The Knife Sharpener (43)

43.

‘Quiet, boys,’ said Xavier. ‘I think that’s the Jazz.’

            The few members of the Toorak Militia he had handpicked agitated behind him. Bunch of fanboys. He’d already told Alfie and Barnaby to put away their phones. Busted them swiping through their favourite posts. Giggling in a way most unbecoming to proper gentlemen of the last great Melbourne suburbs. Didn’t they know they had their family names to uphold? Reaffirm their place ahead of the mediocre lesser classes?

Only Charles kept his decorum. Reliable, right-hand Charles. His shield bearer. Eyes tight and Tec-9 set to the ready. He followed up his boss with a short and sharp ‘hush.’ There was still palatable excitement about them, but they quit chittering like common state-school girls about to meet some bland, C-grade teen idol.

Such things were a fantasy world. This shit was real. Finally.

            Xavier’s heavy watch chafed at his wrist. It was the first time he had worn the enormous silver Blancpain. He wanted something practical – none of the family heirloom Rolexes – not too ostentatious – not his Chanel For Monsieur – but which would draw attention all the same. Gently, he twisted it to sit more comfortably and raised his left arm to rest on the rear of his gun. Casual and calm. The watch twinkled a little under halogen lamps. They were waiting in the carpark of a French restaurant in Hawksburn. Closed for the night and quiet. Not even a scent of croissant.

            His light pink polo was freshly laundered. Bit of extra starch to keep his collar sharp and popped. And he could feel the cool air running up against his bleached white trousers and exposed arms. But he didn’t really feel the cold. Xavier was amped. Thrilled. Finally called upon by up high to do important work. Not just guard the gates.

            The half a bag of Toorak’s finest single plantation, minimal intervention, naturel cocaine, still making his teeth numb, did its part too. Xavier was in fucking charge of the situation. Wasn’t about to be overawed by a KillingTime legend. Abso-fucking-lutely not. He’d been raised amidst the most powerful people in Melbourne. Had his networks. The old boys. No one intimidated Xavier.

            He checked to see if his gun was still showing its polish. Adjusted his watch again. Then leaned back. Relaxed. Tried to look chill. The car probingly entered. Bumping over a small speed bump.

            Honestly, he had expected something sleeker and more dangerous than the Honda Jazz she arrived in. The kind of car where you just fucking zoom, yeah? Pull it onto the freeway at 200 kilometres an hour. Lusting for speed. Hitting hairpin turns and weaving traffic. A proper escape vehicle. The automobile of a stone-cold killer. An extension of your gun arm. But, also, like an absolute panty dropper. Tongue lolling out, lapping juices as you flip onto the main street.

            Xavier thought someone of her reputation, built on the usual fame sink of KillingTime, would flaunt it more. Sound it out loud and clear through the deep guttural roar of a turbo-charged acceleration. LuciasLuvs was a dare devil. Rode the edge. Threw perfectly posed bodies to the adoring masses and saw her perilous mystique get deeper, more complex. Likes throbbing in. Comments slavish to her craft.

            She should be driving a Lambo, at least. Maybe a Porsche.

            This was so safe. Everyday. And … girly. Like it should have pink hubcaps and underglow. Sticker of a Japanese kitty somewhere in her rear window. It meandered into the carpark and turned softly away from Xavier and the Toorak Militia. She parked and they all waited. No one seemed to breath.

            It made sense, though. It was circumspect. Careful. A vehicle no one would double check. Perfect to slip around in. Arrange her killings just so. Xavier was clueing onto it now. Getting excited with his sudden empathetic insight. Lone killers get killed if they scream killer. It’s like a dare for the uneducated animals of this town.

I mean, fucking think about it though. Hoon in a Lambo, some souped up ‘nip car and watch em come for you. Like, may as well scream from the roofs with a hand canon in your grip. Deadset, that’s just the way it is. Murder may be glamour, particularly when performed with such panache by LuciasLuvs, but baby it’ll tear you up if you aren’t careful. This KillingTime sweetheart – artist, she got it.

Fuck the sports cars. Keep it simple and lowkey. She didn’t have a Militia to back her.  

Plus, it took serious, hardcore nonchalance to get around in something peasant like that with a name like hers. A cool self-assured arrogance that Xavier associated with the best of the boys and gentlemen he knew. That buy big or go home, huge dick energy. What? Lost a mill. Fuck it. Happens. I’ll make ten tomorrow. Let’s crack the 78 Burgundy, snort a few lines minced with fairy bones, smoke a Cuban, and do her all again. Nothing to it.

That material life isn’t shit if you don’t have the testicles to flip it in the dog, smack it around a bit, and rail it like a balls-smacking-on-belly piston, until ya blow the good old proverbial.

LuciasLuvs got that, man. She didn’t need any fancy car. She got her kicks.

He felt his teeth grinding a little bit. The beginning throbs of an erection. Took a breath and loosened his knees. Found some zen, yeah. Act cool, now.

The door opened and a perfect ten exited. In a sleek and hugging black outfit. Deep dark red hair, close cut – not how Xavier usually rolled, but this, though … whew. She moved with mean grace, like each step expected the air to part for her, while her hips mocked it in passing. No fucks given face and big red lips. A thick Smith & Wesson tucked under her jacket. Hilt projecting out. All attitude.  

She was what he imagined. Perhaps more. Simply, a babe. He was even more in love. Heart pounding from desire and cocaine and intense need to go fucking shoot some cunts in the face and get that knife back and get into the action. Toorak boys hit hard. Whoo! Get on the beers. Chase the lines.

As LuciasLuvs stepped into the light a little more, Xavier saw that she had recently scuffled. The left side of her face was swollen and bruised. Some dried blood on the collar of her jacket. There was a slight limp to her stroll. He felt rage. Someone hurt his darling. He’d double down on the lousy stains who’d done this.

All the Toorak Militia hung back. Quiet, finally. He knew Charles had his back.

‘What happened to the face, baby doll?’ Xavier asked as she reached the group.

She smiled. There was blood in her teeth. Xavier was overcome with it. The drugs sending his brain scattering.

‘Oh, honey, I had me a tangle with some monsters is all,’ she said.

The photo of the wind jackal and the motoboy she had posted just before Oscar suggested the Toorak Militia team up with his hired hunter. So unlike her, but also exactly like her: pure. Perfect. Savagery, though not as afterthought this time, but in the current – in motion.

‘Deary me,’ he said. ‘You got out all right?’

‘I did. By the skin of my poor little teeth,’ she said. ‘See.’ She smiled again. More dried blood visible on her molars as she got closer.

‘I’d say you were lucky, but –’

‘There was no luck.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you now?’ she asked.

Xavier shuffled a little. Tried to calm his buzzed nerves. ‘I’ve seen your work. It’s accomplished. Beautiful. The craft of someone who knows their way around a weapon.’

‘Stop it. I’ll blush.’

‘Flushed to match the fire of your hair,’ said Xavier. ‘I’d die to see it.’

‘Only a small death, I hope.’

‘The best kind.’

They stared at one another for a moment.

‘We are to team up, then? How terribly exciting,’ she said. ‘I’m happy as a clam,’

‘Yes. Yes, we are.’

‘It’s gonna be great,’ said Alfie behind him.

Xavier turned and quietly drew his finger to his lips. Alfie swallowed. Looked around. Eyes still bright with what he had shared with his leader earlier. Charles stepped back to him and put a hand on his shoulder and a whisper in his ear.

‘A treat, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘So what can you –’

‘Xavier,’ he said.

‘Xavier,’ she said. Hung on it. ‘Lucia.’

‘Lucia.’ A succulent name. Her real name.

‘What can you – apologies, Xavier, offer to help our cause to catch the thief and the knife sharpener?’ she asked.

He grinned. Lopsided lips and spinning thoughts. ‘Our newly silent friend,’ he pointed at Alfie. ‘His father is Ministry to the bone. Works high up for the Watchful Good. We have access to the cameras. It won’t be long till we find them.’

‘All that access.’ She breathed, and Xavier saw that it hurt her, just a little. ‘How delicious. Like a fresh baked pie on a windowsill sending out little hot scents for us to follow to a tasty treat.’

‘Exactly,’ he said.

‘Think of the resources,’ she said.

‘Access wherever we want.’

They both let their lips curl. Caught each other’s eyes. Sparks and flickers. His LuciasLuvs had come to him.

The Toorak Milita watched on and he felt them working up the spirit to be his wingmen. Charles stood at his shoulder. Don’t worry boys, I’ll ride in the Jazz.