Sons of The Shire

By Sean Batman

SEX. LIES. SURFING. RIOTS. WELCOME TO GOD'S COUNTRY.

The Cronulla riots shocked the world, but there were some who knew it was coming…  

There is a simmering darkness in 15-year-old Paddy. A violent incident from his past has forced him to become invisible, but a chance encounter with Dylan King ‘Neptune’ changes everything. Paddy becomes immersed in the world of the Alley Cats, a tribal surf gang with a reputation for violence and crime. Seeking to prove himself, Paddy sparks a war with a rival gang and his world is thrown into chaos. His friends are divided. The girl he has always wanted may no longer be the girl he is with. At school, Brother Kelly struggles to control Paddy’s growing anger and at home, his mother is determined to stop history from repeating. As the war escalates, Paddy discovers the world he had longed for may not be everything he had hoped.

Set in the fractured paradise of Cronulla in1992, Sons of The Shire is a raw coming-of-age story that follows a young man lost in a world of fallen heroes. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Batman
• Release date: Oct 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516328345

Sean Batman

WHO AM I ? Born 1976. Spent some time in the USA. Then grew up in Caringbah, The Sutherland Shire, and will never apologise for it. Writing I've been writing since the age of seven. Most of my earlier works plagiarised films, such as Mad Max and Superman (ironic, I know). For many years I wrote for others, so it's refreshing to be able to craft stories around things that interest me. The writing I'm currently doing is focused on my old stomping ground - The Shire and is mostly set in the '80s and '90s. For me, place and how it shapes you as a person is what interests me most.  Influences Plenty. But some who really inspire me are: Stephen King, Kurt Vonnegutt, John Steinbeck, Bret Easton Ellis, Chuck Palahniuk, TC Boyle, JD Salinger, Tim Winton, Joe R Lansdale, Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, Ray Bradbury, Margaret Atwood, Philip K Dick, Cormac McCarthy and Shakespeare.  Other stuff I'm a surfer, so being in the ocean with some swell and offshore wind is magic. I love surfboards and have quite the collection of eclectic craft. I play in a band, 'Salty'. We're pretty big in Japan. I play guitar, banjo, banjolele, kazoo, and do the occasional vocal spot. If I'm not surfing, rehearsing, or writing, I'm raising four kids. Actually, they're raising me. I'm also a fulltime teacher. Once upon a time, I used to play video games and watch moving pictures on a screen - I think it was called television. I currently reside in the Illawarra. I dream of writing full time...

Book preview

This Sunday every fucking Aussie in The Shire, get down to North Cronulla to help support Leb and wog bashing day...Bring your mates down and let's show them this is our beach and they're never welcome back…

Text Message. 8th December, 2005.

THE CRONULLA RIOTS

THAT SUNDAY, CRONULLA Beach erupted. Hordes of drunken white males rampaged through the streets of the Sutherland Shire’s ‘poster’ suburb.

The popular story claims young clubbies were attacked, unprovoked, by men of ‘Middle Eastern appearance’. The locals had had enough. They were sick of the ‘Lebs’ and ‘wogs’ from out west coming into their backyard and not respecting their women, their way of life, their rules. They decided to act. Through the power of text message and talkback shock jocks, a movement began — ‘Leb Bashing Day’.

The white horde assembled at North Cronulla’s Alley, drank beer and proceeded to stop anyone with dark skin from using their beach. They waited with clenched fists for the incoming trains. They got on board and bashed a man senseless. They attacked police, who were attempting to deter them. The horde pelted beer bottles at ambulances that carried their victims to hospital. They even turned on their only pub — Northies, where a dark man had fled. Nothing could stop the tide of violence.

The irony was, Cronulla now resembled a Middle Eastern quagmire — the kind you’d see on the nightly news. Many of the rioters wouldn’t understand the irony, but the types of people they didn’t want swimming at their beach had often fled to Australia to escape racial persecution, violence and war. These poor buggers soon discovered persecution could happen in quiet beachside Sydney.

Especially in places like Cronulla.

I’d received the text message from an old mate on Sunday morning and then watched the violence unfold three hours west of Cronulla on TV. That was an irony in itself. There was once a time in my life when it was unbearable to be fifteen minutes from the surf, but now I lived in Bathurst. I was the ultimate westie.

The familiar faces crept across the screen. Guys from school, old friends, faces from the surf, and sure, they had extra lines or less hair, but I knew them. And then it happened. The faces of the Alley Cats drifted by like ghosts. I saw Stedge, I saw Bongo, I saw Muz and Ricco. And I saw the impossible. For an instant, the camera came upon King Neptune, his eyes ablaze, his smile undeniable. It was déjà vu or some other mind-fuck.

What I saw became a magnet. I went to my cupboard, found a tape I hadn’t listened to in thirteen years and without a word to anyone, I got in the car and began the three-hour journey east.

The media has no sense of history — it is after all, current affairs. What they didn’t know was these riots had festered for a much longer time. I was there when it began, when the first punches were thrown. I had thrown them.

It had happened long ago in another life. I’d tried to remove it, dig it out and bury it, but it was part of me, like a hidden tumour, waiting to reveal itself in all its deadly glory. It was on the highway under the midday sun I put in the tape and with it my past rose from the murky waters of The Alley like a mythical sea creature. Music I’d forgotten filled my ears, while the faces of friends crossed my mind. There was wax in my toes and salt in my hair. I could see the sunrise over sand dunes and sunset on orange tiled roofs. And finally, I saw them, King Neptune and his Alley Cats. The ones who had fed me hope, lies, fear and death.

The fucking Shire, man. I was going back.

Before the riots. Before the flag became a monster. Before they torched Joe’s and turned it into a fancy fucking seafood restaurant. Before they killed Jolly Rogers to sell expensive, shitty clothes. Before the sand dunes disappeared so that you could see Bondi and pretend you were there. Before the crowds came in and out of the water to populate coffee shops. Before the expensive condos and fuckwits with the money to afford them. Before mobile phones and Facebook pacified youth. Before boys gave a fuck about their hair. Before anyone knew what sushi was. Before tattoos became fashion accessories. Before global warming and terrorism. Before they tore down Heroin Alley and filled in Captains. Before the suicide of Kurt Cobain. Before the over-population and exploitation of The Shire. Before the death of innocence.

Before any of this — there was Cronulla.

1

I WOKE WITH an overwhelming sense something was missing. It was as though I couldn’t remember the most important dream I’d ever had and its loss gnawed like a hungry rat. While everything else around me was in its place, I was not.

The ride to the surf was cold. Bense and Dean had to detour down Elouera Road to fetch their boards, so when I arrived at North Cronulla, I was alone.

I chained my bike and began the ritual. I placed my surfboard carefully on the Esplanade and sat on the cold ledge of the North Cronulla sea wall. My feet dangled mid-air and the spray of the surf tickled my hardened soles. I rested my chin on the rusty chain and stared outwards. The surf rumbled in the wake of dawn and I took in the grey orange splendour, hoping the sunrise would burn away the uneasy feeling.

The ocean sighed and seagulls prayed at the first rays of light. Finally, she was revealed. The Alley — a rip bowl break tucked in next to the old North Cronulla ocean pool. She could throw a fair left on the right swell, but today, it was peeling right. A protected and privileged spot and in this moment, all mine. When I say she was mine, it was only to look at, not to surf. For that I’d have to wait.

The sun pulled itself above the grey horizon, making its journey towards clear blue. A plane soared from behind a sand dune. It cut through a spout of fire that danced like a genie from the tallest turret of the Kurnell Oil Refinery. Cars grumbled behind me and the world began to busy itself, stirring from a dream it couldn’t realise.

I began to unravel the feeling that had followed me from the night before. As I stared out into the grey morning, I knew what it was — I felt lost. It was like the New Year had somehow brought the notion I should be doing more and as I flicked through the shadows of last year, I realised it had passed me by with barely a flutter. But it was meant to be that way. I’d practised long and hard to fade into the background. It was better for everyone. The problem was, the feeling in my gut didn’t say that, because the reality was, not only was I lost, I was anonymous and I hated it.

Nothing beats a sunrise at The Alley.

A glowing figure stood behind me. As my eyes settled, I realised who it was and my heart quickened. His face was like the one from the posters in my room, the one where he stood wearing a Quicksilver shirt and Oakley sunglasses. Dylan King stood less than a meter behind me. He pushed his hand through his long sun-stained hair and looked down. There’s something special ’bout this place.

He held what looked to be a new Atzap surfboard. Anybody who was somebody in Cronulla rode an Atzap.

He placed his board next to mine and sat with me. They’ll sell you some shit in a mag you gotta go to Indo or Hawaii to get real waves, but we got it all right here. He looked south. We got The Point and The Island. He turned north towards Kurnell. Then Vooey, Merries Reef, Pikers, Suck Rock. He looked back at The Alley. And we got this.

It was a strange sensation being this close to him. King was a poster, not a human being, and certainly not one who talked to the likes of me.

He sighed. You know, I can surf anywhere in the world, but as far as I’m concerned, this is it.

Eye of the beholder. The words came without thought.

King turned to me. Yeah, see you get it. Heaps of people say the Nulla’s a dump. Fucking dirty water and scumbag locals. He tugged at the rusty chain. They don’t get that’s how we like it.

Nerves crept upon me like spiders and I spoke softly. It’s different for us, ’cause we grew up here. We’re a part of it and it’s a part of us.

King slapped the pavement and smiled. See, you just summed it up perfectly my man. We’re locals. This spot right here’s family. He turned his head, scanning the landscape. I grew here, and hopefully’ll die here. He turned to the rock pool and breathed out slowly.

King looked older than his twenty-year-old profile on my wall suggested. He was deeply tanned, with stubble springing from his chin and upper lip. Seeing him this close made me understand, aside from the surfing, there was a reason he was on posters.

He kept staring at the rock pool. You know, I had this weird dream last night. First one I’ve had in ages. He squinted as if searching a database. I was walking through the mall. And all around there’s people who look like me. He turned. Kinda mirror images, but like the funhouse mirrors at Lunar Park, you know? All distorted and messed up.

I nodded.

King seemed to lose the thought. Doesn’t matter. Just remember, man, LSD’s not for the faint-hearted. He laughed a little. A shrink’d have a field day with me.

I think it makes sense, I said.

King raised an eyebrow. Yeah?

Well, everyone knows who you are—

Most people only know me from what they read in surf mags. The fucking gnarly King Neptune, he said in a gruff voice and shook his head. It’s all bullshit, grommie. He turned and picked at the nose of his surfboard. The only real stuff you see of me is out there. He pointed at the ocean.

Maybe that’s why the mirrors were distorted.

King stared with fierce intensity. What’s your name?

James, but everyone calls me Paddy.

He looked back out into the waves. The weird thing was it felt like being scattered in a million pieces. I didn’t know which one was really me. He offered a faint smile. It’s the worst fucking feeling in the world to be here and nobody really know about it.

A déjà vu sickness trickled over me. How could Dylan King feel anonymous too? He was the best surfer in Cronulla. His nickname was Neptune, and for good reason — he was a God around here. It felt like I was part of a secret he’d never told anyone.

King slapped my shoulder. Shit man, this is the best conversation I’ve had all morning. He stood and yawned. Well, the waves are on grom, you ready?

I wasn't sure what to do. The rule was no-one surfed The Alley until an Alley Cat had caught a wave. But King was the Alley Cats. If they sat at a round table, he was Arthur.

He picked up his surfboard, climbed under the seawall chain and moved down towards the rocks where the water broke. I stood, but was unable to follow. King leant down, rubbed sand onto the deck of his board and glanced back. As the sun danced off his black spring suit he looked like a God. C’mon, man. Come surfing with me.

Sparks blossomed in my chest. I grabbed my board and scrambled down the rocks to his side.

We’ll share a few waves. Nobody’ll touch ya.

We paddled out towards the glassy walls and with each stroke, anonymity faded like the new dawn.

2

IT WAS FOUR foot and glassy. We’d have another hour before the wind came and fucked up the surf. That was why you had to get out early in summer; the northeast wind was the enemy.

In between sets, I’d told Bense and Dean how I’d spent a whole five minutes surfing with Neptune before other Alley Cats had paddled out. Their open mouths were a good indication of what they’d missed. It crossed my mind to tell them about what King had said, but it seemed private, a shared secret, so I kept quiet.

Dean was particularly pissed off and reminded me he was the only reason we were allowed to surf The Alley. He was right, but only in a convoluted way. Dean’s older sisters had dated some of the Alley Cats over the years and while it was their promiscuous behaviour that allowed us to be in the lineup, tits only got you so far. We weren’t locals. We had to sit outside the pack, keeping a safe distance from the ten or so Alley Cats who drifted a metre off the rocks. You pushed inside on those guys and you’d get a free ride in an ambulance.

The Alley Cats were a gang of surfers who controlled the local breaks around Cronulla — in particular, The Alley. The Cats were aggressive surfers. If they paddled for a wave, you left it alone. If you dropped in on a Cat, they’d beat the shit out of you in the water and then snap your board on land. If you paddled out to The Alley without being known, expect the same deal.

They marked their territory so everyone understood. The seawall was sprayed with ALLEY CAT HOME, LOCALS ONLY, FEAR THE NULLA and of course, FUCK OFF TRAIN BILLIES AND WOG CUNTS. It was pretty clear who most of the Cats were, but in summer it was easier because you could see a small cat paw tattooed at the base of their spine.

For some reason as I watched them, I wasn’t filled with the usual trepidation. It was intrigue. And it was all because of King. I wondered what he’d meant. Was he actually alone. It didn’t seem possible — he was the leader of the Alley Cats, surrounded by guys who admired and respected him. Even with that mystery, the conversation had left me invigorated. I’d smashed up waves all morning. I felt like I could take on 1992 the way a matador takes on a bull and I knew a good way to start. It would be to man up and ask out Gwen Ryan.

Did ya practise with her last night? I asked.

Bense looked down at his board and played with the nose guard. Yeah, but she didn’t ask about you.

Did you say anything about me?

His face contorted. Man, it’s so weird having to talk about you all the time. Gwen probably thinks I’ve got the hots for you.

Dean cackled. You do, Bense. Everyone knows you love cock.

Get fucked, Dean.

Mmmmm, Dean moaned. Give me dirty cocks. He began to eagerly deep throat the air.

Dean Andrew Smith was my best mate and the perfect patient in validating Freud’s theories. He was completely id dominated, believing the universe circumnavigated around him. And he did have a point. He was tanned, well-built, and to top it off, he had a tightly wound afro of sun-stained locks and natural dreads. It was hard to tell who loved his hair more, Dean or unsuspecting chicks.

Dean continued to deep throat the air while Bense and I ignored him.

I’ve got no intel. Pip’s been away on holidays. You see Gwen at music practice twice a week.

Bense looked uncomfortable. There’s no intel. It’s an ensemble, we hardly have time to talk.

Dean stopped his moaning. Paddy, I’m gonna tell it to ya straight. This type of statement was usually followed by unhinged wisdom. Gwen’s a muso, like Bense. She’s not into Bah Boy surfers.

And how would you know?

Dean brushed at the water and smiled. Instinct. I’m very good at judging people, particularly women.

I slapped water at him. You don’t know shit.

Dean made an ‘ooing’ sound and cackled. He knew he had me and worse — he was right.

Three months ago at a school disco I had somehow ended up in a one-on-one conversation with Gwen. It was bliss. We listened to the same music. We’d read the same books. Things were just getting good when she was dragged away by her friends to dance. And then it happened. From the edge of the dance floor, she looked back at me. It seemed like a crazy thing to hold onto, but there was something in that look.

As I watched her dance, I became transfixed. Gwen had a classic beauty. While other girls her age caked on makeup, she didn’t need it. There were cute freckles that lay scattered like black stars under deep brown eyes and I imagined her long dark hair would turn chestnut in the sun.

After that night, I was hooked. She was all I could think about. Sure, I’d seen girls who’d moved me, particularly down there, but none that had distracted me from my own life.

But Dean was right. Gwen was out of my league. She was part of the ultra-cool clique at Our Lady of Mercy Burraneer. All those girls shared the common bond of being beautiful and not dating guys our age. We were Caringbah kids who surfed — nothing but low-life Bah Boys.

Listen Paddy, Dean said, it doesn’t matter anyway — she’s not a rooter, mate. I can pick ’em. He pondered mindfully. I’ll be honest, if you want sex, you’ll probably have to pay for it. Dean slapped the water and broke into high-pitched laughter.

Like you’re some fuck master, I said.

Dean became serious. We all know about my first time.

With the two chicks? I shook my head.

I wouldn’t believe one girl would sleep with you let alone two, Bense said. Not counting your sisters of course.

I laughed and Bense flashed a smile. He held Dean with his icy blue eyes, tempting the confrontation. I loved the way he did that. He gauged everything like an equation and always figured it out.

Matthew Jarrad Bensen was also my best mate. He looked like an iconic surfer with long blond hair, but there was far more happening than just wax and waves. He was a gifted muso and had the best mind of all the boys in our group.

Bense, Dean said with widening smile. You’re just jealous because the only action you get is with your hand.

Bense wiggled his fingers at Dean. At least my hand’s real.

Dean looked ready to explode, but the pack slipped onto their boards. The sets were coming. King paddled into position, turned effortlessly and took off on a large wall of brown glass. The remaining Alley Cats took the early waves. Bense had moved further out where a wider set had appeared. He turned, paddled and was up and moving into a bottom turn. I duck-dived the murky wall and pushed through the back of the wave as Bense’s tail sprayed water high into the air.

A large off-coloured green mass crept in across rock and sand. An Alley Cat paddled, but he was too far inside. If he took it, he wouldn’t make it, but I would. It was a delicate situation; you had to be keen, but not look like you’d drop in. I turned my board, keeping an eye on him. He paddled for a moment, but knew he was too deep. He gave a nod and backed off.

It was mine.

I paddled and sprang to my feet only to see another guy pushing hard further outside. I called out, but he kept on it and jumped to his feet.

I called out again, but he ignored me. His bottom turn pulled the whitewash down. In a flash of rage, I rocketed my board at him like a missile. The whitewash engulfed me and I went over the falls. My body rag-dolled in the turbulence and bounced off the bottom. I came up coughing.

The guy who’d dropped in came up thrashing around. What the fuck did you do that for you dumb cunt?

Sorry, mate.

You’re not fucking sorry. You did that on purpose.

I knew him well enough. He practically lived out here. He was old, bald and mean. His eyes had sunk in his skull years ago and lines fanned out across his forehead like deep crevices. I got on my board and paddled, but he came after me.

Where are you going?

Adrenalin and fear came on thick and fast. The pack zeroed in on us like sharks to blood.

Baldy yelled, Maybe you should learn to surf before you come out here, kook.

Something familiar happened — the mad dog inside leaped up and yanked at the rusty chains. I stopped paddling and turned.

Baldy glared. If you’ve dinged me board, you’re buying me a new one you fucken blow-in.

The chain buckled. I’d been surfing four years and was better than this old prick. But what really did it was what he’d called me. It reminded me and everyone else I was a Bah Boy.

Mate, you dropped in on me.

And so what if I did? You don’t get to choose waves, I fucking do. I’ve surfed here me whole life, not like you train billies.

The rusty chain broke. I paddled next to him and sat up. He might have been a gorilla dressed as a bald man, but I couldn’t look soft in front of this crew. If I backed down, I’d never be able to surf here again.

I reckon you did this one here. Baldy pointed at a ding on the nose of his board.

King watched on with an air of grace. He knew the stakes. After all, The Alley was his. And then it happened; I saw it in his eyes — he wanted me to do something. So I did.

You know what? Too fucking bad, might teach you to drop in.

Baldy’s eyes grew with murderous surprise. He grabbed my shoulder and we both raised a fist.

You do that Stevo and you’ll never surf here again.

Stevo’s grip loosened and he turned to King, who looked on with absolute calm.

It was his wave. You dropped in on him.

But he’s a blow-in, Neptune, Stevo yelled. This train billy shouldn’t even be out here. His grip tightened again and his fist dangled above me with all the menace of an atom bomb.

He’s a friend of mine, King said. Let him go.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Stevo looked me up and down. It’s your fucken lucky day. He shoved me back, then paddled off. The pack shifted onto their bellies. The next set was coming.

King watched me for a moment. Like I said, nobody’ll touch ya. He gave a wry smile and paddled off.

I didn’t have time to thank him before he was on another wave, taking it to pieces like a surgeon.

Dean and Bense pulled those faces again and I smiled at the world. There was something in this. It was all to do with the risk of being and doing. Whether he’d intended it or not, King had shown me that to be someone you had to do something, and sometimes that thing might be crazy.

Another wave came my way and it was bigger than the last. I turned to take it, looking out to see old Stevo well away. I paddled and sprang to my feet.

The beauty of surfing is, if only for an instant, you and the wave are allies, but the goal is always to be its master. I took control of that wave in a way I never thought possible. With every backhand snap across the lip, I smashed away at weakness. I drew lines and powerful figure eights all the way to the shorey.

I felt strong and a part of the world. And I had King to thank for that.

3

WE HAD A routine in the holidays: surf, eat, Apal. Normally, we’d stash our boards down Elouera Road at Dean’s sister’s place, but we were taking them home today. Tomorrow was the first day of school.

As we crossed Dunningham Park I always imagined I was nearly home, but that was fantasy. The reality was a seventeen-minute bike ride up Burraneer Bay Road. It was always around the second big hill, when my legs and lungs burned, I cursed my parents’ decision to buy a house in Caringbah. While it was only two suburbs back from Cronulla, it wreaked havoc in my life. For one, there was no such thing as spontaneous surfing. I had to strap my board onto a bike rack and ride. In the last six months I’d crashed into Dean, nearly been hit by two cars, and a strong gust of wind had pushed me into a parked car and snapped two of my fins.

I could live with the injuries and a dinged-up board; the worst thing was, I’d never be a ‘real’ Cronulla local. Even though we were the best surfers at school, the guys from Cronulla were seen as the alphas because of their postcode. Ability meant nothing. We were just Bah Boys.

In one respect I was lucky — at least I could ride to the surf. If you lived further out you had to catch the train. It was the equivalent of piercing your right ear and wearing a Wham shirt — social fucking suicide. Train billies were the lowest of the low. Surfing for these poor bastards was a monumental effort, requiring a change of clothes, money and a train timetable. And all because their parents were either too poor or too stupid (probably both) to think about how a postcode could ruin young lives.

Chicks invested in the postcode scheme too. They only wanted guys who lived at Cronulla. You could be a fat pimpled douche bag, but if you lived at the beach, you had a better chance of picking up than we did. As for Gwen, Bah Boy or not, she didn’t even date, so I was really fucked.

When we pulled into Dean’s place we were out of breath and our stomachs screamed for grease and sugar. It was only 10:00 a.m. but the day was already too hot.

Dean’s house reminded me of the Brady Bunch place — a 1960s palatial dream, spread under an enormous roof. Dean’s Dad had bailed when he was ten, but that hadn’t fazed his Mum. She ran a successful business selling important stuff to important people and she was always off on business trips. Lucky for us, Dean’s three older sisters were often around. Not only were they hot, but it was not uncommon to find them topless by the pool. Aside from the tits and absent parental supervision, Dean’s place was my second home. There was always food in the fridge and a spare bed.

We ditched the boards, washed off in the pool and threw on some clothes. I took a piss, while Dean and Bense were out in the garage getting the skateboards. I came back through the kitchen and noticed Dean’s wallet sitting on top of a pizza box. I paused for a while, but knew what I’d have to do. I took a twenty and shoved it in my pocket.

Hurry the fuck up, Dean called out. I’m starving.

We skated down Port Hacking Road like a slow grinding wave, weaving up the footpath and back down onto the road. Bense flew by, taking air off the gutter and getting low on his board. He skated like he surfed — with style.

I came back up the footpath and pushed for a falling tree line. This was the reason we skated; it was to surf the pavement. As the trees curved over the road, I could see the wave and I put my hand out imagining the sensation of water curling through my fingers. With the wind in my hair, the sun in the sky and our final day of freedom — this was the shit.

Caringbah was like the town time forgot. It was littered with the usual shops: weather-beaten takeaway joints, butchers, bakeries and enough chemists to keep the oldies out of Woronora Cemetery just a little longer. Your more upmarket shopper could go to Waltons, Venture or Woolworths, but they weren’t anything special.

If you were passing through, Caringbah seemed pleasant enough, but it had its fair share of dark alleyways. The train station featured regular bashings and the odd suicide. You could smell the seedy pub from two hundred metres away. The dole office queues were like the ones you’d find at Disneyland. Kids were taught to fear white vans and skinny men with free lollies. Caringbah had everything you needed, but it felt like you should be getting it somewhere else.

We made our way down to the golden arches. The place had been built in the ’70s and hadn’t changed much. I’m pretty sure the kids’ playground was violating several safety codes, not to mention the back kitchen. Last month someone had managed to steal the giant Hamburglar from the top of the slippery dip. God only knows who took it, but I’m sure the Hamburglar was happier wherever the hell he was now.

It was busy as usual and we queued to order.

Oh shit, I forgot my wallet, Dean said.

Bense and I gave him a knowing look. While others might have come to his rescue (we had several times), we knew his caper. He’d forget his wallet or order too much food and not have enough money. Dean was a used-car salesmen. He had money; he was trying to use someone else’s.

Don’t look at me, Bense said.

Dean turned to me with puppy dog eyes. Paddy, you gotta hook me up, I’ll starve.

I produced the twenty. Do you know where I found this?

Dean blinked slowly. You went through my wallet?

You have a habit of forgetting it.

Bense laughed.

Dean held out his hand. Give it.

Thank me for it first.

Strain crossed Dean’s forehead. Fucking give it to me.

Not with that sort of language, young man.

Dean made a grab for the orange bill. We both had bad tempers, but there was a marked difference between us. As he reached up, I took his wrist, found his thumb and twisted. Dean yelped and buckled to the grimy floor. The thumb lock was a basic move, but effective on an untrained fighter. Dean could throw a punch, but right now, his arms were mine.

Let go you little bastard, Dean gasped.

Bense’s laughter reached a high-pitched squawk.

Manners, Dean, manners, I said.

Are you guys actually going to order something?

I knew that voice. I let go and sprang to attention.

Gwen stood at the counter watching us like the fools we were. Don’t stop, she said. It’s the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all morning.

Hey, Gwen, Bense said. You work here?

I helped Dean up. He snatched the twenty and eyed Gwen. Well, well. Who’s in the thumb lock now?

Breakfast’s on me, I said.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. You’re damn right and I’m hungry, too. He shoved me and moved in next to Bense.

A shrill pulse bounced around my gut like a ping-pong ball. I took a deep breath and fell in behind them. I listened to the small talk. Gwen had spent most of the holidays away with her family. She’d started at McDonald’s after Christmas. Now I was inspired to get a part-time job.

The line had built behind us. Bense