‘And the other bloke?’
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‘Winter, Charles deForest. One reference so far. Story on the CIA in the Washington Post in 1986. He’s listed as one of about twelve high-ranking CIA officers purged in 1978 by the Carter government’s new head of the CIA, Admiral Stansfield Turner.
Winter’s described as a covert operations specialist involved in CIA operations in the Philippines and Iran.’
None of this could possibly connect with Gary Connors.
‘Want me to go on?’ Simone said. ‘It hasn’t cost much so far.’
I didn’t really but I couldn’t bring myself to say so. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘See what you can do.
And can you look for any reference to something called Black Tide. Australian reference.’
She wrote it down. We made some small talk, I said my thanks and went home down the dark streets, party sounds here and there, rain like mist around the streetlights, oilslick rainbows on the tarmac.
I made my omelette, ate it in front of the television, went to bed with my duelling book.
As I drifted off, I was thinking that what I really wanted to do was write out a cheque for $60,000 payable to Des, bugger Gary and Dean and everyone else.
End of matter.
25
The youth club were looking more cheerful than I’d seen them at any time since the Fitzroy Football Club went tropical. After a small scuffle, Norm O’Neill won the front passenger seat. Argument about the day’s racing at Caulfield resumed.
‘Blind some people,’ said Wilbur Ong from the back. ‘Can’t see the elephant till it farts.
Clarrie Kendall is Croft’s brother-in-law. This horse of Croft’s turns up in three of the last four Kendall’s got nags in. What’s his job? His bloody job’s to see Kendall’s ponies get a run. And you keep backin the thing. Just a bloody donor, that’s what you are.’
‘Typical,’ said Norm O’Neill, adjusting the fit of his flat cap. ‘Always lookin in the wrong place for the answer. That’s your problem, Wilbur, always has bin, always will be. Now take that horse Dunedin Star…’
‘Christ,’ said Eric Tanner. ‘Bloody Dunedin Star. Bloody Dunedin Star again, I’m jumpin out of this vehicle.’
‘Ten minutes to the TAB stop, men,’ I said. ‘I suggest you concentrate on your selections. And don’t worry about the second.’
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June the second. Birthday of Cam’s cousin. The horse was running at Caulfield. On its record, there was no reason to believe the animal would earn its training bill today.
‘Got somethin?’ said Wilbur. ‘Hot, is it?’
‘Smouldering,’ I said. Passing on tips is dangerous. On the other hand, I’d had three tips from Cam in four years. Record: 3–0.
Outside the TAB, I said. ‘Fly Tonight, number six in the second. All care. No responsibility.’
Nodding vigorously, Norm led the charge.
Back on the road inside ten minutes. No-one had anything on the first race. We were closing in on the unhallowed ground when they came out of the gate for the second.
Silence in the car. Eleven horses, twelve hundred metres.
Fly Tonight didn’t put any strain on the pre-war hearts, led from start to finish, won by two-and-a-half lengths.
The exultation was deafening. When they’d finished patting me on the shoulders, Norm said, ‘Know somethin, Jack, me boy. Had an eye on that horse meself.’
‘Christ, no,’ said Eric. ‘Not another Dunedin Star.’
Waverley Park, gale blowing the rain horizontally towards the scoreboard end. It wasn’t a day for pretty football. We found a spot on the edge of the big crowd of Saints supporters. Not quite with them, definitely not with the other lot. Geelong kicked two early goals against the wind. The Saints dawdled around a bit, then started kicking goals. The youth club made no comment until the sixth one without reply.
‘Bloody handbags,’ said Norm. He raised his voice slightly. ‘Stick it up em, Sainters.’
‘Go Saints,’ said Wilbur, mildly.
‘Much improved side,’ said Eric in the measured manner of a judge.
The Lark conveyed home a wet but content foursome. The Saints three-goal winners.
Spirits were further improved by a stop at a TAB to pick up the winnings.
‘Jesus, Jack,’ said Eric, ‘they give you the money with a spade. What’d ya have on it?’
‘The farm,’ I said. ‘Story of my life.’
142
We had a few beers at the Prince, talked about the game, no major disagreements. The loyalty transplant couldn’t be declared a success until the youth club began making judgments about St Kilda players, tactics, the coach, the umpires, club management, the quality of the opposition, and which teams the Saints should hate most.
Stan came over, back to his normal state of grump, not the jovial Pickwickian publican this evening. ‘Talked to my old bloke,’ he said. ‘Get no sense out of him. Won’t sell.
Gone out of his tree up there in the bloody sunshine.’
I said, ‘Been out of that particular tree all the time I’ve known him.’
He put his elbows on the counter, leaned towards me. ‘Jack, there’ll never be a better offer for the bloody place. Talk to him, will you?’
I looked around at the patrons. Ten years would see off most of them. ‘Let me think about it,’ I said. ‘Let me have a good long think.’
A ten-year think.
At home, sad, misty, loveless Saturday night, a chicken pie and two glasses of red took care of me.
26
One other table was occupied, by a fat man, about thirty or fifty, and a woman of the same size, possibly his daughter, possibly his wife. Or her mother. The man had made a wholehearted commitment to synthetics: Styrofoam neck brace, polyester for shirt, jacket and trousers, brown nylon socks worn inside green plastic open-toed sandals. His companion was in a luminous purple tracksuit, huge white athletic shoes curling up at both ends, sweatbands on both wrists and a white headband on which one could just make out the puzzling words ILL TO WIN.
The pair looked hungry, hanging out for food, too hungry to converse, eyes flicking around, to us, to the duck-footed passers-by outside, to each other, disapproving, then back to the man frying flattened lumps of mince on the hotplate behind the counter. He had a thoughtful air, a sad-eyed middle-aged man who’d inherited his father’s baldness and his wig, bought this dud Heavenly Hots franchise, six tables in the wrong part of a shopping palace in Doncaster, sellers probably now in a foreign country not legally obliged to return them. The man’s faded wig, each hair once a lustrous strand in the scalp of a woman shorn like a sheep in some poverty-stricken Ukrainian village, had slipped back. It was now positioned several centimetres from the northernmost frown line, looking more like a jaunty hair hat than a hairpiece.
‘Hoop’s choice of venue,’ said Cam, looking around with interest. ‘Paranoid. He lives in Hoppers Crossing, other side of the city. Fancy anything?’
143
‘Tea might be safe,’ I said. ‘Just tea.’
Cam caught the proprietor’s eye. ‘What kind of tea you got?’ he said.
‘Tea?’ said the man, looking happier. ‘Tea? What kind of tea? Tea tea, that’s what I’ve got. In little bags.’
‘Two,’ said Cam. ‘Tea tea for two.’
Another customer came in, small man in a silky black tracksuit, neat dark hair, face of a dangerous schoolboy. Our jockey from the Kyneton race, Johnny Chernov. He went to the fridge, got a can of Coke, went to the counter, pointed at something sticky.
He sat down at the table next to us, adjusted his chair so that he was in right profile to Cam, took out a small mobile phone and put it on the table, popped his can.
‘Been lookin at the video, Johnny,’ said Cam. ‘Don’t like it at all.’
‘What’s it you don’t like?’ Chernov said. He took a swig of Coke.
‘Don’t like the way you got lost in the crowd at the turn.’
‘So tell the stewards. Ride the fucking things yourself.’
The proprietor took the hamburgers over to the couple. ‘Whaddabout the chips?’ the woman said, licking her lips.
‘Sauce,’ said Synthetic Man. ‘Need sauce.’
‘Coming,’ said the proprietor. ‘Two hands, that’s all I’ve got.’
Cam was studying Johnny Chernov’s profile. ‘Johnny,’ he said, voice neutral, ‘that’s not a helpful attitude. I’m here on the owner’s behalf givin you the opportunity to tell me why you lost a race. You can blame the horse, blame the track, blame anything.’
‘Told the trainer,’ said Chernov. ‘I ride for trainers.’
‘I heard what you told the trainer. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Nothin to add,’ said Chernov. He found a cigarette, lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter, blew smoke at the ceiling, took another swig at his can, put the cigarette in his mouth.
Cam looked at me, hint of a smile on his face. Then he put out a big hand, plucked the cigarette from Chernov’s lips and inserted it into the can of Coke.
144
Hiss, puff of smoke out of the can.
‘It’s polite to ask, Johnny,’ Cam said. ‘Answer’s yes, we do mind. Now I’m givin you another chance to tell us why you lost that race. Not what you told the trainer.
Unhappy with your story, I’m comin out to the carpark with you, suspend you for a few races. Maybe fifty, maybe a hundred and fifty.’
Stony profile.
Cam put out his hand again, pinched the jockey’s narrow chin between thumb and forefinger, brought his head around.
‘People trusted you, Johnny. With their money. Tell us about why you deserve that trust.’
Chernov put his right hand on Cam’s wrist, tried to break the grip on his chin, failed.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay, okay.’
Cam took his hand away, leaving pale marks on Chernov’s chin.
The proprietor arrived with a plastic plate holding a bun covered in what looked like pink candlewax. He put it down, went away and came back with two cups of watery tea.
When he’d gone, Chernov said, ‘On the bend, the blokes in front, they slow the pace, these three come from behind, they sit on me, nowhere to go. The winner come over the top of us.’
Cam shook his head. ‘No, Johnny, that’s the same story. The vid shows different. The vid shows you had two chances to get out. That little Mundall, what’d he say to you, the bunch of you cruisin along there on the bend?’
Chernov said nothing, looked at his bun, made an impression in it with a long index finger, trimmed pink nail.
‘We’re done here,’ Cam said. ‘Don’t think I’ll risk this tea. Recycled teabags. What level you on, Johnny?’
‘Could be dead tomorrow,’ said Chernov. ‘Jesus, dead tonight. Got a baby now.’
‘That’s medium- to long-term dead,’ Cam said. ‘I’m talkin short term.’
‘Give you the money,’ said Chernov. ‘What you dropped. Cash.’
145
Cam said, leaning towards the man, ‘Johnny, don’t be silly. The money. We’re not here about money.’
‘You hear about Brent Chick?’ said Chernov. ‘Going for a run round that Aberfeldie Park in Essendon, near his place, got the kid with him. On his little bike. Car knocks Brent twenty metres, would’ve hit the boy too Brent hadn’t pushed him. Miracle if he rides again. Right leg’s broken, hip’s broken, ribs cracked. Never catch the bloke. Car’s stolen.’
‘I read that,’ Cam said.
‘You read where Pat Moss’s house burnt down? Middle of summer, no fires, no heatin on. Mystery fire. Lucky to get out, him and the wife. Just arm burns.’
‘No,’ said Cam, ‘I never heard that.’
Chernov took out the cigarette packet, examined it, made to put it away.
‘Smoke,’ Cam said.
Chernov lit up, hissed smoke. ‘There’s others,’ he said. ‘Boys in the country, trainers, the battlers.’
Cam’s eyes met mine.
I said to Chernov, ‘You hear about Kevin Devine? Someone rammed his float?’
He nodded. ‘He’s one. There’s others had trouble.’
‘You want to give us a name?’ said Cam.
Chernov looked down, shook his head. ‘You gotta understand,’ he said, looking up, straightening his shoulders. ‘I’m on level three, you want to come up with me.’
Cam put out a hand and patted the small man on the arm. ‘No call for that. We understand.’
‘So what?’ said Chernov. ‘You want the dough?’
‘No,’ Cam said. ‘What’s gone’s gone, Johnny. There’ll be other times.’
Chernov stood up, sticky bun untouched. ‘On my bike then,’ he said and smiled an uncertain smile. ‘Tea’s on me.’
‘Much obliged,’ said Cam.
146
On the way back, on the Eastern Freeway in Cam’s vehicle of the day, a gunmetal Brock Holden, he said, ‘I’m runnin the data today. Spent a week polishin it. Sixteen hundred-odd country races, horses, form, jockeys, trainers, bloody hundreds of trainers, owners, even more owners, distance, weights, order of finish, sectional times, track rating, barriers, phases of the moon, anythin.’
‘Looking for what?’
‘Know when I find it. Like my cousin’s party?’
‘Very much. Best party for a while. Thanks for the invite.’
Cam put on a CD. A woman singing a Mexican- sounding song, the woman singing in the background when he’d given me the tip.
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Someone you know?’
He looked at me, ran his tongue over his excellent front teeth. ‘Practises when she gets up in the morning,’ he said. ‘I may have to start runnin early.’
I could understand that.
Cam dropped me at the office. I had a lease to draw up for my client Laurence Baranek. Laurie was leasing a shop he owned in Sydney Road to his wife’s cousin and he required a document that no tenant in his right mind would sign. In the course of drafting it, I fell to thinking about Simone’s report on Major-General Gordon Ibell and Charles deFoster Winter. Senior US military man and senior US intelligence man.
Stuart Wardle suggested that Tony Rinaldi ask Siebold to explain the relationship between Klostermann, a Manila company called Arcaro Transport, and Ibell and deFoster Winter.
Stuart obviously knew the answer to the question. It might be inside his computer. I rang Eric, Wootton’s computer geek. He was not a man to whom speech came easily.
No doubt he babbled on all night as he surfed the chatrooms of the Net, but not otherwise. Yes, he had been to Lyall Cronin’s house. Yes, he had taken away the computer. No, it had not yielded anything. Was there any chance that it would? Yes.