by Berry, Tony
Bromo glanced out to his left. CJ was cautiously negotiating the warren of short narrow streets crammed in between Coppin Street and Burnley Street. In recent memory this was the very heart of what was rightly known as “Struggletown” but now it was peppered with renovated cottages selling for close to a million dollars. Familiar territory, perhaps too familiar, he thought as CJ took one more tricky corner, scraping past a parked car, and he realised precisely where he was.
‘No, no, no!’ he screeched. ‘Not here. What are you idiots playing at?’
Dayani twisted around to face him.
‘This is your home for now,’ she smiled.
Bromo slammed his hand down hard on the back of the seat. He felt Duptha and Rani rousing themselves alongside him.
Dayani showed no reaction to his rant. She kept smiling.
‘We’re looking after you Bromo. You need rest and security. We don’t think you’ll find those at home. Your own place is being watched. This is a safe house.’
He put his hands to his head in exasperation.
‘Yes, yes, but … that’s all very well …’ he gasped, ‘this is—’
‘Yes, we know. It’s Liz Shapcott’s home and—’
‘And you’re involving her in your dirty business.’
Dayani reached out and gently held his lower arm.
The car hardly slowed. It jolted to a brief halt as CJ drove it up on to the narrow strip of footpath and parked outside the anonymous brick wall of one of the suburb’s many former factories. As the wheels bumped up on to the pavement Dayani reached across and flung Bromo’s door open. Rani opened the rear door and dumped Bromo’s bag on the footpath, where it toppled over, wheels still spinning. Bromo scarcely had time to squeeze out, edging sideways, between the car and the wall of Liz’s house than the car was off again. CJ hit the horn. One sharp toot. The solid wooden gate eased open and Liz peered out and glanced warily to either side. Bromo sensed her anxiety and caution and realised she must have been alert and waiting their arrival.
Liz acknowledged Dayani with a quick wave as the car gathered speed to the nearby corner and did a quick right-hand turn to wherever they had their hideout.
Bromo felt Liz’s hand in the small of his back as she wheeled his bag and nudged him forward into the courtyard. She slid the bolts across behind him. It was the touch of urgency rather than the familiarity he always hoped for,
‘Come on, let’s get you indoors.’
‘And good to see you, too,’ he said. ‘What’s the rush?’
There was no answer. She stepped quickly on bare feet across the pavers edged by flowering shrubs in large ceramic pots and in through the wall of sliding glass doors to the vast space she called her haven. She slid the doors closed behind him and snibbed the latch. Bromo took his carry-on case and parked it alongside a long leather settee. He gave what he hoped was a stern look.
‘Was this your idea?’
She shrugged in a way that avoided the question – a non-committal bit of body language. He guessed the answer before it came.
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ she said.
He sensed her caution.
‘It always does. And now?’
She repeated the quick movement of her shoulders, giving nothing away, her face flickering into the briefest of smiles.
‘We’ll see.’
It was the old cat-and-mouse show, the game they had played so often in the past yet never letting it run to full time, both too wary of where it might lead. Liz gestured towards an open staircase spiralling to the upper level.
‘The guestroom’s made up. You’ll find everything you need.’
‘Everything?’
He couldn’t help himself and Liz knew it. She let it pass.
‘Take your time. I’ll get us something to eat.’
The “something” transpired as a long oval platter of cold meats, a large glass bowl of Greek salad and a wooden board on which sat three chunks of different cheeses edged by dry biscuits and slices of dark rye bread. Bromo shuffled across to the table, his body refreshed by a strong shower but his mind still frazzled and weary. Liz indicated a cluster of bottles.
‘Sorry, but there’s no Lagavulin, only Laphroaig. Or a rough red.’
Bromo picked up the bottle of malt and poured a copious slug.
‘Guess I’ll have to make do with second best,’ he said. ‘Story of my life. But it’s a close second in this case.’
He raised his glass.
‘Here’s to the also-rans.’
Liz forked some of the meat on to a plate and spooned some salad alongside. She poured a glass of wine and arranged everything on a low table as she sank back into a leather lounge.
‘Are they the same as the underdogs?’
Bromo took a slow sip of his whisky and thought for a few moments.
‘Probably not,’ he replied. ‘The also-rans may have the occasional win but there’s little hope for the other lot.’
‘Pessimist.’
Bromo shrugged. That’s how it was, although it didn’t mean you had to give up without a fight. The war may never be won but there were plenty of battles where victory was possible and could wreak havoc on the enemy. He glanced at Liz as he twirled a couple of pieces of ham around his fork and dropped them on to his plate. She seemed to be concentrating on her food. He picked up a chicken drumstick and cut off a slice of camembert before gulping back the remains of his scotch and pouring a fresh glass of wine. He moved to sit alongside her.
‘Trouble is the bastards never let you go.’
Liz reached out towards him and rested a hand gently on his arm.
‘I feel kind of responsible. It was me who dragged you into this mess … all that business with Tamsyn … the thugs at Mr Jacowiscz’s … the hoons who knocked you off your bike ... and now all this …’
Her voice trailed off. She moved her hand away and waved it vaguely in front of her. He gnawed on the drumstick and turned his head in her direction.
‘All what?’
She snapped back, her voice full of exasperation.
‘Stop it, Bromo! Stop playing games. Do you think I don’t know why you’re here? I’ve talked to Dayani. This isn’t one of your social calls when you can’t be bothered cooking for yourself. I’ve listened to the radio, watched TV. It’s everywhere. I mean all that business at the airport – men being killed, guns, murder, getaway cars, people in disguises, the whole damned shooting match if you’ll forgive the pun.’
‘No way, the puns are my department.’
‘Stop it, stop it, stop it!’
She slammed her glass down on the table, ripples of wine splashing over the rim. Her voice rose higher.
‘Stop being so damned flippant, Bromo! This is serious.’
She paused mid-rant and bowed her head into her hands, covering her face, breathing deeply. He stopped eating and let the impact of her words sink in. She was right, although he knew no other way of coping. He extended his arm towards her and gently took a hand down from her face.
‘Sorry, Liz. You’re right; it’s bloody serious. For you, for me, for Dayani and her mates, and a whole lot of other people, including my own daughter. And I’m scared shitless.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
BROMO slumped back against the arm of the lounge, his legs extended, shoes off. He felt exhausted. It had taken nearly an hour to bring Liz fully up to date with all that had happened over the past few days. He was weary of her persistent questioning; it made him feel as if he was back at HQ, facing the inner sanctum panel at the end of a mission. At times, she was even harder going than those inquisitors with her endless probing and random queries. There was none of the routine and systematic Q&A of the professionals; she wandered off on tangents and sought details he thought mundane. If only he could sleep.
‘So where to now?’
Her words jerked him awake. He realised his eyes had briefly closed; he had slumped even further down the lounge. Almost horizontal. A
sleeping position. If only ...
He rubbed a knuckled fist into his eyes, massaging them into action. He had to keep going; there was no knowing how long it would be before the homicide squad picked up their trail and started knocking on doors. Once that happened they had little hope of tracing the diamond traffickers and stamping out their illicit business.
He struggled up into a sitting position and bent forward, forearms on knees, fingers clasped. At least he wouldn’t doze off in this pose. He flexed his fingers.
‘Well, Liz, the way I see it—’
Bromo stopped mid-sentence as he felt the vibration of his phone before it changed mode to sound the arrival of an incoming text. He scrolled the screen across. It contained two words: “Progress? Blood.”
‘Impatient bastard,’ muttered Bromo.
Liz leaned towards him, eyes on the phone’s screen.
‘Who?’
‘My new lord and master. The people I’ve been telling you about. They’re looking for results but don’t seem to realise I’m not a bloody time-traveller. Anyhow, as I was saying, the way I see it we can’t go to the police until we have something concrete and I’m certainly not going to own up to being anywhere near the airport this morning.’
‘What about the lovely Delia?’
Bromo looked up at Liz, wondering whether it was a shot in the dark or if she had overheard his earlier brief and unproductive phone call prodding Delia for information about the mayhem at the airport. He tried assessing her words – a comment, a barb, a hint of jealousy? Who ever knew with women? He decided not to bite; to play it straight. He shrugged.
‘Who knows? Delia’s aware there’s something going on and that’s all I can get out of her at the moment.’
‘All?’
Again he studied her, noted the teasing smile and the laugh lines. He let it go.
‘All,’ he confirmed, deadpan. He drew breath, went to reach for his glass and thought better of it.
‘Then there’s Dayani and her crew,’ he continued. ‘We have to stop them taking things into their own hands, running round knocking off the opposition as if they’re fighting the Tamil Tigers. This is Richmond, not the jungles of Trincomalee.’
‘Yes,’ said Liz. ‘Our own concrete jungle where we let the crims and cops loose to kill each other off.’
‘Okay, same difference,’ conceded Bromo.
He ran a hand back through his hair then put thumb and forefinger to his ear, rubbing the lobe furiously between them. Stressed again. He had to sleep. His other hand was still clutching his mobile phone. It reminded him of Blood’s message: action and results were needed. He had to press on.
‘We have to concentrate on that warehouse where Tamsyn worked,’ he said. ‘We need to look deeper into what the lovely Natalie and Global Products and Marketing do to earn a buck.’
Bromo raised an eyebrow in Liz’s direction.
‘Maybe you can use that influence of yours and lean on a few people at City Hall to see what’s hidden away in the files.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ said Liz. She drank the last drop of wine in her glass. ‘There’s the little matter of privacy laws to consider.’
‘Bullshit,’ Bromo exploded. ‘That’s simply a bloody great smokescreen they set off to stop ratepayers sticking their noses in and finding out what’s really going on. I know and you know the place leaks like Brumby’s useless pipeline. Look at its history of corruption and double-dealing, and it’s still going on.’
Liz reached out and laid a hand on his arm, stemming his outburst.
‘Okay, calm down. You’re probably right—’
‘Of course I’m right,’ he interrupted.
‘I repeat, you’re probably right, and I’ll see what I can do. There are a couple of people who owe me a favour or two.’
Bromo harrumphed and give his ear another rub. Of course he was right. He had only to open the local papers to confirm things were far from what they should be among the local bureaucrats and lawmakers. And that was only what a meek press could unearth; what the journos were fed by skilled manipulators. Deeper probing would reveal a can of worms with more wrigglies than the most thriving compost bin. Somewhere among them was sure to be something more revealing than he had found on his brief visit to Global’s fortress warehouse.
He did a mental re-run of that encounter with Natalie and her gatekeeper, looking for gaps and flaws that might set them off down new lines of enquiry. There was so little to be seen, so few people visible that they might be able to check on or persuade to answer questions. Just Natalie and that mammoth Tongan.
‘That’s it,’ he suddenly let out. ‘The Tongan.’
He sat up straight and began thumbing through the numbers on his phone. He pressed and waited, phone to ear. He got the expected response, a curt ‘Yeah?’
‘Hi Jase, it’s me, Bromo. How’s things?’
‘Good, mate; good.’
‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘Not right now, you’re not. Maybe in another hour or so …’
The voice trailed off. Bromo understood; his plumber friend Jason Conquest was out and about hoping, as he would put it, to get lucky. The big, jovial bachelor boy was on the prowl.
‘Thought you might be able to help with a little problem,’ said Bromo.
Jason’s roar of a laugh buffeted his eardrum.
‘What a surprise. Why else would you be calling? Not another punch-up, I hope.’
Fair comment, thought Bromo. The last two times he had enlisted Jason’s help was more for his brawn than his brain. Both occasions had ended in all-out brawls with angry pimps and a crooked estate agent.
‘Not this time,’ Bromo assured him. ‘At least, not yet. More a matter of information. A bit of sporting insight. You still playing rugby?’
‘Yeah, bloody oath I am.’
‘Ever come across any Tongans?’
‘Plenty. Fearsome buggers. Got their own team in the local comp.’
‘Know anyone called Fokisi?’
Again Jason’s laugh assailed his eardrum.
‘Sure do, mate. Great character. Better known as Fuck Easy, and for very good reasons. One of the best. Hard as a brick shithouse and fast as Phar Lap. He’s …’
There was a sudden lengthy pause at other end of the line. Bromo could almost hear Jason’s brain cells clicking over, assessing the situation. When he spoke his voice had lost its jokey undertone.
‘No Bromo, not that. Count me out now if you’re planning to tangle with Fokisi. We’d need the whole pack of forwards to get him off you, and then some. Stop right there, mate.’
Bromo chuckled.
‘Relax Jase. It’s nothing of the sort. Information; a need to know. Anything you can tell me about him. Background, gossip, rumours – the full monty.’
Bromo heard the slurp of drink being taken; a calming intake of breath. Jason was back on the line.
‘Ah, that’s better; that’s okay then. Shouldn’t be too hard, there’s plenty of stories going around. Okay if I give you a call tomorrow?’
Bromo hesitated. He had perked up and wanted to know now; to get going, put things into motion. But he realised it would have to wait.
‘Thanks Jase. I’ll owe you one.’
‘You still do, from last time.’
The line went dead. Bromo pocketed his phone and wiped the back of his hand across his brow.
‘At least I can tell Blood we’re making progress, even if it’s not much.’
He looked at Liz and put an arm round her shoulder. He felt her bend slightly towards him.
‘I give in,’ he said. ‘I’m pooped. You going to put me to bed?’
She turned her head and smiled. Her lips brushed lightly against his cheek.
‘In your dreams, young man; in your dreams.’
He sighed and stood up, stepping slowly towards the stairs.
‘It was ever thus,’ he said. He touched his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss. ‘Thanks for
everything. Sleep well. Maybe one day …’
TWENTY-NINE
FOKISI flipped open his mobile phone. He checked the number in the message she had sent against the one on the gleaming brass plate fixed high up on the smooth steel entrance door. It was almost unnecessary; he had little doubt this was the right place. The building was so like her: cold, sharp and anonymous, with just a few token curves to alleviate the rigidly straight lines. The century-old, single-storey cottages that sat either side of it were dwarfed by its seven floors of concrete and glass. It was a warning of changes to come; they, too, would eventually be obliterated in Richmond’s relentless destruction of its past.
He looked up at the soft glow of lights in the penthouse, sitting atop the lower levels like the bridge of one of those enormous freighters he had watched ploughing across the bay. She was home and waiting. He felt unusually edgy and nervous; out of his comfort zone. It was the first time he had been to her apartment. Normally everything was closeted in her office ‒ business, and what she insisted on referring to as “the other things”.
Fokisi was unsure what this summons meant. He sensed undertones. The text message said it was urgent that they meet. “Must have update now”, it read. Followed by the address. Then there was the added bit that left him perplexed and nervy: “Need you here NOW”.
She was perpetually needy but until now he had always managed to feed her appetite in business hours, rapidly and urgently behind her locked office door or in the storeroom or the warehouse, once even in the staff canteen across a Formica table while she chewed on a Chiko roll.
She called him her Tongan tiger. But it was only at weekends, when packing down in the scrum with other Pacific islander expats, that he was able to roar and give full vent to the power packed into his huge frame. With her, he was a tamed tiger, meekly doing her bidding, taking orders, following her lines, her beat, her rhythm. He was thinking of those tasks now as he moved cautiously into the building’s entrance with a backward glance over both shoulders. His anxiety was fading, replaced by a ripple of anticipation as he pressed the button for the penthouse.
‘Yes?’
Her voice was sharper and even more brittle on the intercom.