It was the weakness of Australians he despised the most. The way they allowed their soft, white bellies to keep mushrooming over their pants; the way they couldn't keep their mouths shut, or the lust from their eyes. Jamaal watched another roomful of weak, white men being fleeced by his boss, Mr Sebastian.
They came from all over the state, some from interstate, drawn by word of mouth and by Sebastian's internet site, knowing that what they got here would be worth the trip, worth the premium price. The photos, jpegs and DVDs they could buy here could not be bought over the internet, on the street, nor from the backrooms of adult bookstores. Sebastian kept stuff you only heard about, stuff you dreamed about while lying with your ugly wife in the dark of night. He had all ages, different nationalities, rape films – some even said you could get snuff films. Jamaal knew the truth of the rumour.
'Ah, Jamaal, you're back. Things ran smoothly, I trust?' Mr Sebastian turned from one of his customers when Jamaal entered the room. 'I see you've brought our friend in with you.' He continued to smile, but Jamaal noted with satisfaction that Sebastian's eyes narrowed when he caught the odour the stupefied junkie trailed through the refined lounge room. 'Sometimes I wonder at you, Jamaal. Our friend looks to be unwell. Perhaps he'd be more comfortable at home.'
'I thought you'd want the delivery first.' Jamaal handed over a fat, dirty yellow envelope. Twenty-one thousand dollars. He'd counted. In addition to porn, Sebastian provided drugs to some of his customers. He was no big-time dealer – he didn't need to be – but men were used to getting anything they needed from him, and when one had the money, Sebastian could be a one-stop shop. Cocaine and ice had always been the most common requests, but over the past few years, Rohypnol, Special K and Fantasy were increasingly requested. Date-rape drugs. Jamaal could understand the attraction.
Sebastian took the envelope. Again, his face registered a look of distaste, directed at Jamaal. He fixed his employee with a final stare, and turned back with a smile to his customer, a slack-jawed sheep farmer from Wagga whom Jamaal had seen here before.
Jamaal looked around the room for the junkie and almost laughed out loud. He was on the nod on one of the designer lounges, no-one around him, regurgitated food still stuck to his shoelaces. Jamaal looked at his watch. Twenty to twelve. No time for cards. At least the fat bitch would be asleep.
And there was always Burwood in the morning to look forward to. He'd intended to be out of the house before she woke up – God knows she usually slept late enough – but the five-year-old had been sick all night, and Jamaal was not able to avoid speaking to his wife the next morning.
'Where are you going already?' She was outside the shower. 'I need money for food. Money for medicine. Why do you spend all of our money on gambling? What kind of a father are you? What kind of a man? What time did you come home last night? God save me. My father told me you are no good.'
Jamaal got out of the shower. His head had ached all night. He reached up and touched the wound at the back of his head. The bandage had become wet in the shower and was peeling off. He walked into the bedroom of his small Lakemba townhouse and began to dress.
'I have to have money. There is no food.' His wife stood behind him. The baby cried. The sound bounced around and around in his aching head like a squash ball.
Jamaal moved to the bed, took a hundred-dollar note from his wallet and threw it on the floor. He continued to dress.
'That is not enough. I have the bills tomorrow! Medicine. I have passed by hell living with you! I wish God would take me now,' she wailed.
The baby's cries increased. Jamaal indulged himself in an image of slamming his fist into his wife's face. He did not enact the fantasy. He knew her father and brothers would finish him if he hit her again. Let them feed her, he thought, and left his house. It seemed as though everyone in it was crying.
The van started first time and he made his way towards Burwood. Saturday. There were few cars on the road. Every traffic light seemed to be green. Another sign.
Despite the pain in his head, Jamaal felt today was going to be a very good day.