They met in shed B as usual. Normally they arranged it for first light, when the market was at its most frenetic, but this was an emergency.  

By 9.30 there were still quality vegies to be bought, deals to be done, but the serious buyers had already picked the eyes out of the towers of waxed boxes. The stacks at Paddy’s started shrinking from 5am, the floor space divided by the owner’s numbered areas. By mid-morning, there was plenty of bare concrete to hose off, men pushing stray vegetable mush towards drain grilles, the buyers now the suburban small-timers, buying for a party, or a family.    

Swarthy men in Stubbies and boots chatted in groups, discussing the drought or the wet or the footy in any one of half a dozen languages. Others hurried past pushing hand trolleys or sped around the outskirts of the shed smoking in forklifts, stacking, loading, shouting.

A Slavic slab of a man called Mikailovic stood just outside the huge structure near a pile of pallets. He was dressed in his usual dark tracksuit, and was fondled an avocado and watching Dimmick park his Harley and hustle over.  

Under his severe buzzcut he squinted at the bikie. “Not a great week for you…”  

“Don’t worry, it’s under control.”  

“But I do worry. First, the job is not done and our friend just runs away like a girl; second, you call me on a mobile phone for another meeting. Not controlled.”  

“I didn’t say anything on the phone.”  

“The call can be enough. Why do you think I separate myself and my clients from that side of things. If things go bad, risk is minimised. Now some computer has your number next to my number on its hard drive.” He’d stopped with the fruit pretence.  

“Sorry, D…”  

“Don’t you fuckin’ say my name.” His voice was low menace without volume, his torso flaring as he bent close.  

“Take it easy.” Dimmick tried to maintain eye contact. “Just two blokes talking about vegies here.”  

Mikailovic took a moment. “You know, they’ve got avocados in here, a type I’ve never seen, never noticed before.”  

“That’s good, mate. A great veggie.”  

“They’re a fruit, but you know what’s interesting? Full of vitamins. One of only two foods that a man can survive on by themselves. Them and a paw paw. I read it somewhere.”  

Dimmick nodded. When he first met Mikailovic in Boggo Road in the ‘80s, he’d been the standard large new Australian career criminal, but a Henry Rollins spoken word gig on TV in 1987 had changed all that. He decided to work smarter not harder, and began cultivating his own gang and saved the intense and frequent use of violence for gym weights and inanimate objects. He was strictly a broker these days, although Dimmick knew he had his own, shall we say, private security team. Dimmick had gone to him looking for work a few years back, and now wished he hadn’t.    

A humourless smile at Dimmick. “So what do we do here? My man is still out there having picnics.”  

“Fuck that. Don’t worry, we wanna keep the cash, so we’re still going to finish the job.”  

“Better. No job, no fee, and I require refund. Also, the big fish above me get very upset, very worried about leaks and police. The big fish bites me and I bite the small fish. Hard.”  

Dimmick knew this was not the time to mention the two idiots who had doorknocked him looking for a bag of gear, or discuss how the ring-in cricket idiot had tracked them down so fast. 

“So we’re OK?” Dimmick said. 

“For now. Now you go do your job. In 48 hours I will contact you and all loose ends will be gone, or I have to flush you and the other little fish to protect my business.” 

As Dimmick roared off, Mikailovic tossed his avocado and wandered off to try to find some paw paws.