Free Thunder Road by Ted Dawe

million bucks to perch on a big cliff overlooking Auckland harbour. The dark water scrawled with their reflection, the city lights sparkled all around us. A man in his sixties wearing a white bathrobe ambled in, muttering away into a portable phone. He mimed a greeting to both of us and signalled Joey toget us something to drink. Me and Devon sprawled on the big L-shaped bank of white couches and waited for the conversation to finish. Joey came back with beers in tall glasses, a tiny black coffee for Wes, then he disappeared.
    ‘Wes’ idea of a Jap import,’ Devon whispered, grinning.
    I was trying to get a fix on what Wes was talking about. It was mostly numbers. Money I guess. Eventually he held the phone away from his head and pressed the off button while fixing us with a conspiratorial grin. Although pushing 70, there was something mischievous, almost boyish, about him. His watery blue eyes were the only touch of colour. His smooth, unblemished complexion was unnatural on a man of his age. As though he had never been exposed to the harshness of the atmosphere. Like a baby maybe or a maggot.
    He had this fussy way of talking, as if he was dictating to someone in the next room; everything was said slowly, and with great care.
    ‘To what do I owe this late night visitation, dear boy, and who, may I ask, is this?’ He waved a spotted handkerchief in my direction.
    ‘This is my mate Trace, Wes. He’s from the Waikato … a simple country lad … here in the big smoke to seek his fortune. Just like I was, long ago.’ He made it sound sad, in that ironic way of his.
    ‘Ah, the fecund land of mist and rain. I always knew someone lived there. So it was you Trace, all the time.’
    I smiled, pretending to get the joke.
    ‘And Devon is your guide to the fleshpots and hot spots.’
    I nodded. He turned to Devon who had stretched out along the white sofa.
    ‘Now tell me, Devon, what have you been doing?’
    He leaned back and listened to Devon recount his recent adventures, though Devon didn’t mention the dope stealing up North. I was surprised at how frank he was, and how much detail he went into, especially about girls. The old man leaned back on the couch, chuckling and squawking at every risqué incident. It was all told in the puffed-up style of Wes, as though Devon was playing a role, or taking the piss, more likely.
    Devon finished and Wes sighed. ‘Ah, what it is to be young.’ After a few questions and clarifications he said to Devon, ‘Now, young man, I assume this is not a social call. It never is these days. You want something, don’t you? What is it?’
    ‘Wes, it’s like this. You know I’ve been living in cramped quarters with the lovely Mrs Jacques and the profoundly gifted Sergei? A humble domicile to say the least, but now I have teamed up with young Trace here,’ indicating me with a condescending wave, ‘I feel we need something more befitting our lifestyle and aspirations.’
    ‘You require a bolt-hole, as it were, here in the city?’
    ‘Well, OK, that is to say, in a word, yes.’ Devon, mimicking.
    Wes stared at the big windows in front of us for a long time as though he was reviewing his options. He was quite a short man with a big stomach, and a completely naked head. I noticed for the first time that he had no eyebrows or eyelashes. There was no indication that he had ever owned any hair at all.
    ‘As it happens, you may be in luck. You will have to do a little job for it though, just to show good faith.’
    ‘No problem.’
    ‘I have a little cottage in Parnell: part of my burgeoning property portfolio. A tumbledown dog-box, in the best part of town. The thing is going to be torn down as soon as I get planning permission. There is a family in it. I want them out. Ibought them with the house, and I have the suspicion that the planning process has been held up because someone in the local council feels sorry for them because they are poor.’ The last word he pronounced