The Knife Sharpener (28)

28.

As a rule, Lucia never took jobs on the motoboys. Steered clear of them. The tribe, with its rudimentary, though effective network of communications, could give her trouble if she stirred the nest too violently. Their seeming omnipresence on the streets wasn’t a mirage. And they were quick to action. Knock one down. Suddenly you’re inundated in the helmeted, scooter riding freaks. Relentless, vengeful little bastards.

Chance Pistol had seen to that when he went and basically unionised them under his rule a few years ago. Came up from some gang in the Wastes. Rumour had it he was a Ministry courier. No, a drug runner undercover in the bureaucracy. A Biff snitch. A double agent working for Sydney to dismantle Ministry. No one knew for sure. But he was organized, experienced, and clever. Gave the abundant gig workers crawling around the city a sense of direction. Rounded them up. Assigned some standards. A hierarchy. A few weapons. A spine. Did it all while hiding in the Smith St café after his accident. Did it all with very few people even knowing that the motoboys had been transformed into a dad’s army. Most still didn’t. 

They had cut down more than a few of Lucia’s fellows under order from the cripple. Morons for crossing into that world, though. Motoboys were cheap marks. Not much cash after the risk. But sometimes work can be hard to find. Especially in a Ministry economy. Five of her associates were hired by a rival delivery gang to run some extortion, claim a bit of territory. Went about it in a normal, respectable manner. Kept it to simple demands. A few broken knees. Arson. Punctured tires. Well placed knife work. A couple of bikes and belongings destroyed. But they got sniffed out quick when one shakedown went a bit wrong and ten motoboys in Surrey Hills were slaughtered. Left hanging by their ankles in a pizza and ribs joint. That five were tracked down and dragged to death along the Western Ring Rd. Slowly. Behind dirt bikes and mopeds. The rival gang disappeared. Their delivery bags found full with the heads of the organizers, floating under the Westgate.

Lucia’s work depended on minimum distraction. Time to exhale. Arrange. Do it properly. Maintain the credibility of her image. Not deal with mouth frothing delivery drivers. There was no art to mowing them down. Even if they would’ve been easily handled by her Smith & Wessen. Aesthetic fantasies. Feautred on her KillingTime. Riding into a sunset. Their helmets shattered by bullets. Strapped to their vehicles. #lastride

            If Chance had them, the girl and the old man, Lucia wanted to be sure to keep her name off his lips. Out of their radiowaves. Off text.

            She pulled her black Honda Jazz up past Hoddle St. The sidewalk was silent and empty. A few cars and motoboys, drifting in the low winter haze. Lucia appreciated the ghostly aspect to it. Got the itch. She parked under a fire torched street lamp. Okay, just one for the records. Took a picture of the lamp, wreathed in fog, and popped it into her KillingTime Story. #makinspectres

            From her car, she grabbed her gun, a blue tooth speaker, and an iPod. Made her way to Smith St. Holstering her weapon, pocketing the iPod, and tucking the speakers under her arm. Stretched her back and shoulders. Too much time slumped at the bar of The Chaddy. In the car. She felt the urge to let loose. Blow off the spiderwebs. Kill some shit, basically. She moved toward the café.

The motoboy hideout was not a secret on The Other Net Forums. Nor was the name Chance Pistol. Though neither tended to last long before being Moderated out of online existence by clever hackers – Lucia suspected in the service of Chance. But, still, the man, the myth, the organization tended to pop up frequently. A source of fascination. A symbol of an underclass the users pretended to belong to. That they simultaneously made liberal use of. Happily and lazily exploited.

She knew where she was going.

Crossing into Smith St, Lucia kept to the shadows. She could see the café off about five hundred meters. On the other side of the road. The gathered motoboys a giveaway. Their perfectly aligned bikes. And a large white shape parked out the front. Lucia wanted to be sure.

She kept walking. Keeping her head low. She blended in with the concrete. Hated the feeling of anonymity. The lack of good lighting. The overbearing drama of it. There was a complete lack of subtlety. The lurking murderer, skulking along the dark deserted street. She wanted to take a selfie – heavily filtered – and document it all ironically. Here I am again. Doin the night proud. Haha. Whats cliché bout you?

Directly across from Chance’s café. She saw that it was the van. They were here. The motoboys had seen her. Watched closely. Quietly. Amongst themselves. Unusual to see someone out that late in Collingwood, but not unusual. Sometimes the jungas got lost. Looking for dealers long since either gathered up by Ministry or relocated south. Sometimes people needed a kick of adrenaline. The hunters looking for aggressive targets.

Lucia kept walking and swung into an alley next to a department store. There, she pulled out her iPod and Bluetooth speaker.

In the distance she heard the electrified howl of a wind jackal.

She connected the iPod to the speaker and hit play. Dumping both, she left the alley and sought high ground. An abandoned pub she had hidden in before. A vantage to watch the fun. Keep eyes on the target. Plan her post. This wasn’t such a bad spot. Surround them with the wildlife. Park them up next to the van. If she got them alive, she could see how long they lasted out there. Film the chase. Put it to Benny Hill music. She laughed softly.

A guitar wailed, reverbed, repeated, looped.

The wind jackals answered.