Davo's Little Something Page 20

  ‘Well, I s’pose I’d better get going. I was supposed to fix this wog’s light an hour ago.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too. I . . . ah . . . got to see a specialist.’

  Davo stood up and they said their goodbyes. Robbo strolled off carrying the ladder under his arm with all the speed of a camel train, while Davo had to forcibly restrain himself again on his walking stick, he was in that much of a hurry to get to the disposal store. At one stage he was that frustrated he felt like breaking it over his knee and stuffing it in the nearest garbage bin.

  After what felt like the slowest 500 metres he’d ever walked in his life Davo finally got to the disposal store. As he stared into the window his stomach was churning slightly, almost in a panic that he might have missed out, but there they were, one pair left with the price-tag sitting on them: $49.95. Seconds later he was inside the shop.

  ‘That pair of black gloves in the window—$49.95. Can I have a look at them, mate?’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied the sad-eyed balding owner. He went to the window, retrieved the gloves and handed them to Davo. ‘Fully imported from America. Excellent quality. That’s the last pair.’

  Davo carefully ran his hands over them; they were identical to the ones Robbo had had. ‘Okay, I’ll take them.’ He handed over the money, collected his change then left the store with the gloves in a plastic carry bag.

  The Bondi Junction Hotel was just a short distance back the way he’d come. He walked down, ordered a lemon squash in the saloon bar then sat down at a quiet table in a corner and examined the gloves again before putting them both on. They were a quality pair of gloves alright, tough yet pliable and that self-sticking strap around the wrist gave your hand amazing support. He made a fist and sat there staring at it while he sipped his lemon squash; already an idea had formulated in his mind. Like he’d just been shot in the forehead with a bullet of pure crystal everything suddenly fell into place, the Koreans on TV, the martial arts, the edge, everything, and he knew exactly what he had to do. He took the right glove off and put it back in the bag and sat there staring at the one on his left fist while he stroked his chin thoughtfully between sips of lemon squash. Finally, he put the other glove in the bag, finished his drink and at a calmer, more rational, pace began walking towards the city end of Bondi Junction.

  The place he was looking for was just up from the Dennison Hotel—Kinloch’s Plumbing Supplies. There were no other customers in there when Davo entered and the fair-haired young man behind the counter had what he was looking for in about three minutes. Two small plates of stainless steel, 150 × 100 × 5 millimetres thick. Davo looked at them for a second or two while he felt the weight of them in each hand.

  ‘Yeah. They’ll be perfect, thanks, mate,’ he smiled.

  He paid the attendant, dropped the parcelled-up metal plates into the carry bag along with the gloves and began walking back down towards the other end of Bondi Junction.

  Davo’s next stop was a small hardware and paint shop not far from McDonald’s. He bought a triangular-shaped file, a rat tail file, some emery paper, a tungsten jigsaw blade for sawing metal, four tubes of super-glue and a small tin of flat black paint. After paying the man he dropped them in the carry bag too and headed home; stopping once to get the afternoon paper.

  Back in his garage, Davo carefully placed the gloves and his other purchases on the workbench next to the vice. He unwrapped the plates of stainless steel, got a pencil and a sheet of paper and did some rough sketches with a ruler, going from the metal plates to the paper. All the while he had this determined, almost excited smile on his face and he would have liked to start what he planned there and then. But by now Davo was almost an adrenalin junky from all the training, so he switched off the bench light, got changed upstairs and came back down for his customary two-hour afternoon workout instead; he had plenty to think about while he trained though. After a shower and an early tea he returned to the garage again.

  Under the fluorescent light of the workbench Davo could see that what he had to do wasn’t all that difficult, just a little time consuming that’s all, but he had plenty of that. He switched the radio on softly and began by marking up one of the small stainless steel plates with a pencil, placing it in the vice and sawing it into pieces with the tungsten bladed jigsaw. Four pieces 35 × 20 millimetres. Four 20 millimetres square. Two 30 × 20 millimetres and one piece 70 × 25 millimetres. This took him over an hour. Then he did the same with the other sheet. It was painstaking fiddly work, but the new blade worked well and before long all the pieces were laid out neatly on the bench. Then he began filing off all the rough edges with the triangular-shaped file and the emery paper. The flat sides of the pieces however, he only smoothed up on one side, the other he completely roughed up with the rat tail file. When that was done he measured them up against the gloves, eventually giving a smile and a grunt of satisfaction. Now came the tricky part.

  He removed all the tubes of super glue from their packets, spread them across the bench and pierced two with the little plastic-tipped pins enclosed, then put the left glove on deciding to do that one first. Carefully, trying his best to avoid getting super glue everywhere, he started spreading the strong-smelling clear liquid all over the roughened sides of the pieces of stainless steel, one at a time, starting with the 20 millimetre-square pieces first. As he did each one, he’d wait a few seconds then jam it on the knuckle part of the glove; before long they were stuck securely in place. He did the same with the 35 × 20 millimetre pieces, glueing them to the front fingers of the gloves just under the pieces covering the knuckles. The piece 70 × 25 millimetres he stuck to the side of the glove, just behind the little finger and the two remaining pieces he glued across the top, above the palm. Davo opened and closed his left fist several times to make sure that the glove was still flexible with the pieces of metal solidly in place. It was, so he took it off, opened the other two tubes of super glue and did exactly the same with the right one.

  In less than three hours he had it all done and the two gloves were sitting on the workbench, the small neat pieces of stainless steel glued securely all over them. The little wedges of shiny metal, accentuated by the blackness of the leather, glittered noticeably in the light above the workbench but the flat black paint would stop that. He pulled at the pieces of metal, firmly, but not too hard, to make sure the glue had set properly. It had, but he’d leave them overnight before testing them thoroughly.

  He tried the gloves on and could notice a difference in weight but they fitted his hands so snugly you still scarcely knew you were wearing them. He threw a few shadow punches. It didn’t slow the speed of his hands at all, if anything it seemed to make them quicker, or looser. He looked at his two closed fists which now reminded him of those mailed gloves he’d seen in movies about the Middle Ages and nodded his head slowly with satisfaction. Yes, bumping into Ray Roberts in the Bondi Junction Plaza was the best thing that ever happened to him. He took the gloves off, tidied up the garage, then switched off the light and with the gloves in the carry bag went upstairs. He made a cup of coffee and switched on the TV. While he was absently watching some Charles Bronson movie he put the gloves back on and sat there staring at them, opening and closing his fists, time after time, with this strange evil sadistic grin on his face. Yes, bumping into fat guts Robbo was a good thing alright, a blessing in disguise. He kept staring at the gloves, almost ignoring the movie, finally working out a way to test them in the morning. He switched the TV off about 10.30 and went to bed; there were absolutely no troubles on his mind now.

  The following morning Davo was up at six as usual. The first thing he did was check the gloves. He’d carefully left them sitting on the lounge. The super glue had bonded the little metal wedges perfectly; the leather would tear before they’d come off. Satisfied, he put them back on the lounge, got changed into his training gear and after a light snack was in the garage going for his life by 6.30; he finished around nine. Just before he locked the garage he took the punching bag d
own and leant it up in the corner. By ten he was cleaned up, finished breakfast and heading for Kensington in his utility; it was time to put the idea he’d thought about last night into action and test the gloves out properly.

  He chose Kensington because he didn’t want anyone to see what he was up to and at the same time it wasn’t too far away. He was certain the place he was looking for was just down from the University of New South Wales. He cruised along Anzac Parade till he found it—Hakim’s Second Hand Furniture—and there was a parking space right out the front.

  Hakim’s furniture store was pretty much like Davo had expected. Musty, untidy, with dust-covered old wardrobes, beds, lounges and fridges jammed up against the mildewed walls. A narrow passageway meandered through all the junk above which stools, chairs and other odds and ends hung on ropes from the ceiling. After hunting through the mess for about five or ten minutes Davo finally found what he was looking for; a fairly solid, double-doored wardrobe, about the same height as himself, with no mirror, hanging space on one side and drawers on the other. Forty-five dollars was chalked unevenly on the side.

  He was standing there, opening and closing the doors, while he gave it a once-over of begrudging approval, when the owner, a sweaty Syrian with a hooked nose, a huge moustache and a stomach to match waddled over.

  ‘Can I help you my friend?’ he asked, in a rasping gravelly voice.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll give you forty bucks for this old wardrobe.’

  The owner winced at Davo’s offer and shook his head. ‘It cost me forty dollars.’

  ‘Well I only got forty on me,’ replied Davo, pulling out two twenties.

  At the sight of the money the owner began to lick his lips. He paused for a second and fiddled with the ends of his moustache. ‘Okay,’ he nodded, giving Davo a look like his whole world had just come crashing down around his shoulders.

  Davo moved his walking stick. ‘Can you get someone to put it in the back of that ute out the front? I’ve got a crook back.’

  The owner nodded again. ‘I get my son. Yassouf,’ he called out towards the rear of the shop.

  A few seconds later a tall pimply faced youth with a shock of curly black hair appeared amongst the dusty furniture and walked up to his father. They had a quick conversation in Arabic and before long had manhandled the wardrobe onto the back of Davo’s utility with Davo looking on and acting more of the cripple than ever. He secured it with a length of rope, made sure it was safe, then paid the unsmiling Hakim and headed back towards Bondi.

  He backed the utility up against his garage, had a quick look round to make certain no one was about, then opened the door and with his own brute strength quickly manhandled the wardrobe off the back and into the garage. As soon as it was inside he slammed the door down and moved his car back to the rear of the flats.

  It wasn’t a bad old wardrobe actually, sitting there under the garage light, solid walnut and well-made, too good really for what Davo had in mind—but not to worry. He wound the same length of rope around it, got a couple of pieces of wood underneath it and with leverage and more brute strength managed to hoist it off the floor and onto the meat hooks where the punching bag had been. He gave it a bit of a push and smiled approvingly as he watched it swing gently backwards and forwards. Satisfied, he switched off the light and went back upstairs. On the way he stopped and checked the mailbox.

  There was one letter. Davo frowned when he noticed the OHMS on the front of the windowed envelope; he also noticed it had been sent nearly two weeks earlier. Good old Australia Post he thought, as he opened it while walking up the stairs. That’d be about right, a fortnight to get a letter, I suppose I’m lucky I got the bloody thing at all. It was a summons to appear at Glebe Coroner’s Court on Wednesday the 16th at 10.30 am. Shit, that’s tomorrow. Bastard. It was something he wasn’t looking forward to at all. Oh well. I suppose it’ll be over and done with by lunchtime. He tossed the summons on top of the fridge and made a cup of tea and a sandwich. With that sitting warmly in his stomach he picked up the gloves from the lounge and went back down to the garage.

  The old wardrobe looked quite ridiculous trussed up with rope hanging there on the meat hooks. Davo took his top off and stood looking at it in his tracksuit pants and T-shirt. He dropped a cassette in the ghetto blaster but didn’t turn it on. He first limbered up with a few stretches and touched his toes etc for a minute or two.

  ‘Righto gloves,’ he said out loud, as he picked them up off the bench, slipped his hands into them and adjusted the bands around his wrists. ‘Let’s see what you can do.’

  He hit the play button, walked over to the wardrobe, gave it a bit of a push with his foot and shaped up. The first howling bars of AC-DC’s ‘It’s a Long Way to the Top if You Want to Rock ’n’ Roll’ echoed off the walls and around the garage as Davo threw a sizzling left hook straight into the door of the wardrobe.

  It landed with an awesome crash that was audible even over the pounding music and quite surprised Davo—the door splintered from the lock to the top and his fist went straight through, like it was cardboard, scratching all his forearm right up to the elbow. He pulled it out, looked at the blood for a second, smiled, then threw another left hook and a right cross. Bang! Wham! The wardrobe bucked violently on the meat hooks, swinging crazily from side to side as great, splintery gaps appeared everywhere. He threw another left and a right then just went into a frenzy, punching and smashing into the old wardrobe; between the pounding, raunchy music and the crashing, cracking, splintering of the wardrobe being smashed to pieces, it was the most horrendous mixture of sounds imaginable.

  Davo hit it with left hooks, straight rights, backfists, combinations—the only thing holding it together was the rope binding it and now that was starting to jar loose. A drawer slid out. Davo chopped down with the side of his fist smashing through it like it was a piece of sponge cake, scattering jagged pieces of wood all over the floor. Another drawer slid out. He crouched at the knees and hit it with an uppercut sending another shower of debris rattling against the ceiling almost knocking out the light. Bang! Bang! Bang! Davo rained punches and backfists of every description onto the old wardrobe sending locks, handles and pieces of shattered wood flying in all directions around the garage; while in the background the thumping, driving beat of AC-DC pounded away as if in some unholy, macabre unison with the havoc Davo was wreaking with his fists. The gloves were a dream. Unbelievable. There was absolutely no jarring or discomfort—just an addition of monstrous, brute force. Combined with his newfound strength, fitness and fighting ability, this made Davo think he was The Incredible Hulk, those two Koreans on TV and some genocidal, avenging angel of blood and annihilation all rolled up into one.

  Crack! The remaining side of the wardrobe disintegrated as Davo slammed a left hook into it. Bang! A withering backfist sent half of that spinning into the wall. Crash! A murderous right uppercut hurled the rest against the ceiling. The racket was unbelievable.

  Before long all that remained were a few pieces that had got tangled up in the rope, the rest of the wardrobe was scattered all over the garage—from the rollerdoor to the far wall, all across the workbench, even up on top of the old metal lockers. Davo stopped and trembling slightly with excitement and with the adrenalin still flowing through him, stood there surveying the carnage scattered all around him as in the background the last bars of AC-DC began to slowly fade out; he took a deep breath then walked over and switched off the ghetto blaster.

  With a gleam bordering almost on insanity glowing in his eyes making them like two redhot coals and a grin from ear to ear of pure evil, Davo stood amongst the wreckage of the old wardrobe. Next to him the rope, with several small pieces of wood still caught in it, swayed loosely casting a few flickering shadows on the floor and against the walls. He looked at the two gloves on his fists, held them up in front of his sweatstained face and rotated them slowly.

  ‘YEAAAHHHH!’ was all he said. It was an ominous statement as well as a cry of victory. Davo now
had his edge alright. He’d finally found his little something.

  After the euphoria over the effectiveness of his gloves had settled down a bit, Davo took them off, cleared a space on the workbench and painted over the pieces of stainless steel with the black paving paint. This didn’t take long and by the time he’d finished the second one the quick drying paint had almost dried on the first; under the coating of flat black paint the shiny pieces of metal were just about indiscernible against the black leather. Davo couldn’t have been happier. He put the gloves aside and cleaned up the mess of smashed and splintered wardrobe scattered around the garage, dropping it in the Otto-Bin in the courtyard. He hung the punching bag back up, gave the garage a last sweep then, with his precious gloves tucked under his arm, went upstairs and made a cup of tea.

  Sitting quietly in the kitchen Davo was still feeling more than pleased with himself—almost ecstatic. Those gloves were something else; his wildest dreams come true. If they could do that to a solid old wardrobe, what would they do to a human being? Kill them? Davo gave a sinister chuckle. Good. He finished his cup of tea and decided to vacuum the flat.

  When that was finished, he got changed and went back down to the garage for his customary afternoon workout, concentrating more on bag work than anything else. It was dark when he felt he’d done enough so he snuck over to the oval and did a few extra sprints up the steps to compensate for cutting short his skipping session; after the tenth time up the steps he felt like his thigh muscles were going to burst clean through the sides of his tracksuit pants.

  After a shower and a feed of grilled chops, Davo felt strong, fit and very happy as he sat in the loungeroom watching TV and fiddling with his gloves. Putting them on and taking them off; putting them on and taking them off. Yessir he thought, punching his hands together, some arseholes are going to be in for a shock in the next couple of weeks or so. He sat there with that familiar, sinister smile on his face, punching one glove into the other. Yes, a nice bloody shock alright.