Horny

Horny

          I was doing the show-pony bit at the opening of an exhibition of art objects I’d made. Of course, at my age and with my experience I should’ve known better. I’d be lucky to break even.

          Still, it was keeping my case worker at WINZ, the New Zealand government’s benefit-bashing thugs, off my arse until my old-age pension would kick in. Maybe.

          I’d registered with WINZ as an artist, showing them all my credentials from authorised credentiallers. They hadn’t known what to do with me until a job had come up at a tattoo parlour, which I had to take to keep from losing my benefit.

          The couple who’d owned the parlour had, of course, kept the cool jobs and customers for themselves and given me the stuff they couldn’t be fucked to do, and it had come to the point where I’d sworn that if I had to satisfy one more dickhead or carve one more cutesy unicorn onto another giggling adolescent girl I’d quit.

          A pathetic little girl-child had subsequently demanded a pink unicorn and I had therefore subsequently quit, thereby complicating my situation with WINZ enormously and prompting my insane decision to risk having an exhibition.

          Wool-gathering in this way about my place in the universe while the public filed by and left unmoved to buy, I didn’t notice him until he was right on top of me, and then I’d just barely recognised him.

          Well, it had been a half of a century or so.

          He was still tall and lean, but had a pot-belly added on rather as an afterthought. He’d kept his now-thinning blond hair trimmed close. I wondered if he’d let it grow long even when that’d been fashionable and I wondered what he was doing there in front of me.

          Jerry Fairley had been shitloads of fun back when we’d been fourteen and fifteen. His stepfather had owned a pizzeria – this was back before chain-franchise pizza bullshit took over – and his mother had helped out most evenings, which had meant plenty of time for us without adult supervision.

          He was into gambling back then. Gambling and guns. Lucci – that was his stepfather – had an antique gun collection, and Jerry and I had heaps of fun discharging the old flintlocks out toward the railroad tracks that ran along an embankment behind his family’s house.

          Jerry ran a two-evenings-a-week casino in his house’s finished basement, with a roulette wheel – him being the always-winning house – a craps table – ditto, and some poker games.

          This had generated what he lovingly called ‘praaahfit’, his catch-phase back then being, ‘It isn’t lawful, but is it leeeegal?’

          We drank his mother’s dandelion wine and thought we were hot stuff.

          Then, when he was sixteen, he took up golf as his gambling medium, insisting that I call him ‘Fairway Fairley’. I wasn’t into golf, so Jerry and I had drifted apart. Until he reappeared.

          ‘Jerry?’ I had to make sure.

          ‘None other!’

          ‘What the fuck are you doin here?’

          ‘Been lookin for ya, bro. The exhibition’s on the internet. Google’s a great thing.’

          ‘Why the fuck’ve you been lookin for me?’

          He put on his conspiratorial face. I recognised it instantly. People really don’t change that much. ‘How bout if I buy you dinner and we talk about it then?’

          The dining room of the three-star where Jerry was staying was adequate if unexciting. It was also almost empty and we sat near nobody.

          Jerry had gone on with a bunch of CV-like shit about how his career as a tournament pro had never taken off, but after settling in Jo-burg he’d kept body and soul together by gambling on his golf game with hackers and potzers and making the occasional profitable business investment.

          Then he wanted to know how I was doing. ‘Cleaning up like Andy Warhol or one of them? I didn’t see any red dots next to any of your stuff.’

          I paid attention to the grilled salmon in front of me.

          ‘Look, your shit’s okay, but the art biz runs more on demand than supply, right?’

          ‘You could say that.’ He’d done his research.

          ‘So what would you say if I offered to cut you in on a business deal that includes as a side-effect manufacturing demand for your work in a major market?’ This came with his honest-face masque.

          So there it was. I wrapped my laughing gear around a forkful of salmon and chewed it slowly.

          After swallowing I said without looking up, ‘Aw, c’mon, Jerry. What kind of bullshit is this?’

          ‘No bullshit. You’re perfect for it.’

          ‘For what?’

          ‘Old and artsy and broke with no immediate family.’

          I decided not to mention my daughter, whose married surname must have escaped his Google-level research. ‘Why’s that perfect?’

          ‘When it comes to artsy shit you can talk a good game, right?’

          ‘So can millions of other people.’ Jerry smiled smugly and waited. ‘Okay,’ I was irritated enough to ask him his question, ‘enough of this fucking around – to  quote an old high school mate of mine, What’s the deeal?’       

          Jerry laughed. ‘You do a good impression of me, y’know? No doubt you can pull off the art-talk hustle.’

          ‘What do you want me to do and how much are you offering to pay me?’

          ‘Okay.’ He took a deep breath. ‘First of all, I want you to understand that I make all the arrangements and all you have to do is what I tell you.’

          ‘That sounds fascist enough.’

          ‘Indeed.’ He paused. ‘I also want to reassure you that from your context the entire process is virtually risk-free.’

          He paused, but I kept my trap shut. He went on. ‘For instance, I’ll make the arrangements through third parties I can trust for you to receive an invitation, as an exciting Kiwi alternative artist, to be the guest at some minor Jo-burg arts festival. You’ll have to prepare your presentation yourself, I’m afraid.’

          ‘Go on.’

          ‘Before you leave someone will leave a bag of golf clubs by your front door. You’re to take these with you to the Republic.’

          ‘You know I don’t play golf.’

          ‘Doesn’t matter. While you’re in Jo-burg you just go through with your artsy shit, and somebody involved with the festival will invite you for a round of golf. It doesn’t matter whether you play like a beginner – or if you play at all. Afterwards you’ll forget your clubs and someone will return them to your hotel. Then you fly back home. Leave the clubs at Auckland airport. A few days later you leave for Kuala Lumpur with a sample of your work. Some people will buy it at this show you have going now and pack it for you. Someone in KL will take you to a meeting with a gallery owner to finalise a one-man exhibition. Then you fly home empty-handed. You get an advance of $5,000 Kiwi and then $10,000 Kiwi when you’re done. All expenses paid.’

          He sat back and smiled. ‘What could be easier, old friend?’

          I shook my head. ‘I’m not going to be a dope mule. Shit, Jerry – I’m too old and set in my ways to wind up in some Southeast Asian prison. I like my comfy bed – and I’m not keen on capital punishment.’

          Jerry frowned and looked serious. ‘No dope. I promise you. Okay, you haven’t seen me since the early sixties, so maybe you don’t know me the way you used to, but I can guarantee you that I’ve never had anything to do with drugs and never will. They destroy people’s souls. I may be a hustler, but I won’t have that on my conscience!’

          Yeah, right. ‘So why don’t you take your fucking whatever to Malaysia yourself?’

          Jerry took a few minutes to finish his steak, then sat back. ‘Let’s just say that certain people in positions of authority in the Republic have got it into their heads that some of my business transactions don’t measure up to their, uh, opinions of what’s exactly kosher …’

          ‘So you’re leading them here to me.’

          Jerry chuckled and signalled the waitress for coffee. ‘Don’t worry about that. They may inspect me closely at O.R. Tambo International Airport, but they never find anything on me and I don’t have any arrest record. Even so, I take precautions’

          I considered his offer as we waited in silence for the coffee. Sure, he’d made it sound good, but he clearly had a talent for that. Anyway, I may have been broke, but I’ve always disliked adrenaline rushes. Shit, I can’t even stand action-adventure movies, or even watching tight cricket matches.

          When the coffee came I put enough cream-or-milk into mine to make it a drinkable temperature. He left his black. I took a good slurp before breaking the silence. ‘Are you gonna tell me what you plan to hide inside that golf bag and amongst my creative efforts?’

          He sipped his coffee carefully. ‘It’s not dope. That’s all you need to know. Otherwise, the less you know the better.’

          ‘Then go find yourself another mule, Jerry. I’ll forgive you for condescending to me like this, but that’s just because it’s easy, since we’re never going to be in contact with each other again. Thanks for the meal.’

          He signalled to the waitress, asked about the desserts, and ordered himself a vanilla bean panna cotta with mixed berry compote. I declined. We again waited in silence until it came. I felt like getting up and leaving, but, strangely, didn’t want to be that rude. I wanted a drink, but thought it uncomfortable under the circumstances to order one – who would pay?

          Jerry pulled a face and put down his spoon. ‘What do you think about cultural relativity?’

          Not something I’d anticipated. ‘I’d say that’s a complicated question that I have no glib answer to.’

          ‘I mean, you don’t strike me as a bigot. Are you a monoculturalist?’

          ‘What does that have to do with hot golf bags?’

          He spooned some more goo into his gob.

          ‘Y’know, one of the things that stands out from my many profitable years gambling on golf and other games – okay, and occasionally dabbling in the grey economy – is that successful businessmen who are otherwise hardheaded and as rational as reptiles can, in certain circumstances, be mushy-brained wallies. There’s just no accounting for superstition, especially among the rich.’

          He licked his lips. ‘And most especially among rich Chinese.’

          The light bulb began to glow above my head, and I disliked what he was about to tell me intensely before he said another word. Might as well cut to the chase. ‘You’re referring to Traditional Chinese Medicine ingredients, right?’

          ‘That’s just one example.’ He dabbed at his lips with a serviette.

          ‘That’s not multicultural tolerance. That’s idiotic superstition demanding cruelty.’

          ‘I’m not so quick to judge. I’ll up it $20,000.’

          Shit, I’d been delighted when a bloke I knew had offered me a couple of hundred to design his café’s new menu.

          In a few months I’d be eligible for the national old-age pension, anyway.

          ‘No dice.’

          He shrugged. ‘Too bad you don’t have any family.’

          I’d been right to keep shtum about my daughter. ‘I suppose you’ll have me killed now.’

          ‘Hardly. You don’t think I’d leave a trail, do you? I’ve never been here, and I still might find a way to change your mind.’

          He said this so mildly it was clearly a threat.

          I got to my feet and left with what I hoped was dignity. I waited until I was clear of the hotel before calling my daughter, who was a cop.

          CIB.