‘This woman and another youth worker went to see Father Gorman. He gave them a lot of charm, said he’d look into it. They didn’t hear anything more. Ronnie wasn’t seen on the streets again.’
‘And they left it at that?’
‘They’re both good Catholics. He’s a priest.’
I said, ‘What are you going to do now?’
She gave me her unblinking look. ‘What the burglars didn’t know is that I’d backed up everything at work and on the laptop on disk. And the disk is in my bag. I’m going to 155
try to link Charis Corporation to the companies that bought up Yarrabank. That’s the link I need. But if I can’t tie them together, I’ll write the story of the buy-up and see if the Age will run it.’ She blinked. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, I have to.’
I sighed and put my hand on hers. ‘Don’t be sorry,’ I said. ‘Let me tell you about my phone call from Perth.’
There was a piece of cardboard torn off a beer carton slipped under my office door. On it was written: I rembered somthing else about what you was asking about. See me at my house. It was signed: B. Curran, 15 Morton Street, Clifton Hill.
It didn’t mean anything for a moment, and then I remembered I’d left my card with the man who’d lived next door to Ronnie Bishop in Clifton Hill.
A car hooted outside. It was Cam. We had a meeting organised with Cyril Wootton and his chief commissioner at the pub in Taylor’s Lakes. Cam favoured places in the suburban wastelands for meetings like this.
It started to sprinkle with rain as we hit the freeway in Kensington.
We were in the fast lane, doing ten over the limit. On the right-hand bend coming up to the Coburg exit, Cam shifted into the middle lane, giving a furniture truck no more than a second’s warning.
Five hundred metres further, he went back into the fast, no warning. A hooter blared at us.
‘Having fun?’ I asked.
‘Two pricks on a bike been with us since Carlton,’ Cam said, voice normal. ‘Just wanted to see what they’d do.’
‘What’d they do?’
‘Dropped way back. Put your hand under the seat, will you, mate. There’s a little case.’
I found what looked like a small aluminium briefcase under the seat. It was heavy.
‘It’s loaded. Keep it out of sight,’ Cam said.
I unsnapped the lid of the case. Inside, nestled in hard foam, were a long-barrelled revolver, cleaning equipment and about thirty rounds of ammunition.
‘Ruger Redhawk,’ Cam said.
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‘That’s nice. What the fuck’s going on?’
Cam had his eyes on the rear-view mirror. ‘Dunno. Could be just two pricks out for a ride. Could be someone thinks we’ve got the cash for the Commissioner on board.’
‘Who knows we’re meeting him?’
‘It’s a her. Just Wootton.’
The Essendon exit was coming up. Cam waited until it was almost too late and then swung off sharply on to it without signalling. ‘I’m going first left, round the sports fields,’ Cam said. ‘Hold your tummy.’
I looked back. Three hundred metres behind us, four cars in between, a motorcycle with two figures in black wearing fullface helmets on it was coming off the freeway.
‘Bloke on the back’s got a little bag,’ I said.
‘His playlunch maybe,’ Cam said. ‘When last you shoot anything?’
I felt fear for the first time. It had seemed a bit of a joke up to then. ‘In the Mallee about ten years ago,’ I said. ‘Shot a few rabbits.’
‘Take that thing out of the box.’
I took the Ruger out and looked back again. The motorcycle was accelerating past the cars, closing the gap between us quickly.
The engine screamed and the tyres squealed as Cam changed down and took the left, but the car held its line. ‘Nice bus this,’ Cam said. ‘But it hasn’t got the legs for this kind of thing.’
The bike leant over at forty-five degrees as it came around the corner behind us, perhaps two hundred metres away.
We were on a street with houses on our right and sports fields behind a high wire fence on the left. We had to turn right at the corner coming up or go into a parking lot for the sports complex.
‘I think we’ve got to show these boys the iron,’ Cam said. ‘Can’t outrun them. I’m going to broadside in this parking lot. Get out quick, I’m coming out the same door.’
My eyes flicked to the speedo. We were doing a hundred when we went into the parking area. There were three cars in it, all near the gate at the left.
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I looked back again. The bikers were close now, perhaps a hundred metres. The sun had come out and their leathers gleamed like otter skins.
Cam swung left towards the cars, slowed, then swung right. As the car came around, he hit the brake.
We went into a broadside skid across the tarmac, the right-hand wheels lifting. We came to a stop side on to a fence a few metres away.
‘Out we go,’ said Cam calmly.
I opened my door and half fell out. Cam was right behind me in a crawl.
‘Keep down,’ he said. ‘Give me the gun.’
We crouched behind the front of the car. I could feel the heat from the engine on my face. Cam pulled back the Ruger’s hammer.
The bike came into the parking lot almost without slowing and went right. As it turned half side-on to us, I got a view of the passenger.
His bag was slung around his neck by the strap now and he was holding something black and blunt.
‘Fucking Christ,’ said Cam.
It was a sub-machine gun.
The rider slowed and swung left. He was going to make a run parallel to us.
We both ducked. They must have been about twenty metres from us when the passenger opened up, flat, coughing sounds, not loud. Most of the first burst was high, over the top of the car. But the last rounds hit the front windscreen with sharp tapping noises. A large, jagged hole appeared on the passenger side and the rest turned to mosaic.
A second later, the next burst of hard coughing. They went low. Some hit the car, some hit the tarmac underneath, ricocheted and pinged off the chassis.
The bike was past, accelerating into a turn for another run.
‘Fuck this for a joke,’ Cam said. He straightened up, Ruger in both hands, and leant his long forearms on the bonnet.
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I put my head up. The bikers were side-on, just starting the turn towards us. The passenger saw Cam and raised the fat barrel of his weapon.
Cam fired.
He missed.
He fired again.
The bullet hit the back of the gunman’s helmet. His left arm went up as the impact lifted him off the bike and spun him on to the tarmac.
The rider, unbalanced, veered sharply towards us, gained control and swung savagely away.
‘One down,’ Cam said softly, steadying himself for a shot at the rider.
The passenger got to his knees, left hand to his helmet, sub-machine gun still in the other. He was small, no bigger than a fourteen-year-old. He shook his head like a dog, then turned to look at us.
Cam was aiming at the rider.
The small man brought the sub-machine gun up.
‘Down!’ I shouted, grabbing Cam’s coat and pulling him onto me.
The weapon coughed again, bullets whining just over the bonnet where Cam had been.
‘Little fucker,’ Cam said.
The bike’s engine roared.
Cam put his head up. ‘Party’s over,’ he said.
I stood up. They were going out of the parking area exit, sun glinting on their helmets, engine screaming in second gear.
We listened to the sound of the bike going up the road, turning left, getting fainter.
Then it was still, just the hum from the freeway and the jungle sounds of small children playing far away. It had taken no more than forty seconds from the time the bikers came into the parking area. Now only the smell of cordite hanging in the cold air spoke of violence and near-death.
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I looked around, expecting to see people everywhere. There was no-one. The silenced sub-machine gun had probably gone unheard, Cam’s shots taken for a car backfiring.
Cam finished putting his Ruger back into its case and took a packet of Gitanes out of his top pocket. ‘You smoking?’
‘Just this once,’ I said. I cupped my hands around the lighter flame. They weren’t shaking. Not yet. The first draw almost made me sit down.
‘Well, you can rule out money,’ said Cam. ‘That ain’t the way they go about taking it off people.’
Something was gradually dawning on my adrenalin-soaked brain. ‘Where did you say you first saw them?’
‘Top of Elgin Street. They couldn’t have been behind me long. I’d have seen them on the freeway.’
I took another draw. Another reel. ‘Mate,’ I said, ‘I don’t think this is connected with the horses. Something else. Little job I’ve been doing.’
Cam blew smoke out of his nose, looked around. ‘Don’t take any big jobs,’ he said. ‘You want to get the cops over here?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to take care of it myself.’
I didn’t need to think about it. There wasn’t anything the cops could do for you if people wanted to kill you. Not unless there was something you could do for the cops, and then you ended up living in a caravan park in Deniliquin on the witness protection program.
We inspected the car. Apart from the windscreen, there were about half a dozen bullet holes.
Cam took out his mobile. ‘It’ll probably go,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want to explain these holes to the jacks. I’ll get a mate to bring some wheels around, take this away. Wonder where that prick got an Ingram?’
I said, ‘Is that what it was?’
‘Not your normal scumbag piece of iron.’
Cam got through to someone. ‘Henry,’ he said. ‘I want you to think about how much you owe me…’
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Fifteen minutes later, a Ford Granada came into the parking lot, followed by a tow truck. The tow truck driver, a huge man with a beard, stuck masking tape over all the bullet holes. He’d done this sort of thing before. We were on the freeway in the Ford in five minutes.
After a while, Cam gave me a quick look. He was steering with his fingertips, cigarette drooping from his mouth. ‘Knew their business,’ he said, ‘we’d both be looking at the lid.’
‘I’m glad they don’t know their business,’ I said. I put my hands out and looked at them. I was shaking. ‘I’m just starting to react.’
Cam said, ‘Want somewhere else to stay?’
I was thinking about phone calls. Calls from Charles and Linda last night. All my calls in the past weeks. I really was a yokel.
‘I’ll need room for two,’ I said.
‘Two, twenty,’ Cam said. ‘You can use my current’s place. She’s gone to Italy.’
‘I wish I was in Italy,’ I said. ‘Italy, Bosnia, anywhere.’
Cam opened the window and flicked his cigarette out. ‘Things go right Saturday,’ he said, ‘we can all go to Italy. First class.’
28
Wootton was waiting in the parking lot of the pub, a hideous pre-cast concrete affair with flagpoles all over the front. He was in his XK Jaguar, reading a magazine. He put it away when he saw us coming. I went around to his side. The window was down.
‘Can you get someone to debug my place?’ I said.
He frowned. ‘Really, Jack, are you sure you’re important enough for people to want…’
My expression stopped him. ‘When do you want it done?’
‘Now,’ I said.
‘Now?’
‘Now. The person can pick up a key from the ground-floor flat. Number one. Say Jack sends his fondest regards and the bloke will hand over the key.’
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Wootton took out his mobile phone and got out of the car. ‘What’s the address?’ he asked. He punched in a number and spoke to someone in cryptic terms, giving the address and the introduction. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said.
The commissioner was waiting for us in the lounge, a pinkish chamber, full of angular chrome and plastic furniture. I didn’t know there were people who’d place your bets for a commission who didn’t look like Eddie Dollery or like market gardeners in town for the day.
Wootton did the introductions. He introduced me as Ray and Cam as Barry. The Commissioner was called Cynthia. She was in her late thirties or early forties, grey suit, tall and slim, an intelligent face of sharp planes relieved by a lower lip as plump as an oyster. Her shoulder-length dark hair slipped silkily around her head.
She was business-like. Harry would approve.
‘How big?’ she said.
‘As possible,’ Cam replied.
‘They’re gun-shy these days,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to spread it around.’
Cam nodded. ‘This is the drill,’ he said. ‘You wait for the second call. We expect the price to drift. Then we want as many fair-sized hits as we can get without collapsing the price. Then send in the troops, like they’ve heard the late mail. Take it all the way to the floor.’
She smiled a cautious smile, cocked her head. ‘Some organising here. Small army.
There’s not that many reliables around.’
I thought I caught a hint of working-class Tasmania in her voice, perhaps one of those bone-hard timber towns, full of red-faced men with pale eyes and bad breath, the girls with one pretty summer before the babies and the cigs and the mid-morning start on the wine cask. Cynthia would have got out early, escaped to the mainland.
‘We’re told you can do it. But if you can’t…’ said Cam.
She crossed her legs. In my trained observer way, I registered that they were exceptionally long legs. Part of me couldn’t believe that I was sitting in this garish place looking at legs and listening to talk about backing horses when people had recently been trying to kill me.
‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘What happens interstate?’
‘You get first go,’ Cam said. ‘We’ll take what we can get elsewhere.’
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‘The TAB?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.
‘When do I know?’
Cam lit a Gitane and blew smoke out sideways. ‘Cyril will tell you where to be,’ he said.
‘You’ve got to be ready to push the button, go straight off.’
‘Not even the race number?’
Cam shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Makes it hard if it’s going to be the eighth.’
‘Life’s hard,’ Cam said. ‘Cyril says we don’t have to worry about collecting. Is that right?
We hate worrying.’
Cynthia gestured with her hands, palms upward. ‘You don’t have to worry,’ she said.