The Big Whatever by Peter Doyle Read Free Book Online Page B

going on than anyone else. He was just having fun, going that one step further, upping the ante with each move, because that seemed the only thing to do. Not that I knew any of that outside the café in St Kilda that night.
    â€œYou’re still at large,” I said.
    He shrugged. “Got to tell you. The George Hotel business. Makes me feel bad.” He shook his head. “We lobbed there, and it didn’t feel right – I saw a bloke drinking in thefront bar, a notorious dog. So I split. We split, me and Cathy. She said you’d sort yourself out, and we could make it up to you later.”
    â€œCathy?”
    Stan shook his head. “She’s not with me now. Beautiful chick, but . . .” He lit a ciggy, looked around. “This is Jimmy.” We shook. Jimmy grunted at me.
    â€œListen,” said Stan, “Let’s get off the street.” He bent his head towards a Fairlane parked around the corner.
    After we all got in, Stan said, “You want a toot?”
    I shook my head.
    He pulled a cap from his shirt pocket, tapped some powder out onto a cigarette pack, worked it into two lines with a penknife, put it on the seat between us. He rolled a twenty-dollar note and sniffed up a line. “Try that. Best speed you’ll ever have.”
    I hadn’t had any go-fast since that big night in Sydney. “No thanks.”
    â€œSure?”
    â€œI’ve been taking giddy-up since before you lit your first cigarette. I know what I want and don’t want. Thanks anyway.”
    Stan grinned. “Munching the sponge from a Benzedrine inhaler? Aspros dissolved in Coca-Cola?”
    Jimmy snorted from the back seat. “Jiving to Benny Goodman records?”
    Stan chuckled. “ This— ” nodding at the line of powder between us, “is the new thing. But suit yourself.”
    Fact is, there’s always been some part of me, the seeker you might say, or maybe the idiot, that wants to change. Change up, change down, change fucking sideways . Doesn’t matter what, just . . . be altered. Oh yes, comrades, there was a crystalline sparkle to that white powder, and it was beckoning to me.
    â€œGimme that.” I took the rolled-up note, leaned over, snarfed up the other line. It stung like a bastard, but amoment later I felt my scalp contract and my heart thumped hard. I felt goooooooood.
    After we’d shared a few silent moments, Stan said quietly, “Back then. You did the right thing by me.”
    â€œAhh. Doesn’t matter.”
    â€œNo, mate, it does. And now I want to do the right thing by you. Got a business proposition for you.”
    I WALK ON GUILDED SPLINTERS
    I’ll spare you all the I saids, he saids and we saids – this is Mel ‘Mr No-Bullshit’ Parker talking, after all, not Leo Fucking Tolstoy.
    Nutshells-ville: one of Stan’s crook overlord mates had come upon a batch of factory-made amphetamine sulphate, the by-product of a warehouse robbery. Totally pure, so very strong. And very much of it. As a gesture of hail fellow, welcome home, and many thanks for not gobbing off when you got pinched over the Bexley bank heist, said crime czar had given Stan these numerous pounds – yes, you heard me, kiddies – pounds of white powder to help him get back on his feet.
    Yours truly was to be a kind of local rep, responsible for supplying powdered go-fast to musicians, artists, writers and other deadbeats. I was suspicious at first – you would be too, right? My question to Stan was, Why the hell me? His line was, Because you’re a staunch cat, Mel, solid as a rock, like a brother, and I’m back at him, Yeah sure, whatever you say, now give me the real story. He gets uncomfortable and lets it out in dribs and drabs. He personally hasn’t a clue how to go about retailing the product.
    The thing was, Stan may have been a criminal visionary, with genuine charisma, but back then he wasn’t connected.