Authors: Peter Temple
Cashin was eating the soup at his desk when the phone rang.
‘He doesn’t want to come here,’ said Helen. ‘He’s a very uninterested person, he’s not interested in chatting’
‘That’s it?’
‘He says if you want to chat, you can come to his house tonight. He would like to point out that he owes the police nothing. I’m paraphrasing and editing here so as not to offend your tender sensibilities.’
So smart. Cashin thought he could read books for another ten years and it wouldn’t help. ‘I’ll do that then,’ he said. ‘Thank you and goodbye.’
‘I have to drive you, come with you. He doesn’t want the squad car outside his place. And so, since you’re trying to do something about a major injustice, I’m willing to do that.’
He looked at the dogs in the yard and he thought about her mouth, the kisses. Kisses from nowhere. Separated by twenty years.
CASHIN AND Helen sat at a kitchen table in what had been the garage of a house. Now it was like a small pub with a bar and a full-size snooker table and an assortment of chairs. A television set was mounted on a side wall.
Chris Pascoe brought a six-pack of beer from behind the bar and put it on the table. He sat down, took one and popped it. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘So what’s this about?’
‘The watch Corey had,’ said Cashin.
‘Suse told you.’
‘I’m keen to know how he got it.’
‘Thinkin of chargin him with theft? Well, he’s had the fuckin death penalty. Slipped your mind?’
‘No. What we want is to find out who bashed Bourgoyne. It wasn’t the boys, I’m pretty sure about that.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I decided to believe Susie about when she saw the watch.’
Pascoe drank, wiped his lips, found a cigarette. ‘Yeah, well, Suse don’t know where he got it, his mum don’t know.’
‘His mates might know though.’
‘Mates mostly dead.’
Helen coughed. ‘Chris, I said on the phone, I’m here because of Donny. I want his name cleared, the names of all the boys. And the Daunt. The Daunt shouldn’t have to wear this.’
Pascoe laughed, a smoker’s ragged laugh-cough. ‘Don’t worry about the Daunt. Wearin the blame’s nothin new for the Daunt. Anyway, how’s it help to find where he got the watch? Bloody thing must’ve been pinched some time.’
‘If it turns out Corey pinched it, that’s it,’ said Cashin. ‘We’ll just leave it there, call it quits.’
‘I hear Hopgood doesn’t like you,’ said Pascoe.
‘How would you hear that?’
Pascoe shrugged, smoked, little smile. ‘Walls got ears, mate. You’d be sleepin under the bed these days, right?’
The side door opened violently, banged the wall. The other man from the pier, the gaunt-faced man with dreadlocks. Cashin thought he looked bigger indoors.
‘So what’s the fuckin party?’ he said.
Pascoe held up a hand. ‘Havin a talk, Stevo.’
‘Talk? Beer with the cops? Things fuckin changin around here, mate. Havin the fuckin trivia nights with the cops next.’
‘Gettin the Corey watch stuff sorted,’ said Pascoe. ‘That’s all.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Stevo. ‘It’s sorted. Who’s the lady?’
‘The lawyer,’ said Pascoe. ‘Donny’s lawyer.’
Stevo stepped across, stood behind Pascoe, reached over and picked up the six-pack, ripped out a can, looking at Cashin, at Helen, back at Cashin, blood in his eyes. ‘Not drinkin?’ he said. ‘Don’t drink with boongs?’
Pub fight shit, thought Cashin, no answer would defuse it. He looked at Pascoe. ‘Listen, if your mate here’s in charge, I’m gone.’
‘So piss off,’ said Stevo.
Pascoe didn’t look around. ‘Settle down, Stevo,’ he said, a briskness to his tone.
‘Settle down? Don’t you fuckin tell me to settle down, where the fuck you…’
Pascoe shoved his chair back, took Stevo by surprise, knocked him off balance. He was upright in one quick movement and walking Stevo backwards, barrel chest bumping, three steps, pinned him against the bar. In his face, their chins touching, Pascoe said something to Stevo, Cashin couldn’t catch it.
Stevo raised his hands. Pascoe stepped back, gestured. Stevo went behind the bar, leaned on it, didn’t look at them. Pascoe went back to his chair, drank some beer.
‘What I’ll say is this,’ he said as if nothing had happened. ‘What I’ll say is Corey coulda got the watch in a trade like, y’know.’
‘For what?’ said Cashin.
‘Jeez, how’d I know? What do you reckon?’
‘So who’d be on the other side?’
‘Big ask, mate.’
‘That’s useful. Got any other stuff you’d like to tell me? Other people don’t like me? How about Steggles? Wall ears hear anything about Steggie?’
‘Dead man walkin. The fuckin prick.’
‘Do it myself,’ said Stevo, slurring. ‘Fuckin tonight. Blow the cunt away.’
‘Shut up, Stevo,’ said Pascoe. ‘Just fuckin shut up.’
Cashin took a can, ripped the top. He glanced at Helen. She had the air of someone watching a blood sport, lips parted, smears of colour on her cheekbones.
‘Listen,’ said Cashin. ‘You want something, tell me quick, I’m thinking about food now. I eat around this time of the day, the night.’
‘Corey done some stupid stuff, will of his own,’ said Pascoe. ‘Couldn’t tell him a fuckin thing, just go his own way.’
Cashin said, ‘This’s dope you’re talkin about?’
Pascoe waved a big hand. ‘People grow a bit of weed, make a few bucks. No work around here.’
‘So what did he do?’
‘Well, y’know, there’s ways of doin business. I’m not talkin fuckin truckloads, you understand, just beer money. Anyway, I hear Corey did these private deals, him and Luke, he’s another kid wouldn’t listen, bugger all respect.’
Pascoe offered the cigarettes. Cashin took one, the lighter, lit up, blew smoke at the roof, his instinct told him to make the leap. ‘Piggots,’ he said. ‘This is Piggots?’
Pascoe looked at Helen, looked at Cashin. ‘Not all asleep in Port, are you? Yeah, Piggots. They got ambitions, the fuckin Piggots, such
dickheads but they reckon they’re headin for the big time, they’re gonna be players.’
‘Fuckin Piggots,’ said Stevo. He had a Jim Beam bottle in his hand now. ‘Blow the cunts away. White fuckin maggots.’
‘Stevo,’ said Pascoe. ‘Shut the fuck up. Watch TV. Find the fuckin cartoons.’
Helen said, ‘Chris, correct me, you’re saying Corey traded for the watch with the Piggots?’
‘That’s, that’s possible, yeah.’
‘Tell me how the Piggots got the watch,’ said Helen.
Pascoe was looking at Cashin. ‘Can you imagine?’ he said. ‘These Pigs got the idea this shit’s easier than poachin abalone. Don’t even want to grow it themselves, don’t want to move it. All reward and no risk.’
‘That’s very ambitious,’ said Cashin.
‘My fuckin oath. And I hear they got someone to do a cook for em, too. This bloke, he’s like a travellin speed cook.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Shouldn’t be allowed, should it?’
‘No.’
Pascoe leaned forward, put his face as close to Cashin’s as he could. ‘Can’t expect fuckin Hopgood and the local boys to do anythin, can you? Be unreasonable since Hoppy’s got a share in the horse. Whole leg, I hear.’
‘Something’ll have to be done about that,’ said Cashin.
‘Fuckin right.’ He sat back. ‘Hearin me.’
Cashin nodded. ‘Hearing you.’
Helen coughed. ‘About how the Piggots got the watch,’ she said. ‘Can we get on to that?’
Cashin thought that he knew the answer, delivered to him by some process in the brain that endlessly sifted, sorted and shuffled things heard and read, seen and felt, bits and pieces with no obvious use, just clutter, litter, until the moment when two of them touched, spun and found each other, fitted like hands locking.
‘Ray Piggot,’ he said.
‘You’re so fuckin quick,’ said Pascoe. ‘Yeah, the bumboy. That’s what I hear.’
The complaint against Ray Piggot. Hopgood and Steggles at the station, Ray in the car outside. Ray who looked all of fourteen.
‘Ray Piggot stole the watch from Bourgoyne?’ said Helen, uncertainly.
‘Well, wouldn’t have been a present.’
‘I don’t understand what’s going on here,’ said Helen. ‘Who’s Ray Piggot? Am I just…’
Cashin said, ‘So to clear this up, we’re not talking about Ray and a burg?’
Pascoe laughed. ‘Hopgood woulda dropped him off up there for old Charlie Bourgoyne. This cunt Ray knew what he was in for but he’s not the first kid been fed to Charlie and his mates. That’s one of Hoppy’s jobs. That’s the way it’s always been.’
THEY DROVE in silence to the forecourt of the service station where Cashin had parked. ‘Thank you,’ he said, made to go.
‘Wait.’
There were no cars at the pumps. The windows of the small cashier’s cabin were steamed up by breath.
‘I need some things explained to me,’ said Helen. ‘What the hell was going on there?’
Cashin thought about what to say to her. She had no further part to play in this shit, she didn’t have a client. ‘Pascoe’s growing,’ he said. ‘Also, he delivers, he does the tightarse run. The Piggots get other people to grow, make tablets, deliver. Pascoe says Hopgood and the mates are in it, building up their super.’
‘Why’s Pascoe telling you?’
‘He wants me to take care of the Piggots. For telling me how the boys got the watch.’
‘This is another watch, an earlier one?’
‘That’s right. Different model.’
‘So it was a stuff-up from the beginning?’
‘It was.’
‘And you believe the story about this Ray Piggot?’
Cashin looked at her. A car turned in and the headlights splashed her face and he felt again the full sad stupidity of teenage lust for someone beyond reach. ‘Ray’s a quickpick,’ he said. ‘Rips off the
punters if he can.’
‘A quickpick?’
‘Drivethrough, a hitchhiker. One size fits all.’
‘Joe, I was in corporate law until a year ago.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing left for you to do. Just a mess for us to clean up. Of our own making.’
‘Joe.’
‘What?’
‘Give me a break. You wouldn’t know what you know if I hadn’t pushed you to see Pascoe. Pascoe says Hopgood delivered Ray Piggot to Bourgoyne. And other boys. Nobody’s ever said this about Bourgoyne.’
‘In your circle.’
‘What’s that mean? In my circle?’
‘Maybe you Bayview Drive people don’t talk about stuff like that. Too vulgar.’
Helen tapped second knuckles of both hands on the steering wheel. ‘Not rising to that bait,’ she said, a pause between each word.
‘Got to go,’ said Cashin. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
It was cold and damp outside, a sea mist. He ducked his head to say thanks.
‘Are you often in pain?’ said Helen.
‘No.’
‘Well, you fooled me. Anyway, I’m in the house, we’re neighbours. Care to stop off for a drink? I can microwave some party pies. I gather people in your circle enjoy them.’
He was going to say, no thank you, I’ll give that a miss, but he looked into her eyes. ‘I’ll follow you,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said, ‘you go first. You know the road better.’
The driveway to the Corrigan house ran between old elms, many dead. It was newly graded, the earth white in the headlights. Cashin parked to the left of the homestead gate and switched off. Helen parked beside him. He got out, uneasy. The moving sky opened and a full moon appeared in the wedge, lit the world pale grey. They went down the long path in silence, climbed new timber steps to the front door.
‘I’m still a bit spooked out here,’ she said. ‘The dark. The silence. It
may be a mistake.’
‘Get a dog,’ said Cashin. ‘And a gun.’
They went down a passage. She clicked lights, revealed a big empty room, two or three of the old house’s rooms knocked into one, a new floor laid. There were two chairs and a low table.
‘I haven’t got around to furniture yet,’ said Helen. ‘Or unpacked the books.’
He followed her into a kitchen.
‘Stove, fridge, microwave,’ she said. ‘It’s your basic bed-and-breakfast establishment. No personality.’
‘Party pies are just right then,’ said Cashin. ‘Very little personality in a party pie.’
Helen hooked her thumbs in her coat pockets. She lifted her chin. Cashin saw the tendons in her throat. He could feel his heartbeat.
‘Hungry?’ she said.
‘Your eyes,’ said Cashin. ‘Did you inherit that?’
‘My grandmother had different coloured eyes.’ She half-turned from him. ‘You were a person of interest at school. I like that term. Person of interest.’
‘That’s a lie. You never noticed me.’
‘You looked so hostile. Glowering. You still glower. Something sexy about a glower.’
‘How do you glower?’
‘Don’t question your gift.’ Helen crossed the space and took his head in her hands, kissed him, drew back. ‘Not too responsive,’ she said. ‘Are cops intimate on the first date?’
Cashin put his hands inside her coat, held her, inhaled her smell, felt her ribs. She was thinner than he expected. He shivered. ‘Cops generally don’t have second dates.’
There was a long moment.
Helen took Cashin’s right hand, kissed it, kissed his lips, led him.
In the night, he awoke, sensed that she was awake.
‘Do you still ride?’ he said.
‘No. I had a bad fall, lost my nerve.’
‘I thought the idea was to get on again.’
She touched him. ‘Is that a suggestion?’
THE HOUSE could be seen from a long way, the front door dead centre at the end of a drive of pencil pines. As Cashin drove, the weak western sunlight flicked unnervingly through the trees.
A thin, lined woman wearing a dark tracksuit answered his knocks. Cashin said the words, offered the ID.
‘Round the back,’ she said. ‘In the shed.’
He walked on the concrete apron. The place had the air of a low-security prison—the fence around the compound, the building freshly painted, the watermelon scent of newly mown grass in the air. No trees, no flowers, no weeds.
The shed, big enough for a few light aircraft, had an open sliding door on the north side. A man appeared in it when Cashin was ten metres away.
‘Mr Starkey?’ said Cashin.
‘Yeah?’
He was wearing clean blue overalls over a checked shirt, a huge man, fat but hard looking, head the shape and colour of a scrubbed potato.