The Big Whatever Read Online Free

collarless shirt, no makeup, hair tied back. That pony tail – man, I could write a fucking book about the way it bounced.
    â€œAll right,” I said, “Let’s go.”
    She shook her head. “First things first.”
    She rooted through her shoulder bag, brought out a pillbottle, tipped out four purple hearts.
    â€œHere you go, lover boy,” she said and dropped them in my palm, then tipped out another four for herself.
    I washed the stuff down and my goddamn brain EXPLODED with ASTRAL FUCKING ELECTRICITY! I knew in my head and in my heart that everything would be cool, that whatever was to go down, there was no wrong move for us, no mistake, no false step.
    But we don’t know what lies before us, and if we did know, would we do anything differently? Plenty to ponder there, my young lonesome travellers. Me, I wasn’t doing any thinking that night – I was just reading the charts, playing my part, not knowing the arranger had scored a coda of pure mayhem for Crazy Daddy Mel Parker. Right then, I was blowing the sweet solo of the angels.
    We drove to a big old house in Paddington. Cathy had me wait in the car around the corner while she ran in. She came back five minutes later smiling, waving a fat envelope in my face, “Got money, baby!”
    â€œWhose?”
    She shook her head. “Mugs,” she muttered. “Forget ’em. Let’s go.”
    I stopped just before Taylor Square. Alex was outside the Oxford Gate, chewing on a shish kebab. Long curly hair, a thick beard, patent leather shoes – he looked half spiv, half hippie. I tapped the horn and he strolled over. He eyed us slowly – baby, we were HIGH! – and then told me to drive to Bondi Junction, park near the corner of York Road and wait.
    We drove along Oxford Street, my hands white-knuckled on the wheel, teeth grinding. We turned into York Road, parked and waited.
    After fifteen minutes the Greek came to the window, leaned over, nervous. “Five ounces?”
    I nodded.
    â€œGive me the money. Take your car out of the way around the corner. I’ll bring it to you there.”
    â€œI’m coming with you.”
    â€œYou can’t.”
    â€œNo try, no buy.”
    He looked at me hard, then shook his head. “Jesus, all right . But you’ll have to give me the tax, just the same. Park the car. Don’t bring the girl.” He walked off.
    â€œHe’s desperate,” said Cathy quietly.
    I took Cathy’s money, put it with Harry’s, counted out the necessary, put the rest in my back pocket.
    Alex was waiting at the corner. We walked a couple of hundred yards down the road to a nondescript semi with an unmown lawn. He knocked quietly. Thirty seconds later he knocked again. The door was opened on the last knock by some long-haired Rasputin cat. We went in. Two bikeys with bandit moustaches, a straight-edged, short-haired bloke, a surfie, and a bearded guy were sitting in the lounge room. There were open cans of beer on the coffee table. No one was speaking.
    â€œTake a seat,” said the long-haired bloke. “They’ll be here in a minute.”
    I sure didn’t feel like waiting. I glanced at the bikey blokes. They looked like trouble. The smaller one saw me staring.
    â€œWhat’s up your arse, grandpa?”
    I said to the Greek, “Fuck this, if there’s no dope I’m going home.”
    There was a knock at the door and Rasputin got up again.
    I heard the door open and two or three voices. Rasputin came back in, then he and the surfie disappeared into the kitchen. The surfie came back a minute later, gave us the thumbs-up sign, gestured for us to wait there, went back to the kitchen. I got up and followed him in. The Greek, behind me, whined, “Mel! Jesus .”
    The kitchen reeked of greasy, pungent hash. Good hash. Sitting at the table was a guy named Drew, a shifty piece ofwork, ex-private school, disgraced playboy, widely