The Hat the Salamander Wore

“Who we are will never die” Granny C.

Martine was too far away to see what was drawing a crowd outside Ricco’s fruit and veggie stand. She was heading there to meet someone.

Melbourne’s Queen Victoria open market was always bustling but especially today as rare warm winter sun beckoned. Martine squinted against its brightness curious to see the attraction.

Weaving her way forward through the loose fragments of the crowd’s outer edge she slid her sunglasses over her eyes. A busker wearing a clown face was juggling on a unicycle. She caught herself clapping with the crowd aware of the unfamiliar sensation of a smile that spread across her face and belly.

On the ground a pile of cash from the street audience buried his hat. Emptying it into his backpack he finished with a one arm handstand waving the hat in his other. He tossed it high and catapulted to his feet. The hat landed on his head. He gave a deep theatrical bow.

Martine’s laugh became a fist slammed into her throat that gagged her twisting her clapping hands into a tight knot. Her eyes locked on his 1925 vintage red Newsboy hat with black salamanders printed on it. It was one of a kind that no disguise could hide. It made the juggler a time traveller.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Salamanders are creatures of legends. They have the power of fire, change, protection - an uncanny sense of survival. Like you Boy, born of fire.”

Matt winced as Granny C tapped the tiny salamander inked inside his left wrist. Getting it was a ritual to mark his 12th birthday. He flinched more at being called “Boy” than the tenderness of his newly acquired tattoo.

“The salamander talisman was worn by leaders of empires and warrior magicians who sought that power to guide them. But assassins treasured them more than any.” Martine heard Granny Cox’s voice echoing from the past.

As she spoke, she held Martine’s foster brother Matt in a one-eye gaze; the other eye was an empty socket - a source of street legends.

Granny Cox’s squat was a public housing commission leftover; accommodation for contestants from the 1956 Olympic games left to rot. Homeless took vacant possession. The government conveniently forgot the buildings existed.

“Granny C’s castle,”

“don’t nobody ask what the “C” stands for!” Her voice gravelly as she cackled uncontrollable laughter finishing with a long smoker’s cough. Inside was cosy.

Martine, comfortable in a body way too curvy for a 13-year-old, and her brothers knew safety with Granny.

Matt invisible to the room and the youngest, Jacko, compact and wiry like a Jack Russell on the hunt and just as vocal. “Hey Granny C! What’s a cracka lackin’?” She’d tousle his hair with a hug while Jacko pocketed the packet of smokes that lay on her kitchen table.

If Granny noticed she never said. The cigarettes often disappeared from Jacko’s jacket that same night more than one time. Those were the rules. No one taught them better than Granny.

Jezza slept in a torched car just outside her door. “Accommodation,” he’d wink cradling his iconic longneck VB lager as he dozed one eye open, baseball bat between his long angular legs. Payment for an outstanding debt it had been lit up right there as he danced around the flames, “Sendin’ a message.”

It was a night of rage which these days he saved for anyone Granny decided “needed encouragement “. Jezza came without a past which made him perfect for the job. “Got no enemies. Got no friends. Got no hissstorry,” drawing out that last word as he knowingly tapped one side of his nose with the chopped stub that remained of his forefinger. History enough the three of them had decided.

He loved Martine, the fiery-eyed platinum blonde with skin almost as dark as his. “Hey Sista,” Jezza blew a kiss with a toothless grin. Matt stepping between them as they walked into Granny’s place was an unspoken “No Trespassing” sign.

They all knew Jezza was good for any favour the family needed done. He had no loyalty to any one person and a reputation for keeping a secret.

Granny turned to Martine. “But you girl,” her raspy voice softened uncharacteristically.

“Your debt is a tougher road paid in longer years with your heart. Here a different name is tattooed,” touching Martine’s chest gently with a yellow tobacco-stained finger.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Present time felt like icy water as Martine dove back into it. A flush of heat rose from her belly. That sensation of a smile was long gone. It was imperative she run away and unsee this.

It had to be Matt. Standing here transfixed was dangerous. So dangerous. Vanished like the shapeshifter that had owned it was his timeworn black book that had fallen into her hand on that last night she’d found his body. That chapter was closed. She prayed it would never be live again. A hailstorm of memories slammed against her.

Matt was dead. They had told her he was dead. A solution to a problem she had never quite comprehended trapping her into an unchangeable fact that Dani Gatusso was her husband.

“Your debt is a tougher road paid in longer years with your heart. A different name is tattooed there.” Granny’s ghostly finger touched her chest again.

He could have been the fairy tale Beast with a kind heart that she might have learned to loved. But no, he was Jack’s Giant. Fe-fo-fi-fum grinding bones to make his bread.

The ugly bit was real. He was solid muscle, a real meathead. Where's Dani now? I‘m supposed to meet him here. If he comes near that salamander hat, someone will have to die again.

She battled with needing to be certain or becoming invisible. Then the clown face looked straight at her. A shadow blocked her sun. Dani commanded her shoulder with a possessive squeeze.

“What’s the show, Babe?” She returned his kiss with practiced passion of inner steel.

“Nuthin’ worth seeing Dolls. What took you so long?” Locking elbows, she snuggled in close turning away from the crowd.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Matt had taken the last western suburbs train. He avoided this part of the city. Like his face was on those streets it was too familiar. He knew its passages to anywhere here. Better than the back of his hand; better in the dark than in the day.

He was on the way to fill a contract for Dani.

Out here, Sparta of the 20th century, everyone worked. The wars of the inner-city gangs had driven his family of underbelly traders to alleyways and abandoned warehouses at its outer edge.

“You’n me against the world Mattie.” Jacko would crunch their foreheads together. Yeah, Joeboy you always made it happen. Matt tapped his salamander tattoo.

Clusters of police on night watch huddled together in pairs and threes on this station platform where the metro train terminated. The only direction from here was back down the line. Or to travel out into the remote rural region. The cops stood with their backs against the pelting rain and cold wind silhouetted against a 3-metre-high razor wire fence surrounding the platforms. The whole scene provided a false sense of security.

Unexpectedly he spotted his mark identified by the red cap he wore printed with black salamanders leaving the train. The guy was older and better dressed than he had been led to believe.

“Bloody oath!” Matt cursed elbowing through a mob of skinheads and punks festooned with tattoos and piercings who held the train door exit blocked.

A street-worn female sneered nose to nose into his face, “Oi! Mate! Got no manners, eh?” Some other hand iron gripped his jacket collar.

“Git nicked ya’ drongo!” he spat diving out of his jacket through the closing train doors in pursuit.

The cold rain pelted into his face half blinding him. It penetrated his unprotected body pasting clothing to it. The salamander hat man was disappearing down the far end ramp.

“Jeeez Louise!” he cursed silently. “There’s $20,000 up in smoke if I don’t get a move on.” He slid past the police without turning their heads. Just another drenched commuter seeking shelter.

“$20,000,” Matt laughed darkly as he focused on his prey. “What a desperate tosser I’ve turned into working under Dani! No less than $75000 to off any guy. My contracts are solid.”

He fingered the very soggy envelope in his pocket. A miserable $5000 cash up front to get the job done. Just a few more months and I’m done here Dani boy. Then I’m a ghost. In that moment he thought of Martine. A heart lurching moment. Sorry Sista. It’s time to part paths. I can’t keep chained to Dani and our family “debts”. They’ve been well paid. It’s up to you to make a choice about who lives your life...

“I want the hat,” Dani had instructed. “The rest is yours.”

A hat trophy? Why? Who was this guy? This hit smells bigger than it looks. There’s a definite message being sent. But what was it? Matt’s contract was explicit. Execution by opening the salamander hat man’s belly with a knife.

Not just any knife either. Dani had gifted him the slim samurai wakizashi short sword knife that was tucked inside his boot. Matt handled the gift with quiet respect recognising the exquisite ancient Japanese assassin’s weapon. This will get me another 45k. Valuing the knife was a trade amongst many he had his family to thank for along with their outstanding blood debts supposedly still to be paid.

This was a traitor’s execution. A traitor who had refused an order of suicide. This guy, whoever he was, could be the reverse mirror image of Matt’s life. Like me killing my identity when I do the runner.

The unpaved path from the west end ramp lead directly into a track of dense undeveloped bushland. It was the dark traders’ marketplace. The ground was littered with just about anything. Condoms. Needles. Used toilet paper soggy with the rain. Beer bottles. The homeless avoided it. Law enforcement ignored it unless a body was reported.

Navigation through this narrow belt of dense terrain required concentration. There was no lighting and plenty of dark spaces to hide. Ahead the path burst onto a multi-laned motorway. A constant noisy stream of lights, it was too exposed.

It had to be done in the trees. The weather put the odds in favour of the space being deserted. Move your backside, Mattie. He swiftly stole forward into the deep black hole anticipating the salamander hat ahead. It was the only way out.

It must have been 20 paces into the bush when Matt tripped forward falling onto a bulky mass. Stunned he lay on a very still and lifeless body. It’s warmth penetrated Matt’s own cold rain saturated body. For just one nanosecond it felt delicious.

The unoccupied salamander hat man’s eyes stared blankly into his. Matt’s book was full of countless hits from times before but this one was offbeat. He sensed it down to his bones. Messages inside messages. Rolling shadow-like off the path he willed breath and heartbeat to stillness.

According to his well-trained ears nothing moved. What had gone down here? Tick. Tock. Questions would have to wait. Blindly he erased any marks that could be his, unwilling to expect the torrent of rain to annihilate them.

It was one of Granny C’s rules Leave everything and nothing to chance.

Can’t risk a torch. Now the hat. When that trophy is delivered to Dani, it won’t matter who had been responsible for this guy’s death. I get paid. Just need to slit his belly before I leave the scene.

On hands and knees, he groped for it but found no trace. Had the hat become someone else’s prize? Matt searched the man’s inner pockets with gloved hands and discovered a wallet fat with cash. Should he take it?

“All the rest is yours,” Dani’s words echoed. Jeez. Is he framing me?

Leaving it, he deftly continued investigating. It was impossible to tell if there was a wound. The man’s coat was oddly bulky. Suddenly there were torchlights and voices blurred by trains and traffic noise at the edge of the dark wood.

Precious little sand left in the hourglass. No hat. No $20,000. This hit was roadkill. Whole lot of nuthin’. What’s the honour in opening your belly mate? Maybe there never was.

The bodily remains surrendered its coat to cover his saturated and hypothermic body. He just had to disappear. I mean really disappear. There’s no coming back from this. Granny C, strategic commander of many street wars, had taught him survival instinct that made retreat an art.

"Salamanders are creatures of legends. They have the power of fire, change, protection - an uncanny sense of survival…….. talisman for those who sought that power to guide them."

Uncertain of his escape route he faltered wasting the remaining miniscule resource left to him. Time. Red and blue lights flashed on the busy street but not back towards the station limiting his options. A mental flashback of the numbers of police on the platform gave Matt cause to wonder about what could be going down. Too many boys in blue for the usual night watch.

The storm water drainage pipe under the highway! It was a trafficking route he and Jacko had used back in the day. Ninja-like he manoeuvred his way to the floodway.

Jacko. It’s no wonder he hadn’t thought of it instantly. Those thoughts were a hard painful deeply buried past life.

Memories that were washed to the surface as the storm water with its own street stench and debris churned around his thighs. It seemed only seconds before it engulfed his waist. The salamander tattoo had only been on his wrist a year when he and Martine had waited for Jacko at the opposite end of this pipe. Dani had pushed them both into the storm with a two-word command, “Find JoeBoy.”

Oh, the luck, the fate, the reasons Dani had fostered the three of them. It was a better option than the state system but not by much. Matt was certain the three of them would have been regularly beaten and raped by now if they’d been given to the government or the church. Dani took possession, signed the papers, and gave them each uncertain freedom with debts to pay and Dani was the bank.

It was a night like tonight that Jacko hadn’t shown. The pipe was a seamless undetected route between the trees and the drop off at the edge of the cemetery hill. It must have been like this for Jacko. It was a desperate thought as the water lifted Matt off his feet. Fighting for every inch forward, his only trophy, the coat, had become a dead weight dragging him under.

The crown of his head scraped the top of the pipe. With only his nose out of the water he thrashed forward. How much further?

“Jacko!” he screamed into the water as he submerged totally.

“Save your breath Bro. You can do this! You’n me against the world.” JoeBoy’s voice rang in his head.

“No mate. I’m on my lonesome. I can’t. I just can’t”

His lungs burned with the pressure of tightly held breath as his pulse drummed hard in his ears. Surely his head would explode popping out his eyes to float to the surface.

It’s all we found Dani. Just a pair of eyes. It was laughable really this whole scenario. The joke’s on me.

With this black humour came the realization he had no desire to make it out. Time crept with unnatural slowness as he tried counting reasons to survive. There weren’t many, perhaps not any. Not able to hold his breath any longer the murky water transformed into the darkness of deep quiet without struggle.

He was going home. Matt searched for the light to take him there, but the darkness won as it engulfed him.

Martine found him. It was the same spot she and Matt had found Jacko. She took vigil here on rainy nights that filled the storm pipe to mourn her brother and the if-onlys that seemed to have made up her life.

Matt’s unconscious limp and slippery body reminded her of childhood days they had caught eels by hand in Kananook Creek. Like those eels his body kept tumbling out of her grasp onto the slippery, muddy road as she tugged him bit by bit towards her patched-up Cortina.

“You have to live,” she sobbed shaking his ragdoll body punching it to its floppy bones. “Wake up! Damn you, Mattie! Wake up!”

A vehicle stopped after it had turned down the narrow lane and parked blocking her exit. Even though its headlights blinded her Martine recognized the hulking shape that lumped towards her. “Dani,” she whispered. “Fe-fo-fi-fum…” Don’ya leave me Mattie.

“Hey. Whatcha got there?” Dani's huge head filled the open car window. “Ya shouldn’t be out here on your own Baby Girl,” he crooned cradling her chin with his equally huge meaty paw.

Her chest rose and fell convulsively. Labouring to find composure, she bent to touch her cheek to Matt’s icy skin, but her tears seemed to freeze on his face. Nothing could bring him back.

Wrong fairy tale again.

A compact object slid into Martine’s palm resting on his heart. Her fingers recognized the worn leather surface of Matt’s small pocket diary that had somehow remained dry. It contained recorded evidence of every mark he’d ever taken and the employer that had had given him the contract.

“Insurance.” he’d told her. “If anything happens you know who will take care of you Sista.”

The layers of pockets within hidden pockets inside her jacket sleeve mirrored the layers of secrets inside her family and its dynasty. The book vanished through the only magic she could conjure tonight when Dani pulled her from the Cortina steering her to his dark windowed BMW. Martine’s eyes met a stone-faced driver’s in the rear vision mirror as Dani securely buckled her in.

“Back to hers. And…she doesn’t leave.” Dani tapped the top of the car twice with his knuckles to emphasize his command.

Tyres crunched over stones. Puddles splashed. Martine pushed her forehead against the cold window to view a crescent moon emerging from dark rain clouds. Stars were showing in patches.

Evidence had vanished under her coat in the pockets that were hidden from even those that thought they knew where to find them. She was an assassin’s daughter. She was an assassin’s sister.

“I am not steel. I am titanium. I am resilient. I am rare. I am precious, the stuff of the stars. Who we are will never die.”

“Who you are will never die” Granny C.’s voice repeated.

Martine slid deeper into her coat, closed her eyes, and felt the thrumming of the car match her vacant mind.