by Berry, Tony
‘I suppose the lazy sod has slept in again.’
No one responded. They did as they usually did and let her rants pass overhead. They bowed their heads back over their desks, feigning busyness rather than attract her attention. Natalie’s forays into the outer office were the stuff of legend and routine. She would rampage between the desks, barking orders, picking through files, ordering empty coffee cups to be removed, demanding tidier workstations and often voicing out loud what seemed to be an internal monologue of things to do and appointments to keep. On much rarer and milder occasions she had been known to pass a compliment on a hairstyle or a dress, or show concern about a person’s health or even that of a sick relative. Today’s performance was what one previous clerk had labelled a level-10 cyclone day, one on which no one knew which way the storm was heading. Again she roared as she stepped into her corner office.
‘Someone go and find the useless prick.’
Heads turned and furtive looks were exchanged; a silent debate whirled around the room over who would accept responsibility for finding the missing Tongan. The relief was palpable when they heard the clang of the metal door leading into the warehouse and Fokisi strolled into the room. Another decision had been avoided. Fokisi sensed the mood immediately and sidled up to the nearest clerk.
‘Trouble?’
He winked at the young woman. ‘The bitch on heat again?’
The woman wriggled uncomfortably on her chair and brushed strands of pink-dyed hair off her brow to lay them back among others of turquoise and black. She gave Fokisi a brief complicit smile.
‘Raving mad. Probably forgot to take her pills.’
Fokisi smiled. He laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
‘Don’tcha worry,’ he whispered. ‘Not a problem. I’ll sort her. It’s not pills she needs.’
He gave her another wink and walked on into Natalie’s office without a knock on the door or a pause at the entrance. He was on a high; hadn’t even needed a couple of those little tablets that kept him bright-eyed and fired up after a long night at the Cat’s Whiskers. Today was his day. No more playing tomcat and whipping boy for this screaming nympho of a boss. No more jumping when she said “jump” or putting the boot into a total stranger whose face didn’t fit. If he played his cards right and did what that Bromo chap wanted, he would see an end to running dodgy errands with bulky packages that Natalie assured him were “only little gifts” for regular customers. Yeah right; believe that and you would believe Tonga could host the Rugby World Cup. It was odds-on that one day the cops would catch him red-handed with one of her packages and that would be the end of any chance of bringing the wife and kids to join him in Australia. Yes, today was going to be his day. He squared his shoulders and flashed her a smile.
‘You looking for me?’
‘Of course I bloody was. Where the hell have you been? I couldn’t get my car into the garage because the security system’s jammed.’
Fokisi held back a smirk. It wouldn’t do to appear too triumphant this early in the day. He opted for the meek and apologetic look.
‘Sorry boss. Probably my fault. I’ve been checking it and making a few adjustments. It should be okay now.’
And you wouldn’t know how okay, he thought. But you will.
‘I’ll run your car into the garage and give the security system another test.’
She handed him her car keys. He assumed his explanation had been accepted and turned to go. There were still things he needed to do without her watching over him. He heard her calling after him as he closed the door. Something about checking everything was right for that delivery and a pick-up due after-hours tonight. And he’d better make sure he stayed back to help her. Yeah, yeah, whatever. He hadn’t forgotten. The usual procedure. All under control, especially so today. Everything was going to plan and he had already sent a confirming text message to the Perkins man.
Fokisi pushed open the door to the warehouse and slid aside the grille into the storeroom with its shelf upon shelf of neatly labelled boxes. All legit, all properly accounted for as the front office staff processed orders from its catalogue of Corporate Gifts for Discerning Businesses. Not like the packages in the small room over in the corner with its padlock and keypad; a converted washroom or cleaner’s cupboard by the look of it. He remembered how poor little Tamsyn Chong had been doing a stock-take of the stuff on the shelves and had called it nothing but expensive junk for tax dodgers just as Natalie emerged from the corner room. She had caught Tamsyn rifling through one of the boxes of fluffy toys, taking them out and playing with them. He recalled the blazing row as Natalie had ripped into the cowering Tamsyn and then there had been that terrible mix-up over a drop-off to one of their VIP clients. Fokisi shook his head to erase the memory. It had been one of those terrible “if only” days: if only he had had the guts to stand up to Natalie; if only he had not waited until now to tell someone about the murderous instructions he had heard her giving to that thug Fazal Bundy. If only …
Again he shook his head to rid himself of the memories and regrets. He walked over to the corner box room and held the keypad for a few moments, pushing at numbers and opening and closing the lock. From his top pocket he took a remote control about the size of a pack of cigarettes and performed a similar routine. With his finger on the remote he raised the roller door and stepped into the large concrete parking bay. Quickly he used Natalie’s keys to fire the ignition on her car and drive it in under cover. He clicked open the bonnet and briefly tugged at the wiring before slamming the lid back down. One more press of the remote closed roller door.
He took a final look around. Everything was as he had promised it would be.
FORTY-TWO
THE day passed in a fretful haze of dozing, bleary-eyed wakefulness and half-finished mugs of coffee. In between, Bromo paced to and fro across the room’s tiled floor and made pensive scribblings on the pad of foolscap notepaper that added to his irritation by repeatedly sliding down between the cushions of the settee.
He felt weary and cranky and wanted to be neither. But there seemed to be no easy alternative. A good unbroken sleep was a distant memory and his mind couldn’t find the “off” switch. He wanted to get things moving, to see an end to the havoc swirling around him and set his life back on an even keel. He fretted and fumed, knowing he had to curb his impatience; to rush in now would be fatal.
The house was silent apart from the quiet thrum of the washing machine in the far corner beneath the kitchen bench. Liz had gone out – again. Bromo suspected the several excursions she had already made had little to do with necessity but were more likely linked to his ratty mood. He sympathised; he wished he could get away from himself, too.
Again he slumped back on to the settee and stretched out. He flicked through the crumpled pages of the Age but found little to hold his interest. He had already skimmed the headlines and filled in most of the squares of the crossword. Only two clues remained to be solved but his brain was not in a sufficiently cryptic mode.
He picked up the notepad and tore off the top two pages containing his mass of earlier jottings. Slowly he went through them and began transcribing everything in neat order on to the clean sheet. Check, double check and check again were his watchwords for success. And even then he knew that Murphy’s Law still tended to prevail. It had done so in spades on that frightful night in Sofia so many missions ago and he was well aware it could happen again, planning or no planning. Old scenes played on the screen of his mind and he began to drift off. He heard a door opening slowly, cautiously, and he snapped awake. He twisted around in his seat, every nerve suddenly alert.
Liz closed the door behind her and stepped towards him. She slid off a dark green beret set rakishly on her head and ran a hand up through the mass of copper ringlets. She gave her head a vigorous shake to set them free and smiled.
‘Feeling any better?’
Bromo grunted.
‘Was that a yes or a no?’
/>
‘Sorry Liz. You took me by surprise. I’m okay.’
‘Just okay, or really okay?’
He managed a brief smile and ran his hands over his face.
‘I’ll survive. Let’s just get tonight over and done with and I’ll be a changed man.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘It had better be. Anything would be better than the one we’re stuck with at present.’
He knew better than to react; she was winding him up, rattling his cage in that gentle teasing way he secretly enjoyed.
He picked up the notepad and tapped it with a pen.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said and threw her a quick doubting glance, still assessing his judgment, reluctant to involve her in anything even remotely dubious or dangerous. Liz stood with arms folded, playing the waiting game, her whole manner suggesting she knew what was to come but refusing to urge him on; waiting patiently for him to proceed.
‘It would help to have another driver,’ he said.
‘If that’s your way of asking me to do it, the answer’s yes.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course.’
‘No problems?’
‘None. Just try stopping me.’
‘You’d be well clear before things hot up.’
She dropped her arms to her side in exasperation.
‘For God’s sake, Bromo, shut up and get on with it. Show me what you want me to do.’
The frown lines on his brow faded. He felt his tension ease and he patted the seat beside him. Liz gathered the folds of her skirt in behind her and sat down. Their legs touched as she leaned in to study his sheet of paper. Briefly he was distracted by her closeness and edged his thigh tight against hers. He felt a tremor but if Liz was aware of it she gave no sign. Instead she took hold of the sheet of paper between thumb and forefinger and pulled it towards her.
‘So what’s the plan?’ she said.
Bromo steered his concentration back to his timetable for the hours ahead but let his thigh stay right where it was. It was the sort of comforting feeling he needed at this time of stress; somewhat unsettling perhaps, but nicely so. He extracted his pen from where it had fallen between the cushions and used it as a pointer while he talked. Occasionally he made a doodle, mostly circles touching circles and trailing down the page with wavy lines connecting them, like a dyslexic scientist’s explanation of DNA and the double helix.
Liz nodded in agreement with each point he made. There was little to discuss or question as he ran down the list. It was all set out in logical sequence with each step dovetailed into the next. She had seen many such presentations as she sat around boardroom tables or joined in on council planning deliberations. They always looked foolproof on paper; it was in the implementation that they tended to fall apart. She waited until he had finished and noted his almost smug smile of conviction as the operation reached its theoretical inevitable conclusion. He needed to be let down lightly. Such self-belief required gentle handling.
‘Excellent,’ she said.
She took a long, deep breath and paused to choose her words carefully.
‘Beautifully clear and concise. I like the way everything slots together. You seem to have thought of everything.’
Again she paused. Her words seemed to hang in the air between them. She was reluctant to proceed. Bromo gave a half turn of his head, one eyebrow raised, the question clear but so far unstated. He was urging her to continue.
‘And …?’
Liz dropped her gaze and her eyes focused on the sheet of paper. It all looked so convincing.
‘Well …’ she said.
‘Go on, Liz; let’s have it.’
He sounded calm. It was the voice of a man in the dock who has pleaded guilty and merely awaits the sentence he knows is his due. Liz gave him a rueful grin, an acknowledgment he had tuned in to her thoughts. She picked up the notepad and held it between both hands.
‘It’s great,’ she said, ‘in theory – and that’s the trouble. That’s what frightens me. I see so many presentations where everything looks so bloody good and then six months down the track we are confronted by an almighty great mess.’
She placed the notepad back on the table and began tapping it with the palm of one hand, a staccato accompaniment to what she had to say. Her words started coming out in a torrent.
‘This could be the same. There’s no allowance for error. We are dealing with people, not with machines that can be programmed. They are erratic. They stuff up. They all have different ways of coping with the situations that you’ve set out here. They go off on a tangent; don’t react the way you expect them to. These notes about guns, explosives … it’s very, very scary. Someone could get hurt, killed even.’
Her voice trailed off. She raised her eyes to his and saw a look she had not seen before. Behind the rumpled and bumbling curmudgeon she loved to tease and bait there now appeared to be someone younger, decisive and full of resolve. Bromo reached out a hand and laid it firmly on top of hers.
‘Trust me,’ he said.
She held his look. The resolve she detected earlier still remained. It gave her the reassurance she needed.
‘I’m trying to,’ she said. ‘But don’t do anything stupid. I’ve been to enough funerals of people I care about.’
Bromo kept his hand on hers.
‘Thanks, Liz.’
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. It didn’t seem the right moment to remind her that no one would be risking death if she hadn’t allowed herself to become embroiled in Tamsyn’s murder. Sad as it may be, he knew the girl was simply another dot on the spreadsheet of Melbourne killings and stood every chance of being shelved as another unsolved case until Liz showed her concern. Or was that really so? He ruefully recalled how Dayani and her band of renegades had also helped stir the pot, dragging him deeper and deeper into murky waters until there was no way out but to become involved.
‘Bloody women,’ he muttered as he abruptly stood and rolled his shoulders. There was a nagging stiffness at the base of his neck that seemed to be getting worse by the day and needed easing. He slapped his hands against his hips ‒ meant as a sign of action, although nothing was happening. More an indication of frustration. No wonder his neck was so bloody stiff. He bent his arm for a clear glance at his watch and stepped out across the room.
‘Right, let’s grab some food and a change of clothes. Time’s getting on. Once her slaves have knocked off for the day Fokisi reckons Natalie will be getting ready for a delivery. He’s not sure when, but something tells me this show’s about to begin.’
The trilling of his mobile stopped him mid-stride. Liz grinned as she watched him pull the phone from his pocket.
‘And who says there’s no such thing as ESP?’ she chuckled. ‘One day you’ll believe.’
He wrinkled his face and stuck his tongue out at her. The phone was still ringing.
‘Yes,’ he barked at the caller, his edginess all too apparent.
Liz watched, trying to gauge his emotions as his frown briefly softened at recognition of the caller, then furrowed at what he was being told. Bromo turned and mouthed the word ‘Delia’, identifying the caller. Liz watched as he ran a hand through his hair while bending more into the phone. His mouth firmed into a thin narrow line, a picture of frustration and barely controlled fury as he listened to Delia’s news. The tense silence in the room seemed to go on for ages but in reality lasted only a matter of seconds before Bromo exploded.
‘What do you mean, you had to let them go?’
‘We had no option.’
‘Bollocks!’ It was almost a snarl. ‘Admit it, you’ve stuffed up. What happened to them being persons of interest?’
‘They still are.’
‘So how come they’re back there on the streets?’
‘We don’t have anything to hold them on at the moment.’
‘So mugging me and trying to turn my head into pulp counts for nothing.’
‘A simple assault that has to be handled by the local force.’
Bromo struck his brow with a flattened hand in fury.
‘Unbelievable! A simple assault!’ He was almost yelling. ‘It was anything but simple from where I was standing. Surely you could have pulled some strings.’
‘I tried. Believe me, I really did.’
‘And …?’
‘Top legal representation and a soft-core magistrate. Bailed them to appear again next month.’
‘And you really expect them to turn up?’
‘It’s the system, Bromo. We have to live with it. With any luck we will have something more substantial to charge them with by then.’
‘And Richmond will win the premiership,’ he scoffed.
‘It has happened,’ she reminded him, trying to defuse the situation and carefully omitting to mention how many decades it had been since the flag had flown over the Tigers’ headquarters at Punt Road. It was a wasted effort; he was not to be calmed.
‘Precisely,’ he answered, still curt and with the undercurrent of anger all too obvious.
‘The good news is that we’ve been able to put a trace on them since they left police custody.’
He was not to be fooled.
‘And the bad news is …?’
They both waited, one hesitant with what she had to say, the other poised to cope with an unwanted hitch to his fragile plans.
‘They’ve gone to ground at the warehouse.’
‘You mean Global Marketing, Natalie Cordoza’s place?’
He spat out the words but already knew the answer.
‘Yes.’
‘Shit.’
Bromo recalled Liz’s pessimistic comment about how things that looked perfect on paper could so easily translate into disaster. The odds had suddenly swung the other way. It was like turning up at Flemington to find the dead cert he’d been persuaded to back at the TAB was actually a three-legged donkey. By letting the thugs go free, they had cast Fokisi in the role of the donkey and only shooting all the other runners would get them their money back.