Fat Man was recalling the last conversation he’d had with Walsh. There was something not quite right about it—an uncharacteristic hesitancy in Walsh’s speech, as if he was feeling his way through the conversation. Walsh was confident, cocksure, never hesitant. It sounded like him, but he wouldn’t be hard to mimic. Was it Shaun McCreadie? Was Walsh already dead, even then?
Illumination flooded through Fat Man.
McCreadie was trying to identify the voice on the other end. He was stringing him on. Had he succeeded? In any case, he would certainly know from that little chat that Walsh had not acted alone. And if he’d identified Fat Man from the voice, or the phone number . . .
His weighty scrotum contracted, defying gravity.
Why stop at killing Walsh, if he knew the job was only half-done? He’d never be able to fully relax and enjoy his riches while Fat Man cruised around him like a white pointer. But who was the hunter, and who the hunted? Suddenly Fat Man wasn’t so sure. Attracted by movement he glanced at the window—a woman going past.
The late Bernie Walsh had at least managed to do something useful before his demise. He’d noted the make, model, colour and numberplate of Shaun McCreadie’s car— a Land Cruiser. Fat Man had checked with the RTA—it was a rental. Subsequently he had contacted the company, Bush Pig Safari Adventures, who had confirmed the renter as one Shaun McCreadie. Vehicle was due back in the next two or three days—the arrangement had been open-ended. Customer had paid in cash—unusual nowadays. But being an ex-con, McCreadie had no credit cards.
So, Fat Man needed to stake out Bush Pig Safari Adventures, whose place of business was in the middle of Mitcham, on the Maroondah Highway. Right now he was in a Mitcham pub, the Plumed Serpent, and if he looked out the gaudily painted window he could see it down the road, on the opposite side: big picture of a boar’s head and lots of fluttering yellow and orange bunting marking the spot.
Fat Man’s phone went off—Scott Joplin’s theme from The Sting.
As always he checked the caller’s number before responding. ‘Where are you?’ he said.
‘Five minutes,’ the caller said.
‘Well, fuckin’ hurry,’ Fat Man said, and clicked off.
In nine minutes Wes Ford came in the door—sauntering, hands in pockets, grinning, but Fat Man could see he’d sweated. Once they had a couple of beers in hand Fat Man led him to the window and pointed out the place.
‘They shut at five-thirty,’ he said. ‘Stay here until then. I’ll piss off, because he knows me.’
Wes Ford—part-time police informant, former sporting hero and short-lived media personality—said, ‘What do I do when he fronts?’
‘You follow him,’ Fat Man said. ‘Only don’t let him see you, for fuck’s sake. I need to know where he is. I need to locate his place of residence without his knowledge. Give me that address, you get paid.’
‘Fair enough,’ Wes said. ‘So, I stay here.’
‘Stay here—and go easy on the booze. Be alert. Where are you parked?’
‘Not far.’
‘Be ready to fly when you spot that Land Cruiser—slate grey, V6 3500 model. And call me the instant you have the required information.’
‘What if he doesn’t show?’ Wes said.
‘Then you come back tomorrow—early, eight o’clock— and do it again. Until he does show. Pub won’t be open then, so you’ll have to hang around in the street without looking suspicious, if that’s possible. If he slips past you and we lose him I will not be a happy policeman, Wesley.’
Fat Man’s words were full of significance, especially his use of ‘Wesley’ instead of the standard abbreviation. Wes had a couple of outstanding matters on his plate, one for waving his wanger in a shopping mall. For some reason this kind of inappropriate behaviour was becoming problematic recently for Wes. He was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress the ever-present urge to put his goods on public display. But then, even when he was playing AFL football the roots of sexual exhibitionism were evident: he was notorious for displaying himself in the rooms for longer than necessary and ‘mooning’ from the team bus to and from away games. End-of-season trips, there was no stopping him—wandering around the hotel hallway in the raw, frightening staff and such. Couple of times the club had to bail him out of some heavy charges, including an alleged attempted rape of a woman who was later found half-drowned and drugged in a swimming pool. Even though he was innocent of any wrongdoing on that occasion, it was fortunate for Wes that he’d been such a valuable player. Now, in retirement, his ducking and weaving skills were called into service more than ever.
‘Will do,’ Wes said. Christ, he thought, how easy is this? Softest quid I ever made.
Fat Man departed. Wes camped next to the window, pulled out his Peter Jacksons and his phone and settled in for the long haul. It was only two o’clock.
By five-thirty there was no sign of a grey Land Cruiser. ‘Off duty,’ Wes said to himself, and decided to go and have a serious drink. Fuck Fat Man. He punched some numbers into his little red phone and arranged to meet a couple of mates at his regular boozer in Northcote. Then he visited the toilet, and was still zippering up when he came out. A woman noticed him and he grinned at her. He could see she was a lush, so it didn’t matter. One of Wes’s tricks was to casually touch his genitals whenever he passed an attractive woman in the street. The way he figured it, they couldn’t do you for indecent exposure if your ferret was still in your pants.
10
Next morning, Shaun purchased three medium-sized aluminium cases, the type used by film crews, from a specialist luggage store downtown. Sitting in the illegally parked Land Cruiser outside the building, Jo made a half-baked effort to dissuade a parking officer from issuing a ticket, but when it was clear he was proceeding with it anyway she lost interest.
When he’d loaded the cases in the back Shaun drove two blocks to a major bank, where safe deposit boxes could be rented. Joanna knew of this because Raydon had one there— though she had no idea what it contained. Since one could not deposit more than ten thousand into an account without the transaction being reported to the money-laundering watchdogs, this seemed the sensible way to go. Clearly such a large amount could not be kept concealed in the house. Options were limited. But with a safe deposit box you had peace of mind, complete security, anonymity, ease of access— similar in principle to a numbered Swiss account. You simply dipped into it anytime during normal banking hours.
Not that it was a simple process. There was a period of waiting, paperwork, identity verification, more paperwork, twelve months’ payment to be made, some more waiting— during which he half-expected a bunch of cops to come for him. Finally he was led down into the bowels of the building where strategically positioned video cameras maintained a watchful eye, past an armed guard who was packing a 9mm semi-automatic, through a barred door and into a fluoro-lit, gleaming room lined on both sides with steel boxes of varying sizes, with the bigger ones nearer the floor. No sign of video cameras here—though they could be hidden in the ceiling.
An hour and a quarter after he’d gone inside he returned to the glare of daylight. There was a second parking ticket on the windscreen—Jo hadn’t even bothered to remonstrate this time. In ten minutes they were back at Powlett Street, unloading the aluminium cases. The chest containing the cash had been secured in the padlocked wine cellar, to which only Jo—and possibly the departed Indonesian banker—held a key. It was dragged out, and after a generous amount was put aside for current use its contents were divided equally among the cases. It proved to be a snug fit.
‘I think,’ he said when they’d finished,‘that I should deposit one case at a time. Don’t want to attract unnecessary attention from curious bank officials—or security guards.’
‘Probably wise,’ she said. ‘Although I doubt if they give a shit. Raydon probably stores cocaine in his.’
‘He’s a user?’
‘Chronic. But only recreational drugs,and only for personal use. He
wouldn’t dream of trafficking. That’s what criminals do.’
‘Too true,’ he said.‘And now this criminal would like some lunch. The hunger pangs will not be denied. Where do you want to go?’
‘Toorak Road, of course. Where else is there but page 59 of the Melways? Only joking—but actually there is a new French bistro I’d like to try. Then we can fit you out with some decent clothes. If you don’t mind my saying so, those jeans are definitely ready for the incinerator. They bear the stain of Buzzards Hut.’
She had a way about her that appealed to him more and more.
A good part of the afternoon was passed in that well-heeled strip where brand-new big-ticket vehicles and snow- or solarium-tanned women who could have been fashion models were the rule,not the exception. The French bistro,Millefeuille, was adequate, according to Joanna. But Shaun was far from impressed: his serving was meagre—thin strips of lamb fillet arranged in a radial manner on a large white plate, with three cherry tomatoes, a few rocket leaves and a gratineed potato.
‘Better get a pizza after this,’ he said while she nibbled on a fillet of baby barramundi that was half as big as her hand. A small mound of straw-thin fries, constructed in the style of a teepee, accompanied the dish. Evans & Tate sauvignon blanc was a snip at $45. During the meal Joanna said hello to two separate female acquaintances and introduced Shaun without batting an eye. It seemed she didn’t care at all about being seen in her social heartland with this faintly sinister-looking stranger. Perhaps they thought he was her brother—or perhaps overt extramarital dalliances were commonplace in these circles.
After an hour in various boutique menswear stores he emerged with armloads of expensive threads, which were then flung into the back of the Land Cruiser. Back to Powlett Street for a burst of sex, a shower and change—then to the bank to deposit the first consignment.
Alone now, Shaun left the vehicle in a high-rise parking garage this time and walked several blocks to the bank carrying the gleaming silver case. It felt heavy, solid and highly conspicuous. In his pocket were the two keys to the box, secured to his belt with a chain. He was acutely conscious of the fact that he was carrying around three-quarters of a million dollars in cash. Maybe he should have handcuffed the thing to his wrist—but then he ran the risk of having his hand cut off if the mugger was serious—someone who knew the score. Shaun was also keenly aware of the possibility that he was being surveilled. A couple of times—once outside Jo’s house— he’d experienced a sudden tingling sensation at the back of his neck, as if he were being watched through a telephoto lens. At traffic lights he found himself glancing nervously around, sizing up men in suits and gripping the case with extraordinary intensity, making his hands sweat. Then he told himself to relax.
After identifying himself at the bank he was taken through a side door, which had to be buzzed open, then led along a passage and down two flights of stairs. At the barred door a hawk-eyed armed guard—not the one he’d seen earlier— greeted him with an unsmiling nod as the bank official swiped open the door and ushered him into the clinically secure, L-shaped area. An inner swing door with opaque, wired glass afforded privacy, along with a number of cubicles, like carrels, on the left at the far end of the room—the base of the ‘L’. When he was done loading the cash into his box he pressed a buzzer to be let out, and in a few minutes he was on the street again. The whole procedure had taken a quarter of an hour, much of that waiting for the official to accompany him.
In the morning he would deposit the rest of the cash, return the Land Cruiser, then make some phone calls and see if he couldn’t extract a favour or two. Next day, first thing, he deposited the rest of the cash without a hitch, opened a couple of accounts and applied for a credit card, all in the same bank. After some lunch at an Irish pub, Jo followed him in the Prelude to Bush Pig Safari Adventures in Mitcham. It was a long drive in a heavy stream of traffic. All the way he could see her in his rear-view mirror, never more than a few cars back.
Inside the Plumed Serpent, Wes Ford’s attention wandered as he gazed out the window, fingering his glass of beer. Then with a shock he noticed a slate-grey Land Cruiser pulling into the Safari place. Shit. A dark-haired guy got out and went into the office. Wes sank his beer, swept up his phone and hurried out into his car, an old Commodore. It had been a new Commodore when he was a star, an all-Australian mid-fielder, but that was twelve years ago now. His fortunes had since taken a dive, and now all he had was this piece of scrap metal with rust in the doors and chronic overheating problems.
Pretty soon he saw the dark-haired guy come out and climb into the front passenger seat of a maroon Honda Prelude. He couldn’t see the driver. Soon as he was aboard, the Honda did a snappy U-turn and sped back towards town. Without indicating Wes pulled into the traffic and followed. At last, he thought. A man’s patience was wearing thin. While he was driving he wrote the Honda’s registration number on the back of his hand with a felt-tipped pen. He drew close, but not too close, trying to get a proper squiz at the driver. He had a feeling it was a woman, just from the way she was moving her head around. The dark-haired guy was looking at her, nodding, then Wes saw his arm curl around her shoulder. He drifted back, allowing another vehicle to get in front of him the way they do it in the movies. As they approached a major intersection he punched the speed-dialler on his phone.
‘I have the subject in sight,’ he said when the Fat Man answered. ‘We’re on the road.’
‘About fuckin’ time,’ the Fat Man said, and switched off.
‘Fuck you too, you mountain of elephant excreta,’ Wes said, and put his foot down to make the amber lights. Wouldn’t do to lose the bastard now, whoever he was.
The exchange Wes observed taking place in the Honda consisted of Jo saying,‘Why don’t we do something left field? Something completely gratuitous and horribly expensive.’
‘Ready when you are,’he said.‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Well, we could check into a five-star hotel.’
That was when he put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Beautiful. Let’s do it,’ he said. ‘The Hilton?’
‘Reckon we can do better than that. I don’t suppose we can fly to Vegas and stay at the Bellagio.’
‘We could. Except I don’t have a passport.’
‘Hmm—how about the Grand Hyatt then?’
‘Excelsior Suite?’
‘Naturally,’ she said. ‘Strictly top floor.’
‘Straight there?’
‘Di-rect.’
‘No baggage?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘So what are we crawling for? Step on it, driver.’
She did,downshifting with swift dexterity and an impressive squeal of rubber, barely making it through a green light.
In the spacious bedroom Shaun opened a half-bottle of Moet from the mini-fridge while Joanna channel-surfed, finally settling for CNN. Clothes were draped all over the chairs. ‘Violence,’ she said. ‘Nothing but violence.’ Seemed there was serious shit going on all over—half the planet was a war zone. Then Larry King came on, interviewing a journalist who had recently wined and dined with Fidel Castro.
Getting into the huge bed she said somewhat wistfully, ‘Watching CNN always reminds me of being abroad. Makes me feel kind of sad.’
‘I’ve never been abroad,’ Shaun said, emphasising the last word as he handed her a flute of the pale, fine-beaded refreshment.‘Unless you count New Zealand. And I only went there to arrest somebody.’
‘Need to get you a passport then,’ she said. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
Flutes clinked. They smiled and sipped. Then he leaned over and kissed her. They put down the flutes and reached for each other under the expanse of the luxuriously cool, crisp sheets. Somewhere in the backdrop Larry King droned on about old Castro . . .
Couple of hours later, replete with sex and sleep, they resumed sipping from a fresh bottle. On TV there was footage of the latest suicide bombing in Israel. Joanna su
rfed, but in the end settled for CNN once more.
Topping up the champagne flutes Shaun said,‘We’re going to have to call room service.’
‘There’s no reason why we have to leave here,’ she said, plumping pillows behind her.
‘Forever?’
‘That’d be something, wouldn’t it?’ she said. ‘You know, I could stand living in a ritzy hotel indefinitely. Like John and Yoko.’
‘John and Yoko?’ he said.‘Oh, yeah, that was some love-in.’
‘So’s this.’
‘You said it, lover.’
‘Was that New York or Amsterdam?’ she asked.
‘John and Yoko? No, I believe it was Montreal, in fact. But it should have been Amsterdam.’
‘Yeah. I’ve never been there. Anything goes in old Amsterdam.’
‘We should give it a run one day,’ he said.‘When I get my passport.’
Long pause, then she said, ‘All they were saying was, give peace a chance.’
‘Yeah. But it fell on deaf ears, didn’t it?’
On CNN an African warlord was urging his rag-tag army of children into battle against the opposing warlord. The weapons were bigger and heavier than the ‘soldiers’.
‘Do you miss being a cop?’ she said out of the blue, gazing at the TV but not seeing or hearing it.
‘Definitely. I think about it a lot.’
‘It’s a real cop thing, isn’t it? That culture of commitment.’
‘Once it’s in your bloodstream there’s no getting rid of it. I was into the job a hundred and ten percent. Just loved catching bad guys. I’d get up every morning with a buzz, wondering what the day would bring. I didn’t want to get married or even have a serious relationship because of it. I saw first-hand what it did to others—sooner or later they had to make a choice: family or the job. Either way it wasn’t satisfactory.’
‘Same applies to lawyers, I’m here to tell you. So, just going back to George and Stephanie . . .’
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