Yellow streetlights lined Flank Street. I walked in the shadow of the plane trees: Black 501s and a grey hoodie. Outside number 67, I stopped, leaned against a tree, and waited. I craved the caress of nicotine, but the glow would expose me.
No lights in the house, no car in the driveway, no sound; an hour passed, still nothing. An hour and twenty, and a Green Holden Monaro pulled into the drive. He climbed out; I stood still. His face, his name, his height and build I knew. I also knew he’d crossed somebody enough to get whacked, and that was where I came in. Third night of surveillance: same routine, always alone, briefcase in the left hand, keys in the right. Lock the car: check it. Get the mail from the box: straight to the house. The sound of the lock, then a chain.
Cross the road, down the drive, vault the gate into the back yard. Kitchen window: make a noise to draw him close. A face in the window and a spit from the silenced nine—job’s right!
My name’s Micky DeWitt. I arrived in Australia five years ago, broke and scratching for work. Now I have a nice apartment, a fast car, and own a boat repair yard. The yard pays the guys’ wages, but could never keep me the way I like to live. I hang out there because I like being beside the water. I have three workers on the dock and slipway that I pay above award, and a secretary in the office that I screw after hours. I live well, play hard, and call no-one boss.
This is how I got there.