Holy shit!
Dayne couldn’t contain his laughter.
Think you’ve still got enough game to take him, mate?
I was still too wound up with the events of the past few days to enjoy Dayne’s attempt at humour.
Saturday and Sunday dragged by in the slowest of motion. I tried to maintain as normal a schedule as possible, but the prospect of facing Eric and Garth on Monday at the Lewis family’s annual tennis party never strayed far from my mind.
Without answering Dayne, I opened my door, jumped out and retrieved my tennis bag from the back seat.
So now you’ve seen him. Think you’ll remember what he looks like?
The question came out much stronger than I intended.
Easy, mate. You need to calm down. If they get a whiff of you acting strangely in there, they’ll know something’s up. Think you can do that?
I placed both hands on the Beast’s roof and took a deep breath. Dayne was right; just make it through today and then see what he could come up. Whatever he discovered would determine our next steps. The last thing I needed to do was tip our hand.
Don’t worry, Craiggo. You can do this, just put on the old tennis – I’m going to kick your arse – game face and play it cool, alright?
Sure. No worries.
Dayne stood on the footpath and solemnly looked me up and down. Then without saying another word, shot me a goofy smile, a quick double-thumbs up, and headed in the opposite direction towards the Hawksburn Railway Station.
I locked the Beast, though I wasn’t sure why in this neighbourhood. It was more likely to be towed as an unwanted eyesore than stolen. With racquet bag slung over my shoulder, I strode purposefully along Cloverdale Avenue to the home of Thom Lewis.
***
Dayne sat on the metal bench at the Hawksburn Station waiting for his train. In his hand, he folded and unfolded a small slip of paper. On it, he’d jotted down the license plate of the silver Range Rover. Having already dug up a small amount of information on Garth O’Neal through an internet search, he thought a license plate search may also be useful, at the very least it would help verify his current address.
From there, he’d discreetly follow the crooked solicitor until the time and place was ripe for him to put his plan into action. It may take a couple of days to get what he needed, a week at the most. It was truly a simple ploy and one he’d used on numerous occasions.
Child’s play.
He just hoped Craig, the moral compass of the two, could keep his mouth shut and not spill the beans before he’d set his plan in motion.
Dayne shifted his position on the uncomfortable metal bench and crossed his arms against the chill of the morning. A quick look to his right down along the silent tracks told him his train was running late. For reasons, he’d find hard to explain; he was impatient to be gone from this side of town.
The short walk through the leafy streets of South Yarra to the station a striking scenic reminder of the wealth and power the elite held in this city. The housing bubble and ensuing world economic meltdown of 2008 decimated the lives of so many ordinary folks but caused barely a ripple in this community. Perhaps one less family trip to the Gold Coast over the winter or the vacation home on the peninsula having to wait another year before being re-decorated. But the bankers propping up the shaky house of cards adjusted, then went merrily on their way.
Bankers like Thom Lewis.
Dayne shook his head in disgust as he remembered the aftermath of the collapse. Sure, there were plenty of hands slapped in public. Some made to pay a fine or two. Perhaps even totalling in the billions of dollars, but still just a fraction of the profits gleaned from the entire fiasco.
And not a one of them spent a day in prison.
The throaty cough of an awakening lawn mower ruptured the quiet of the morning. Dayne wondered how quickly the police would respond if it backfired.
He knew he couldn’t change the world, but if he could shine a light on one of the corrupt bastards hidden amongst them, he’d gladly do so by any means possible.
It’s what he did. “Levelling the playing field,” as he called it. It wasn’t always pretty, but he was up for the fight. He just hoped to keep his good friend from getting caught up in any crossfire.
He rose from the bench and placed the slip of paper back in his pocket just as a rush of air signalled the arrival of his train.
***
Oh, good shot, Thom. Have you been practising, or are you just a natural?
I sat off to the side of the court next to the small lap pool and groaned inwardly; the amount of arse-kissing taking place out on the court reaching an almost orgasmic crescendo.
Thom Lewis and Mack Stephens were administering a tan-hiding of the highest order to Eric and Stephen McIntosh. Thom the more dominant partner of the two. Mack and his teeth just trying not to get in his way. I could tell Eric was seething but managing to keep it under wraps for the moment. Stephen was in full if I kiss your arse enough, you won’t fire me, right? mode.
A deft topspin lob over Eric’s head by Thom and Stephen’s failed, yet comical, dash across the baseline to chase it down brought about the end of the set. Eric quickly headed inside to the kitchen to grab a beer. Stephen plopped down in a seat next to me. His comb-over had broken loose, and would require some heavy lifting to get it back in place.
Bloody hell, Stephen. You look like you’ve been scalped.
Thom stood before him with a glass of champagne in hand, a few beads of sweat dotted his forehead and not a wavy hair on his head out of place.
What Stephen wanted to say was, fuck you, Thom; what came out was much better composed.
Yes. Well. It’s hard to maintain a sense of style when you’re under fire. Who’s next in line for a drubbing?
Stephen peered from side to side looking to deflect attention away from himself; onto someone, anyone. His flap of hair attempting to take flight with each turn of his head.
Well, we haven’t seen the wonder boy play yet. What about it, Craig, you still know which end to hold?
I’d managed to keep a low profile for the first few hours, but it appeared my time was up. With more than a dozen other players wanting to spend time on the court, I found it relatively easy to fade into the background.
You’re up, Craig. Grab your racquet.
Yeah, come on Craig. We want to see you play.
With Thom leading the charge, Doug and Mary joined the chorus and both urged me up out of my seat.
I finished off my beer with a quick chug and grabbed a racquet from my bag. I hadn’t touched one in over two months but the familiar feel of the Tourna-grip wrap wound around the handle immediately felt natural in my hand.
Eric joined Thom across the net with just me – for now – at the other end. Both owned decent games, and we rallied back and forth for a few minutes.
It was a beautiful setting, plane and elm trees grew in the neighbouring yards and bordered the court’s wire fence on three sides. The fourth lay open to the back patio. Only a waist-high Perspex wall separated the court from the pool area at one end. Sliding glass panels framed the entire back of the house. For today’s party, the panels were dispatched from view opening up the ultra-modern living area to the outdoors.
I was admiring the view and trying to comprehend the cost of such a home – and if the money spent was clean – when I was caught flat-footed by a sharp forehand from Thom.
What? Can’t handle the extra pace?
Thom said something to Eric who then quickly left the court.
How about some singles?
Well, so much for keeping a low profile.
Sure. You want to serve?
We’ll toss for it. I don’t take handouts from anyone.
The glare he shot me would have humbled many an opponent. I won the toss, smiled and told him I’d serve. I retreated to the baseline contemplating just how badly I should humiliate this smug bastard.
***
Think Thom�
��s got a chance against the kid?
Garth sat on a kitchen stool grazing on a cheese plate as Eric walked in from courtside in search of a fresh beer.
Eric grabbed a Stella Artois from the fridge, levered off the top with a bottle opener laying nearby and drained half before answering.
Not a chance in hell. But if the kid’s smart he’ll keep it close.
Is he? Smart, I mean. I don’t know if I trust him, being so close to the hospice AND you. What if he puts two and two together?
He may be a decent tennis player, but he doesn’t know shit when it comes to banking. Don’t you worry. He does only what I tell him, and no more. You just make sure you keep up your end of the bargain.
Garth stabbed a cube of cheddar from the tray with a toothpick and popped it into his mouth. From the living room, a James Taylor tune faded from the wall-mounted speakers, and Paul Simon sveltely stepped up to the microphone.
Yeah, yeah. We’re as good as gold. By the way, I’ll have another three transactions coming your way later in the week.
Which direction?
One arriving. Two, I’m sad to report, will be departing. Shouldn’t hurt your portfolio balances too badly I wouldn’t think.
Eric drained the remainder of the bottle.
Tell you what, let’s close out another five. I picked up a firm of IT consultants last week as new clients. All ten of them. Just get me copies of the death certificates later in the week, so I can close out the accounts.
Garth gazed up at the ceiling fan languidly turning overhead, his mind processing the numbers.
So, leaving us with… 90–95 accounts?
Give or take.
It still seems like too many. I’m starting to think this has gotten way out of control.
What do you suggest? You want to start an epidemic and kill off 70 all at once? Don’t you think that’ll look a little suspicious? Hold your nerve, mate. We’ve come too far to be getting cold feet now.
Six months, Eric. Six months and I want all the dead accounts shut down. Then we handle just those still living.
Moving up close behind Garth, Eric leant over his shoulder as he whispered in his ear.
Or what? You’ll go to the cops? Don’t make me fucking laugh. Or, even better, you’ll tell Father Kelly you aren’t truly a magician? We go straight, and that place won’t last 12 months without finding additional funding.
Eric grabbed a small stem of grapes from the tray in front of the silent solicitor and plucked one off with his teeth.
You know as well as I do the funds coming in from the patients and the insurance companies aren’t sufficient to cover expenses. Not when their estates are dealt with legally, am I right? How many wills have mysteriously gone missing over the years so you could funnel property sales in our direction?
Confident he’d made his point, Eric straightened and patted the solicitor on the back. Garth’s face turned a light shade of pink. Beads of sweat dotted his brow.
I… I just wonder, when will it ever be enough? Greed is the only thing that will get us caught. We’ve had a great run, Eric. You know we have.
Okay, okay, have it your way. We start winding it down slowly. I hope your little nest egg treats you to a nice retirement. No sooner than six months, though. I need to milk it for all it’s worth until then.
Garth watched the younger, cock-sure, banker head back out to the sunlit patio and breathed a sigh of relief. His finish line now just a little closer. With a deadline in sight, he could begin planting the seeds, later in the year, for his retirement from Williams & Teacher. And then, the accounts he held in various banks around the globe would be waiting to comfort him in his twilight years.
Turning back to the cheese tray on the kitchen island, he picked up a small cube of Gruyere and inspected it briefly before depositing it in his mouth.
Six months. Just six more months.
***
I had to hand it to Lewis, for a man his age, he put up a better fight than I’d expected. I broke his serve in the second game, just to establish my superiority, then toyed with him for the next five games by playing at half-pace. At the change of ends – leading 5-2 – I finished my beer and towelled off while letting the warmth of the afternoon sun soak into my pores. The early chill and low clouds of the morning gone, replaced by a slight breeze and a brilliant blue sky. Thom Lewis sat on one of the many patio chairs and attempted to get his breathing under control. I’d run him ragged for the last 30 minutes, moving him from side to side and placing each ball just tantalisingly within reach.
Are you enjoying this?
Lewis, elbows resting on knees, looked up and in my direction.
Yeah, it’s been awhile since I’ve played. How’re you doing?
I’m fine. I just wish you’d quit screwin’ around. You’re not trying to make me look like shit in front of all my guests, are you?
Jesus, what was I supposed to do, really make him look stupid?
Sorry, sir. That wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to give you a good game.
Don’t you dare take pity on me, Walters. You think I’d ever do the same for you?
Okay then. Time to wrap this up and get out of here. Lewis threw his towel down on the chair and strode towards the baseline. I watched his purposeful stride for a moment before strolling to the opposite side.
Looking back, I should have been smarter about that final game; just stretching the string of three service return winners off of his mediocre serve into four. Game, set, goodbye. But no, I had to stretch out one final point to let my rich, smarmy boss know he might own a bank, but I owned him on his court. Petty, I know, like anyone would ever dare to compare the two as equivalent.
A forehand down the line off of his serve stretched him to his right, I followed up with another forehand crosscourt, but not beyond his valiant chase across the baseline. Another down the line, again just within his reach, then another cross-court which I presumed he’d quit on.
How was I to know he just wouldn’t quit? Unfortunately, his attempt to make it to my cross-court forehand ran him off-court and dangerously close to the waist-high Perspex wall dividing the court surface from the swimming pool. At the last moment, he attempted a slide to halt his progress, but his foot dug into the artificial-grass surface sending him head-over-heals into the wall, then over into the pool.
Thom!
Judging by the scream let out by Thom’s wife you would’ve assumed him dead. I ran to the other end and arrived poolside just as Mack was helping him onto the flagstone decking. A group of Lewis acolytes stared daggers at me.
What the hell do you think you were doing? You could have killed him.
Bloody brilliant, Craig.
Words failed me. I looked down at the drenched figure, who at the same moment looked up and began to laugh.
Well, I guess I asked for it. I’ve got to admit Walters you’ve got balls. None of these other jokers would dare to show me up. Let’s hope your banking skills turn out to be just as deadly.
It appeared I’d unwittingly struck up a connection with the boss. Although as his eyes bored into mine and the smile faded I felt it a very tenuous connection at best.
Deciding it a good time, I feigned another engagement and made my escape from the Lewis compound.
I’d made it through the day, as Dayne implored, without tipping my hand. For how much longer I could maintain the façade was a question for another day.
Bray, Ireland
Tuesday, March 15
Nestled in the north-eastern most corner of County Wicklow, with the Wicklow Mountains National Park to the west and the Irish Sea to the east is the small town of Bray. Dublin’s burgeoning sprawl, just 30 kilometres to the north, encroaches ever closer as the years pass, but for now the seaside town remains detached and revels in its serene, quaint, charm.
Father James Crowley strode down Main Street at a fast clip; head bowed to ward off the stiff breeze. The forecast called for rain, but the icy wind whipping in fro
m the sea kept the dark clouds massing over the mountains at bay. He sipped from the takeaway coffee cup as he passed by the town’s pharmacy. His latte, laced with an extra shot of espresso, burned his throat as he gulped greedily.
Turning the corner into the small lane closed off to traffic, the full force of the wind hit him from behind dislodging his hat and pinwheeling it forward towards the steps of the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer. In one smooth motion, he ran forward, bent low to scoop it up and ascended the steps – two at a time – all the way to the top.
Nice grab, Father. Play some rugby in your younger days?
Father Crowley slowed and studied the youth leaning against the balustrade at the top of the stairs. Ruddy face, hands thrust deep into his jacket’s pockets, skateboard leaning against his leg and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He could’ve been any one of the hundreds of young lads here in Bray. And not markedly different than himself at the same age. Luckily, he found his calling within the Church. It saved him from a life on the streets and the numbing boredom only drink, drugs or endless petty crimes could fill. He wondered if the young lad would be as fortunate as he in the years to come.
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