Field Walking

by John Bishop

heavy cane he had previously identified as his weapon if needed. As he edged around the door jam, he heard Ziggy’s voice above the noise of the storm.

  ‘Armed police, don’t move! Don’t move!’

  There was a pause during which the raging of the storm seemed to build to a dramatic crescendo. Max could see Ziggy crouched with arms extended in front of him. For what seemed an age, but was probably only seconds, there was no movement. Then Ziggy straightened, put his gun away, and shrugged. ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’

  Tom Jones’s luck had run out when he rolled to the front of the platform. Despite his attempt to rest his weight on his forearms, the sweaty inside of the plastic jacket caused him to slip. His elbow broke through the plaster, and the entire ceiling collapsed.

  A draft chapter on St Mark’s, for the history of Kalawonta, already included the story of the church acquiring a confessional at the turn of the century when the diocese had been under the control of its most conservative Bishop. The ornate enclosure had rarely been used for its intended purpose, confession being provided for but not widely practised in the Church of England. It was now a store for miscellaneous items, including some old carved wooden chairs sometimes put near the font to accommodate elderly and infirm attendees at christenings. Whilst the ceiling had been flimsy, the chairs were robust. I was onto these that Tom Jones had fallen, breaking several bones and rendering him temporarily unconscious.

  Breaking the News

  Wednesday 19th August 1992

  The first Lenny knew about the latest hitch in his plans was when Detective Inspector Justin Brody and another detective arrived at his office on Thursday morning. Their arrival, only fifteen minutes after Lenny had entered the building, was not a coincidence. Probationary Constable Kenny Fetlow, wearing his street kid gear, had spent the previous two hours with his head in a dog-eared Playboy magazine, sitting on a bench near the lane leading to Lenny’s parking space. Being new to the team, Kenny was unknown to most of Lenny’s staff. He alerted Brody as soon as Lenny’s BMW turned into the lane.

  As he was ushered into Lenny’s office by Jodie, Brody said to her ‘You can stay for a minute, Miss. Your boss might want an observer present.’ He sat in a visitor’s chair without waiting for an invitation.

  Lenny said, ‘It’s all right, Jodie. I’ll buzz you if I need anybody.’

  Jodie turned to go, but Brody said. ‘A minute, Miss. Your boss will need his signature witnessed.’ He thrust a pre-prepared waiver document across the desk.

  Lenny glanced at the waiver, signed, and held out his pen to Jodie. ‘It’s all right, Jodie. He’s in his heavy mood. Tell the staff I might open the bar when he slinks away. That’s what usually happens doesn’t it Brody?’

  As soon as Jodie had gone, Brody crossed his forearms on the desk and smiled.

  ‘You’re stuffed this time, Lenny boy. Totally stuffed.’

  Lenny looked at Brody’s silent colleague and said, ‘Hey. We really are in the heavy mood aren’t we?’ Looking back to Brody he said, ‘So “Brody boy” tell me how I’m stuffed.’

  Looking directly at Lenny, Justin said, ‘A man calling himself Tom Jones, who appears in our files under a variety of other names, is currently in the operating theatre of the hospital at Calway Junction.’

  Only an interviewer with Justin’s long experienced would have detected the slight change in Lenny’s eyes. Still staring directly at Lenny, he continued. ‘The poor chap has a number of bones to be set, and the doctors want to keep him a few days for observation—possible spinal injuries. I am not sure precisely what he will be charged with, but we’ve an impressive list of offences to choose from. There are credible witnesses to events he will have great difficulty explaining—even if a friend with amazingly successful lawyers offers him assistance. Given the evidence available, and the likely sentence for a man with such a record, you will forgive me for believing a deal might be struck. If you’ll excuse a silly joke, I would not be surprised to hear Tom Jones sing. That would be a bonus, the circumstances and the witnesses are more than we need.’

  Justin paused, hoping Lenny might respond in some way. But he was dealing with a skilled negotiator. All Lenny said was, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Now, Mr d’Aratzio, you know that we know things about people other than Tom Jones—things we have had difficulty proving in court. But the tide seems to be running with us for a change, a tide so high it might well swamp some folk who have, in the past, managed to scramble to higher ground. I always think twice before disclosing the existence of witnesses, because there have been times, in the past, when witnesses have not answered when the Clerk of the Court calls their name. Sometimes, however, the list of angry, enthusiastic, incorruptible witnesses grows and grows until the prospect of eliminating them is not a feasible option, even for a Mr Big. Consider, also, that two well known criminals have visited Arajinna in the past week or so, scored zero for their side, and been transferred to their team’s injured list. Unfortunately for a chap called Charlie Magro, his transfer was permanent. Charlie will not be called to give evidence, not in this life anyway. But he did tell two witnesses why he had come to Arajinna, and, with his dying breath, named names—correction, one name.’ He paused, then repeated, ‘One name.’

  ‘Hearsay is the term, I believe,’ Lenny said.

  ‘That is surely what the named person’s expensive lawyers will suggest. Fortunately, there is ample precedent for admission of such evidence in circumstances such as those existing in this case.’

  ‘I’m getting bored Brody. Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I’m telling you because I am feeling charitable. I am telling you because you can bank on the story being eagerly related, before the end of today, in every pub, club and back alley of the city. I’d heard your health has not been good, so I thought it a kindness to protect you from unexpected shock by telling you in advance what all of Sydney will soon be hearing. My long experience of the types who undertake contract killings has taught me that most of them are very shrewd. Mad Charlie Magro was not really mad, neither is our singer friend; few successful hit men are. And when the fall of those two top guns becomes the talk of the town this evening, whoever it is who sent them on their abortive missions will be hard pressed to find a third—even a truly mad one. I also wanted to put to you the following hypothetical scenario. Armed with evidence beyond his wildest dreams, a prosecutor who has not always won convictions finds himself in a position to get an old enemy into the dock for a long drawn out trial on a string of charges. Suppose the person facing those charges produces medical evidence in an attempt to avoid appearing. What if the evidence fails to convince the court? And even if he obtains a temporary stay of proceedings, how much of his remaining life will have to be devoted to defending himself in one way or another? Such questions will be discussed at length by those who think they can guess who it is who has been gunning for the Reverend Max Kingsley. I’m sure the hypothetical person of whom I speak would also give some thought to who, out there, might be raising a glass to his downfall—who might see profit for themselves in speeding the process.’

  Suddenly, Brody stood up so he was looking down on Lenny. ‘Well, I’m sure we’ve overstayed our welcome. Have a good day!’ He turned and led his colleague out of the office.

  For once, Lenny d’Aratzio said nothing. He had already forgotten the name of the other detective who had sat solemnly though Brody’s speech. The detectives departed, nodding politely to Jodie and to the two giants who were hovering around the foyer.

  As he pulled the car into the William Street traffic, Norm glanced at Brody and said, ‘So what next boss? Do we wind down?’

  ‘Not yet, Norm. Lenny might take the warning; but Operation Bravo stays on full alert and the team stays in Arajinna.’

  Lenny sat for several minutes. Had his time not been running out, he would have grudgingly acknowledged Brody held cards that came close to an open misère. Lenny had never been one to take silly risks. In other circumsta
nces he would have put the elimination of Max Kingsley on the deferred list, and turned his attention to other projects. How often he had counselled younger associates with his mentor’s favourite saying: softly, softly, catchee monkey. But these were not other circumstances. Brody was right to assume Lenny would not want to spend what little remained of his life in the courts or in consultation with expensive lawyers. But there was an element the detectives had not understood. Lenny had already settled a number of old scores. Kingsley and Brody were the people he most wanted now. Both had been on his wish list; but he had been warned against trying to hit Brody. Other influential men around town weren’t keen to deal with the consequences flowing from the assassination of a senior detective. Lenny knew it was a warning he must heed. His family would be vulnerable after his death if he ignored the wishes of the majority—there were unwritten rules about such things. But Kingsley was a different matter. Kingsley was a cancer that had outgrown its early niggling. Kingsley’s death would not ruffle the underworld. Most irritating to Lenny now was that everybody would come to know he had failed twice to make the kill, and that his failure had taken two good operators out of the game. This was