Free The Low Road by Chris Womersley Page B

one hand, he braced himself and smashed the black plastic receiver repeatedly into the bulk of the mounted phone, against the cradle and circle of numbers that made a useless ching under each blow—against the rounded corners and metal phone-book rack until all that was left was a mess of wires and shards of plastic in his fist. A couple hurrying past, hunched against the cold, averted their eyes. Josef tried to rip the phone wires free, but they were as tough as sinew. As a young man, he could lift great weights, knock out men in higher weight divisions, extract almost anything from almost anyone. When he was a boy, he hefted a rose bush clear from the reluctant earth with just one hand, a feat that earned him the extravagant applause of his father. But now, in the tiny phone box, he gave the wires a final useless yank before shouldering out the door. Enough fooling around.

10

    J osef parked across the road from Sylvia’s. Parkview Motel. Formally the Cabana Inn. Cheap rates clean Tv in most rooms v cancy. Nothing about the fact that there was no park and no view, unless you counted the road out front and the empty lot at the back.
    The Parkview was like prison: most people he knew passed through at some stage of their careers. Although called a motel, the function of Sylvia’s was altogether more oblique; part halfway house, part detox, part brothel. Stray members of the general public who turned up in search of a room were likely to be turned away with a surly Sorry, no vacant rooms today. It was for their own good as much as anything.
    He scratched at his chin and picked fluff from his shabby suit. He wondered if Lee was really trying to get away, like Marcel seemed to think. He had thought about it himself once upon a time; contemplated what it would be like to get a real job, pay taxes, listen to the football on the radio. Be upstanding, write cheques and remember to collect the dry-cleaning on a Friday evening. But what would he do ? Live one kind of life for long enough and it becomes a sort of destiny, where the future is just a version of the past. It was too late for him and he didn’t see why that little prick Lee should get away. He wondered idly if he would have to kill Lee. His heart squirmed at the prospect.
    He sucked at his capped tooth and observed an ambulance moving silently through the traffic, like a shark. He touched a button on his coat, a sort of genuflection, to ensure he wouldn’t be the next person to travel in it—another superstition inherited from his aunt.
    Josef met Lee just a few months ago. The kid was fresh out of jail. Josef had heard about him through the grapevine. Someone always heard something about someone. But he seemed a good kid, capable. Had killed a bloke in jail over something or other but was never fingered. Josef set about luring the kid. He poured good liquor and put him at ease, painted a version of life involving large sums of cash, working outside the system, not being like every other dickhead out in the suburbs. Can always use a bloke like that , Marcel had said when Josef mentioned him. It wasn’t only that Lee had killed someone, but how he did it. We can always use a bloke like that.
    And so Josef, sure that Lee was up to it, took him around to meet Marcel, who laid a hand upon the kid’s knee and said he might have something, like he was granting a wish. It was always the same routine and there had been a part of him that wanted to bundle the kid out, tell him to get a real job and forget all this ever happened. But Lee had shrugged in acquiescence and that was it—a career determined by indifference.
    So Marcel gave Lee things to do, small things, collecting trivial amounts of money and running errands. Nothing complicated. The Stella thing was supposed to be simple: an old man living alone, a bag of money stashed somewhere. Not so much; this was the kid’s first real job, after all. Maybe rough up the old Jew a little, just