Frank picked up the bill, ran his eyes over the figures, and dumped a few notes on the table. “I got you a present, son,” he said, standing up. “But I left it back at the hotel.” He pulled a packet of Camels from his inside pocket. “C’mon, Jim, let’s walk and talk.” He patted his coat pocket and was reassured to feel the lump that was his gun.
Out on the street, Frank lit his smoke and they strolled beneath the blinking neon lights. He had no other children and was greatly relieved to have this father-son discussion. He had to tell somebody — preferably his own son — before he kicked the bucket.
“There was a time when Silke owned every joint in this town,” Frank recalled, gesturing down the street. “And even though he was a gangster, he always paid on time. And he always paid in cash.”
Jimmy nodded obediently and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this,” said Frank. “Don’t worry. You’ll see.”
They crossed the road, dodging traffic. Frank ducked into a bottle shop and bought a liter of bourbon. Back on the footpath, he cracked the top, took a gulp, and passed it to Jimmy. They kept walking north, toward the fountain.
“Then one day,” Frank continued, lighting another Camel, “all of a sudden, it’s my eighteenth birthday. And all the girls in the clubs are making a fuss of me. And then I get this message. From Lionel Silke. To meet him in his office.”
“What’d he want?” asked Jimmy, suddenly interested.
They passed a man begging for change and Frank slipped him a note.
“What’d he want?” echoed Frank, snatching back the bottle. “Well, he wanted to show me how much I meant to him.” He pointed to a corner building across the road. “See that second floor? That was his office—” He sat down on a bench and took slow swigs of the bourbon.
Jimmy remained standing, impatiently shifting his weight from one leg to another.
“So I go up the stairs and see him standing at his filing cabinet. Suddenly he pulls out a gun and points it at me. Right at my fucking head.”
Jimmy paled and glanced around the street.
“Don’t worry, kid,” said Frank, stifling a laugh. “The next thing I know, Silke is handing me the gun and wishing me a happy birthday.”
Jimmy looked puzzled and so Frank stood up to explain. “Y’see, the Yankee sailors were bringing heroin off the ships and Silke needed a go-between to get the gear around. The gun was for my protection, see?”
The kid’s eyes widened and he nodded several times.
“And after Silke gave me the gun, he told me there was only one rule...” Frank paused for theatrical effect.
“And what was that?”
Frank pursed his lips. “Only pull the trigger in self-defense.”
He passed the bottle back to Jimmy and they continued strolling north. The sickly sweet smell of the nearby ice cream shop wafted down the footpath. Frank went on with the story, saying that his job had been pretty easy at the time: getting down to the Garden Island docks before dawn, exchanging cash for small brown parcels, and transporting them back to Silke’s office, where they’d be cut, repackaged, and sold to the dancers and customers. Silke would put up the capital and split the profits with his teenage protégée.
“For a while we were pretty tight,” said Frank. “He hired me as his driver, his bodyguard, and his ear on the street. Any bullshit going down and I’d report straight back to him. He gave me heaps of bonuses...” They came to the Astoria Hotel and Frank flicked his butt into the gutter. “Life was pretty shit-hot, you know?”
Jimmy smiled crookedly and let out a burp. Frank could tell the kid was already half-maggoted — the flushed faced, the swaying head. “C’mon, son,” he said, cocking his head at the double doors.
He led the way past the dozing clerk and up a flight of stairs pocked with cigarette burns. Everything smelled of stale spew and cheap disinfectant. Frank unlocked his door, kicked the eviction notice out of the way, and ushered the kid inside. He flicked on the light and opened the bay windows overlooking Darlinghurst Road. Setting two chairs before them, he told the kid to make himself at home. For a few minutes they sat side by side in silence, passing the bottle back and forth, gazing out over the kingdom that had once been the Cross. Car horns bleated and two hookers were yelling at each other in front of the El Alamein Fountain. Still, it would never be like the old days again.
Frank rested his feet on the sill and Jimmy asked what happened next, about the business with Silke.
“A few months passed,” Frank said. He shrugged. “Life was good. Silke gave me a secondhand car. Treated me like family. Quite a few times he took my sister out and sometimes we’d all eat dinner together.” From where he was sitting, Frank could still see the window of Silke’s former office on the corner of Rosyln Street.
Jimmy shifted and crossed his feet on the windowsill too. Frank glanced at him and thought they looked like the sheriff and the deputy in some Western movie, just waiting for some trouble to gallop past their porch.
“Then one night I’m walking through one of the joints backstage when I hear this terrible ruckus. Chairs falling over. A woman screaming.” Frank took a long swig of the bottle and wiped his mouth. “So I bolt up the stairs and there is Silke, beating the shit out of Nellie. Whacking her across the face. Slamming her against walls. Dragging her across the room by her hair. Before I knew what I was doing, I had the gun in my hand. I don’t think I even aimed — I just fired the fucking thing — and the next thing I know, Silke is dropping to the ground and this gutful of blood is flying all over me.”
Jimmy pulled his legs from the sill and sat up straight.
“Then Nellie went berserk. Started yelling and whacking and punching me around. How could you do that? she screamed. After everything he’s done for you? She cuffed me in the mouth. You meant more to him than any... He treated you like a...” Frank’s voice trailed off and he shook his head. “And then it all made sense, Jimmy.”
“You killed your own boss?” asked Jimmy.
“No, fuckwit. I killed my own father. I just didn’t know it until then.”
Jimmy’s expression blanched into one of shock. He was gripping the arms of his chair as if he were trapped in a plane taking a nosedive.
“You see, Nellie was fifteen when she first came to the Cross and started working for Silke. And he was already married.”
The kid frowned and wagged his head back and forth in disbelief.
“She refused an abortion.” Frank stood up, walked to the wardrobe, and pulled out the duffel bag. “And Mum — well, my grandma, really — she raised me as her own.” He dumped the bag on the bed and gestured to Jimmy.
The kid rose and lifting the bag, yanked back the zipper. A few wads of cash dropped onto the mattress. Jimmy’s eyes widened again.
Frank drew his phone from his inside pocket and clicked on his contacts list. “Two suppliers. Seventy-eight clients. All yours.” He placed the phone beside the duffel bag. “But on one condition,” added Frank, drawing the revolver from his inside pocket.
Jimmy flinched. He went to say something but stopped himself.
“Look, I never did time for the murder.” Frank stepped closer. “Nell took the rap.”
Frank leaned forward and held the gun out handle first, but Jimmy backed away. “Can you imagine the cocksucking guilt I’ve had all my life? It’s a fucking Greek tragedy!”
Jimmy glanced frantically around the room, then fixed his eyes on the mobile phone and the bag of money.
“You haven’t got the guts, have you?”
The kid ran a hand through his hair. He sat on the windowsill and then stood up again.