"Get some sleep, Charlie." His chin came to rest gently on top of my head.
"What about you?"
"I'll keep watch."
"Mitch, you need to rest, too."
"Sleep, Charlie. You'll need your energy tomorrow."
I wanted to argue and say we should take turns, that he was just as exhausted as I was.
But my eyes were already closing, my body surrendering to an exhaustion I couldn't fight anymore.
As sleep pulled me under, one final thought surfaced.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
Chapter 21
Frank
* * *
Title: Cold-pressed and deadly
Date: 2011 – at least that was when it all went to shit
* * *
People reckon olive oil is for salads and rich wankers who sniff corks before they drink, but back in 2008, my special olive oil was gonna be Koolaroo’s liquid gold.
I planted what them Italians called a boutique grove deep in the southeast corner of Koolaroo. Told everyone it was a hobby. Truth was, I’d struck a deal with a slick bastard in Sicily named Paolo Rossi, a big-time olive oil magnate who wore chunky gold necklaces and had his fingers in every dirty pie from Napoli to Melbourne. He said Australia was the next frontier for boutique olive oil. Said he’d brand it Koolaroo Gold. Extra virgin cold pressed premium as shit. I liked the sound of that.
Problem was, those damn olive trees didn’t give a shit about my schedule. Three years in, and I had maybe two decent barrels of oil. Paolo wanted ten times that. Said demand was boomin. Said his chefs were goin nuts for it.
So, I made more.
I bought cheap bulk canola. Some from China. Some from a bloke in Melbourne and mixed it with what I had. Then I stretched it even further with a drum of emu oil I got off old man Henderson next door. One bad storm wiped out some of his emu flock on the fence line. Meat was ruined, but he rendered down the fat and sold it to me for bugger all. Said it worked a treat on saddles and cracked heels. I reckoned if it was good enough for leather and skin, it was good enough for chefs. Gave it what I called a rich mouthfeel. Paolo believed every word.
I added some green chemical shit called beta carots or somethin to give it that shimmer Paolo loved. Bottled it in fancy bottles. Slapped a kangaroo on the label and shipped it to Sicily.
Paolo lapped it up. Sent me wads of cash. Called me the Outback artisan. Dickhead.
Then someone ratted him out to the mafia. One of my shipments got seized at the docks. Lab tests blew the whole thing wide open. Barely a trace of olive in that last batch. The irony was, the mafia was already doin dodgy olive oil shit. They just didn’t want no upstart gettin on their turf.
Paolo and his brother got stabbed to death in a back alley behind Paolo’s villa. Apparently, fake oil was worse than sleepin with your mate’s wife. And I should know. But that’s a story for another time.
My chief grower, as she liked to call herself, Isabella somethin, was an Italian bitch Paolo sent to ensure quality control or some bullshit. Bossy woman. Thought she ran the whole damn property. Kept threatenin to tell Paolo what I’d been blendin into his precious oil. Said she had morals.
Her morals didn’t count none when she demanded more money, though.
But when Paolo turned up dead, I told Isabella the mafia knew she was runnin my olive farm. She shot out of there like her ass was on fire.
Funny that. ’Cause the day she pissed off, a fire tore through my grove. No lightnin. No spark. Just flames eradicatin the evidence.
I never replanted. That patch of land is still black today. Nothin grows there. Not even weeds.
Maybe Isabella told stories bout me. Maybe there’s some mafia prick out there still holdin a grudge for what I did to Paolo’s oil. I don’t give a shit.