1001 Nights Cast

From The Night Novel

MORE ARGUMENT

An even worse bar where I meet the man with the stolen riff. Vengeance kisses me on the mouth just to see how I taste and likes the flavour. Droll things to say when staring death in the face. Someone dies, I hope it isn’t me. My season in purgatory. The comeback kid comes back. Chase scene through seedy pulp writer’s fevered imagination. Integument, ligature and we all land safely again.

Welcome to further light night novel. A tale judged with high confidence until my early departure by drink.

SEEDY AREAS I HAVE FREQUENTED

At the Erko, where I once nearly got strangled on my own necktie, I found out the blonde’s real name.

In the back streets of the Cross, where seven guys once chased me round the same block for an hour, I found out that the dead guy used to deal in the area.

At the Cricketer’s Arms, where a friend once pointed out Abe Saffron and the old geezer smiled at me, I discovered the Cricketer’s Arms has gone up market.

At Abdul’s in Auburn, where I once bought a man a spiked felafel, I met the brunette.

On the phone to the container terminal where Detective Rogerson once reminded me where my true loyalties lay, I found out the address where the Bobsy twins helped plan and execute the operation.

In a dive hotel in the city with no locks on the doors, where I’d taken many another brunette, the new brunette told me there was a contract out on me.

At a low-key jazz bar in Redfern, where I’d once returned some stolen property to its rightful owner, I met the man with the stolen riff.

THE MAN WITH THE STOLEN RIFF

He was a musician. He said:

She stole my riff.

And I want it back.

Don’t tell me it’s everybody’s now.

I can’t even play that riff the same.

It used to be pure. Now it’s screwed.

I couldn’t help him. Intellectual property is outside my area. But he did lead me back to the blonde.

THE BLONDE IS WITH THE BAD GUY IS WITH THE DEAD GIRL

I said: So it comes to this?
He said: Was that a rhetorical question?
She said: I think he was talking to me.

He said: Bobsy works for me.
I said: I love her.
She said: Not that Bobsy, the other one.

She said: Thanks for the work.
He said: Thanks for the work.
I said: You’re going to kill me now, aren’t you?

DROLL THINGS TO SAY WHEN STARING DEATH IN THE FACE

I thought fast, but all I came up with was funnies.

Can I just see that bullet, the one with my name on it? I want to see if they’ve spelled it right.

Of course I’m not scared. Thanks to my early onset Alzheimer’s.

Here’s the deal. You let me go. You disarm all your guys. You march yourselves down to the station and turn yourselves in, and I’ll—return the favour some day, I’ll be forever in your debt, you’ll be on my Christmas card list and I’ll introduce you round town, make you some more friends, maybe someone who isn’t in the racing industry.

Look up there! Is it a black cockatoo? I didn’t think so.

You know what I’m thinking, did you fire five bullets or six? Do I feel lucky? Well do I, punk? I don’t know, do I look lucky?

What do you mean, shaking? You should have been here yesterday, the cowards were this high.

Go on, kill me, I’ll see you in—limbo.

I’m not stalling, I’m bunny-hopping down the road.

Will you marry me?

A BULLET ENTERED MY BRAIN AND STAYED THERE

I was dead. I guess that’s what you get for having an inappropriate sense of humour.

PURGATORY IS LIKE…

Purgatory is like the countryside. There’s less to do there. You have to make your own fun. You can’t drink and drive. You get to know your neighbours. They’re usually nice people. It’s quiet and you can hear bird noise in the morning. Mist rises slowly. You can’t always get your favourite radio station. A distant chainsaw is like music. You have to drive a long way just to get milk, and the shops close early and some nights there’s nowhere to eat. You dig your own garden but it never rains but it pours. You find yourself liking married women and have no designs on them at all, not really, not given the circumstances. Someone took out too many trees. No one votes the same way you do. You have to be able to change a tyre. Petrol is expensive. Everyone offers you free lemons at the same time of the year. There’s no nightclubs. People kill animals themselves. You find yourself staring for long periods at the dawn light. You see the dawn light without staying up all night. You sleep well. You miss things.

Things like insurance, broads, violence. The goodness of beer, the truthfulness of whiskey.

WE STAGE A COMEBACK

I found myself praying for something impossible to a God I don’t believe in on a night that never existed with a brain that had just been pronounced dead. Next time I’ll do it your way, I cried with high confidence. Next time I’ll do it right. Next time there’ll be another next time and another and another. No more stupid risks, but I’m missing the goodness of beer et cetera.

The Doc brought me back. And I heal fast.

CHASE

I was back. There was a chase scene in Afghanistan or was it Paris?

Two walked in, fewer than two walked out alive.

TO BE dis-re-un-CONTINUED, BUT NOT FOR YOU

I’m moving to the country Thursday week. With one of the women. Can you guess which? That’s love for you, it gets you going and it gets you.