Most of the night people are seeking refuge in a cafe — bacon and eggs over the latest wholegrain toast, black coffee, no sugar and a bleary-eyed remembrance of an evening that will not come again.
I’d been delayed, and as I walked back to my table, the rising sun sent a soft golden glow across the Piazza.
My assistant was no longer sitting at the table. His working night had ended, and he was probably propping up the bar at Il Baccaro or wrapped around one of the night owl females who frequent this part of the city.
As I approach the table I see my tally book lying where my assistant had left it. My keys lie on top of the book, undisturbed.
I like keys.
I prefer an analogue solution to security wherever I can find it. I’m not disturbed by electronics — it’s just that I like the feeling of a key turning in a lock and the sound keys make when they jangle in my pocket.
The huge black umbrella is not offering any shade to the two well dress gentlemen seated at my table — the sun is way too low. I have a sense that there was a third man seated where I usually sit. He hasn’t been absent from the table for very long, and I’m wondering if he is due to return.
The two well-dressed men give me a lazy glance.
I’m still in evening dress and although a little dusty, I’m well presented after a long night of keeping book for the rich and famous. Millions of dollars and only a few slips of paper to show for all that activity.
My two guests are dressed in expensive suits and carrying expensive guns — well concealed. The value of what they are wearing would purchase a well-kept second-hand Mercedes. Where they come from the streets are full of Mercedes and during their Civil War, a few decades ago, the news footage showed armed men, ambulances and swirling smoke. Even the taxis were Mercedes. The vehicle of choice for a Middle Eastern civil conflict.
My occupation doesn’t require me to carry a concealed weapon, but I do. A large calibre two barreled Derringer strapped to my right ankle, and I’m proud to say that I’ve only needed to draw it once.
Part of my job is calculating the odds — seeing the trouble coming before it arrives. I have had to dodge the occasional closed fist and the well-aimed polished boot, but mostly I can calm a situation down before it comes to that. Sore losers are an occupational hazard.
I brushed the dust and a few flower petals off my seat before I sat down and the larger of the two well-dressed gentlemen said, “You may not want to sit there Mr Barker. In fifty seconds, it is going to be unhealthy for anyone who is sitting in that chair.”
Fifty-seconds isn’t very long to decide if he was just a smart arse and I’d used up a few of them calculating the odds.
It seemed safer to assume that he was telling the truth when he and his silent companion, who was directly in the follow-through line of fire, got slowly up from the table and walked away. The taller one had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the umbrella.
I picked up my book and my keys and left the table with as much composure as I could muster.
After I had taken a few steps, I heard the zip of the bullet and the crack of the splintering chair and table top. The bullet would have struck the quiet gentleman somewhere between the groin and the kneecap.
There was no audible bang. The shot must have come from a considerable distance. The police would work all that out at their leisure, but now I had some celebrating to do. I had dodged a bullet and made a lot of money, all over the course of an eventful evening.
Now, if I were lucky, Charmaine will be at home waiting for me.
I must say that’s misleading. Charmaine never waits for me. She does her own thing. It’s just that we share a very expensive apartment, and we sometimes arrive there at the same time, usually early in the morning. On those occasions, we sometimes do the sorts of things that men and women like to do.
The apartment has glass walls on two sides, and I never draw the blinds. I love the view that it affords. The ancient part of the city is, by now, bathed in the golden light that this section of the world is famous for.
This morning, Charmaine arrived home before I did. She is making eggs in her underwear. Her body isn’t perfect. Her torso is slightly too long when compared to her beautiful legs. Her breasts are sumptuous, but some would say that they could be a little larger. She has long black hair, dimples on her bottom and delightful pink toes.
Last night she had been wearing a black bra and panties — lots of lace. I see the dress she was wearing hanging on the outside of her huge wardrobe.
Not including the bathroom, our apartment is one large room with a king-sized bed in the middle. I hope to be lying on that bed a little later and I’m hopeful that I will be knee-deep in Charmaine, but it will depend on the type of night she has had.
My carnal ace will be the story about nearly being shot. That kind of near miss adventure story has given me the green light before.
Charmaine gathers information and what she collects makes her a lot of money. It’s exciting and dangerous, and she loves every minute of it. She has an incredible memory and in her line of work it needs to be.
She knows I’m in the apartment, but she does not look up from her breakfast preparations. I remove my jacket, tie and Derringer and stand behind her. She smells amazing. Her scent produced over a long night’s work mixed with the remnants of her French perfume, and my equipment is on full alert.
I place my hand on her bottom and my expectations for the morning are in my hand. If she brushes me away, it means the night went badly and so will my morning.
She does not react, but neither does she dispense with my wandering hand. So far so good. My luck is holding.
“If you keep doing that you won’t get any breakfast,” she says in a voice that gives me further hope.
“That’s a tough choice for a man, food or carnal delights.”
“I didn’t say you had to choose.”
I couldn’t tell if she was smiling, because I was looking in another direction and imagining my good fortune.
A good breakfast and the delicious Charmaine to follow.
“I’ve never met another man I’d rather be. And even if that’s a delusion, it’s a lucky one.”
“Never chase a pretty girl or a tram, there will be another one along in a few minutes.”
My mum was trying to make me feel better, and it worked, up to a point. She would not be the last girl who broke my heart, but she was the prettiest.
My mum had a saying for most situations.
Her ancestors were Irish, and the Irish have an interesting slant on most human endeavours.
I’m no philosopher, but it seems that we do most things for love; trying to get some, trying to buy some, or trying to forget.
You cannot have love without money.
I know that about now, some of you are howling: ‘You don’t need to be rich to be happy’.
“If you are poor, and you are happy you are deluded.”
My mum didn’t say that one.
She was one of those people who believed that money didn’t bring happiness, and therein lies a story.
I grew up in a household where the belief was that people with real money probably did something wrong to get it.
Therefore, people with real wealth were probably very bad people.
Can you see how my logic flowed?
I was just a kid, but I swallowed this thought pattern hook, line and sinker.
None of my friends was wealthy.
No, that’s not true; there was this one kid.
His dad drove a Jaguar, but his wife had died, and that seemed to even things out for me, at least, it did in my young mind.
I grew up thinking that money had a soul, and it was as dark as night.
Naturally, with the passage of time, I worked out that this is a load of old cobblers. It’s the line that poor people feed themselves to make their failure seem noble.
After many years of struggle, we finally had a good year.
We had a bit of ‘spare money’, and it felt good.
We were a long way from ‘well off’ but we were certainly not living ‘paycheque to paycheque’ like we had been for so many years.
I read somewhere that money attracts money, and to feel successful, you needed to carry more money in your pocket.
More than would generally make you feel comfortable.
A hundred dollars seemed like a lot of money to me at the time, and I was sure that there was a neon sign on my back that said, “This bloke is carrying a serious amount of cash. Hit him on the head and take it. He’s a wuss; he won’t put up much of a fight.”
Screw that neon sign.
I stood in line at the bank, and when it became my turn I asked for two hundred dollars, “all in twenties, please”.
My voice sounded funny, but I don’t think that the girl behind the counter noticed. She was cute, and I had seen her around, but I doubt that she ever noticed me; my ‘attractive single male’ neon had been turned off for some time.
“There you go Mr Rainbow. I hope you enjoy your day. Is there anything else I can help you with today.”
“As a matter of fact, there is,”
I smiled at her, partly because she was smiling at me and partly because I did not want her to see how nervous I was.
“Is there a jewellery store nearby?”
This is something that I should have known, but my brain had gone into neutral, and she did ask.
“Yes, Mr Rainbow, just across the road. The White Box has beautiful things. Are you going to use all that money to buy your wife something nice? Birthday? Anniversary? She’s a lucky lady.”
“Probably, but firstly I need a money clip to hold all these notes. I didn’t realise how bulky it would be.”
The lovely young woman smiled at me, but I know that she thought that I must be a bit dim. Had I not held this much money before? Didn’t I know what two hundred dollars felt like? She handled large sums of money all the time. It was nothing to her. It might have been other people’s money, but it was money just the same, and if her plan worked out there would be a large pile of money in the shoebox under her bed, very soon. All she had to do was not get too greedy.
“Have an excellent day, Mr Rainbow, and please say hello to Mrs Rainbow for me.”
I looked at her name badge.
“I will Joyce. You enjoy your day also.”
I jammed the money into my pocket and walked unsteadily out of the bank.
I waited for the lights to change so I could cross the street.
Typically, I would have run across the street, dodging cars and enjoying my strength and speed, but today I had visions of being hit by some bozo in a van.
The people would gather around in horror, “He’s badly hurt”, one woman would say.
“He’s carrying a lot of money”, someone else would say.
“Don’t get too close, he must be a bad man to be carrying all that cash”, a small child would say.
The lights changed.
I noticed that a few other people had joined me in my quest to cross over to safety.
The old bloke with the walking stick was trying to stop the medium sized dog from sniffing his leg.
The dog seemed to like the old bloke, either that or the old timer had stepped into something interesting.
We all made it across safely, and the dog was very disappointed when its owner went the opposite way to the old man.
The old bloke looked back at the dog, and the dog looked longingly at the old bloke.
Maybe they knew each other in a previous life.
As I reached the Jewellery store, I was nearly run down by three small children who were escaping from a frazzled mother.
“Quite a herd you have there,” I said as I deftly avoided being trampled.
“Give me that wad of cash you have in your pocket, and you can have them,” I thought she said.
“I said, you can have them. I’m fed up.”
I smiled, but I suspect that I looked like I had swallowed a lemon.
The shop was exactly what you would expect a jewellery store to look like — all twelve-volt lighting and satin cloth.
The lady behind the counter was about twice the age of the girl in the bank.
It occurred to me that the shop owner had employed her because she gave the premises an air of maturity.
He was right, it did.
She was well dressed and had a sparkle in her eye that had nothing to do with the lighting.
“You look like a man who has a great deal of money in his pocket,” I thought she said.
“Pardon?” I said for the second time that day.
“How can I help you, sir?”
The smile that came with the question seemed real. I liked that.
“I need a money clip. Something nice. Something that says I’m not a wanker.”
I wasn’t sure whether I had said that out loud, but the woman didn’t blink. She brought out a small tray.
“We don’t get a lot of call for these. Our customers don’t seem to appreciate such things.”
That sounded vaguely like a compliment to me.
The limited selection was predictable and a bit garish with the single exception of the brushed steel clip with a shiny leaping jaguar. I’d always wanted to own a Jaguar, ever since my mate’s dad had driven us to football practice, all those years ago.
“I’ll take that one, please.”
“Do you have the car to go with it?”
“Not yet, but it’s on the list.”
I removed the wad of twenties from my pocket, and the woman behind the counter reacted as though people did that every day. I peeled off a couple and handed them over. I took my change and slid the notes into the clip and put it into my pocket. I imagined some rich bloke in a good suit, with Martini stains on his tie from the three-hour lunch he just had with the bloke from Mad Men.
The book said that you should treat money as a tool.
It has no magic powers; it’s just a tool.
As I walked back to my car, I noticed a slightly scruffy looking bloke selling The Big Issue. He was standing near the pedestrian lights. I reached into my pocket and got out my money clip. I peeled off a twenty and gave it to him. He gave me a magazine and fumbled for the change.
“Keep the change mate; it’s been a good day for me.”
He looked at me and grunted, but I know that he thought I was a wanker.
Only wankers have a money clip.
I didn’t care.
When I got home that night, the kids were in the backyard playing. Our dogs met me at the door, and they sniffed me all over. There was something different about me, and they were determined to sniff it out. They followed me around for ages, trying to work out what had changed.
I told my wife what I had done, and although she looked a little bit concerned, she was aware of what I was trying to do, and she had always been very supportive of my hare-brained schemes.
“Can I see the money clip?”
I’m pretty sure that it was the wad of money that she really wanted to see, so I handed over the clip and the money.
I tried to look nonchalant as I took it out of my pocket.
She held it for a moment, then removed the money and proceeded to count it.
“Two hundred dollars is a lot of money to be carrying around Brett Rainbow. Weren’t you scared?”
“A bit, but I felt better after I spent a bit of it. I know it sounds funny, but it seemed lighter, and that made me less concerned.”
“How much did you draw out?”
“Two hundred dollars. All in twenties. Just like the book said.”
“You said you spent some?”
“Yep. Bought the money clip and gave this scruffy bloke a twenty for a Big Issue.”
“I’ve counted it twice, and there are exactly two hundred dollars here. Did you have other money in your pocket?”
“No. Just the money I drew out.”
She handed me the clip, and I counted it.
Two hundred dollars.
It didn’t make sense.
“Did you include the twenty that’s on the floor?”
“No, I didn’t.”
It must have fallen off the bed when Betty was counting it the first time.
I pulled out two twenties and threw them on the floor.
I slid the clip over the remaining notes.
I took the clip off and counted again.
Two hundred dollars.
The two twenties lay at my feet.
The book was right.
Money attracts money.
I looked at my amazing wife who had stuck with me through all the bad times.
She had that sparkle in her eyes.
I was pretty sure that there was a neon sign on my back, but it did not say “this bloke is a loser.”
Whatever it said and wherever this was leading us, I was pretty sure that it was not going to be boring.