What Becomes of the Broken Hearted? Read online

  Chocky chuckling. As for Mulla (man, inside I’m in exstasy!) he was happy at the deal going down jus’ fine. No hassles. (Means a man’s love is saved to fight — I mean love — anutha day.) The tough white cunts from the bush in their thick, checkered bush shirts, a few with them hunting Swanndris, belts with hunting knives sheathed to ’em, and no doubt rifles close’t hand in this place they used when they came to town in their jeeps and Toyota hi-luxes like that Barry Crump fulla on the teevee ads does, Mulla knew all ofem with beards and Mulla — at one stage once he knew the deal was not gonna turn ugly even though Chylo was doing his best to eyeball every manjack of ’em to make a fight of it, the shottie out at where his stinking feet’d been ready to run to an’ come back blasting, aks no questions, not of the dead — finding himself looking for insect life in any of the beards; it mus’ be his relief and the residue of the dope effect turning his mind like that, and of thinking of it as them, whiteman the same as Maoris, being colonised and how fucken funny it all was.

  The Bushies even brung out a cupla cases of beer, the right brand, too, Waikato stubbies, so the fullas waiting outside in the back-up car ready and hoping for their call had to sit out there while the prez’s carload got to enjoy some, uh, social-ising, hehehe, with white men from Mars if on Mars they all got big fat beards and bush-green woollen hats and stand staunch and unmoving with hairy, whiteman arms quite unafraid of Maoris when Maoris are tough cunts. And if Marsmen’ve got wild eyes that don’t flinch, don’t blink firs’ even witha madman like Chylo trying to stare ’em down, but having to move onto the nex’ set of eyes and he’d kept going like that, the whole time, then the Bushies — what they called ’emselves — were Martians.

  But not bad ones as one of their bitches — pretty as, too; Chylo’s eyes lost some a their murder and got lusty instead — came out iner tight-fitting jeans, big tits like them country ’n’ western singers and (stink) fucken music they listen to, brung out some strips of meat she said was venison and wild pork marinated in something, steaming-hot grilled, with stripes where they’d been seared, and Horse said, Hey! This’s good meat, man. Got any for, uh, sale? The uh was him hoping they’d offer it for free. But Mulla knew they wouldn’t; these were tough cunts and tough cunts don’t fall for that shet.

  Not even for sale, mate, their leader tole Jimmy in the way they talk, the mouth more open than a Maori’s (and how unbelievably cold their eyes look, being blues and greens and greys and hardly any browns, and the whites of ’em so clear even when they’re stoned which these were, they’d started proceedings by bringing out some joints, just thin ones so everyone wasn’t wasted off their faces — even stoned they had clear cold eyes). It’s our secret recipe.

  Chocky, his stoned state doubled by the Bushie’s joints, broke out giggling; and when he got it out he had everyone smiling and laughing ’cept for Chylo who never laughed at nothin’ in front of enemies. Chocky aksed the whitemen from Mars out in the bush, How bout swapping some pork bones and watercress for some of that meat! Since that’s what the boys lived on, mostly, big huge pots of it on the permanent simmer out in the kitchen no one remembered whose turn it was on the roster to clean. But the laughing leader — they never introed him as prez — tole ’em, Whyn’t you blokes come out and try hunting ’em for yourselves? You’ll enjoy it, tell ya. But the boys took one look at each utha saying the same thing: Fuck that, man. Might tas’e good but nothing’s that good have to go out walking through the fucken bush. Might be lions an’ tigers out there, too! It was funny how that same thought seemed to be in each Brown’s face, three of the four anyway, that there might actually be wild beasts out there even if New Zealand didn’t actually have lions and tigers. And how Mulla confirmed this in telling ’em in the car on the (victorious) way home: Man, firs’ thing I was thinking when they said go out to the bush — oh yeah? What about the fucken lions and tigers? HAHAHAHAHA! The laughter explosion even joined by Chylo, specially when Chocky said toim, Chylo, you’re laughing cos you got your share of meat tanight, right? Right.

  HAHAHAHA! Another laugh bomb going off, started by Chocky for no reason than he felt part of this success, this ten in the boot fast being sold by Jimmy there on the cellphone to the bullet and bag dealers round town — holdit a sec, fucken batt’ry’s goin’ down. Gimme a batt’ry‚ someone. Mulla dug one out from a plastic shopping bag that had several spares in it. Jimmy dialled the number again, Now, where was we? One kaygee? For you, bro, only cos it’s you an’ I like you — well WE like you — here, lizzen for yourself, my boys tell you how much they like you. Tellim, boys. BRO, WE LIKE YOU! Three ofem, in chorus. Di’n’t even know who it was on the utha end — who the fuck cares? Jus’ buy a kaygee and piss off till we need you nex’ time, Chylo whispering to Chock. You wanna hear it again, cuz? No? Aww, you’re spoiling my boys, you know, ex-press-ing ’emselves. So, you a buyer or what? … One of those moments of silence and circumstances in which all the factors come together and each man, even Chylo, thinking — no, realising — where and what he was and what’d gone down and what a bigger slice of meat they had that they’d never let on they hit onto in moments like this — broken by Jimmy Bad Horse informing ’em in his tone gettin’ more and more riddled with arrogance: He’s a buyer. YEOWWWW! the chorus in unison once more. Jimmy showing he was cooler in his muttered, yeah-yeahs. But the utha three, even Chylo, maybe especially Chy‚ they were bruthas. Soul mates. Straightsville, boring fucken Straightsville going by in all them li’l glows and floods and spears of houselights (homelights) catches of utha people, Real People, in their kitchens, sitting rooms, cars with the interior lights and open doors of people come back from wherever they’d been, wherever Real People from Outer Space go to on a Sunday that has ’em coming back after nine. Cunts don’t know what they’re missing, eh boys? Chocky to the company of the pardy coming up, and in denial, as they heard Jimmy move anutha half a kaygee, then his dit-dit-dit-dit-dit dialling of anutha number, informing ’em: Only three an’ a half t’ go, boys. Any wonder he was their leader — the influence, the bizniz contacts the man had!

  BACK AT THE Quarters, crack some beers, ’nutha twen’y dozen to add to the million pile of sweet bubblin’ foamin’ (releasing) history behind ’em, and ten thousand same repeated stories only thing’t changed was the names — but hunters returned with the kill, Jimmy’d moved one more kaygee before their mean machine pulled up at the big gates — To heaven, eh boys! Hahahaha, they’d laughed quite seriously at Jimmy saying of arrival at the headquarters, each man to his private thoughts on that, if but briefly. But all one in going HEA-VAN! Bruthas! (If this’s all you know) one ofem thinking. And pas’ the unpearly gates of welded sheet-iron and razorwire-topped swinging frame they went, opened by Jimmy’s remote control, bzzzzzzz, he laughing at the power he held in his hands of being able to open that fucken big gate with just a touch of a button. Mulla thinking: Anyone’d think you invented it.

  Jimmy in the middle of the room, music going, Chocky knowing to keep it cooler, low and toned till the beer trickled on down to their dirty li’l toes in stinking socks and went back up the utha side of veins and blooded pathways to the brain where it would mingle with the smoke, tanight’s success (even though they weren’t sure how they’d contributed to it, but claiming it jus’ the same — ’fore some utha cunt does, eh bro!) Permanent feelings, a strange swirl, like clear water clouding, to that beat-perfect voice and instrument-backed output of that bl — Negro group, Solo. Lookit the shoulders moving, tha’s the sign of what’s to come: shoulders and eyes keeping down a blink for jus’ a few sees, maybe a minute or two, when a man’s got his eyes closed he’s in a moment of a kind of honesty, with self or God or the God dwelling in even the murderous hearts like Chylo’s …

  Though the man observing this, Mulla Rota, spent half of his life behind bars, thought of all the people in that room, of — he’d never counted. No one had. It never occurred to ’em to count their numbers and weigh then analyse what they had and maybe were or
could be or weren’t — it was thirty tonight, ’bout that, more’d be arriving, this deal going like it had’d bring ’em from fucken everywhere, their li’l ratholes and gloomy residences, those who didn’t live here permanently; Mulla thinking: of all the people in the room Jimmy Bad Horse would have no God or man or idea (I mean principle) inim. For years he’d thought this. Of seeing Jimmy Shirkey as a man whose very core had turned to a slag, and it was utha people’s fire he pulled in as his own, utha people Jimmy built his existence with the crack running through it on, ovah there on the cellphone, centre of the room, and how he’d made ’em, this lot (me included) reliable on him again, that was one of his secrets, it weren’t hard to do with this lot, who of us can cope with the world and the money it runs on? None, tha’s how many. Fuck none.

  Mulla watched the sheila with the smoky shades come ovah to Jimmy, stroke his beard (catch you some cockroaches, sis!) jus’ when the nex’ Solo song starts, ‘In Bed’. Yeah, it would be. But this time Mulla not aching, not hurting at his own status never once attracting a sheila to come toim, not now he had one, his own woman, that was her walking in right now, so her (our) timing was right, too, with this song it was. Mulla gave her a li’l smile, more for the fullas lookin’ atim than for her, she’d know he meant sumpthin’ else which he’d prove to her lader, sooner rather than lader, hehehe, upstairs in his room an’ bedda not be anyone else using it.

  The song just cruising in wither walk she’d developed since he knew her, more sure of herself, touching fullas on the face as she passed, coming for (me) Mulla. How you doing, baby? She knew not to kiss him with too much, you know. But she was allowed to givim a hug, bring her tight-hugging blood-red dress to his shape, his man outline, like a 6 an’ 9 fittin’ together. You look good, Glor. Which made her snap her fingers — blit — like she was tossing something utha than jus’ her fingers, her hip at the same time (it was love she threw) and went, Really? Ohh, Mulls. I like it when I’m, you know, ’ppreciated. And he went, with all the burning of his previously troubled being now sustantially less so, the emphasis had shifted: I never ’ppreciated no one more’n my life … Had ta swallow. And his arms went out, You know …? Yeah, she knew. And his smile coulda been the sun, even though he said it in half a whispa case one of the bruthas heard. Her smile wasn’t so bad either. Not after he tole her that come t’morrow they were gonna have one huge fucken payday. Not after he tole her it might be in the thousands — cash.

  SOME TIME THAT night Glorius, Mulla remembered Jimmy Bad Horse’d gotta group of prospec’s together, summoned ’em to his mighty (reputed) presence and tole ’em the Browns were on their way and what they were gonna do was, like, extend their activities; Mulla and Gloria stoned off their faces but of course something in the being stoned having the opposite effect, like the water was cleared again, so he had recall that Jimmy’s edict to these young fullas was, they should pick places that were good places to burgle, they should look around for good hold-up jobs, like banks an’ that when Mulla Rota couldn’t figure what else was a that. Which’d get ’em in the gang, patched up, like in their dreams that Mulla Rota in his heretic mind was beginning to think was a stupid dream, why didn’t they come to him and aks what it was like spending mosta that dream life behind bars. Why di’n’t they come to Mulla Rota so he could tellem (in private), Man, this ain’t what you think it is, bein’ a patched-up member. Whassa use of a gang patch if you gotta do five, six, maybe more years inside for it? An’ tha’s jus’ each stretch. An’ what if you kill (smoke, waste) someone? What then, kid, of your life?

  But he c’d hardly tell ’em that, and anyrate he was stoned and so was Gloria. They danced to a Solo number, Heaven, what they’d laughed and thought about as they drove in the big gates tanight, a cruisy number, soul baby, it was soul they flowwwwed to, 6 with 9 dancing 8’s on the (dirty) floor. Who loves ya, babe? Oh, Glor. Oh, Mulls. Then it was XXTRA the nex’ Solo number and utha couples, and lone dudes, out on the floor, this world (of sounds) belongin’ to them and they were both saving up their horniness till they couldn’t stand it no longer; so Mulla and her went upstairs to fuck and make love, Jimmy’s words to the pros’s even less than half a echo as they walked down the passageway above and the sound below farther and farther away from, well, love. It mus’ be love.

  She said it herself and so did he. (I did. I said it.) He tole her: Glor, oh shit, Glor, I — Well, I, uh — Hon, I love you, too. It was like a starburst above the blanket-stink bed, no sheets, a score times his sperm stains and her wet juice stains’d added to the bed’s history, on the wall a name scratched where uthas’d lain here, one was Nig H. Beside it a T. Mulla knew the H stood for Heke. And he knew who it was Nig’d shared this bed with, the T for Tania. As he knew who it was sent poor Nig — man, he was shaking so hard he rattled — to his death. Oh look! the stars are all out tanight, hon, she snuggled up to chest, his arms feeling so protective, so with wanting that went beyond this room these walls this converted two houses, beyond even those stars out there if it is man who gives the stars their meaning an’ not the utha way round. For the firs’ time in his dreadful life Mulla Rota wanted to give his entire soul to someone, and it weren’t jus’ her, Gloria Jones (Mrs Rota) beside him looking out the curtainless window at the stars, it was her kids, Turi an’ Narissa (whadda nice name that is): Mulla Rota wanted to give himself to the whole unit of ’em. Why he was smarting with tears inis eyes, trying to keep them from rolling down his tattooed face, his endured electric-needle marks meant to signify he wassa tough cunt.

  FIFTEEN

  OH, JAKEY, SHE’D said. But you still the man, honey. You still love the best. ’Cept he’d thought if tha’s the case then how come she don’t, you know. Not that I love her or want her to love me. But shit, a man — a man needs a boost now and then (even me).

  He went, Tha’ right? I’m still a good lover? Her round-faced smile up atim, he’d only jus’ rolled off her (done it good, even if I say so myself), her moaning still in his ear, twice she’d come. Still, Jake Heke, she said it again. But he finding himself sorta poised, or tensed, for her to say those words: The Muss. But then he c’d hardly ask her straight out why she didn’t, even though she always did, but always. Or after they’d made love she did. Why, sometimes it even came with a joke referring to that muscle (muss) down there, how good it’d performed. Anyrate, it next occurred that he wasn’t exactly hanging out to hear that ole familiar (reassuring) term. (Cos I ain’t. Not now. Muss be the activities you been gettin’ up to, Jakey boy.) Grinning to himself.

  Lying on her big wide bed (like her spread thighs of woman giving out a baby or her body to a man as if she knows he’s a baby, too) with sheets, yellow ones, smell like perfume and soap mixed together, kinda nice, curtains hanging heavy (from the weight of all them flowers!), a wall of detailed depiction Jake now and then sniffed the air case he could, you know, like smell ’em, you never knew with these whitemen makers (and breakers) of things (and men) they mighta put sumpthin’ in the material to make it smell like it looked: fucken beautiful, tell the truth. A wall of different coloured flowers across the windows, and on the drawers thing there a vase which he always looked at for the real flowers it held, this time a spray like a — like a — well it reminded a man of a lion’s mane which wasn’t right, not for flowers, the proud way they rose up larger than the shoulders (vase) — no, forget the lion’s head, tha’s jussa firs’ try, make it like one a them peacocks, a burst ’f colour, a — hahaha (pea)cock display — promising himself yet again he was gonna fill his li’l vase, just the once, jus’ to say he’d done it.

  On his bus recently he’d got the shock of his life to see a famous fulla, John Kirwan, the All Black, holding a buncha flowers and words underneath telling (a man) the bus sitters, Say It With Flowers, sumpthin’ like that. Fact it’d tole a man a bit more than jus’ that, ’cept he wouldn’t let it get quite through.

  Come to think of it this was a nice house, nicest he’d even been in; he’d never taken any notice
before (I only came here to fuck Rita, hahaha!), she musta been married to a rich fulla; Jake knew the ex was a white (a honky shet) and that she’d given him the boot, which was a never-failing reminder every time of his own former marital situation of Beth giving him (me) the boot. ’Cept he didn’t leave her with no flash house, jus’ kids including a dead one shortly followed by anutha dead one (jeez). Now look where she was. Then he thought: Now look where I am. Same thing. So he got up on his elbows and powerful arms and tole Rita, You got a nice house, Ri. Why thank you, Jake The Muss — oh, she looked pretty when she smiled like that — as he touched her lifted right eyebrow cocked at him. Made him want to — to make love to her again. (Make love? Ooo, now Jakey boy, aren’t you becoming the one!) Inside laughing at himself his softer thoughts. Told himself it was cos it was the second time so a man was with a different drive, another kind of energy from the first (which is, face it, man, all pumping muscle and the cock is the main muscle (muss, haha-haha!) an’ tha’s the truth).

  Not that he had any similar type of house to compare it with, not one. His whole lifetime’s experience had been a singular standard of low. Low low. So how did he know this was a nice house? he asked himself. Rita, would you say this house is … He wasn’t quite sure how to out it, but he pushed on. You know, is it a nice place to — (I know): Your honky-ex think it was alright?

  She gave a slightly colder smile, told him, Don’t call him that. We’re still friends you know. (Friends?) I thought you gave him the boot? He was getting confused, when all he’d tried to ask was a simple question: was this a good house by most standards or fucken not? I did ask him to leave. You know why? No, he didn’t, as it happens. (I never asked.) He was unfaithful to me. Which had Jake blurt out in chortling laughter and she asked him why the laugh — mate? That last word in the tone of a man saying — bud. Unfaithful? he shook his head down ater. That’s right, what I said, Jake The Muss: unfaithful. He shook his head more vigorously: Well you ain’t Two Lakes’ most … you know. Then her hand came up, against his bare chest pushing him away. Told him, When I was married I was. (Oh.) Oh. Yeah, you should be saying oh. And sorry with it.