Roll With It (34 page)

‘Like, what’s with all the commotion?’

Wildie pushing straight past him, stiff-arming the guy against the wall on the way past.

‘What the—’

‘Where’s Louie?’ The Wild Man’s voice even more of a growl than usual.

‘Lou?’

‘Where is she?’

‘Not here. I don’t know.’

‘Where’s her room?’

‘Dude, you can’t just come in and—’

‘Where is her room, dipshit? You have five seconds. In fact, fuck that. You don’t.’

Wildie punched the housemate hard in the stomach. He crumpled to the floor, moaning and writhing.

‘Which fucking door?’

The housemate, gasping for air, lifting an arm from his gut to point to a door down the corridor. Wildie barging through the door and finding himself in a woman’s bedroom. Organic face creams and other potions on a chest of drawers. A cupboard full of multi-coloured clothing. A dream catcher floating on a piece of string from the ceiling to above the pillow of the double bed. No signs of somebody having packed a bag. No sign of flight.

The housemate on his hands and knees in the corridor. ‘You can’t just come into a guy’s house, man, and …’

But the Wild Man could. He grabbed the housemate by the throat, just to feel the rush of violence, lifted him to his feet, just like that, and held him for a moment, before slamming him against the wall.

‘You might want to think about re-letting her room,’ he said. And left.

Knowing he shouldn’t have let himself go like that but then thinking he was leaving Melbourne forever tonight. Let the cops look.

By the time Wildie got back to Carlton, Stig looked slightly less stoned than he had, pacing the lounge room. But shook his head when Wildie raised an eyebrow.

‘Nobody wants to know. Jenssen’s blokes being in town has everyone spooked. Barry’s our one shot. Tonight.’

‘He’s definitely on?’

‘I think so. I tried to double check but he’s not answering his phone.’

***

Through Geelong, they had taken the Torquay turnoff and passed through that town, past the giant surf retail outlets, past the footy oval and then sweeping right past the golf course, until they turned left into Jan Juc.

‘We’re going where?’ asked Lou.

Laver grinned from the driver’s seat. ‘You won’t believe this but we’re going to 77 Sunset Strip.’

Lou and Jake stared blankly at him.

‘You don’t know that TV show?’

They still stared.

‘Shit, it was before my time too, but at least I know it. You don’t even know the jingle? The music?’

He gave up.

They pulled into a side street and then a driveway to park behind a weather-beaten timber house with a sprawling backyard featuring a Kombi, a partial motorbike that was either half-dismantled or half-rebuilt, a couple of pushbikes and a quiver of longboards. There was also a lot of unmown grass, and a rolled-up hose.

Dogs inside the house started barking like mad until a male voice snarled: ‘Carl! Benji! Quiet!’

Laver got out of the car and stretched, breathing the sea air, as the house’s back door opened and the dogs, a kelpie and a pug, shot out, heading to the car, barking insanely, noses twitching. A man appeared, tall and suntanned and with surf-bleached dreadlocks. He was wearing a faded green singlet and board shorts, and a couple of necklaces featuring wood carvings and possibly something hewn from bone. Tribal tattoos sprawled down his left shoulder.

‘Dogs. Shut up!’ he roared, and they did.

Now he stood watching Laver tickle Carl the kelpie under the chin, Benji the pug trying to nuzzle in for some of the action, flipping over on his back and lifting a paw for better tummy access.

‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t the killer cop,’ the man said.

‘Charming,’ replied Laver. ‘Your body count beats mine, prick.’

‘Nice to see you too,’ the man grinned. ‘A bloke could ring first.’

‘Sometimes it’s best not to trust a mobile phone.’

‘Oh. Like that, hey?’

‘Yep.’

Jake had gotten out of the car and was standing, two dog noses sniffing him, as the cop shook hands with the surfer dude.

Laver turned and said, ‘Jake, this is Bushy. He used to be one of us but now he’s an ambo.’

‘Ambo?’ asked Jake faintly.

The surfer’s eyes were surrounded by creased skin, laugh lines on his face. ‘Yeah, a paramedic. Drive an ambulance.’ He twirled a finger. ‘Woo woo woo woo woo?’

‘I know what an ambulance is,’ Jake said dumbly.

‘Well, a bloke can’t be sure,’ said Bushy.

Laver looked around then walked over to the car and opened the passenger-side door. Lou was still sitting in there, arms folded.

‘And Bushy, this is Lou, who’s not thrilled to be here, but needs to be.’

Bushy folded his arms, shoulders and biceps bulging, and tilted his head to look at her.

‘G’day Lou. I don’t bite,’ he said.

Lou was giving him looks, despite herself. ‘What does “one of us” mean? You said he used to be “one of us”.’

‘Oh,’ Laver said. ‘Former cop. A Soggie. But retrained for the ambos.’

Bushy shrugged. ‘Once I decided I was up for a sea change, I realised there was a lot more call for medical support than Kevlar vests out here. Although that could be changing.’

‘Yeah?’ Laver raised an eyebrow.

‘Torquay pub on a Friday or Saturday night is getting hairy, even for me. You want a cuppa?’

‘Mate, I can’t. There’s things happening in Melbourne that I need to get back to, but I need a favour. These two need to be babysat.’

Part of Lou bristled at the word, but she’d grown genuinely worried over the last few hours. And another part of her was noticing everything about Bushy. How he stood. Those surfer shoulders. How he wore those board shorts. The legs under them.

Bushy’s face had taken on a harder edge, all business. They moved away from Jake and Lou. ‘How long, Rocket?’

‘Not long; tomorrow. We’re close to closure on this one.’

‘Want to let me know who I’m looking out for?’

‘Could be any of four. Two forty-year-olds in a white Ford. Or another guy a bit younger than us, with a surfer look but not one. And his mate, tall, orange mohawk, prison tatts, hard to miss, very dangerous.’

Bushy chuckled. ‘Rocket. I’m an occasionally stoned and permanently retired surfing bludger.’

‘Of course you are. Gentle and helpless as a kitten if these two need protecting.’

‘Against four. Shit.’

‘Not four. Two or two but, honestly, I’m not expecting any of them to show, mate. I haven’t told a soul where we’ve gone, I wasn’t followed and I haven’t mentioned anywhere west of the Bolte Bridge on a phone. I just want these two safe so I can concentrate on the rest of it.’

Bushy and Rocket gazed at one another and then the surfer nodded. ‘Of course, mate. You know I’ll help.’ He turned and called out, ‘Come on, you two. Let’s get inside, hey.’

As Jake walked past, Laver put a hand on his shoulder: ‘I promise it will only be overnight. Trust me.’

‘Yeah, I do,’ the kid said. ‘ I guess I have to.’

‘And one more thing. I need your hat and your car keys.’

‘My hat?’ Not even waiting for an answer, Jake handed it over with the keys, clearly watching Lou and their host regarding one another. Jake gave Bushy a final look as he walked through the door and into the house, but he went.

Lou hadn’t moved from the car. Bushy wandered over and leaned down. He smelled like salt.

‘If it helps convince you, I might have a cigarette that tastes a bit funny if you like tobacco, but will relax you quite a lot.’

Lou looked at him now and said, ‘Aren’t you an ex-cop?’

‘Yeah, strong emphasis on the “ex”. And what? You think no member of the constabulary has ever smoked a joint? Anyway, I’m long retired. Come inside and let’s get to know each other.’

Was that a pick-up line? She was being kidnapped by a strange renegade cop and now his friend was hitting on her? Even weirder, she found herself giving Bushy a little grin in return. She got out of the car.

‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you forced me into this car and coerced me here against my will,’ she said to Laver on her way past.

‘Coerced. Good word. Potentially saved your life too,’ he called after her.

‘Potentially?’ Bushy raised an eyebrow.

‘Hopefully better than potentially,’ Laver said. ‘At least I’m directing traffic for the next bit.’

‘Well, go get ’em, tiger. The swell’s shit anyway, so I’m happy enough to stay close to home.’

‘I can always rely on you, mate, as long as the waves aren’t running.’ Laver stopped at the car door and said, ‘Bushy. By sundown tomorrow, if you haven’t heard anything? You might want to ring Flipper.’

‘I thought you were going to turn up.’

‘Let’s hope.’

‘Shit, Rocket. You know what you’re doing?’

‘Yeah, I do. The only thing I can.’

Laver didn’t drive straight to the main road. From the end of Sunset Strip, he turned left and away from Jan Juc on country roads, eventually sweeping around a long right-hander, the ocean huge in front of him, and parked at Bells Beach.

He got out of the car and sat on the bonnet, watching the sluggish waves struggle through one of the world’s most famous surf breaks – currently subdued by a south-westerly wind and a meagre swell.

Laver sat and took in the sea, the air, the sounds of the waves. Watched the patterns on the water. Felt a slight chill in the air as the breeze started to bite. He wrapped his arms around himself and took a deep breath. Laver took it all in: the very fact of his own breathing, his heart beating.

Then got into the driver’s seat and drove back out to the Great Ocean Road, turning towards Melbourne and to everything that was to come.

***

Laver sat outside his apartment for fifteen minutes, watching the street and the parked cars. Finally, he approached the building from a side gate, still moving slowly and watching the doorways. A gun would have been comforting – but then again, what would be the point?

Inside his apartment, he showered for a long time and changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt. Purple with a logo of Roger Ramjet on the front. He looked steadily at himself in the bathroom mirror, eyes empty in the reflection, and thought in a removed kind of way: Is this what I want to be wearing? Is this appropriate?

Then thought, why not? What was he going to wear – a suit?

He pulled on his favourite runners, a pair of Nikes he’d bought in New York a few years ago, exclusive to the Fifth Avenue store. Collector’s items. From what now seemed the golden age of him and Marcia. He thought of them exploring Brooklyn together, in love. He made himself stop thinking about her.

In the lounge room, he pulled a notepad over from the other side of the table, and a felt pen. Then sat for the longest time, staring out the window until he was ready to write.

Dear Callum
,

I don’t know why I’m even writing you this letter except that I have a feeling my worst fear might be realised and I may never actually see you again.

I guess what I want to tell you is that it was never my intention to not be a part of your life. That decision was taken from me, like so many things in life are, whether we like it or not
.

As I write this, my life is a mess and the way forward is unclear. I hope so much that we can be together one day and I can talk to you about the kinds of things a father wants to say to his son. But I suspect that’s not going to happen
.

If I’m right and we don’t get that chance, try to live a great life. Remember that an honest life is harder but simpler. Be honourable and true to those you love. Try to avoid the sort of mistakes your mother and I made
.

And seriously reconsider any desire you might have to be a member of any kind of police force
.

I love you
,

Dad

He placed the letter in an envelope and wrote ‘Callum Laver’ on the front. Then placed it on the mantelpiece along with an envelope containing other documents people would be looking for.

He poured himself a big whisky, still with room for three blocks of ice, aware he was putting off the phone call. But finally he sighed and dialled.

His father answered on the fourth ring.

‘What?’

‘Dad, it’s me.’

‘Ah, the stranger. Don’t have time to come and see your old man anymore, hey.’

‘I was there just the other day.’

‘For three minutes. That doesn’t count.’

‘Dad, I don’t want to fight.’

‘Who’s fighting? I’m just making a point.’

Laver listened to his father’s raspy breath down the line. TV chatter in the background.

‘Dad, I want you to know that I appreciate the job you did in raising me, once Mum wasn’t around.’

‘Eh?’ He could almost see the squinting scowl enveloping the old man’s face.

‘I know it was hard for you. Things weren’t always perfect. They still aren’t. But I know you tried.’

‘Eh? What is this, boy? Hang on, I’ll turn down the tellie.’

Laver heard fumbling, heard the TV noise fade and heard Daisy’s voice in the background, rising in inquiry.

‘The boy’s going soft,’ his father said, voice away from the phone. Then back to the receiver, saying: ‘All this murdering people getting to you, is it, son?’

‘Jesus, Dad.’

‘No need to blaspheme. You’ve got enough sins on your plate just now.’

‘Dad, will you shut up long enough for me to say what I want to say?’

‘Daisy thinks you should get out of the Force. Thinks that shooting is the start of a life decline unless you leave the job.’

‘What do you think, Dad? What’s your opinion?’

A pause as he thought about it, then said speculatively, ‘Plenty of fellas shot blokes in the war and lived good lives.’

‘You weren’t in any war. Which war?’

‘Didn’t say I was, you little smartarse. But I know men who were. You remember Bob Johnston from my work? There was a story where—’

‘Dad, I want us to be peaceful with one another.’

‘Eh?’ His dad sounding pained. ‘Son, what’s this about?’

‘I love you, Dad.’

That brought nothing but stunned silence. Tony hadn’t said that since he was maybe twelve years old.