all right, Harl? You’ve got a cut on your forehead.”

“Fuck.”

He held his hand up to his head. He felt a wetness. No gaping wounds, apparently, but when he looked at his palm in the changing light of the passing streetlights, it was covered in blood. He blinked.

“Fuck it.”

He reached under his seat for a cleaning cloth. Microfibre for the windows, but it would keep the blood off his seat covers.

“You got any enemies, Harley?”

“About half of my passengers.”

Sharkey’s gaze was aimed at him like a rifle.

“Um, no. Just joking. I get along fine with everyone.”

“Let’s just keep this quiet, eh? I’ll ask around.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the police? I mean, this is serious.”

“You get the police involved, they’ll have you making statements for the rest of the night, they’ll keep your taxi for evidence, they’ll stuff you around, and they’ll ask questions that I don’t want answered.”

Sharkey sniffed and looked up at the sun visor. He plucked Harley’s coffee – HeartBake coffee, now well cold, but still good for a caffeine jolt – from the centre cupholder, held it in front of him and tilted the visor down. A little metal ball rolled out and plopped into the coffee.

“Still hot. Burnin’ the plastic.”

“Fuck. This is going to cost hundreds to fix.”

“Coulda been worse, mate.”

Harley considered this. “Yeah. Could have been me.”

“And me.”

“Fuck.”

Harley was over “red-light district” jokes when they hit Fyshwick. The neon signs were mostly pink, anyway, and stood out amongst the dark warehouses and caryards. “Northside Studios”, “Butterfly Girls”, “Bordello’s” and Sharkey’s preferred establishment, “Golden Hands”.

“Just a massage parlour, Harl,” Sharkey winked as they drew up. “Let me have a word with the management and we’ll get that cut looked after.”

“Um, I dunno, Sharkey.”

“Well, whattya gunna do? Go home to clean up? This’ll be quick and you can get back on the road.”

Harley looked dubious. “I’ve never been inside before.”

Sharkey rolled his eyes. “You’ll be fine. Come on. You want, you can get a coffee and relax until I’m done. Or something stronger…”

Harley sighed. He was too frazzled to drive, anyway. And he’d have to inspect the damage to the car as well as clean up.

“Good man.”

They made a fuss over Harley. Sat him down in front of a marble basin while a blonde with the biggest breasts Harley had ever seen leaned low in front of him, gently sponging his cheek clean of blood.

“Just a scratch, honey,” she purred. “Let me dry it off and put something on it.”

Harley had no objection to a lotion being soothed into his skin, a bandaid applied, and a cup of tea being offered, but when coaxing fingers began unbuttoning his uniform shirt, he felt uneasy.

“There’s blood on it, babe,” his new and buxom friend said. “We’ll clean that out before it sets. We get rid of all sorts of stains, you know.”

“Relax, Harl!” Sharkey said. He was leaning in the doorway, a glass in his hand. “They’ll have it back in five minutes, good as new.”

Harley let his shirt disappear. But the blonde remained.

“Ooh, you’re so tense, darling,” she sighed, her hands moving over his shoulderblades.

Harley had to agree. The touch of her fingers kneading into his taut muscles was relaxing. And pleasant. Even more pleasant when the skin on his back informed him that whatever scant top the blonde had been wearing was no longer present. Her hands moved forwards, gliding through his chest hair.

“On the house,” Sharkey chuckled, closing the door.

 

Copyright © 2009 Peter Mackay