Iraqi Icicle

by Bernie Dowling

  ‘Is that what he did? Of course you realise, while you are away, they will be busily working to prove beyond the shred of a doubt that you killed Georgio.’

  Even if he was right, I still copped two grand in the hand rather than a shove down Mount Coot-tha into the bush. If the Feds were moving in on the action, I stood to come out a surprise winner from this misadventure.

  ‘That’s it then,’ I decided. ‘I go on a holiday, and you catch the evil police officers who have defiled their uniforms. I come back. We live happily ever after, except for the bad bastards, of course.’

  I started to rise, but Bradshaw put his hand on my left hand. For some reason I was reminded of the sadistic nun who broke it when I was seven to expel the demon causing my left handedness.

  ‘It’s not that simple, Mr Hill. I don’t want you to take this as a threat, but you are going to help us arrest Mooney and Schmidt, Mr Hill.’

  I laughed. I mean, that’s what you do when someone tells a joke. ‘No, you see, Officer Bradshaw or Detective Bradshaw or whatever they call you, I’m really not interested. You think I want revenge, because Mooney and Schmidt tried to set me up for murder. By your own admission, the fit-up hasn’t stuck. After that, it’s none of my affair.’

  I took Bradshaw’s hand from mine. ‘I suspect that you Feds and State coppers don’t get on. Again, that’s none of my affair. As far as I’m concerned, I can concentrate on backing winners tomorrow.’

  Bradshaw nodded in agreement and spoke sadly. ‘Then, we will have to allow them to kill you when you go back to Brisbane.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Once they have committed two murders, yours on top of Georgio’s, it will be easier to make their superiors do something.’

  ‘Run that by me again. Before, you said you weren’t going to threaten me.’

  ‘Inaction is hardly a threat. Besides, I presumed you would co-operate. If you do, you will be totally safe.’

  Safe? I always thought, even though I was a bit of a bastard at times, that my basic principles were safe. You don’t bet odds on. You don’t chase women with violent partners. You don’t trust anyone making more than $50,000 a year. You don’t do deals with coppers. The problem with basic principles is that they can be in conflict. Bradshaw had found my weakness. He sensed that my first principle was, you don’t get killed.

  ‘Inaction is not a threat,’ I repeated. ‘That’s some catch.’

  ‘It’s the best there is,’ Bradshaw agreed.

  ‘Tell me what you want me to do,’ I said. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘We want you to ring Mooney.’

  Bradshaw took a silver pen from his shirt pocket and a business card from his wallet. On the back of the card he wrote a telephone number. ‘That is Mooney’s silent number. Arrange to meet him tomorrow. Think of a good place. When you meet him, say you know about the plantation. Don’t worry; we will be there. It will all be over tomorrow.’

  All over, but for whom?

  18

  SOMEONE BUMPED OUR TABLE. I’m sorry to say I jumped. The silver-haired army officer I had stood in line behind was embarrassed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in an American accent with a voice even deeper than the Fed’s. ‘I’m looking for Jerome Bradshaw.’

  The copper snapped to his feet.

  ‘I’m Jerome Bradshaw. You must be Colonel Clark. Won’t be a minute here, Colonel, if you don’t mind waiting at another table.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Clark said and moved three tables distant.

  Bradshaw spoke earnestly to me. ‘Make sure Schmidt is with Mooney. Where do you think the meeting should be?’

  I knew where the meeting should be, a place with lots of people. But there was one complication. Oh, yair, eleven o’clock with the fisherman Louis Sebastion. Well, that did not matter as much now.

  ‘The artificial beach at South Bank,’ I told Bradshaw. I’ll meet there with Mooney and Schmidt at nine o’clock, in broad daylight. Do you know the place I’m talking about?’

  ‘We’ll find it.’

  Yair, well, even if the Feds did not find the beach, hundreds of happy family members would make Mooney think twice about killing me there. Parental stiffs always tell their kiddie stiffs to look for a policeman when they’re in trouble. The kids might not look for a policeman in future if they saw Detective Sergeant Mooney shoot the shitter out of Steele Hill.

  My new ally indicated he was satisfied, and I could go. I headed out, but turned to say goodbye. ‘You know, we should set aside a whole country for all you coppers, military, and spies. Maybe throw in a few hardcore Melbourne crims and the odd business leader. Of course, we would have to repopulate the place every five years or so. But that might be a good idea in itself.’

  Bradshaw was not perturbed by my suggestion. ‘Thanks for your assistance, Mr Hill,’ he said calmly.

  On the way out I passed by the Colonel’s table. ‘Come to pay the rent on your Pine Gap spy base?’ I asked.

  Clark smiled thinly, as if he was struggling to understand my remark.

  The veranda light of the Vitalis unit was shining, as June had promised it would be. I aimed to ease the EH beside the Gooroo’s car, but the way was blocked. The silver BMW suggested a wealthy guest.

  Before I could turn the key to the unit, the Gooroo opened the door for me. I looked through to the lounge to see the back of a head, sporting dyed jet-black hair. I knew the bottle brunette was Cheerful Charlie, SP bookmaker.

  Cheerful Charlie Evatt was indeed a happy bloke, giving the lie to the common Australian practice of casting nicknames against type. In Australia, a redhead becomes Blue, a miserable bastard Happy, a fattie Slim. But Cheerful Charlie really was cheerful.

  ‘How they hanging, you bastard? Long-time no see,’ said Cheerful, leaping from the couch to pump my hand and slap my shoulder.

  This hail-fellow, well-met number was a little embarrassing when I only knew Charlie through the Gooroo. Cheerful continued his enthusiasm. ‘The Gooroo tells me you’re thinking of joining our team.’

  I was non-committal. ‘I’m just down here on a holiday, though you never know.’

  I turned to the Gooroo. ‘Has June gone to bed?’

  ‘Yair. You know, even after thirty years, she’s still got a thing about our business. You want a tinnie?’

  I nodded and was presented with a can of beer. Cheerful was drinking scotch and ice. He excused himself to go to the toilet.

  ‘How much does he know?’ I asked the Gooroo.

  ‘Nothing. I told him nothing. He came around to discuss tomorrow’s book, that’s all. Shit, Steele, you’re getting pretty paranoid. No harm in telling Cheerful the whole bizo; it’s just I don’t tell stories out of school, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s cool, Gooroo. I gotta be down in Brissie tomorrow morning, but I’ll be back to sit in on the book in the arvo.’

  ‘What’s up?’ the Gooroo asked just as the toilet flushed.

  ‘I’ll ring you at eight in the morning and explain. Awlright?’

  Cheerful returned to the room.

  ‘Look, Cheerful,’ I said, ‘I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow afternoon, okay?’

  A deadly earnest expression settled on Cheerful. That sort of earnestness makes you notice jolly short fat people when it possesses them. ‘If you are ever in the shit, Steele, I’ll look after you. No bullshit, I’ll look after you.’

  Buddha, what was I supposed to say? I mumbled thanks. I caught the car keys by reflex. Cheerful had thrown them.

  ‘I mean it. You gotta go to Brisbane? Take the BMW. I’ll knock off this half bottle of scotch and grab a cab home.’

  I was tempted to accept the keys to the Beamer, but it was too much like the condemned man’s last ride. And conspicuous, to boot.

  I put the keys back into Cheerful’s hand. ‘Get pissed; catch a cab. Be a good citizen. I’m used to the EH. See you tomorrow, Gooroo. Bye, Charlie.’

  He shrugged. ‘At least take one of my mobiles. You never kno
w when you might need to contact me or the Gooroo in a hurry.’ Cheerful threw me the flash phone, which cost heaps in 1991. Catching the leather case, I slipped it into the left pocket of my pants, but refused the offer of a battery charger.

  ‘You know how it is, Cheerful. If your time’s run out, you can’t do much about it. Thanks for the dog and bone.’

  I walked towards the door, but stopped and turned around when I heard Charlie call my name.

  ‘Steele, she would have killed him anyway,’ Cheerful said. ‘I’m a bookie, I hear what is going on.’

  ‘And what is going on?’

  ‘That model sheila, Crystal, she would have killed Georgio anyway.’

  I looked at the Gooroo, who was supposed to have said nothing to his boss. He looked more surprised than I was.

  I turned back to Cheerful with a questioning look.

  ‘I’m telling you, Crystal would have killed him anyway.’

  I did not like how he said it. It sounded as if the word was out on the streets that I’d killed Georgio. They were making excuses for my murderous nature already.

  ‘I’m telling you. She would have done it,’ Cheerful insisted. ‘You see, Georgio gave Crystal Speares AIDS.’

  19

  A LOT OF DEAD PEOPLE were on the car radio. I switched over from Triple J when the youth radio station had rapped me into submission, and moved on to FM radio classic hits. They played the dead Janis Joplin, the dead Jimi Hendrix, the dead Jim Morrison and the dead Marc Bolan in succession. I was laying bets with myself whether the dead Mama Cass or the dead Ricky Nelson would be next. I lost when they played the Rolling Stones, only one of whom was dead, though how they kept Keith Richards animate was anyone’s guess. I killed the radio, and pulled into a twenty-four-hour service station.

  A uni professor named Lavinsky had told me once that the dead controlled the destiny of the living. The professor was now among the dead himself, and it was the corpse of a flash hustler named Georgio who had been calling the shots in my life for the past two days. His decaying remains now forced me to ring the copper who had given me a lot of money to leave Brisbane, and who would be upset to hear of my planned return.

  Mooney’s wife sounded pissed off at my calling at 11:30 p.m. She said he would not be home until after one. Unless it was an emergency, she would prefer I did not ring at that hour. I gave my name and left the message: Mooney and Schmidt were to meet me at South Bank near the artificial beach at nine the next morning. She hung up, almost before I finished and without asking me to hang on while she found a pen.

  I ordered three mugs of coffee in short succession. I had not slept for twenty-four hours. I felt as if I was inside one of those roadside billboards showing a mangled car wreck. But my adrenalin, or something, was still doing its job, because I was not tired. I decided to plough on to Brisbane and grab a motel room for a few hours’ sleep.

  I wanted to see apprentice jockey Billy Scharfe sometime the next day. I was yet to place Scharfe in the picture, but I figured, since he was at Crystal Speares’ unit, he could be positioned somewhere in the foreground. Speares I still made for knowing an awful lot about the demise of Marcus Georgio.

  With another phone call, I teed up a room at a motel in Ascot, so close to Eagle Farm racecourse that I should be able to dream the winner of the first. I did not want to go home in case Mooney had someone watching the place. The one good thing about the past two days was Natalie was not here to see the downside of my career in the racing industry.

  Fumbling my fingers along the wall of the motel room, I found the light switch. I put my bag beside the double bed and fiddled with the alarm on the clock radio. I stopped halfway through setting the time. What was going on here? I was distrusting my in-built alarm, not a good sign. My confidence was shot to billy-o. With more on my plate than Elvis with the munchies, I had better put trust in the only person keen on my getting a good result: me. I showered, left my clothes on the bathroom floor and flopped down on top of the bed covers for a sweat-filled sleep in the summer heat.

  I awoke to find my legs kicking out wildly and I wiped sweat from my face with both hands. If I had just booted home the winner of the first, it must have been a nightmare ride. The placings in fluorescent red on the radio clock were 3:45.

  Another shower, a fresh T-shirt and jeans, a $50 note left on the table with the room key on top of it, and I was off to the Feed Bin.

  Many race-day hopefuls were down at the café, Billy Scharfe among them. I nodded towards him, but was not surprised to see downcast eyes in return. I walked towards his table.

  ‘Buy you a cup of coffee, Billy, seeing the stewards aren’t watching?’ I said.

  Caffeine, of course, is a no-no drug for racehorses. Years earlier, an English trainer lost a big race and much bugs bunny when his horse tested positive for caffeine. The pony fancied chocolate bars, and its owner indulged his mate with a couple of them on race morning. The horse returned the favour by winning the big one. Caffeine was found in the horse’s system and the only option for the stewards was to disqualify the champ, despite racehorse slang for winning a race being ‘getting the chocolates’. It was kicks in the sweet tooth all round.

  I grabbed the seat beside Scharfe and nestled among the crowd, maddening for race-day action. I reminded the jockey about a tip he gave me early in the week. ‘That horse of Barret’s you gave me in the first, Billy, what number is it?’ I asked, avoiding a direr topic.

  ‘Three, Mr Hill,’ said a relieved Scharfe.

  ‘Three-four-five could be the trifecta,’ I said, recalling the time on the digital clock when I woke.

  No matter what happens, a punter will always grasp that last straw of superstition. Hollywood Frank was walking to Doomben races when a car ran him down. The driver sped off. Hollywood grimaced from the pain. He asked his mate if he had copped a butcher’s hook at the number plate. His friend said he had and asked Hollywood if he wanted him to call the police.

  ‘Bugger the police,’ Hollywood replied. ‘Make sure the ambulance stops at the TAB on the way to hospital. I want to take those numbers on the rego plate in the treble.’

  I picked Scharfe for the superstitious type. ‘Do you believe in coincidences, Billy? Or do you think there are strange forces out there that we don’t really understand, but that are controlling our destiny?’

  Scharfe was starting to get nervous. ‘I don’t really think about them things, Mr Hill.’

  His was not the reaction of your average horse player, who would sit bored or irritated rather than nervous when asked to contemplate philosophy on race day.

  But I was only warming up.

  ‘Let’s put it like this, Billy: Person A goes to the unit of Person B to talk about a murder. Person B receives a phone call from Person C, while Person A is in the room.’

  ‘I’m not following any of this, Mr Hill.’

  I ignored that.

  ‘Person A leaves Person B’s unit, but Person A hangs around. Person X shows up. Was that a coincidence, or was Person X the Person C who rang Person B?’

  Scharfe was starting to sweat, even beyond the call of the heat. I hoped the other customers were too busy with their own concerns to notice what might look like nasty banned-for-life Steele Hill intimidating a young jock with whom he is not even supposed to associate.

  ‘I’ll make it easier, Billy. I was A, Crystal Speares was B. You were X who turned up at B’s unit as I was leaving. My money is on you also being C, phoning Crystal, who wanted me to know bugger all about what you wanted.’

  Scharfe caved in. ‘Akay, akay, Mr Hill. I rang Crystal, but I didn’t know nothing about Georgio’s murder till she told me what you told her.’

  ‘You were trying to score from Georgio?’ I asked.

  His perspiration increased. ‘How’d you know about that?’

  ‘I know heaps. I’ve been studying the form.’

  For whatever reason, the racing reference calmed him. ‘Akay, but I don’t use much, truly. Recreation
al, that’s all. Georgio told me it would keep my weight down.’

  ‘What about the other hoops? Did you or Georgio sell them any grass as well?’

  ‘Grass?’ Scharfe was surprised, but covered it quickly. ‘Not that I know of. It was only between me and him.’

  ‘Could Georgio have been dealing grass with other jockeys, or strappers or some trainers, or maybe even owners?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Hill. Truly, I only know about me and him.’

  Scharfe was getting calmer all the time. If I was a copper, I would be kicking myself for having thrown away an advantage I didn’t know I had. I was not a copper, but I was wishing I knew what advantage I’d surrendered.

  ‘Did Georgio ever rip you off? Kathy Billings said he ripped her off.’

  The name of the public servant didn’t register with the jockey.

  ‘He never ripped me off.’

  ‘Grass must be expensive for a battling apprentice?’

  ‘Georgio gave it to me. He said one day he would get a big return from me in spades.’

  ‘Buddha, Billy, he was talking about a race fix.’

  ‘You can talk about a fix, Mr Hill.’

  ‘And where am I, Billy? You could be a bloody good jockey. But the way you’re going, you’ll be lucky to end up working some dead-end factory job, if they don’t put you in jail first, or in the cemetery.’

  I pushed my chair back, making to leave, but I leaned across for a parting shot. I whispered, ‘Hammer will never make a horse run faster, or a jockey ride better.’

  Scharfe’s remark about keeping down the jockey’s dreaded weight had finally sunk in. While Georgio dealt grass, probably to dozens of other customers, he wanted a stronger hold over Scharfe in anticipation of that wild and glorious race fix. What better temptress for Scharfe than heroin? After all, it worked on Georgio himself.

  I had time to kill before my nine o’clock meeting with Mooney and Schmidt, so I drove down Nudgee Road from the Feed Bin. I parked the car on a side street near Doomben racetrack, and ambled down the footpath to watch the strappers and stable hands take the horses for a race-morning walk. Strolling beside the high fence around the track, I filled my nostrils with the bittersweet tang of horse sweat.