Bich wears a light purple dressing gown, her mid-fifties face made up even at this hour. All the Vietnamese mums in Darra have the same look: big black hair in a bun so heavily treated it can bounce light beams, white powdery foundation on their cheeks and long black eyelashes that make them look permanently startled.
Bich has her hands folded, elbows resting on her knees, giving instructions, pointing her forefingers occasionally the way the great Parramatta Eels coach Jack Gibson used to give instructions to his on-field brains trust, Ray Price and Peter Sterling, from the sideline. Bich nods her head at something Lyle is saying and then she points at her husband, Quan. She directs him away somewhere and he nods obediently, waddles out of view and then returns with a large rectangular Styrofoam ice box, the same kind the Dangs keep their whole fresh fish in at the Little Saigon supermarket. Quan places the box at Lyle’s feet.
Then a sharp and cold metal blade presses against my neck.
‘Ring, ring, Eli Bell.’
Darren Dang’s laugh echoes through the palm trees.
‘Jeez, Tink,’ he says, ‘if you’re trying to stay invisible you might want to think about changing out of your old pyjamas. I could see that pale Aussie arse all the way from my letterbox.’
‘Good advice, Darren.’
The blade is long and thin and presses hard into the side of my neck.
‘Is that a samurai sword?’ I ask.
‘Fuck yeah,’ he says proudly. ‘Bought it at the pawn shop. Been sharpening it for six straight hours today. Reckon I could take your head off in one slice. Wanna see?’
‘How would I see it if I don’t have a head?’
‘Your brain still works even after it gets chopped off. It’d be cool. Your eyeballs looking up from the ground, me waving at you, holding your headless body. Fuck. What a funny way to go out!’
‘Yeah, I’m laughing my head off.’
Darren howls.
‘That’s good, Tink,’ he says. Then, on a dime, he turns serious, pushes the blade harder against my neck.
‘Why are you spying on your dad?’
‘He’s not my dad.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He’s my mum’s boyfriend.’
‘He good?’
‘Good at what?’
The blade isn’t pushing so hard against my neck now.
‘Good to your mum.’
‘Yeah, he’s real good.’
Darren relaxes the sword, walks over to the trampoline, parks his backside on the edge of the trampoline, his legs hanging over the steel springs connected to the black bounce canvas. He’s dressed all in black, his black sweater and tracksuit pants as black as his bowl haircut.
‘You want a smoke?’
‘Sure.’
He moves his sword, spears it into the ground, to make room for me on the trampoline’s edge. He takes two smokes from a soft white packet with no branding, lights them in his mouth and hands me one. I suck a tentative drag and it burns my insides, makes me cough hard. Darren laughs.
‘North Vietnam durries, Tink,’ he smiles. ‘Kick like a mule. Good buzz, though.’
I nod heartily, my head spinning with the second drag.
We look up through the living room sliding doors at Lyle and Bich and Quan talking over the Styrofoam ice box.
‘Won’t they see us?’ I ask.
‘Nah,’ Darren says. ‘They don’t notice shit when they’re doing business. Fuckin’ amateurs. It’ll be their undoing.’
‘What are they doing up there?’
‘You don’t know?’
I shake my head. Darren smiles.
‘C’mon, Tink. You must know. You might be full Aussie but you’re not that fuckin’ dumb.’
I smile.
‘The box is full of heroin,’ I say.
Darren blows cigarette smoke into the night.
‘And …’ he says.
‘And the purple firework was some kind of secret alert system. It’s how your mum lets her clients know their orders are ready.’
Darren smiles.
‘Order up!’ he says.
‘Different coloured fireworks for different dealers.’
‘Very good, Flathead,’ Darren says. ‘Your good man up there is running for his boss.’
‘Tytus Broz,’ I say. Tytus Broz. The Lord of Limbs.
Darren drags on his cigarette, nodding.
‘When did you work all this out?’
‘Just now.’
Darren smiles.
‘How do you feel?’
I say nothing. Darren chuckles. He hops off the trampoline, picks up his samurai sword.
‘You feel like stabbing something?’
I dwell on this curious opportunity for a moment.
‘Yes, Darren. I do.’
The car is parked two blocks from Darren’s house in Winslow Street outside a small low-set box of a home with its lights out. It’s a small jelly-bean dark green Holden Gemini.
Darren pulls a black balaclava from the back of his pants and slips it over his head.
From his pants pocket he pulls a stocking.
‘Here, put this on,’ he says, creeping low towards the car.
‘Where’d this come from?’
‘Mum’s dirty clothes basket.’
‘I’ll pass, thanks.’
‘Don’t worry, they slip on fine. She’s got fat thighs for a Vietnamese woman.’
‘This is Father Monroe’s car,’ I say.
Darren nods, hopping quietly onto the car’s bonnet. His weight makes a dent in the car’s old, rusting metal.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Ssssshhh!’ Darren whispers, one arm down on Father Monroe’s windscreen to prop his weight as he crawls up and stands in the centre of the car’s roof.
‘C’mon, don’t fuck with Father Monroe’s car.’
Father Monroe. Earnest