by Berry, Tony
Jason swept aside a heavy brocade curtain suspended from a brass rail and led the way into a vaulted room that was more barn than bar. Music with indecipherable words and a heavy bass beat boomed out from several speakers suspended from high in the rafters. Deep leather lounge chairs, some single seat but mostly doubles, were spread around the room. The decor was glitz and mirrors, a tawdry mix of Arabian Nights and a misguided designer’s concept of some stuffy men’s club at the top end of Collins Street that, even if it worked, was well out of step with the testosterone-laden buffoons that formed its main clientele.
Barely-dressed girls on ankle-wrenching heels strode around the room luring the leering customers into paying inflated prices for the drinks on their trays. A tag team of bare-breasted women in minuscule g-strings took turns at gyrating mechanically around brass poles erected on four-metre high platforms, one in each corner of the room. They seemed oblivious to the raucous guffaws and obscenities flowing from the clusters of ogling men circling their stages. A gallery level running around three-quarters of the main room consisted of alcoves containing long deep-seated sofas and with thick drapes that could close them off to hide those seated within.
Bromo did a quick scan of the room and heaved a sigh.
‘I need a drink, Jase. I’m too old for all this.’
‘Relax mate. Think of it as a journey to Melbourne’s dark side.’
‘Yeah, but I came without a torch or a map.’
He took another look around the room as Jason elbowed his way to the bar. He had experienced far seedier dives than this in the old days. Spending tedious hours in dark and dingy rooms frequented by life’s bottom-feeders was part of the job description, although not in so many words. Such places were his home-from-home in the old days. There was an odd sort of down-at heel-comfort about them that overrode the lawless and devious nature of their inhabitants. They may been dens of thieves, to say nothing of the killers, racketeers, extortionists, double agents, hookers, fraudsters, pimps and almost every other miscreant who lived by their wits and villainy, but they offered a strange protective sense of camaraderie. He had never felt unsafe or threatened. It was out on the streets and in the boardrooms and bedrooms where the real danger lurked. But there was nothing homely or familiar about the room he was now in. Bromo sensed the air crackling with violence. He felt a single misplaced look or word or an accidental bump could see the whole place explode. Too many eyes were bright with something other than alcohol. Muscles bulging beneath tight t-shirts owed more to chemicals than exercise. There was an edginess underscoring the apparent joviality. It had increased as more women had come into the bar. The women were mainly in groups of twos and threes, eyes casting around the room, hands tugging at the hems of their short, tight skirts, arms folded beneath the revealing cleavage of low-cut blouses. They were willing prey but were being choosy about who did the hunting.
Jason appeared at Bromo’s side holding two opened bottles of beer. Bromo looked at the bottles and then at Jason, eyebrows raised.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s called beer, mate. I’m not paying what these bastards are asking for one of your fancy scotches. Take it or leave it.’
Bromo took one of the bottles and tilted it to one side to read the label.
‘No glass?’
Jason let out a bellow of a laugh.
‘God, you’re unbelievable at times. Neck it, like everyone else.’
Bromo smiled and put the bottle to his lips.
‘Sorry Jase, but I couldn’t resist winding you up. I have had a beer or two in my time and even straight from the bottle.’
Jason nudged him in the ribs and tipped his bottle forward.
‘Over there. Our man’s arrived.’
Bromo looked in the direction indicated by Jason’s bottle. Fokisi stood at the end of the bar nearest the door. He was bending forward listening to a short, swarthy man while trying to pin his security guard’s tag to the lapel of his coat. The man, who was wearing a black business suit, black shirt and a gaudy patterned tie, kept stabbing his forefinger in Fokisi’s chest to drive home whatever it was he was telling him.
‘The boss and his bully boy,’ muttered Bromo.
He took a few steps in Fokisi’s direction, threading his way warily through clusters of drinkers. He was aware of Jason looming close behind. He turned his head slightly and spoke from the corner of his mouth.
‘Better get closer, ready to move in when boss man’s finished.’
He felt Jason’s hand on his shoulder; a gentle squeeze of acknowledgement. They sidled closer to Fokisi, backs half turned to him but almost touching. Bromo glanced over his shoulder. He watched the man in the suit run a hand back over his bald pate and draw away from Fokisi. His tirade had ended. Fokisi drew back and stretched to his full height, rolling his shoulders and flexing his fingers. Bromo stepped in close and gripped him lightly on the forearm. Jason moved close in support.
Fokisi spun round, alert and ready for trouble. His face registered a quick-fire succession of emotions as recognition turned to surprise and finally to alarm.
‘Shit, what the fuck are you doing here?’ he rasped.
‘Nice to know you recognise me without my bike helmet,’ said Bromo. ‘Feeling a touch guilty are we?’
The Tongan relaxed slightly. He was still surprised by Bromo’s presence. This was a man supposedly involved in the airport killings and who Natalie wanted fixed once and for all. But if that little incident with the hit-and-run was all that was upsetting the Perkins man, well that was easily fixed. Like on the rugby pitch, a meaningless handshake and a pat on the back and you could move on to the next high tackle or crippling foul. His voice softened into what he hoped was a contrite mode.
‘Sorry about that. Bit of a mistake. It was only meant to frighten you.’
Fokisi’s admission of guilt and immediate apology surprised Bromo. There was something not quite right. The Tongan had surrendered too easily. The lack of aggression was all wrong. It looked like a cover-up for something else, or someone else, the person giving the orders. He decided to stick to the original plan, hatched that morning around Liz’s kitchen table.
‘You selling?’
Bromo knew at once that he had asked the right question. A nervous look flashed immediately into the Tongan’s eyes. He had glanced quickly at the people crowded nearby. The man was twitchy, on edge.
‘Shit, not here,’ he growled, his mouth hardly open, lips not moving.
‘Where?’
Fokisi’s eyes flicked from side to side. He jerked his head in a nod to somewhere towards his right. Again he spoke in that whispered growl.
‘Over there. Behind the stairs. You go and I’ll follow. One minute.’
Bromo could hardly believe their luck. It had been too easy. As Jason had implied, the man was a simpleton; all brawn and no brain. They did as Fokisi had instructed and found space beneath a wrought iron spiral staircase leading to the balcony of alcoves. The heels of a waitress taking drink to the upper level beat a steady rhythm on the metal steps beside them. Jason gave a leery grin as he looked up to watch her progress.
‘Great view, innit?’
Fokisi had crept into their space, taking them both them by surprise. He had them hemmed in, the wall behind them, his own bulky back shielding them from the room. The anxiety he had shown at the bar seemed to have evaporated.
‘So, who’s buying?’ he asked, back in confident hustler mode. ‘Am I supposed to know you?’
‘I’m buying and names don’t matter,’ said Bromo. ‘Let’s just say you come highly recommended from your mates at the rugby club.’
Fokisi grunted. Bromo took it as a tick of approval. It was one hurdle passed. It meant their story held water. But they needed more.
‘So what have you got?’
Fokisi fumbled with the waistband of his trousers.
‘Depends on what you want.’
He finished fumbling and brought his hands up and unfold
ed them to reveal a sachet of white powder in the left hand, a couple of tablets in the right.
‘I think that will be enough,’ said Bromo. He turned to Jason.
‘Anything else we need?’
‘Nah, seen it all, heard it all.’
Fokisi looked quickly from one to the other, his hands still displaying the drugs.
‘You look confused,’ said Bromo.
Fokisi’s voice rose above a whisper. His words had an anxious edge as they tumbled out.
‘Stop pissing me about. You buying or what?’
Fokisi pushed the two packets back into his waistband. He stepped towards Bromo. His hands flew up ready to hit out as Jason moved between them. Fokisi paused.
‘We’re selling,’ said Bromo. ‘We’re making you an offer too good to refuse unless you want to be sent back home and never step on Australian soil again.’
He gestured towards the Tongan’s waistband.
‘I’d suggest you get rid of those little packets as soon as possible. Before the police come calling.’
Fokisi suddenly dropped his fist to waist level and punched it with full force into Jason’s stomach. Jason winced. Fokisi glared at them
‘You bastards. What are you? Cops, Customs, or the Carlton Crew?’
He was poised to let loose another punch when they heard the click of heels on metal as a waitress began her descent of the stairs. He pulled back, trying to restore a sense of normality, three mates chatting.
‘Good move,’ said Jason.
‘And another good move,’ said Bromo, ‘would be to tell that greasy little turd of a boss that you need a little break before you start work. Tell him a couple of old friends have turned up who want to buy you a drink and talk about old times.’
A look of despair crossed the Tongan’s face.
‘I can’t do that. It’s more than my job’s worth.’
‘Your decision,’ said Bromo. ‘Just think how much a permanent residency is worth.’
He squeezed past the Tongan and out into the main throng.
‘See you outside in ten.’
THIRTY-FIVE
BROMO and Jason strode up King Street, away from the Cat’s Whiskers and its seedy neighbours. They faced a brisk wind that blew discarded newspapers and fast-food wrappers along the footpath. Two plastic drink bottles rolled along the gutter. They paused at the Collins Street corner and peered along the tram tracks towards Spencer Street. They picked out the lights of a tram swaying towards them.
‘Perfect timing. A Number 75,’ said Bromo.
As they stepped aboard Bromo pressed his myki card against the validating machine. There was no response.
‘Stuffed as usual,’ he grouched.
Jason laughed.
‘Why bother? Bloody things haven’t worked since day one. Just enjoy the free ride.’
They jostled their way down the aisle and found two seats opposite an Asian-looking couple clutching cardboard containers of noodles. The girl was slumped against the young man, her head resting on his shoulder, eyes hard shut. The youth stared straight ahead, exhaustion etched deep into a blank look that was focused but unseeing somewhere over Bromo’s left shoulder. Jason looked around, scoping the other passengers. He nudged Bromo in the ribs.
‘Tram load of oriental zombies,’ he said.
Bromo squirmed in his seat. His mate’s assessment was spot-on but embarrassingly loud. All around them were clones of the couple opposite ‒ young Asians slumped in their seats, snatching moments of sleep, holding laptops and folders, backpacks brimming with books, their legs spread-eagled awkwardly into the aisle.
‘Maybe,’ said Bromo, ‘but you don’t have to say it so loudly.’
He knew he would be in a similar zombie-like state if he lived the life of those around him. These were the students who kept the city’s economy strong – studying for extremely long hours while also labouring at sweat shop jobs to help pay the high fees levied on them. Jason shrugged and accepted the rebuke.
‘Yeah, well … bloody place is looking more like Shanghai or Bangkok every day. Where are all the Aussies?’
Bromo decided not to respond. He maintained his silence as the tram swooped down Bridge Road towards Church Street. He reached for the bell and stepped past Jason into the aisle.
‘Thanks for your help tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to your xenophobia.’
Jason looked surprised, as much by Bromo’s departure as by his big word.
‘Hey mate, where d’you think you’re going?’
The tram slowed and started gliding into the stop. Bromo headed for the entrance. He raised a hand to wave a brief farewell over his shoulder but didn’t look back. Jason called out to him.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be staying with the Shapcott bird? For your safety …’
Jason found himself talking to space. His voice tailed off as Bromo stepped into the street.
Bromo heard the words but gave them a deaf ear. He needed his own space. It was all very well for Dayani and her renegades to hint at danger at his own flat and the need for a safe-house but where was the proof? The only time he had been threatened had been all those weeks ago by her own hired messengers. There was a certain lascivious pleasure in sharing the same space as Liz, but deep down he knew that was all built on fragile fantasies. One day maybe …
He took his time crossing the road, waiting first for one set of pedestrian lights and then another before strolling past the pub and turning down the side of the 7-Eleven store into the cul-de-sac leading to his flat. The usual assortment of cars was parked overnight illegally amid the scrub and broken-down fences over to his right. The security light over the shop’s delivery yard flashed on and he began fumbling in his pocket for his keys. Ten paces further on and an automatic timer switched the light off and Bromo was back in the shadows of the apartment block’s high walls.
Old reflex actions rushed to his aid as heard the warning whoosh of something hard and heavy coming from somewhere close behind. He ducked to one side and seconds later felt a numbing blow on his upper arm. His assailant stumbled forward, thrown off balance by Bromo’s action. Bromo doubled up and staggered sideways, suddenly aware a second person was rushing up behind him. He glimpsed something in the man’s hand – a club or baton – and turned his shoulder in his attacker’s direction. The man’s impetus was too great for him to stop or sidestep. Bromo felt a satisfying impact hard to the man’s midriff, followed by a sudden gasp and the sound of the club falling to the ground. Suddenly there were people running everywhere; lights blazed on from the parked cars, voices shouted, another car screeched into the cul-de-sac, blue lights flashing from its roof.
‘Another quiet night in Richmond, mate?’
Bromo, still bent double, hands on knees as he tried to regain his breath, looked up into the smiling face of Sergeant Grant Mayfield. Bromo slowly unfolded himself and massaged the arm where he had been hit.
‘You know me, Grant, a peaceful citizen quietly going about his business.’
‘Funny business, more likely. Come on, let’s get you checked over.’
Bromo gave him a wary look.
‘What’s this, the new caring and sharing Sergeant Mayfield? Must be a strain on the psyche.’
Mayfield grunted and placed a hand in the centre of Bromo’s back to guide him towards a cluster of uniformed and plainclothes police. Bromo noted two men being held face down over the bonnet of a police car, their hands handcuffed behind them. He recognised neither of them. Police wearing blue hygienic gloves were patting them down. Two medics, one a tall dark-haired female and the other a short, spiky blond-haired male, sauntered over and stopped in front of Bromo. The female looked him up and down.
‘How ya feeling?’
‘Fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Just a bruise or two.’
‘Perhaps we should check you over.’
Bromo shrugged and ignored the spasm of pain that seared through his upper arm.
‘Last chance; the offer’s there.’
‘Save it for someone who needs it. You’ll have plenty of road kill to keep you busy before the night’s out.’
The medics exchanged glances. They flicked a smile in Bromo’s direction and strolled back to the waiting ambulance. As they closed the rear doors a corner of the car park was no longer cut off from Bromo’s view. To his surprise he could see Jason standing off to one side watching a man in jeans and black leather bomber jacket make notes on a clipboard. The time and place were all wrong; Jason should be well and truly at his own place by now. Bromo felt disoriented; perhaps he should have talked to the medics.
He rolled his neck and shook his head to ease the stiffness and pain. It didn’t work. The cluster of police was breaking up. Bromo remembered the old techniques. He closed his eyes and tried to focus, concentrating on breathing deeply in and out, in and out, in and out …
‘Perhaps this will help.’
A bottle of water was thrust into his hands. Delia Dunstan was facing him. She stood with legs slightly apart and hands on hips like some gunslinger from the Old West ready to shoot. He took a long steady look at her. There was no warm smile; this was her official look. But he convinced himself he saw the hint of a friendly sparkle in her eyes. He decided nothing had changed; she was every bit as gorgeous as he had remembered her over all the intervening months.
Her sudden presence was doing nothing for his equilibrium. Physical trauma he could handle but the rising emotional turmoil was harder to cope with. He fumbled for words.
‘Thanks. Good to see you.’
‘Yes, well, I guess we got here just in time.’
Her lips remained set firm, strictly business, no glimmer of a smile.
‘I suppose you’ll tell me you just happened to be in the area.’
‘You’ve got your friend Jason to thank. He knew you’d been warned to stay away from here and phoned Sergeant Mayfield as soon as you insisted on getting off the tram. And Mayfield contacted us. We weren’t far away. We had our reasons to be here. End of story.’