Driving Miss Polly

Background: Duck Malone goes to spend a day with his old school-friend, Polly Canning. This chapter comes from the book DLC02.

The gate’s not locked, just closed. You’d be an idiot to open it if you didn’t belong there. You’d be a dead idiot, I suspect, so the duration of your idiocy might be acceptable to some.

“Duck!” & Polly ran out from the house & threw herself at me.

One friend in the world, & she has to be this far from where I live. Of course, it would be great if a girl threw herself at me like this & expected more than a hug. Maybe? No. It’s still Polly in my arms. It feels good, but it’s just good to be Polly.

“Polly, my dear, you are the only person happy to see me these days.”

“Come on! You eaten? Dad’s frying shit all over the place.”

I suspect that what she means by that is that there’s eggs & bacon happening in their kitchen, Mr C is in charge of the pans, & he’s not too choosy over spitting pig fat or who gets fed. There could also be a cigarette being ashed into the pan occasionally when he gets distracted. He’ll be hurling stuff over his shoulder at the horde of mouths that just hangs here … usually.

“Where is everyone?”

Weekend breakfast fry-up at Canning’s is usually full of untidy hang-overs & guys slapping each other in congratulation or commiseration based on last night’s adventures. It sounded far too quiet this morning. Even a full-on global drunk affliction would elicit groans of disgust, surely.

“Yeah - no-one home, & Dad won’t cut back on the frying, so you’re gettin’ fuckin’ fed, boy.”

Ginger was there, but he’s a permanent fixture these days. Ginger may have been, once, but he’s definitely more like ‘Whitey’ now. He has been for as long as I can remember him. He has one arm, a glass eye (I’ve been told - it doesn’t move), & a permanent smirk due to a cut up his left cheek (ending at the eye).

“Ginge.”

“Duck.”

We’ve always been really close like that. Every conversation seems to go beyond words. He seems to be just standing there surveying life’s little mysteries. He’ll pick one & solve it, then go back to the ready position. Retired is not the right term for an old bikie. It’s kind of like trying to work out how come he’s not already dead. There must be some kind of mistake, & once the paperwork gets sorted, he can move on or pass over or whatever.

“Hi, Mr C,” as I entered the fat-splattered kitchen.

“Duck Malone! Sit, fuckya, you’re eatin’.”

“I told him.”

“You sit, too, Girl - you’re havin’ fuckin’ seconds.”

You usually don’t have to encourage her to do seconds, but something tells me that it might be thirds. There’s a lot of bacon piled up. It’s like someone told the goose who shat gold eggs ‘lay!’ & then forgot how to tell her to stop. Speaking of, the egg pile is pretty high, too. I think they have their own chickens somewhere. Surplus to someone’s requirements.

There are three mangy dogs waiting outside - an alsation, a rottie, & another one that defies description & needs a wash. Eggs are good for them, but I suspect that bacon isn’t. It reminds them how good people taste. These three kind of know me well enough that I’m not on the menu. It’s when he gets a new dog that you have to walk softly.

“Fuck it.”

Mr C turned off the gas & turned from the cooktop to actually survey the result.

“Fuck. Someone shoulda fuckin’ told me to fuckin’ stop. Fridge the fuckin’ lot.”

With that, he manfully attempted to lessen the load with half a pig on his plate.

“Got a job for ya, Girl. You drivin’, Duck?”

“I guess - nothing better to do.”

“Stick a smile on it, would ya? Bit of drivin’ won’t kill ya … well, prob’ly won’t. Fuckin’ roads are shit.”

You wouldn’t really understand this kind of pronouncement unless you ride a bike. On four wheels, you feel a bump & curse. On two wheels, you’re looking death in the face, & death is a long asphalt target that’s too easy to hit - & it hurts when you do.

“What’s the job, Dad?”

“You know Herbie? He’s got some … proceeds for me. Pick up an envelope. No fuckin’ peekin’. Just accept it & come back.”

“Got it.”

I can join the dots. I wish I couldn’t, because the less I know, the happier I am, in general. This is not my attitude at Uni, mind you, but it’s a self-defence mechanism as soon as I enter the premises of Canning Enterprises. 

Herbie is a guy who grows herbs - maryjane or whatever. Proceeds would be from the sale of herbs. I suspect (don’t quote me) that Mr C handles distribution at scale, but that payment comes through other channels back to Herbie, who then pays what’s owed (or assumed to be owed). No exchanges. Everything flows in one direction. Nobody asks questions, they’re just working in logistics or invoicing. It’s all import-export & nothing stays too long anywhere. It just doesn’t. It’s a fast-moving consumer good. Who said I don’t understand economics?

“Cool?” Polly is asking me.

“Sure.”

After we were stuffed like pigs stuffed with pigs, I apparently needed a wardrobe change.

“You need a jacket.”

“I do?”

“‘Kinoath you do.”

It’s not exactly a menswear shop, but Mr C’s stores hold lots of shit. That’s not quite where we’re going, though, which is a shame, because a nice fleecy would be good in winter. We’re in the club dressing shed.

“This one,” & Polly handed me a branded leather jacket.

By branded, I don’t mean fashion, I mean gang. It’s tagged with all of the appropriate insignia that basically says “touch me & you’re dead”, but in such a way that you admire the artwork that went into it.

“No way.”

“Really?”

“I am not a fuckin’ member, & I wouldn’t wear that if your dad was right there vouching for me with his hand on heart. No!”

“Fuck. OK. Cleanskin?”

It wasn’t a cleanskin - someone had ripped off the tags. Is that better? Isn’t that kind of like a disgraced member or something? Dead, maybe? Great.

“You’ll be fuckin’ fine. Trust me. Now, put this in your pocket.”

“What …?”

Fuck me, she’s handed me an asp. This slightly illegal device is like a metal bar that jumps out. The pommie cops had them instead of a baton. They fit nice & comfy in your jeans - like a snake.

“Just in case, OK? Dad gave it to me for my birthday, but my pockets are too shallow.”

Girly skinny-jeans pockets. What can you do? At this point, she picked up her denim jacket to show me how she has two knives under her arms. I suspect they’re just the ones easier to reach. Just in case. I’m not getting nervous. This is still a bit like dress-ups. You have to look the part, right? Her hair is in a braid down her back, kind of like a guy would, but it’s very bikie chick. It’s also easy care - good for riding or pretending you’re Lara Croft, I guess.

“What do you think of the new wheels?”

We’re talking near-new top-of-the-line delivery van. White as the driven snow (just washed by Ginger).

“Where did this …? Don’t answer that.”

“Dad was owed big time, so he just kept one he’d repossessed.”

Enough said. Really, I don’t want to know any more. She threw me the keys & gave me the loveliest smile she owns. It’s the nice smile, not the one that makes you wish you’d come armed. Sweet. Time to cruise. Nice tunes, all the creature comforts, good mate by my side who is looking pretty hot. This is the way Saturday should be. It makes me glad I came up, just to get away from the sheer boredom of Sydney & the constant attention of brothers who reckon I’m up to no good. Am I up to no good? Not yet.

“So, how come we’re doing this pick-up?”

“Everyone’s out on assignment. This was supposed to be Mother, but he’s covering for someone who broke their fuckin’ arm or something the other day. It’s touring season, so every other fucker goes walkabout on the open road, & Ginger doesn’t have a licence & couldn’t drive in a straight line if he did. You & me.”

Like old times … except that we never used to do this kind of work. We’d ride together, but that was it. OK, maybe some deliveries in the old van, but it was above board. I think.

Herbie’s place is fortified (of course), but only if you know what you’re looking for - the razor wire on top of the cyclone fence, the security warning signs without a company logo, the cleared areas behind screening trees. Somewhere back there is a plantation. It’s not sugar cane. It should never be burnt.

A rather large guy in jeans & leather with a shaved head & no sense of humour (I could just tell) came towards the van as we pulled up in the middle of a cleared space. There was a dog on a chain not far away, eying us off. It had been barking until the guy turned up. He was packing, I think, but right now he was just on edge & curious - the guy, not the dog.

“Get your game face on.”

Polly was out of her side before I’d pulled the handbrake. I got out with purpose - at least, that was my intention, although if asked I would not have been able to provide an actual purpose. The guy stopped so that we formed a triangle, casually swinging something that looked like a crowbar. I know this, because I was measuring distance to danger in my head. Distance to danger to my head.

“Here to pick up an envelope for Canning.”

“Uha. Who you?”

Because I hadn’t said anything & Polly had, the guy could make assumptions that I’m just the … driver. I was going to say muscle, but it’s obvious I’m not, especially compared to him. The jacket’s a little big, but it’s not hiding much. I’ll grunt occasionally, but I guess my role is just a supporting one.

“Polly Canning.”

“No you’re not. Canning’s got his name on the van. I’ll give you ten seconds to get the fuck out of here.”

Polly shook her head sadly.

“Cover, Duck.”

Cover? Oh - the asp. I pulled it out. I’d jiggled it to stand in my pocket when I got out of the van. I’d gotten that kind of vibe from Polly’s stiff attitude. She didn’t need me to do the dramatic extension thingy, but I do like the idea of that sound. It was wasted, because I was really just the distraction & far too slow to be effective. She had both knives out & had moved rapidly towards the guy when he’d turned to me, & then another voice brought things to a standstill.

“No! What the fuck? Snappy? Who are these people? Oh! Polly?”

“Hi, Herbie. Came for a pick-up. Your man doesn’t wanna know me.”

Herbie is fat & would probably make a good Santa if he wasn’t a grower. He’s pattern-bald but only in his 40s, I guess, so his hair is still dark & he has weird eyes that seem to want to look everywhere. Paranoid? You bet! Probably drug-affected, though.

“Snappy - stand down. Um - Polly, your man?”

“Sorry, yeah.” She put her knives away slowly. “Put it away, Duck - & put your nug on safety for fuck’s sake.” She turned back to Herbie sheepishly. “Duck was pointing his nug the other day - just a show of intent - & he wore it in the back of his pants with the safety off all the way home.”

“Yeah … you got to be careful sometimes. Snappy! Go get that envelope with ‘Canning’ written on it. It’s on my desk.” Then he turned back to Polly. “New van?”

“Really sweet ride.”

“You should get it labelled, though, right?”

“Only … found it the other day.”

“I know this guy who does decals - he could do a battle axe real quick.”

“You got a number or somethin’?”

We’re doing chit-chat? The knives are away & we’re socialising. I’m not really in the zone, so my contribution is definitely going to remain at the stoic end of the spectrum.

“Snappy! Who’s that guy did the van?”

“Smiff.”

“Fuck ya, who’s called ‘Smith’?”

“Smurf?”

“Fuckin’ Smurf! Bert’ll find him. Beaconsfield or somethin’.”

“Got it. Little blue dude.”

Polly took the envelope with a very steady hand. It looked fat (not the hand). We’re not talking business sized, but at least an A5. An A4 would just be ostentatious.

“Good talking to ya’, Herbie. I’ll remember you, though, Schnappy.”

She said that as a good impersonation of her dad. You don’t want Bert Canning ‘remembering’ you for the wrong reasons. Getting his name wrong is also pure Canning & has a habit of marking you for life. She’s learnt a lot just from being his only child. They’re nothing alike to look at, but deep down they’re identical.

It’s good to keep the conversation on that reasonably calm note though, as we go to leave. The envelope goes into the glovebox & I put the van in drive for a second just because Snappy is standing in front of it. I wave an apology at him & turn my head immediately as I reverse for the turn-around with my hands gripping the steering wheel to try not to shake too much. Good solid wheel. Nice friendly icon in the middle. Normal people drive cars like this & do normal things without having to pull knives & shit.

We got about 2km down the road.

“Pull over.”

“What ...?”

She’s jumped out again before I stopped & I rushed around the van to find her doubled over.

“Pol?”

“Not gonna throw up. Thought I might. Not gonna. Fuckin’ hold me, wouldya?”

You don’t have to ask me twice. She was shaking worse than I’d been. We can hold each other steady for a bit.

“Fuck me, Duck, but I’ve got to tell you that was not fun.”

“You could have given me some warning, though.”

“& do what? You do kung fu or some shit I don’t know about?”

“Well, I could have acted better - you know, had my role sorted, practiced some lines.”

That got her laughing at least.

“Fuckin’ lines? That fruitcake could’ve dented your fuckin’ skull.”

“But he didn’t …”

“Only because Herbie knows me. Jeez, Duck - I’m not meant to do that kind of shit. Dad made sure I could, but I’ve never had to, you know?”

Oops. I just assumed that if she had knives, she was ready, willing & able to use them. I am so glad she didn’t tell me before-hand that it was all show on her part, too. That could have been embarrassing if I’d shat myself. You can’t cover that with a stage cough.

“It’s OK - you can still be the tough girl with me.”

Hang on - that’s rather reminiscent of me hiding her virginity a few years ago. Everyone just makes assumptions around Polly. Oh well. I guess that’s just what mates do: help you live up to others’ expectations. You always have to hope that you live up to theirs.

“Too fuckin’ right - just keep holding me for a bit, OK?”

I’ve got a hot chick in my arms & all I can think of is “it’s OK, Pol, we can be shit scared together” - but I’m not saying that.

It wasn’t long before the shakes were completely gone & we could make an attempt to get back into the van. 

“Keep holdin’ me like that, & you have to put a ring on it,” she laughed as she released me.

I’m still driving. There’s no way I’m handing the keys to her now - she’s probably not even had a licence for all this time, just faking her confidence behind the wheel. 

We tried to get our story straight on the way back - how to tell it so that we didn’t look like idiots, for example. We even plotted some stupid revenge for Snappy. Not going to happen, mind you. It’s another case of pretending that we could or would do something. There was mention of feeding his manhood to Shaggy (the afore-mentioned indescribable dog), sticking his crowbar up his anal passage, or telling his mum. Maybe Snappy comes from the fact that he has a small dick that hides like a turtle’s head.

“Dad? Where ya want it?”

“Where ya fuckin’ found it.”

“Not the van, the … envelope?”

“Fuck. Yeah. Forgot you were gettin’ something.”

It’s nice to be appreciated. He held out his hand & that was it - the envelope disappeared into a pocket. Making things disappear is one of his particular skills. Don’t ask. Don’t be one of those things.

“How’s the van?” he asked me.

“Very nice ride, Mr C.”

“A bit too … automatic for me. I like to tell it what to do when I want it done, yeah? Anyway - ditch that fuckin’ jacket & find somethin’ that fits properly.”

That’s kind of how he runs his business: turn left now, or there’ll be consequences; don’t turn off the blinker until I fuckin’ say so.

“Tea, Duck?”

“Ta, Pol.”

That’s what I need: a nice hot cup of tea & a long lie down.