Black Angels???Red Blood (6 page)

“Where are the races today?” asked Sam, grabbing the sporting section out of the paper and heading for the toilet. Charlie inclined his head over his shoulder at Sam and Tim chuckled with him.

“What are you bastards laughing at?” came a strained voice from the bathroom.

“You, ya silly goose.” Charlie laughed.

They sat and talked with the old man for an hour or so while smoking pot and cigarettes over cups of tea.

“You know the cycle. This one stands up and has his day and then he gets knocked down. The next one gets up and then he gets knocked down. It's an ancient process on this planet,” the old man said. He then continued, “There are only a few who know what we're up to and they're shit scared of Minna. You'll beat him. He's old and ugly. He's been on the payroll of the mining company that has a vested interest in which way the New South Wales Land Council votes.”

Tim was thinking hard and was pleased to hear the old man had faith in him. “There's another mob working with TNT and other major businessmen to shift the Koories out of Redfern. Now we can ask ourselves this question. ‘Why is Redfern full of drugs, alcohol and dirt poor blacks?'”

They topped up their tea and kept talking.

“This fella, Tim,” the old man said as he moved closer, “I missed him ten years ago.” And then the old man mimicks a bird. “Flew away just like that.”

Tim realised that he was being asked to do away with a whiteman.

“Someone taught him in the ways of our people.”

“Who?” Tim asked.

The old man looked hard at Tim and said, “A greedy featherfoot from our clan.”

“Where's he now, old fella?”

“He's dead.”

Tim didn't have to figure out why.

“He calls himself a blackfella but he's not, and he's doin' a lot a damage.”

“Wouldn't be a rich white diamond miner,” Tim mumbled to himself.

The old man took off his shirt and showed Tim three scars. “Feel this,” he said. Tim felt one of the scars an unusual lump within it. “These scars make your magic very powerful.”

The old man paused. “If you succeed you will get one of these,” he said, and he held up a small diamond that glistened as the light bounced off it. “I been telling them fellas in the centre that you'll be coming and that you'll have this with you. I call it The Wind. If I didn't have to call you in it would've been mine.”

“I won't let you down, old fella.” Tim reassured him.

Sam headed for the TAB while Tim and Charlie kept talking with the old man. The old man finally got up to leave, saying he had to contact some places where he'd been booked to perform. Charlie offered him the use of his phone but the old man declined, preferring to walk and get some exercise. Tim walked the old man out to the street. The old man wandered down the street purposefully, ignoring the police
car driving past. Tim made up his mind to go and see a movie, by himself if necessary. Charlie was still waiting to see whether it was safe to sell pot again.

The old man was deep in thought on the way up to the Cross. He was wondering how Tim would handle his final job. The old man was a bit sad because it would be the last time he would see Tim in his capacity as his teacher.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sylvia was in the dressing room putting her make-up on and rehearsing her lines as she went.
“We will triumph together,”
she said out loud. “Shit, who wrote this?”

“Don't be like that, there's a reason for it,” Maggie said, pretending to scold her. Sylvia fell momentarily silent and Maggie, who had been busily putting on her make-up, stopped and put an arm around Sylvia.

“Why is Louise the way she is?” Sylvia asked sadly.

“I don't know Syl, but if you pack it in, she's definitely a goner,” Maggie said.

Sylvia snapped out of it and resumed her task. “Thanks, Maggie.” They could hear the men in the next dressing room firing each other up. The stage manager ran through the dressing rooms calling “twenty minutes”. Sylvia got a small tingle of butterflies. She did a round of deep breathing to control it.

Tim and Charlie had been at the theatre for an hour or so drinking at the bar and observing the people now cramming in. Seventy-five per cent of the patrons were white. They'd bumped into a few people Tim hadn't seen for a while and it was obvious that there was a party in the offing. The old man appeared at the door and Tim immediately
went over to him. He helped him get his ticket and they went and sat with Charlie. As Tim returned with a cup of tea for the old man, a bell sounded warning patrons to take their seats. Tim told the old man not to rush as they had at least ten minutes.

Resounding applause and an encore signalled the end of the show and the patrons emptied out of the theatre. It's been a long time, Tim thought, since he'd been to a theatre show with money in his pocket. He used to stand around humbly, hoping people would shout him a beer. Not tonight. Tim, Charlie and the old man hung around to meet the cast. Tim thought it was a good show—crooked cops growing marijuana and lusting after young Aboriginal women. Tim wanted to smash the copper several times, he was so convincing. The part they got most right was the dying of the young man. He remarked to the old man that he thought Sylvia was great and meant it. The old man smiled and gave a happy, nasal “Yea” which caused a couple of white patrons to look up.

There were about sixty people left and the majority were well-wishers and friends. Actors were hanging around waiting to meet directors and writers, intent on securing future employment. The cast appeared after twenty minutes. Sylvia arrived at their table after getting compliments from her friends and peers. Tim was reluctant to say anything and stood there smiling. The old man gave her an affectionate hug and said, “Here,” nodding to Tim, “this fella reckons you were great.” Sylvia smiled at Tim and said, “Thanks”.

A party atmosphere was working its way over the crowd and the grog had loosened some lips. Tim wanted to talk to Sylvia about the play and offered to buy her a drink. He asked her about certain aspects of the play and they were
locked in conversation for five minutes before she was dragged away by the director to meet some people who were impressed by her performance. Tim went to compliment Gilbert, who he thought played the part of the young man convincingly. He'd met him a couple of times and Gilbert was quite famous in the acting profession. They made the usual small talk interrupted occasionally by people who were leaving and passing on their best wishes for the remainder of the season.

The old man decided to go back to Redfern.

At around midnight the remaining people, now numbering around twenty and predominantly Koori, decided to head to the Paddington Night Club. Sylvia was going so Tim quickly joined the queue. They corroboreed and danced until the early hours of the morning. Tim had no problems telling Sylvia all the things he wanted to tell her once he got her alone. He finally asked if he could take her home.

Tim bummed some pot off Charlie and he and Sylvia left together as inconspicuously as possible, catching a taxi to her home in Bondi. Sylvia asked Tim what his real thoughts on the play were.

“Well, white fellas are never gonna get it right, are they?” he said. “White producer, white writer and a white director doing a black play. I think they're gonna miss some of the finer points. Don't you reckon?”

“We were worried about that, but Koories had a lot of input and we worked really hard to keep it together,” Sylvia responded defensively.

“The point I'll make is that they won't allow blackfellas to do a big budget play and have black people in crucial positions,” Tim said, “because they're frightened of what might be said to a white audience.”

“You'll have to come up with something better than that,” Sylvia chided.

“The leading lady was absolutely fantastic,” Tim said. “No, truly, it was a good show. Just a few things missing, that's all.”

“You can tell me what those few things are in the morning,” Sylvia said as she embraced him and then told him to sleep on the lounge.

When he woke Sylvia was sitting there watching him, waiting for him to wake up.

“What are you smiling at?” Tim said through waking eyes.

“Oh nothing,” she said, still smiling.

They ate breakfast with the full view of the ocean before them.

“You're a nice man. What are you like at relationships?” Sylvia questioned with an intense gaze. “I've heard you're a bit of a loner.”

“My relationships are few and far between.”

A small silence and Tim continued. “I always thought that beautiful black women were out of my reach. My shyness took care of that, I guess, and the job that I have means I'm always on the road.”

“What job is that?” Sylvia asked.

“The one that I never get paid for, the one that I've been studying for the last ten years.”

“We'll pull it up right here,” Sylvia said. “You're the bloke my uncle talks about occasionally. And I know exactly what sort of job. You're not going to be talking like him in a few years, are you?” Sylvia felt that she may have pulled the wrong rein with Tim.

Tim laughed. “We're different men, generations apart. People don't understand what he's on about. They think
he's crazy because of the way he talks. It's a form of protection. People dismiss him out of hand as having no real power, when the opposite is the truth.” Then Tim added, “It lets him get close to those he's gunnin' for”

Sylvia had an awful feeling in her gut and changed the subject. “Are you gonna move back to Sydney?”

“It's really peaceful in the bush. I'd move back for work but I'd keep my place.” Tim looked into the distance.

“The best of both worlds, hey?”

“What about yourself, ever considered making a home base in the country?”

“Sounds great, but naaaah, I've got too much work to be far away from it.”

“I'd have to come back for something. Sydney hasn't got too much to offer single black males.”

“I'm a single black female. I do alright.”

“Yeah, black females seem to have created a market for themselves in this city. Must have to do with how lazy they are,” joked Tim.

They were interrupted by Jeannie who stumbled out of her bedroom and into the bathroom followed by her partner. Now that Jeannie was up, Sylvia put a Tiddas tape on and turned it up, singing along with it.

Jeannie and her friend, whom she introduced as Hank, claimed their space in the kitchen and began to make a late breakfast. Sylvia and Jeannie went ten to the dozen, laughing and gossiping, while Hank and Tim exchanged backgrounds. Hank came from Moree and, like Tim, was a member of the Gumilaroi Nation. Tim pulled out some pot and they sat in the lounge room and started to roll a joint. No better time than now to test the water with Sylvia, he thought.

Jeannie came into the lounge with a cup of tea for Hank. “Syl,” Jeannie called out, “look at these mongrels.”

“Couldn't wait, hey!” Sylvia mockingly admonished Tim.

“He's my countryman,” said Hank.

“The last time I heard that, I didn't see my man for six months,” joked Jeannie.

“I've been in the bush for weeks without a smoke. This fella's grandmother and my grandfather were brother and sister. Who better to break the drought with?” Hank said, while making a mix. Tim took an immediate liking to Hank.

“Well, there is a bit of a connection there,” said Jeannie innocently and cleaned down the coffee table. Tim felt some warmth coming from Jeannie. He got the feeling she liked Hank. They sat and had coffee and tea and talked for an hour or so. Then the girls kicked the boys out so they could do their domestic chores. Tim and Hank arranged to meet them after Sylvia's show at the theatre.

Tim and Hank made their way back to Redfern. Tim felt a sort of bond between them and he asked Hank to come back to Charlie's. Hank okayed the suggestion and they wound up at Charlie's. Charlie was back to selling yarndi, Tim guessed, as they passed a couple of Koories leaving as they entered. Tim introduced Hank to Charlie and gave him some background.

“Another Gumilaroi. I'm Gumilaroi, too,” Charlie said to Hank, and before long they were acting like long lost brothers.

“You sell yarndi?” asked Hank. “What have you got?”

“Twenties, fifties, hundreds and ounces,” replied Charlie.

As Hank handed over fifty, Tim asked, “Can you afford that, brother?”

“Yeah, I never come to Sydney without money. Never get
home. The last time I came down without a way to get home, I was stuck here for three months on the grog.”

Hank went off to his brother's house to change, arranging with Tim to go to the Koori disco before meeting the girls.

“You dirty bastard,” Charlie said with a wry grin.

“What?” Tim replied.

“Sylvia, hey? She hardly ever goes out with black men. Reckons they're too aggro.” Charlie played up to Tim.

“I'm not going to tell you anything. It might get back,” said Tim, putting the emphasis on the last sentence.

“I was only helping, brother. Gave you a good wrap.”

“Thanks brother, you did me a big favour.”

“Oooh, he's not in love, is he?”

Hank arrived at Charlie's around eight that night. Charlie, Sam and Tim were having a few beers. Sam knew Hank and they greeted each other warmly. “What are you doin' down this way?” Sam asked.

“Just back for a visit. Won't get stuck here like last time,” said Hank. They offered Hank a beer and then they sat around for a session. Sam talked about the hits and misses at the TAB while everybody else wanted to talk about something with bones in it. After the subject had changed to black politics, it was Sam who controlled the conversation with precise summaries and what Tim thought were accurate answers to their questions. Nobody really doubted Sam. He knew them all individually before they knew each other. His gambling and drinking were, to the boys, quite acceptable and it was part of his life. Besides, he taught them how to fight.

“We're gonna go to the disco for a while. Who's coming?”

Tim asked. Charlie declined, saying there was no profit in it.

The pub was half full of Koories and a few whites. The whites that were there had been hanging out with Koories for a long time. Tim kept a particular eye on the publican. Sam found a woman to chat up and Hank and Tim were drinking beer. The next round Tim went to the bar and ordered a can, and left the bar without paying. The publican came around from behind the bar and put his hand on Tim's shoulder and was immediately jolted by a sharp left from Tim. Blood dripped from the publican's nose. Tim said something about a sister and a poxy can of beer. The bouncers rushed to the trouble spot, but wouldn't act on the publican's behalf. Tim did a Mroody dance across the floor and motioned to Hank as he was leaving. Hank followed him. “What was all that about?” a tense Hank asked.

“The fuckwit had it coming. He punched Regina a few nights ago?” Tim said trying to steady his body from the adrenalin rush.

“That's the first time I've seen bouncers stand and look. What was the dance? Mroody?”

“He won't be getting any more black money He'll be finished soon. Out of business.”

“There's a pub not far from the theatre, want a go there?” Tim asked.

They were still standing in front of the pub when Sam came out. “Fuck, you're game. I'm glad you done it. He's a real prick. You's had better clear out before he gets the bouncers on you.”

“We're gonna go to Surry Hills,” Tim said.

“I've got a dubai lined up. I'll stay here. You wouldn't have twenty, would ya, Tim?” Sam asked. Tim slipped him
twenty and Hank and Tim caught a taxi to Surry Hills. They had a couple of beers at the pub around the corner from the theatre. “Regina's a Wiradjiri. You should have left it to them,” said Hank.

“She's a friend of mine, and one of my best friends is a Wiradjiri. We got to know each other well,” Tim said, starting to feel his normal self again.

“I like your style, brother,” Hank said, giving Tim the Mroody handshake.