On Cringila Hill (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

He's started packing for Queensland but it's hard for Dimce to choose what to take. He works through his possessions. Some he associates with events from long ago: many things he values will need to stay, but he reasons that he may be able to return for them when he's settled. He tries to keep his pile of items-to-be-packed as small as he can.

He freezes. There's a knock at the front door, so quiet as almost to sound apologetic. Dimce wonders; has someone found him, have they arrived to take revenge? He hears his mother walk through the house, then her violent shouting, the swearwords in Macedonian. Dimce rushes through the living room. His mother comes stomping back into the house from the verandah, brushes by him. Her head is back, she is scowling. There's no choice but to see what's happened.

The door has been left open, the verandah light is on. Lupce is out there. He is mopping at his cheek with a handkerchief. Dimce comes all the way out of the house, stands before his grandfather. Lupce is stooped over in a way he never was before. Dimce sees sunken cheeks, eyes that have sunk back deep into the skull, the dark flesh around the eyes. Things have slipped a long way very quickly. Lupce finishes the cleaning up he's doing, stands with the hand holding the handkerchief before his chest.

‘My daughter just spit on me,' Lupce says.

‘Grandfather …'

‘Nah. Is okay. Is fine. I don' come roun' here too much no more. Maybe she don' get too many chances ta do that. Plus you goin' 'way, is what I hear. Maybe she blame me for that. So is a small thing, someone spit on me. Didn' use to think that. Is way I'm thinkin' now. Small enough thing.'

The old man's breathing is laboured. Dimce can hear the air catch and rasp as it struggles down to his lungs, hears the wheezing.

‘This what I notice,' the old man continues. ‘You don' come see me. You don' come see me no more.'

‘Grandfather, after what you done, what we talked 'bout – what you
think
was gonna happen?'

‘Tell ya, can answer that. When I done that thing I thought you was maybe gonna grow up to be able to talk proper cos you didn' get your brains scrambled by bein' hit inna head too much.'

‘Yeah, well …'

‘Gonna tell ya 'bout that cos I been thinkin'. There was this thing happenin' to my daughter, happen my gran'son. Coulda gone on, had people talkin', come see ya, talk to ya mama, talk to me, go away, come back, he hit ya again, go on an' on. Or I could stop it. Final. I had the way I could do that. So I done it. Tell ya somethin' else. That time I done that thing, I didn' care what anyone was gonna do ta me.'

There are things Dimce could say, but he sees their pointlessness.

‘Anyway. Tha's not what I come to say. You goin' away. I heard that. Well, not too hard to hear that, cos is what lots of people are sayin'. So I wanted say goodbye. Wanted to say good luck. Decided I needed say somethin' to ya. I love ya. Much as ever I love anyone or anythin'. An' I can remember all sorts of things we done. I sit on my verandah, you know, smoke a cigarette, remember things. Take you down to the beach, walk up through that forest down there, carry ya. I'd hold ya up, show ya them leaves there was. You'd reach up, touch them leaves, touch 'em wit' them little fingers you had. Didn' weigh hardly nothin' when I lifted ya. An' you
whisper
to them leaves, whisper to 'em, touchin' 'em. An' then ya smile at me. Tell ya what ya was sayin', give me that smile – ain't the worl' a wonnerful place? An' was wonnerful for
me
, the worl', down there in that little forest because you was seein' it. And down onna beach, we'd go up the rocks, look down at them little crabs lived up there. We used to call that, “Lookin' for Mr Crab”. Always talk English to ya. Thought it be good, ya grow up talkin' English, would help ya. An' ya point at them crabs on the rocks an' ya say, “Hello Mr Crab,” an' then laugh an' laugh.

‘Then one time I had go down to Canberra. I was gone awhile, come back, come to see ya an' ya come runnin' cross the room, smilin', grab me roun' my belly, you shoutin', “Papa!” An' I ruffle you hair, an' I say to ya, “Hey! I missed ya.” An' you look up at me, smilin' and ya say, “I missed ya too, because I love ya.” That time, you was this ole,' and he holds a hand straight out from a wrist, palm downwards, next to his right knee. ‘Then I tell ya how I felt; I felt my chest was gonna bust cos my heart was so full. I think, “What was that feelin' I felt that time? Wha's the right word?” Listen what people say, wait ta hear the right word. Then I
heard
the word: word is
joy
. We had each other, I had ya to love. An' I thought, well, this makes it all alright, all that mud an' shit I walk through all my life.
This
is what was for,
this
little boy be safe, have good chances.

‘So. Them things don' happen so much for a person, this ole world. So come to say thanks to ya, for all them good things ya give me. Been good, havin' ya to love. Now, good bye. Good luck to ya.'

The old man watches his grandson for another moment, then turns and descends the stairs. Dimce goes to the railing, watches his grandfather go out onto the street

Dimce calls out, ‘Papa!'

His grandfather stops, waits, draws more erect but is still looking ahead.

Dimce cups a hand to one side of his mouth, ‘Goodbye, Papa.'

Then he watches his grandfather walk to the end of the street, turn a corner and vanish down Cringila Hill.

Chapter Twenty-nine

It's Sunday and Peter Grace is back from his break at the caravan that he keeps onsite in a park further down the coast. The weather has been poor, which has given him something to complain about. He's pleased: he likes to complain and he's very good at doing it.

He's dropped down to the Port Kembla station. Although he's off duty he wants to get ahead of events before he comes back officially, to read his mail, see if there's gossip. On walking in he notices that some officers drop their gaze when they encounter him. One policeman narrows one eye, gives a little smile, nods in approval, but he doesn't respond. He's been in the business for a long time now and knows how to play the game.

When he's done at work he drives to Wentworth Street to collect some pastries to enjoy with his wife. Peter Grace believes that the best cakes and pastries to be had in the Illawarra can be found in the cake shops in Wentworth Street, Port Kembla. He makes his purchase and buys a sausage roll for good measure. Once on the footpath he starts munching on his first mouthful.

Back outside the cake shop he sees an old Volvo come to the corner of an alleyway. Through the windscreen he can see a local identity whom he knows only as ‘Feizel'. The Volvo stays put. Feizel stares across at Detective Grace. And this is the thought that comes into Grace's mind – Feizel is deciding whether he wants a conversation. Grace stuffs the end of the sausage roll into his mouth, with his free hand gestures to Feizel to park the car. He crosses the street. Feizel leans to open a door for him.

‘How are you, Feizel? I got the feeling maybe you had something to say to me.'

At once Feizel does an illegal U-turn, goes back into the alleyway. They wend their way through some turns into places that the detective had not known existed. Feizel stops with the nose of his car towards a roller door. He unlocks the door, lifts it. An electric light goes on, the door is raised to its full height. Feizel drives into the garage, gets out, lowers the door again, sits next to the policeman once again.

Grace licks flakes of pastry from his fingers, rubs his hand over his jumper. He says, ‘Now, I can tell you a few things, Feizel. See, I learned a few things already. Firstly, you're leaving town. This is how I know: you've brought me to this place you've got. The fact you've let me see it says to me you rent it out, because now I know where it is you're never coming back. So it can't be something you yourself own. You're ditching it. And I think before you go you have some little present you're thinking of leaving for someone. Through me.'

He resettles the greasy paper bag across his thighs.
‘Pretty good,' Feizel says. ‘Yeah, I'm gonna spend some time in a country town. Place where no one much knows I got family.'

‘And why would you be doing
that
, I wonder.'

‘I guess a whole lotta shit's gonna go down. I wanna be where no one can find me, wait it out.'

Grace looks at the interior of the garage, stained walls, refuse on the cement floor. He smiles happily at Feizel. ‘I've never been in here before. Looks like a good place to bring someone if you want to cut him up with a chainsaw.'

‘Never
done
nothin' like that.'

‘I'm sure. Just making a joke. And now here you go, off into the countryside, and there's no one left to mentor the little group of people who offer you professional support.'

‘Not too much left of them. Group's broke up.'

‘Ah. Now let me give you more of my thoughts. You haven't brought me here because you want to tell me something about people who sell giggle weed. You know that I can't be seen to be too concerned about chickenshit street operations. I start bringing those in, there'll be those who think, “Old Peter Grace is slipping.” No, I imagine that you have something about a thing that's important.'

Feizel watches his companion, without responding.

Grace is smiling now. He's in a situation he knows well. He's good at it. He enjoys it. ‘Now, this I can tell you: give me this information, and, if there's something in it, I'm going to give you a card. This card has on it my personal contact details. Ah, Feizel: talk to me and I'll give you the card anyway, content of information untested. See, I'm an old softie. But probably you've heard that already, you'll
know
that about me. And I'll tell you what this card will guarantee you – my sympathy. Which is not to say you can dismember someone with an axe and there will be no reprisal. But it can be useful to have the sympathy of a policeman, you must know that. A matter comes up, is it this, is it that, is it worth pursuing? There can be the world of difference between a sympathetic and an unsympathetic response. Have you understood all that?'

‘I think so.'

‘Now, what particular matter are we discussing?'

‘Abdul Hijazi.'

Grace smiles again. ‘You know,' he says, ‘what I thought to myself coming out of that shop with my éclairs and my sausage roll when I saw you across the street wondering if you wanted to talk to me? Feizel knows something about Abdul Hijazi.'

‘That right?'

‘Seemed likely. Why don't you start into your story?'

‘The people whacked him, they wasn' from down here.'

‘So far you have given me knowledge that about a quarter of a million people know.'

‘People
got
it done. Didn' do it 'emselves. There was kids wit' Abdul when that thing got done to the Solomona girl. They had uncles was worried Abdul would name 'em, to stay out of going back to jail. Uncles was worried those kids might talk about differen' operations, cut a deal to stay out.'

Grace is watching Feizel with interest.

‘Brought in someone from Lebanon. Used go-betweens. They don' know who he is, he don' know them. You can trus' this.'

‘Sure. Now, tell me, who
are
the uncles?'

‘Heavy men, live inna sout' wes' of Sydney. Move coke, move hammer, inna rebirthin' cars, protection of big pubs.'

‘Names?'

‘Don' got no names. Got this. One of the nephews is inta gettin' pissed in nightclubs up the Cross, talkin' 'bout what went down.'

‘Yeah? Well, not the silliest thing I've heard of happening. I mean, very silly, but not the silliest.'

‘This kid lives in Telopea, drives a big, yellow Ford.'

Peter Grace sits for a while, watching Feizel.

‘My boy,' he says. ‘This is worth following up. See, you've ruined my Sunday. I'll need speak to my good lady wife on the telephone, then get back to work. Big yellow Ford? Telopea? Heavy connections, uncles? If this kid exists I reckon we'll have a name by about two o'clock this afternoon. Couple of warrants, tap on his telephones, get listening surveillance around where he lives. Put some very pretty undercover policewoman where this kid drinks, and I can tell you this, Feizel, she's going to find him fascinating! Oh, he's going to really fancy his chances. Do you know what, Feizel? If there's something in what you've heard, we're possibly cooking in a big way. Which leaves me to wonder – why tell
me
this?'

‘There's more.'

‘I'm fascinated.'

‘These guys get hit, someone's gonna move on some of their stuff.'

‘Is that right?'

‘Yeah. He'll move quick. Maybe the coke, maybe the hammer. Not jus' up there, neither – he wants to get his foot in down here, take things up to where there's more money. Not the car stuff, prob'ly, not the protection, not his style, not organised for that, maybe leave that to the bikies.'

‘Do you have a name for
this
individual?'

‘First name's Vincenzo. Drives a big four-wheel drive, been bringin' Mary Jane up from the Riverina through the markets, now he's inna the dance pills. Got a flat in Potts Point with a balcony looks down into the harbour up there. When he makes his move you'll need be ready, get him quick. He'll soon enough get himself where you carn reach him, if ya give him any time.'

Grace smiles happily. ‘And you will be taking a sabbatical in a pleasant country town waiting for this all to be sorted out.'

‘S'battical?'

‘Sort of like a long holiday. Then back you'll come, what, to move on up yourself?'

‘Nah. What I got'll do.'

‘But perhaps you'll have lost a source of supply.'

Feizel watches Peter Grace, who smiles happily at him.

‘Workin' on that. Can maybe get a good one in another place, where I can trus' people.'

‘Yes. Well. I don't suppose I'm actually allowed to wish you luck with all that. But I'll tell you this, Feizel – these thoughts of yours are going to get a quick testing.'

‘Yeah? Tha's good.'

‘Now, would you take me back to where you found me? I'm a bit old, and, to be truthful, a bit too plump to manage those hills.'