‘What’s in bag?’ the same man spits with a thick Vietnamese accent.
I look up and down the street, look up into the living room windows of the two-storey houses surrounding us, hoping nobody nosy is sticking their nose into this smelly business down here.
‘Well, it’s kinda sensitive,’ I whisper.
‘What da fuc’ uuu doin’ here?’ asks the man, impatient, his default facial expression being a snarl.
‘I’ve got a business proposal for Darren,’ I say.
‘You mean Mr Dang?’ the man snaps.
‘Yes, Mr Dang,’ I clarify.
My heart is racing. My fingers grip the straps of my black backpack.
‘Business proposal?’ the man asks.
I look around again, take a step closer.
‘I have some . . . ummm . . . merchandise . . . I think he might be interested in,’ I say.
‘Merchandise?’ the man suggests. ‘You BTK?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You BTK we cut your fuckin’ tongue out,’ the man says, his wide eyes suggesting he might enjoy said cut.
‘No, I’m not BTK,’ I say.
‘You Mormon?’
I laugh. ‘No,’ I say.
‘You Jehovah’s Witness?’ the man spits. ‘You trying to sell fucking hot water system again?’
‘No,’ I say.
I briefly ponder what kind of strange parallel universe Darra I’ve walked back into. BTK? Mister Darren Dang?
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I say. ‘Look, I just came to say g’day to Darren . . .’
The Vietnamese men move closer, their hands working over the wooden handles of their machetes.
‘Pass me your bag,’ he says.
I step back. The man raises his machete.
‘Bag,’ he says.
I pass over the bag. He hands it to his offsider who looks inside. He speaks in Vietnamese to the man who appears to be his superior.
‘Where you get this merchandise?’ the superior asks.
‘Darren’s Mum sold it to my mum’s boyfriend a long time ago,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to sell it back.’
The man looks at me silently. I can’t see his eyes through his black sunglasses.
He pulls a black two-way radio transceiver from his pocket.
‘What’s your name again?’ he asks.
‘Eli Bell,’ I say.
He talks into the transceiver in Vietnamese. The only words I catch are ‘Eli Bell’.
He puts the transceiver back into his pocket, beckons me closer.
‘Come,’ he says. ‘Arms up.’
I raise my hands and the two Vietnamese men frisk my legs and arms and hips.
‘Gee, security’s really picked up around here,’ I say.
The superior’s right hand fidgets around my balls. ‘Gentle,’ I say as I squirm.
‘Follow me,’ he says.
We don’t go up into the house where Lyle once made his deals with the exotic ‘Back Off’ Bich Dang. We pass Darren’s large yellow brick house down the left side. It’s only now that I realise the house’s high wood fence is lined with barbed wire. This is less a backyard than a fortress. We walk to a granny flat behind the main house that is more like a council toilet block made of white painted concrete blocks, a good place for drug dealers, or Hitler, to strategise. The gate man knocks once on the peach-coloured door of the bunker and says a single word in Vietnamese.
The door opens and the gate man leads me into a hallway lined with framed black and white photographs of Darren Dang’s family members back home: wedding photographs, family functions, one shot of a man crooning into a microphone, another shot of an old lady holding a giant prawn by a brown river.
The hallway leads to a living room where a dozen or so Vietnamese men stand in navy blue nylon Adidas tracksuits with yellow stripes down the sides of their arms and legs. They all wear black sunglasses like the men on the gate. These men in blue tracksuits stand around one man who sits in a red nylon Adidas tracksuit with white stripes running down his arms and legs. He sits at a sprawling timber office desk, running his eyes over several documents on the table. He does not wear black sunglasses. He wears mirrored aviator sunglasses with gold frames.
‘Darren?’ I say.
The man in the red tracksuit looks up and I see a scar running from the left edge of his mouth. He takes his sunglasses off and his eyes adjust to my face. Eyes squinting.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asks.
‘Darren, it’s me,’ I say. ‘It’s Eli.’
He puts his sunglasses down on the table, reaches into a drawer beneath the desk. He pulls out a flick-knife and the blade snaps into view as he rounds the desk and approaches me. He rubs the bottom of his nose, sniffs sharply