Juiced Chapter 2 - Watto

As they pulled up in front of Watto’s house, Ace was still carrying on like a pork chop about not wanting to go in.

“I’m staying in the car. You just go and do what you have to do.”

Richo could see his point, Watto was generally a bloke that you tried to avoid if you had any choice in the matter, but sitting in the car was not going to work. He would want to know why he was out there looking like some sort of schoolboy.

“Mate you have to come in. He is going to want to see you. Just grow some balls and get out of the car. We’ll be out in 10 min.”

Watto’s house was nondescript and looked like about 1000 places in the streets around Altona. Brick house with a brick fence and a brick garage at the end of the cement driveway. It was a typical 50/60’s bit of Australia working class suburbia, but now it was worth a mint with its big block and easy access to the city. Watto’s house blended into his street and that was just the way he would have liked it.

They walked down the driveway and passed a dark grey Statesmen parked beside the house. A few years old. It was a car that would not get a second glance from 99% of people, but to Richo’s eye he could see that it had a bit of an exhaust and matched to the LS1 V8 it would undoubtedly get along alright. It had some nice aftermarket wheels, aggressive but not over the top, and a nice leather interior. It was a nice car without being an over the top car. Once again it was Watto down to a tee.

As they reached the front of the house and Richo pressed the doorbell, Ace shuffled on his feet, alternating his weight from one leg to the other, generally looking like a nervous dill. Richo gave him a quick scowl as they heard the deadlock behind the door being unfastened.

The door opened and there was Watto. Not for the first time Richo noticed that he was a dead ringer for Dutch kickboxing champion Bas Rutten. If you had to describe him, you could do worse that saying he was what a mean old pit bull terrier would look like if he suddenly turned into a man in his mid 50’s. His bald head and non-descript facial features were generally lost on those that met him due to their almost instant fixation with the thickness of his neck. It was not a fat neck, it was all muscle, sinew and veins. It was significantly wider than his scone and blended seamlessly into his equally impressive shoulders and chest. While standing less that 6ft tall, Daryl Watson was a man of incredible presence and power.

He was wearing a tight fitting v neck jumper that accentuated his features and some worn, but clearly expensive jeans. His whole presentation screamed of carefully considered casualness. Watto was a bloke who was used to making an impression.

“David! Good to see you. And Mark, I haven’t seen you for a while. Come in.” He had one of those calm emotionless voices that was for some reason unnerving.

Watto always called Richo by his actual name. Richo figured that this was because he had known him since he was a child and that there was almost a paternalistic element to how he addressed him. Richo was always amused when someone called Ace by his actual name. Mark Acceri was not called Mark by anyone other than his mother as far as Richo was aware. It appeared that this would have to be adjusted to his mum and Watto from now on.

While the outside of the house was decidedly average. The same could not be said for the inside. The whole place looked like it had been gutted and renovated and everything had been done to an incredibly high standard. The carpet, the architraves, the door fittings all looked like they had been selected with care and were of the highest quality. The house was sparsely furnished but what there was looked like it would cost a lot, and it was all laid out with some thought. As they got to the end of the hallway it opened into a kitchen living area which in turn connected to an outside deck by a wall of French doors.

“Would you like a drink boys? I am just having a cup of tea.”

Both Richo and Ace indicated that they were OK, both having glugged down a couple of coffee’s over lunch. Watto made himself a herbal tea and they sat at the large dining table that overlooked the deck outside. Richo and Ace sat somewhat uncomfortably as Watto took a few sips of his tea, Watto's physical appearance clearly at odds with both his surroundings and the faint smell of peppermint emanating from his cup.

“Thanks for dropping in David, I am away for the rest of the week but your dad told me that you might be able to help me out when I saw him yesterday and I really wanted to touch base with you before I left.”

“No problem” said Richo. “I am keen to see if we can stitch something up as well.”

“Your dad said you might be looking for a job?”

“Yeah, Lucy’s growing up and Jade is wanting to go back and do some study so I am going to have to start bringing in some more regular income.”

“What grade is she in now?”

“She’s in grade 4.”

“And Jade, is she seeing anyone?”

“I don’t know, that’s her business. I just want to do the right thing by her and Lucy.”

Richo and Jade had not been together for over 5 years, but it was still not something that he liked talking about. They had always stayed on good terms and he had always tried to be a good father and to support Jade in being able to provide for their daughter. He still loved her and certainly loved Lucy. He had made his mistakes and had paid a heavy price for them but he had made a decision the moment that they had separated that he would do what he could to support both of them and that is what he had done.

“OK, well I need someone to help out with cleaning and odd jobs at one of the gyms. It would work out to about 20 hours a week at $20 bucks an hour, cash. You could be flexible with how you did the hours, so you could fit in your training and racing. It’s nothing glamorous.”

Richo understood that when you had left school at the end of year 10 that glamorous was unlikely to be the way you described the sort of jobs you had a look in for in the future unless you were a better than average looking female and were trying to talk up your pole dancing career. Ricoh, apart from being a male, had always lacked rhythm and flexibility so pole dancing was not really an option. What Watto was offering was the sort of deal that Richo needed. 400, plus the dole, plus whatever he won was enough to keep him ticking along and to make sure Jade had what she needed.

“That sounds fine Daryl.”

“There would also be some extra work that might come up from time to time at the other gyms and things I have going on.”

Watto owned four gyms. Almost everyone knew that the gyms were just a front used to sell drugs. Each of the gyms was in a suburb where there was a high demand for steroids and other gear. Watto had worked out before anyone else that gyms, motorcycle gangs and drugs, were a winning combination. He had started off with a gym in his back shed where he trained track cyclists in their weights. Most of the big names of cycling on the track in Australia had worked with him at one time or another. It was his knowledge of weights combined with his knowledge of pharmaceuticals that was the drawcard. Watto was a smart guy who had a knack for finding other smart guys to work with to get things done. He was a traditionalist who embraced technology. When communism broke down he was one of the first to realise that there was a lot of knowledge and merchandise in the former Soviet Union that would have a lot of takers in the “free world”. He made contacts and he developed relationships. The internet was his tool but he also used friendships that had been established within sport. He used cyclists to make contact with the guys who supplied the drugs. Watto only dealt in the best gear and was strictly about performance, not recreation when it came to substances.

He ran a two part strategy. He obtained knowledge and goods from Europe and linked into the bikies for their skill in distribution, transportation and protection. His real skill was not to do anything stupid, working on a long term strategy when others were looking at short term gain. Being smart and already having a foot in the door with sport meant that he had a ready clientele who all had a vested interest in discretion. Watto had prospered in a dog eat dog world by being smarter than the average hound and having tougher dogs to do his dirty work when this was required, and in this business that was something of an inevitability and which Watto did not shy away from. Because he looked after the bikies and kickboxers, they looked after him. It was all strictly business for Watto. You would not see him in the papers or the front row of a high profile boxing fight. He was the man behind the scene that everyone respected and whose connections and usefulness meant that he not an expendable commodity like the majority of pumped up drug dealers. Any arrangement that Watto was involved in was something to be careful about – even cleaning the shitters in his gym.

“Well you can start next week. Drop in and see Frank on Monday and he will explain what we need done.”

After a bit more small talk, they were about to go when Watto asked if Richo could have a look at his bike as the gears were not changing smoothly. Watto explained that he would show them out via the shed so he could have a look at it. They left the house through the French doors, crossed the deck and then a small grassed area and were at the side door of the shed. What from the road looked like a one car garage, was actually a much bigger and more elaborate affair when you saw if from the back yard. It was actually an L shape with a roller door opening to the driveway but then extending around the backyard following the fence line. Watto used his keys to open the side door and flicked the light inside. Richo and Ace were confronted with an impressive sight. The whole scene was neat and tidy with a work bench taking up the whole width of the back wall. There were various high qulity tools packed into the bench with an expensive looking rolling tool chest off to the side. There was a high qulity air compressor along one wall nestled into some industrial shelving. Then there was the really impressive bit. Lined up neatly were at least 10 motorcycles. They weren’t just any motorcycles. Richo noted the collection, making a list in his mind:

Green Frame Ducatii 750ss
Mk1 Moto Guzzi Lemans
Laverda Jota
BMW 90s
Suzuki GS1000s and Katana
BSA Rocket3
Norton Commando racer
Kawasaki z900
Honda CB1100RB

All the bikes looked immaculate. Richo did the sums and figured that there was at least 250K worth of bikes in the shed, maybe more. Any enthusiast would have firmed up to have one of them. Watto had one of the each of the best bikes from the 70’s and early 80’s from each of the major manufacturers.

“Nice Collection” squeaked Ace in one of the first things that he had managed to get out since they had been there.

“Thanks, these are the bikes I loved when I was a kid. Now I have some cash I have been picking up the best ones when I come across them. I just about have all the ones I have been looking for."

Richo couldn’t resist. “Shit, gyms must be doing better that what the papers say!”

Ace gave a look like he had just discovered he was missing a testicle.

“A little better” Watto deadpanned.

Richo reflected that taking the piss out of Watto was a bit like playing with a snake. If you knew what you were doing you could do it safely, but it paid to keep your wits about you because no matter how comfortable you were, it was still a snake and it would bite you if you took your eye off the ball.

Watto’s bike was an old steel Kenevens with newish shimano groupset. Richo gave it a once over. Watto had been a good rider in his day before a bad crash had turned his attention to other challenges. Richo was a little surprised that he was still riding at all.

“You doing much?” said Richo as he checked the gears.

“Just a couple of rides a week with a few blokes from the gym” said Watto. “We ride for an hour and have drink at the café. Just good to do a bit of endurance stuff.

Richo had to smile. One of the hardest, toughest pricks in the city riding with some blokes to a café. What the fuck was the world coming to?

“Shit Daryl, your chain and cassette are shagged. Just go and buy yourself a new bike mate. This things 20 years old. For the cost of getting it right you could get yourself something new – it’s not like you are hard up for cash you tight arse!”

Ace now looked like he had lost both testicles, but Watto gave a good natured laugh this time.

“This one has sentimental value. Who could I take it too for a bit of an overhaul?”

Richo realised that he was getting in deeper with Watto than what he really wanted to, but there was only one bloke who he trusted when it came to fixing bikes and this bike was up his alley..

“Let me take it with me now and I will drop it in to Phil – I will get him to go right over it and drop it back as soon as it’s done.”

Phil was an old school mechanic who was best mates with his dad. Phil had worked on bikes all his life and he was exceptional at it. He had no formal training and was as rough as guts, but what he didn’t know about bikes was not worth knowing. He could work on all the new stuff, but he was just as happy changing the bottom bracket or headset of an old shit fighter.

The last few years, when most blokes of his age were retiring to a life of once a week bowls, Phil had enjoyed something of an Indian Summer. As cycling had become the “new golf”, all manner of trendy bike shops had sprung up with their brightly coloured facades and staff of 20 year old hipsters. The shops owed more to marketing than to any real love of the sport. The mechanics all worked in view of the public, usually putting together bikes worth more than the average car. Phil often wondered about the bike shops of his youth, dark dusty treasure troves where there always seemed to be more stuff crammed into the space that was available than what was prudent or would pass modern OH+S standards. The adventure of being shown the “good stuff”, like a set of Campag Delta brakes or a Super Record crankset. Whenever Phil thought about it he always visualised the inevitable roof full of hanging frames, and wheels. The old shops were places of stories where musty black and photo’s would remind customers of the shops bona fides, the owner standing with a young Phil Anderson, Danny Clark or if they were older, Russel Mockridge.

The new shops were all razzle dazzle. The only photo’s were blown up posters of the latest world or tour champion trying to sell you some sort of seat, or worse, energy bar. There was no place in this world for the fixing of old clunkers, but there was still plenty of old clunkers to be fixed.

This was where Phil came in. Each morning he would go to one of two trendy bike shops that he had become indispensable to and would load up his van with about 10 bikes. He would take them home to his little workshop and following the little instruction sheet stuck to the frame he would fix them better than they had ever been fixed before. He would do two hours before a 15 min break for a nine hour block and would drop the bikes back that evening ready to be picked up the next day. He would make 200 cash for his effort.

He could have had 5 times as much work as every shop was in the same boat with old bikes piling up to be fixed, but Phil had a good system of doing a vans worth of bikes each day, alternating between shops. His workshop was a wooden work bench with a vice, a good quality work stand and the real tool of the trade, a full Campagnolo tool kit. Campagnolo was the oldest component brand in cycling and had dominated the sport up until comparatively recent times. It was brand that was both shacked and liberated by its role as the custodian of cycling values, destined to be sought after at the top end but frowned upon whenever it tried to compete in the mass market at the bottom end where the real volume and profits were to be made.

Phil’s tool kid was still housed in its original wooden box. To a casual observer it was a box that looked like it might house a small guitar or other instrument. On the outside in blue was the campagnolo logo. When the box was opened the most perfectly formed set of tools were packed into individual positions. The whole package was a thing of great aesthetic appeal and quality. It was one of those rare things where a set of instruments designed to be functional, actually transcended this and was beautiful and would have been worth owning for this purpose alone. The fact that they were the best tools for fixing a bicycle ever made in a bizarre irony, almost seemed to be an added bonus.

Phil had other tools, mostly made by hand, but it was the campagnolo stuff that got the workout on old frames like the one Watto had. Special bearing presses for headsets and bottom brackets. A special tool for aligning the rear derailiuer. A drift for removing bearing cups were all there housed in their individual spots. Phil had acquired his kit when working for professional teams in Europe. To have a kit and to be able to use it designated you as a master. For the Italians that he worked with, a master mechanic was only a short step down from being a professional rider in terms of the esteem with which the role was held.

Phil’s new found usefulness, had had a spin off for Richo. As he tucked away a bit of cash, Phil lashed out and brought himself a new van, a dubiously named Hyundai Iload. This is how Richo came into possession of the old Toyota Hiace that had done the job for Phil for at least the previous 10 years. Luckily for Richo, Phil’s handiness with the spanners extended to most things mechanical and the old van, tatty around the edges as it was, had not mechanical problems and was a good fit for Richo’s needs.

“If you wouldn’t mind David that would be great. Just let me know what it costs and let Phil know I will fix him up. Tell him I am happy for him to do whatever needs to be done.”

With that the boys loaded a third bike into the back of the Hiace and hit the road.

No sooner had they pulled away from the curb and Ace was into it.

“Fucking herbal tea. Did you see what the fucker was drinking? 30 years of juicing yourself up and he’s drinking fucking herbal tea and riding to the café with a couple of soft cocks to have a fucking chai latte – fucking unbelievable.”

“And what the fuck are you doing getting a job with him. Mate that prick is not the sort of prick you want to be standing in his shed with looking at his fucking motorbikes let alone working in his fucking gym. Cleaning! Cleaning my arse, mate you know what sort of shit goes down there. You know don’t you?"

“Take a deep breath Mark, your hyperventilating.”

Both laughed at this, but things remained a bit tense.

“It’s your life Richo, but you want to make sure you know what you are doing. Shit the fucker has some nice bikes though. Gee I was sweet on that Laverda, I have never even seen one of those in real life before.”

After some banter about the motorbikes Richo made a final comment on his situation.

“Mate I need to get my shit together. I’m 34 and I have to start earning a regular income. I don’t have an education and I don’t have much experience so I have to take what I can get and who knows maybe this will give me a chance to get into personal training or something, maybe some coaching.

Ace grunted and shook his head.

“Richo the personal trainer. Fucking hell…Fucking hell. What are you going to have your own little uniform and everything? Fucking hell.”

Ace was still being a smart arse and coming up with names for Richo’s personal training business when he dropped him home. Richo had had about enough by this stage but they arranged to catch up the following morning for a training ride and Richo drove off and headed to his parents house where he was currently living. With a bit of luck Phil would be there and he could hand over Watto’s bike and kill a couple of birds with the one stone.