by Alan Carter
Finally some music, ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’, and the coffin rolled away to a last haunted look from Stephen Mazza. Shellie choked out a sob and stared at the displayed photo of her daughter in pink tutu and fairy wings, casting spells with a plastic wand.
EPILOGUE
‘You’ve done a good job for those round-eye mates of yours, bro.’
Jimmy Tran was out of intensive care and propped up in bed. In the month or so since the shooting, Cato had been cleared by the Internals but he still felt a need to face Jimmy. The weather had finally cooled, autumn was in the air, and the notion of buying air conditioning had once again receded.
‘Round eyes?’ said Cato, pretending he didn’t know what Jimmy was talking about.
‘The dirty denim and leather boys. The Village People from Hell.’
‘Oh, the Apaches.’
‘If I could lift a finger I’d wag it at you. You put me in a wheelchair, Vincent in jail for life, and the infamous Tran Gang broken up. No need for a war now, the Apaches just walk in and pick up the pieces you left behind.’
He was right of course and now that Vincent was locked up, the bikies had even withdrawn their allegation against him. So, in public at least, they could still hold on to their precious outlaw code of silence. They did have one setback though. A fortnight earlier Apache Sergeant-at-Arms Bryn Irskine, AKA Eyebrow Stud, had suffered terrible burns in a freak domestic accident with a barbecue gas bottle. Karina Ford had sent Cato a happy face text the day after. Coincidence?
‘I’ll cop to putting you in a wheelchair but Vincent put himself where he is. The Tran Gang broken up? Your loyal underlings buggered off first chance they got. It’s not about round-eyes or slants, Jimmy. It’s about good guys and bad guys.’
‘Polly want a cracker?’ Tran sucked at a straw near his head. ‘They trained you well, didn’t they?’
‘I still can’t work out why you guys couldn’t divvy up the spoils. Boom state. Plenty for everybody. Turf wars are just so last-century, Jimmy.’
‘Don’t think I never tried, mate.’ Tran cleared his throat. ‘It’s funny how your colleagues – the late Mr Graham, most of the Gangs guys, the undercovers – all found it easier to reach “accommodations” with the Apaches but they never thought to see if I was up for any deals. I’m a smart fellow, a deep thinker. I can grease the palm of a dirty cop as well as the next gangster. I guess my face didn’t fit, eh?’ Tran laid his head back against the pillow like all the words had tired him out. ‘Sound familiar Cato-san?’
‘No,’ Cato lied.
‘You know it was me that let Santo know he’d been blown?’
‘You? How come?’
‘I heard, via one of my Northbridge associates, a few days before the murder. Graham must have been behind it. Leaking left, right and centre. Either he was hoping I’d kill Santo for him or he was planting it as a motive for when he came after me later.’
‘And?’
‘I sat on it for a day or two then summoned Santo to meet me in the club that night. We did our ... business, as usual. Then I told him somebody had dobbed on him.’
‘What did Santo say?’
‘Nothing, just looked a bit crook. By then Graham must have assumed I wasn’t going to do what he wanted when he wanted. His little African hit man must have been Plan B.’
‘You never raised this earlier.’
‘Didn’t work it out until later. Got plenty of time to think lying here.’
It made sense: Graham was capable of having Santo killed but getting the Trans to do it first would have been a good move.
‘Would you have killed Santo eventually?’
‘Maybe, probably. First I wanted to try to use the knowledge over him. Col was obviously too impatient. Must’ve had a deadline.’
Cato waved a hand at the medical paraphernalia. ‘Anyway I came here to say sorry for this. It wasn’t intended.’
Tran studied him for a second. ‘I can see that. Pity you didn’t shoot straight and put me out of my misery.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I guess that’s what they call karma.’
Cato had no reply. Seeing Jimmy Tran trapped in this limbo, once again the story of Tantalus came to mind. Greed. Blood sacrifice. And now the punishment: everything just beyond reach.
‘You know they intend to finish us off don’t you?’ said Tran.
‘How do you mean?’
‘For good. They’ve already marked Vincent in Casuarina. He’s on his own and the screws aren’t going to help him.’
‘Protective custody?’
‘What, with the child rapists and the psychos in the Boneyard?’
‘The nail-gun thing should tick a few boxes.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Cato gave the matter some thought. He didn’t like how the Apaches were getting it nearly all their own way, and Karina Ford would attest that they easily matched the Trans for viciousness. He came up with a suggestion. Cato as Cupid, the matchmaker. He preferred not to think too much about the possible consequences but karma moves in mysterious ways. If the prison bikies went looking for trouble, they could have it.
Vincent Tran was aware that the showers had emptied in the last thirty seconds and realised that his time must be at hand. Steam hung in the air, taps and showerheads dripped, water ran down plugholes. Condensation beaded the off-white tiles. There was the squeak of trainers on wet ceramic.
‘Vinnie.’
It was the bikie they called Kenny, with a lump of metal unscrewed from the exercise bike in the gym. He was with a friend. What was his name again? Danny, yes Danny, and he had something sharp. Vincent stood naked before them. Instinctively he cupped his genitals, closed his eyes, and waited for the end.
There was a gurgling sound. When Vincent opened his eyes he saw Danny on the floor of the showers with something sticking out of his neck and a crimson geyser spouting forth. Kenny had disappeared. A short wiry African stepped out of the mist with a friendly smile and offered his hand for shaking.
‘I am Dieudonne, it means “gift from God”. I think we are going to be great friends.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to Michael Rowson, Greg Balfour, and Rex Haw of the Western Australian Police Service for showing me the delightful yellow decor of the Fremantle Detectives offices and answering my sometimes silly questions about the finer aspects of life on the thin blue line. Likewise Brian Cowie of the WA Department of Corrective Services for the tour of Casuarina Prison. Anything that is right is down to them – anything that is wrong is all my own work. Thanks also to Jim McGinty for some clarifications on certain points of law and to Dr Isaac Harvey for showing me what kind of damage you can do with a ballpoint pen. I owe a Fat Yak to early reader Dave Whish-Wilson for his timely wisdom and encouragement.
Undying gratitude as always to Georgia Richter for editorially steering me through the turbulent seas of the second novel. Also to Conor McCarthy and Naama Amram for insightful feedback along the way. To Clive Newman, Claire Miller and everyone else at Fremantle Press, thanks heaps for looking after me and making me feel at home. As ever, my wife Kath and my son Liam should be granted sainthood for putting up with those many periods of me staring blankly into space. Usually it was because I was trying to think great criminal and literary thoughts.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alan Carter was born in Sunderland in the United Kingdom. He holds a degree in Communication Studies from Sunderland Polytechnic and immigrated to Australia in 1991 where he now works as a television documentary director. Alan’s first novel Prime Cut was shortlisted for the UK Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award 2010 and received a Ned Kelly in 2011 for Best First Book. Getting Warmer is the second novel in the Cato Kwong series. Alan lives in Fremantle with his wife Kath and son Liam.
First published in Australia by Fremantle Press in 2013
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
Michael O’Mara Books Limited
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Copyright © Alan Carter, 2013
This electronic edition published in 2014
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ISBN: 978-1-78243-285-2 paperback
ISBN: 978-1-78243-263-0 ebook
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Cover design by Ally Crimp
Cover photograph by Daniel Graig, Matsu Photography
Map by Chris Crook, Country Cartographics