Billy, his mate, partner-in-music, the taller, quieter one - the one the girls who worked the streets could have told you wasn't nearly as easy to get as they'd originally thought - tightened one last string and waited to hear if there were any requests. The pickings were slim today. The open guitar case on the sidewalk held only some coins and a few bills, and part of that was what he and Russ had seeded it with so it wouldn't just be there empty. He sighed inwardly, wishing he had enough brass for some lunch. At least he'd had brekkies, he didn't think Rusty had had even that much. He decided to give him the last of the peanut butter crackers in his jacket pocket. Better to give up the snack than have the bloke crashing onto the sidewalk from low blood sugar.

"Great Balls of Fire!" someone called out, and plink!! Several coins and a bill hit the red plush interior of the guitar case. Dean grinned and hit the first notes as Russ counted down, "One, two, three, four!"

They drew a bit more of an audience as the good looking youngster with the improbable dark blond pompadour and the worn, but once-grand leather pants ripped into the classic barn-burner rock song. "Goodness, gracious, great balls of fi-uh!" he sang, his voice a perfect rock-singer growl that suited the Jerry Lee Lewis number to a tee. More money showered into the case - some of it paper. Supper, Billy thought, for both of them, and a bit left to split a pack of fags. He did the riffs and licks of the song with extra flare.

He saw Rusty's sidewise grin and winked. The guy would at least get his daily fried rice, he thought, and maybe a bit more. He could have offered a subsidy, but he knew Rusty would have scorned it, would have snarled at him to fuck off, he could fucking well earn his own crust - appearances to the contrary some times.

Appearances were important to Russell, though. He'd patiently brush any speck of dirt off his fancy, silver-toed boots so they looked flashy and properly rock-star-ish. He'd go without lunch, or cut back his ciggies for a week to earn the lolly for a silver satin shirt. He'd help friends who wanted a break and wait tables for them two shifts in a row, then bus tables another half a shift, leaving maybe 5 hours for sleep just so he could earn tip money and be fed from the kitchen of the Italian place. Then he'd take any extra money from that and buy guitar strings, a new pair of hot pink socks, a pretty card to send his mum back in New Zealand so she'd see he was doing okay and not ready to admit defeat yet, not nearly ready to crawl back home.

Once in awhile, like today, the noontime crowd was in a generous mood and they'd half-fill the case with cash before the cops came and rousted them, made them move along because they were blocking the sidewalks. "Yeah, like the whores can't get by, eh mate?" Russ would snarl back at the coppers. He was always doing that - always had a come back, often got a shove for his pains. Sometimes he got a laugh though, if he did one of his dead-on imitations of whichever copper was being difficult.

Man, Billy thought, that took big brass balls to look a fat-bellied Sydney cop in the face and imitate every word and gesture right back at him only with that added little bit of comedic flare that made you have to laugh at him. Even the cop they called Dick Tracy - his name was actually Dick Tracton, but Tracy was close enough - a cop so notorious for his lack of a sense of humor and his foul temper - even he laughed uproariously the time Rusty, that skinny hoon from New Zealand, had the balls to mock him to his face.

Billy had been scared pissless when, out of the blue, Tracton had appeared and started rousting them to get a move on down the sidewalk. He'd had his baton out, and actually waved it at them when Russ didn't get his shit together fast enough to suit him. "I said, move yer asses," Tracton had bellowed.

Rusty, God love him, had instantly picked up the identical accent and tone of voice, and since he didn't have a baton, he'd taken a rolled up bit of sheet music and waved it right back at Tracton, "Hey-uh, Dick Tracy," he'd called out, and when the cop glared at him, Rusty had given him a mirror image of himself - matching him step for step, baton-wave for baton-wave, splutter for splutter until the copper had to stop and laugh his ass off at the balls on the kid.

That had been close. Billy hadn't been sure if they were about to be arrested, have their heads split open, or what - he'd been so relieved when Tracton had burst into loud guffaws of laughter that he'd almost wet himself. Telling some mates about it later, he left that part out, but he did manage to convey the strong sense of relief he'd felt when the cop had finally just shoved them down half a block, but let them keep busking. "He knew we were desperate for the money," Billy said quietly. "He can be a good enough bloke if he has to."

The Sydney City Mission counselor nodded in agreement, and once again gave him the keys to the Mission van to do a run hunting up the derelicts who needed to come in for a hot meal and a place to crash. More and more, Billy was getting caught up in that work, and the counselor thought that soon she'd offer him a permanent job if he'd do it - if he'd break away from the street musician gig and the hand-to-mouth uncertainties of it.

"What about your mate - he interested in helping out?" she asked.

"Russ?" Billy said, surprised, "I really don't know - probably not. He's not a Bible thumper."

"Oh, and you are?" the counselor teased.

He at least had the grace to blush, then ducked his head and allowed that he might be in certain cases, "Just not overtly, y'know?"

"I know - I know," she came back. She wished it was more overt - Billy - whose real name was Dean Cochran - was a real asset to the Mission. Young, intelligent and willing, with a good instinct about people who could be helped - if he were theirs full time, she reckoned, they could really move on the younger street people, maybe draw them in with Billy's music, and keep them off the street with his good sense. Might as well wish for the moon on his mate, though.

She'd met Rusty, seen the way those blue-green eyes of his darted around, not missing anything or anyone. He'd looked at her, she knew, and saw the next thing to a Salvation Army Lassie, which was actually quite far from the truth. Louise Margaret Adney was not Salvation Army. She was barely anything but lapsed Roman Catholic from Wisconsin, USA, but she loved working there at the Mission, and had turned it into a career of sorts, against all expectations she'd held at the beginning. She had looked at Russ - tallish, whip-slim (malnourished, she realized later), with those incredible long-lashed greeny-blue orbs glittering at her, and the flashing dimples when he grinned, which he did often, and thought, "Fancies himself a lady-killer - best not to encourage that."

She'd put him down on every occasion they'd crossed paths since. He had only to say, "G'day," to her in that accent that was half-Sydney and half-New Zealand, and she'd find herself scowling, mouth pulled into a straight line, feeling like an old-maid school teacher. She wasn't that way at all, but just his disdain and the knowing look on his face made her act like what he thought she was. It was annoying in the extreme. She really, she had decided, didn't like him much. She wished Billy would cut loose from his friend and move on - Russ was holding him back.

Dick Tracy came to the door of the mission one cold winter night and asked if she had a first aid kit and if they could feed and house one more person that night. She had agreed and Tracy had come inside helping a skinny, pale young guy who had a nasty cut on his forehead; she had been surprised to find it was Rusty, and even more surprised when her heart squeezed sympathetically at the sight of his bloody face and bruised hands. "What's this then, fighting? We don't want any fighters in here." She had almost made Tracy turn 'round and go back out the door, but at that instant, the even more ragged than usual street musician he was propping up chose to pass out and slide to the floor in a long-legged heap.

"Oh, Christ on a crutch," Tracy had fumed, then glanced guiltily at Louise to see if she'd noticed.

She'd noticed, but decided it was funny so refrained from commenting. "Pick him up then, and let's get him on this cot in the office - it's close to the heat stove and the first aid kit's in there. Who beat the crap out of him, a music critic?"

Tracy got the kid settled on the cot, propping him against the wall at the head end of it, before he answered her. "Naw, he got mugged. They took his guitar and all his money - not without a fight though, right, Russell?"

Rusty, sitting half-folded into himself, clutching his middle, had glanced up and nodded before looking down at his boots again. In that instant's glance, Louise had seen the glitter of emotion in his usually sassy eyes, and felt unexpectedly sympathetic. Which was why, when she had cleaned the blood off his face with warm water and a soft cloth, she warned him before dabbing antiseptic on the cut over his right eyebrow. "This'll sting now - don't jump."

"Ow, fucking - bloody - I mean - just hell!" he had stammered, and started laughing at himself and his confused response.

Louise, after gaping at him for a minute, had found herself laughing with him until he'd had to stop because he hurt. "Here," she'd said then, and helped him get his scuffed leather jacket off. He had on plain jeans today - not the rock star leather pants - and his plain black cotton tee shirt was faded but clean. She hung the jacket on a hanger and put it on a hook near the cot, all the time under his watchful eyes. One of which was going to have a beaut of a shiner, she saw. "Can I help you with your boots?" she'd asked, seeing him make several attempts at them, giving up with a wince and a clutch at what was probably bruised ribs. When he nodded his assent, she'd pulled off the fancy boots, touched to see he wore clean, carefully darned white socks. She didn't know, really what she'd expected - dirt and ingratitude?

"Thanks," he said to her, and when she brought him hot, strong tea, his thank you had been more heartfelt, and later, after he'd eaten two bowls of the good vegetable beef soup their kitchen made every day for the derelicts, he'd volunteered to wash dishes or pots or whatever needed doing.

"Maybe tomorrow," Louise said firmly, "tonight, I think you'd fold up on me and I'm not of a mind to carry you to bed."

He had given her an unexpectedly devastating grin that wiped away the age difference and made her mind turn into tapioca. "Actually, I'd rather carry you to bed, Lou," he'd quipped, and then laughed a very boyish laugh that had her laughing with him instead of giving him the frown he really deserved. He'd lifted his hands, palms toward her, grinning, "Pax," he'd said before she could give him the sharp side of her tongue. "I'll behave - too fuckin' sore not to, luv."

With only a lift of one brow to show her disapproval of his language, she had gotten him settled with a pillow and a blanket, even managing to find a soft old doona for him. "Here - luxury," she'd teased him. She had surprised him unaware and caught the sadness on his face. "What is it?" she'd asked, and sat on the chair next to the cot. "Can I help?"

"No," he'd said at once, not surprisingly. "Well - they took my guitar - can't get another one." His voice went a little funny as he said that and she found herself holding his right hand, patting it. He turned his fingers in hers and held onto her like she was a lifeline. "I'm sorry," he said in a breathy whisper, "I just - sometimes - I have no idea what to do."

"Now, now," she soothed him, thinking she sounded lame and ridiculously stuffy, "let me get you some Panadols so you can sleep - and we'll talk in the morning, maybe there's some way to get you a guitar. I have some contacts with some people." She wanted to burst into tears at the sudden, intense look of relieved hope on his face. "Let me get you those Pannies," she said instead.

She brought him the painkillers and a glass of water, saw that he took them, and turned out the lights. "Sleep - you're safe here," she told him.

"Lou?" he called out in a low voice as she started to close the door.

"Yes?"

"Thanks - you didn't have to do this, y'know." He gestured to include the bed, the doona, the whole deal.

"Oh, yes I did," she said firmly. "Sleep now - we'll talk tomorrow."

"Okay," he agreed, and sank down onto the pillows, gathering the doona up to his chin. It smelled of her and he realized suddenly it was Louise's personal comforter. He almost dragged himself out of the cot to give it back to her - it wasn't right that she go without it so he could have it, hell, he'd put his jacket on or something - but then the Pannies hit his bloodstream and he was too tired and too sleepy to do it. He fell asleep smelling jasmine and white roses and thinking maybe Salvation Army Lou wasn't so bad after all.

Click the middle star below to go to Chapter Two. . .