Charles Freyberg
Tony and the Boss at the Venus Room.
Kings Cross 1970s.
The Venus is jumping,
the girls all legs in minis
trays of glowing amber with ice
low light from a chandelier
shadows of men stumble with bravado.
The boss arrives
sitting at his centre table
the potency
of his jovial stare
tears inhibitions, notes fly from wallets
the revelry intensifies
animal shouts over jazz band jive.
Knowing he is watching,
I circle and smile
adjusting the buttons of my scarlet suit
flaunting its muscular line.
I keep the moment electric
spiraling not quite out of control
with a wink, a handshake, a threat
ready for a flying fist, a broken off glass,
as girls hustle men to softly furnished rooms.
He beckons.
He wants me.
I sit, his eyes opaque stare playfully into mine.
“His dirty fingers in the till ….”
He pauses as a waitress giggles
bringing us whiskies and ice ….
“You know what to do.”
The quiet insinuation in his voice
cuts through the bellowing music
as the bar revolves around him
sweeping in cops who jump when he says,
he sits easy
fury wrapped in his well cut suit
easing into a chuckle as he jokes
a Walther bulges from his coat
he’s ready to pounce at any intruder,
he came from nothing like me.
Now the Premier invites him to lunch.
“Yes boss.”
He trusts me.
I leave with a skip
shaking with a dread that makes me stronger.
