‘Fuckin’ nothing’,’ Lyle said, fresh, thick drool swinging off his chin like toffee. ‘These two arseholes …’
‘Drunk and disorderly, assault police, resist arrest, affray …’ Bakker said. He grabbed some tissues from the sergeant’s desk and wiped his face. ‘And a few more. Reckless endangerment, littering, drinking in a public place, abusive language, malicious damage, threats to kill …’
‘Threats to kill?’ Keeffe said.
‘Assault and battery,’ Cymric said. ‘Lyle was beating up on his wife – in the street. We just happened along.’
‘Shit, not again, Lyle,’ Keeffe said. ‘Isn’t it a bit early in the day for all this?’
Lyle said, ‘I never laid a finger on her. And even if I did – which I didn’t – she asked for it.’
‘You’re a big, strong lad,’ Keeffe said. ‘You shouldn’t go beating up on women. You want to fight, why don’t you go and work out on the heavy bag at Percy Freeland’s gym down in Forde Street? That’s what it’s for.’
‘Ah, what would you know about it,’ Lyle said. ‘You don’t have to live with the bitch – always lyin’ and stealin’, rootin’ around …’
The sergeant covered his face, shook his head.
Lyle continued: ‘And if I do smack her one now and then, it’s her fuckin’ fault for stayin’ around, isn’t it.’
‘All right, book him,’ the sergeant said. ‘She gonna come in and bail you out, Lyle?’
‘Bail me out? Huh. What with? She spent all the fuckin’ money.’
‘Well, you’ll have to do some time then. Get those cuffs off, clean him up and whack him in the cells. You’re a bad man, Lyle.’
‘I’m not a bad man,’ Lyle said. ‘You want a bad man, go get that Yank bloke lives next door to me.’
‘You’ve got a Yank living next door?’ Keeffe said.
‘That’s what I said. Fuckin’ crazy bastard, a killer if ever I seen one. I knock on his door the other night, and he pulls a fuckin’ gun and bashes me over the face with it. See them cuts under me eyes?’
‘I see them,’ Keeffe said. ‘I thought you probably got those in a blue down at the Three Crowns.’
‘No fuckin’ way, man,’ Lyle said.
‘Keep your language down, Lyle. I’d like to know what the circumstances were that led you to knock on this person’s door. What time of night was it?’
‘Don’t know. Late.’
‘Late as in, two, three a.m.?’
‘Somethin’ like that. What’s that got to do with it?’
‘And I take it you’d had your fair share of bevvies by then.’
‘Maybe. So fuckin’ what?’
‘I told you to watch your language, Lyle. You’re not down the pub now. I put it to you that you were tired and emotional as a newt when you knocked on that door, and you wouldn’t have known the difference if he’d waved his tool at you.’
The two uniformed cops laughed. But underneath Bakker was still seething; he ached to give Lyle a bruising he’d remember in his old age – if he lived that long.
Lyle said: ‘Oh, yeah. That’s right, that’s right, treat the black man like shit as usual. He had a big fuckin’ handgun, I’m tellin’ you. Why can’t you people …’
‘Okay,’ Keeffe said. ‘Can you give us a description?’
‘The handgun?’
‘The man.’
‘I dunno. He was white.’
‘That narrows it down. Can you provide any other details?’
‘Whattaya need a description for? He was white, I tell you – fuckin’ white Yank.’
Keeffe said: ‘Listen, Lyle. How many times have you been pulled in here? How many?’
‘I don’t fuckin’ know.’
‘Well, I can look it up if you like. But I’ll tell you right now, it’s a lot of times. Too bloody many. And after a while, we get sick of you. We get sick of listening to your moaning and your bullshit stories, and about how you never done nothin’. Now go and sleep it off, for Christ’s sake. Get him outta here.’
When they’d squared Lyle away, given him a mug of warm, stewed tea and some aspirin, the two cops came out to resume their shift. Area command was currently experimenting with Zero Crime Tolerance, which meant continuous foot patrols and a highly visible police presence on the streets. It made the citizens felt a lot safer, and indeed the number of burglaries, muggings and alcohol-and drug-related offences had decreased markedly since the policy had been put it place. Cops weren’t overly fond of it, though, traipsing around in pairs right through their shift, like the Old Bill in London.
Before Bakker and Cymric had reached the door Keeffe said, ‘Hey. Better go and check out that story of his.’
‘What?’ Bakker said.
‘The American next door.’
Bakker said: ‘Why? You just said it was crap.’
‘That’s right, and it probably is, but … we’d better make sure. Won’t look too good if someone gets shot, and word gets around that we knew about the shooter and did nothing. Would it?’
‘Guess not,’ Bakker said, unconvinced. ‘So what do we do – go in and search the place?’
‘Suss him out,’ Keeffe said. ‘Assess the situation and make a reasoned judgment. Try not to do anything … provocative.’ He was going to use the word ‘stupid’, but thought better of it. Bakker had a wicked temper, and he already had enough shit on his liver from Lyle spitting on him.
‘I love the way Lyle carries on as if he’s one of the brothers around here,’ Bakker said, as they walked.
‘He’s not?’ Cymric said, genuinely surprised.
‘Lyle’s a Nigerian,’ Bakker said. ‘He’s as much a brother as you are, mate. But he seems to have been accepted into the fold.’
‘Now you mention it, he does have a bit of a twang. I’ve always assumed he was an Aborigine,’ Cymric said.
‘Well, he’s not. He’s your actual African. Where are you from, anyway? Cymric … what’s that – Yugoslav?’
‘Close. Slovenian.’
Bakker shook his head. ‘Mate. Slovenian, Yugoslav … bloody Macedonian. Albanian. It’s all the same to me. Heads on ’em like mice over there. So what’s the difference between a Slovenian and a Yugoslav on a good day?’
‘What’s the difference between an Australian and a New Zealander?’
Bakker gave a mocking laugh. ‘Mate, if you don’t know that, there’s no hope for you. New Zealander? You’ve got to be fucking joking, Henry. All you get from them is cheese, and drug dealers. Particularly the latter.’
‘My name’s not Henry,’ Cymric said, for about the hundredth time since he’d known Bakker.
‘I know that. Christ. Get over it, will you?’
When they got to the house there were no locals around except for three homies, all about twelve years of age, playing soccer in the street. Bakker rapped on the door three times, but there was no response. It had to be the right house, because the one on the other side of Lyle’s was boarded up.
‘He’s not there,’ one of the kids said. He was wearing a Just Do It sweatshirt, baggy yellow jeans that were nearly falling down and spanking new two-hundred-and-fifty dollar Converse trainers.
‘Who isn’t?’ Bakker said. Cymric thought: strange question.
The kid looked momentarily puzzled, then said, ‘The bloke lives there.’
‘What’s his name, do you know?’
‘Nope,’ the kid said. His two mates loitered on the other side of the road.
‘How do you know he’s not here?’ Bakker persisted.
‘Saw him go.’
‘When?’
The kid thought about it. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s he look like?’
The kid shrugged. ‘White.’
Cymric smiled. Bakker shook his head, sucking teeth. ‘Good one, Henry. Guess I asked for that. How come you kids aren’t at school, anyway?’
‘We don’t have to go today.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a teachers’ conf’ence.’
‘Is it now,’ Bakker said. ‘Lucky teachers. Come on,’ he said to Cymric. ‘Fuck this. Let’s go and get a coffee and something to eat at Hungry Jack’s around the corner.’
When they arrived, Cymric held the door open for a man on his way out. He was munching a burger and paid no attention to the two cops. ‘And thank you, sir,’ Bakker said as they went on in.
‘Thank you, assholes,’ the man said to himself when he was on the street. He was wearing a Titleist cap, wraparound shades, flying banana screensaver shirt, tropical shorts, long cream socks. Black leather belly bag. Edward finished his burger, threw the wrapping on the ground, pulled a map from the bag and studied it for a few minutes. Then he flagged down a taxi. Sitting at a table, Bakker and Cymric watched him through the window.
‘Should go and bust that dude for littering,’ Cymric said.
‘Fuck him,’ Bakker said, and slurped some coffee. ‘Didn’t see a goddamned thing.’
During the afternoon, following an intense training session, Bunny announced that he wanted to go sightseeing. This triggered a violent response from his coach, Walter Motzing, but Bunny was adamant. ‘Your job is to coach, Walter’, he told him, eyes flaring; ‘not to tie up my ass.’ He jerked a thumb towards Barrett and Geoff. ‘These guys are paid to do that.’ So the three of them took a walk around Circular Quay and the Opera House. When he clapped eyes on the bridge Bunny said simply: ‘Goddamned.’ Everywhere was crawling with visitors. Bunny took hundreds of shots on his duty-free motor drive Nikon 35mm, including some candid ones of his two bodyguards looking uncomfortable.
While he was snapping away Barrett was thinking, Duane could pop up anytime … But wait on, isn’t that what we want? We want to shoot the shooter – what better scenario could there be? If the principal – Bunny – is prepared to stick his neck out … Then he began thinking about the Wentworth Park dogs Thursday night. Maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea after all. If they could put a good plan together, get some extra personnel, maybe they could draw out Duane – arrange a set-up he would not be able to resist …
After leaving the Quay area they took a ride on the monorail to Darling Harbour, which was a first for Barrett and Geoff too. Barrett’s right hand never strayed far from the pistol butt concealed under his lightweight cotton jacket. Finally they made their way to Paddy’s Market, where they spent an hour strolling through the stalls while Bunny bought gimcrack souvenirs: Olympic merchandise, some Aboriginal artifacts, this and that. Of all places, a busy market like this was the ideal location for Duane to ping his target and slip away – but then, anywhere in Sydney was the same. Irritated and edgy as he was, Barrett tried to make himself understand that Bunny was entitled to take a look around, that he could not and would not be locked up for the fortnight. It was his right, and it was Barrett’s and Geoff’s task to look after him while he did so. All the same, it would be so much easier if he stayed home …
Before leaving the market, Bunny allowed himself to be talked into a free Chinese foot massage by a pretty young girl. Barrett was surprised that he would let anyone near those gold-plated feet, but Bunny happily kicked off his Nikes and sat on the little stool while the girl gave him the treatment. Some people gathered around to watch, and Barrett heard someone say, ‘Isn’t that the runner, Bunny Delfranco?’ He turned his head, and the person was asking him. ‘Piss off, Jack,’ he said. ‘Charming,’ the man said before moving off. Barrett could hear him telling his wife: ‘The rudest thing just happened …’
After they’d escorted Bunny back to the Homebush haven – what Geoff referred to as ‘lockdown’ – Barrett drove back to his apartment to check on things, especially phone messages. There were plenty, but none from the one person he was waiting to hear from. He decided to chance a rebuff and call her at home, and was half relieved when she wasn’t in. He went for a walk down the street to buy a newspaper, instinctively keeping one eye out for cars that slowed as they went by, or someone resembling Ernesto Tucci. When he’d purchased the paper he took a different route home, passing an Indian grocery store called Delhi Bazaar. There were big sacks of rice piled high in the window, and through the open door wafted the pungent scent of curry powder, cinnamon, saffron, cumin and all kinds of spice. Barrett walked by it and then flashed onto a dark scene in his mind – a scene that made his knee throb with a nearly forgotten pain.
Holy shit. He went back to the open door of Delhi Bazaar, looking in, thinking, wondering … Old sailing ships. Galleons, pirates, all that shit. Spices – Indian spices … It’s like an orgasm, mate. The only way you can relive it is by repeating the experience.
Back in their hotel room, the first thing he did was crack a cold can of Toohey’s and drink a big whack of it in a single swallow standing in front of the fridge, its door still open.
Geoff, who was sipping perhaps his third or fourth can while he watched CNN, said, ‘I might take up your suggestion and ring a root for tonight. What about you, amigo?’
‘I know what that means – fuck off.’
‘I wouldn’t put it that way, buddy. Feel free to look on, if that’s your go.’
‘That’s okay, Tex. Go get your end in. Christ knows it’s been long enough. I’ve got plans of my own.’
Geoff looked at him, narrowing his eyes, but knew better than to ask.
24
Powering along the Pittwater Road in his SS Commodore in the deepening twilight, Barrett kept asking himself: what are you fucking doing? What do you hope to achieve exactly? It didn’t matter how often he pondered the answers: all he managed to come up with was, I don’t know, but I have to act. I have to make something happen. I can’t stand it the way it is. Got any better ideas?
No, came the reply. But I’m scared.
Well shut up, then. I’m scared too, but at least I’m having a fucking go. And I won’t die wondering.
He became aware that he was touching 150, and eased the supercharged machine back to 130. It was still half an hour to Palm Beach. He had given her twenty-four hours to call him, and she hadn’t. In his book that meant she didn’t intend to. So he would compel her to deal with him, face to face. He would stand in front of her, make her talk sense. And when she saw how serious he was, she would find it very hard to turn him away.
If she let him in.
She could shut the door in his face, not answer her phone. In that case he would stake out the house, sit in his car all night – she would have to come out sometime. Then he would make her see reason. He knew she was at home now, because he had phoned her in the car. When she’d answered, he’d clicked off. Better to arrive without warning. Catch her off-guard, unprepared. Vulnerable.
He’d spent quite a deal of time on the phone since leaving the hotel – so much that the battery was on its last legs. But he’d had this niggling feeling that would not go away, like a twinge in your foot trying to tell you something. Now he felt armed enough to face the woman, get some shit out in the open. It occurred to him that he was more than a little fucked up over Andrea. That was not in dispute. He had been fucked up over women before, so he knew all about it. He knew himself in this fevered, irrational state: it was a suit of crazy clothes he felt comfortable in.
Crazy? What’s wrong with that? Show me one individual who is not bent in some way, and I’ll show you a papier-mache man, a dickless, soulless wonder without the heart to try for the stars.
And so on.
Fifteen minutes to Palm Beach. His heart rate was up, his mouth cotton dry. Sweat was trickling from his armpits. All good signs.
She might listen to you, then blow you off. What are you going to do then, arsehole? I won’t let her blow me off. It’s not an option. Forget that bullshit.
The key was to be calm – calm, together, determined. Confidence was everything. Be in charge. Overpower her. Don’t give her a chance.
When he pulled up outside the house there was just the Range Rover, half in the garage as usual. Several light
s were on inside, and the outdoor spotlight, but no evidence of visitors. Darkness was thickening. He alarmed the Commodore and crossed the lawn, via the screen of trees – setting off the wind chimes with his forehead on the way through. When he reached the front door he hesitated, then pressed the bell. Chimes echoed inside, then he heard footsteps on the wooden floor. The door opened quickly, taking him by surprise.
‘Why didn’t you …’ Andrea said brightly. Then she saw who it was, and the lights faded from her eyes. Barrett felt his heart shrivel.
‘Hello, Andrea,’ he said. ‘I know you won’t believe me, but I just happened to be in the area – and I happened to have this with me.’ From behind his back he produced a bottle of Mumm Cordon Bleu champagne. Her eyes fell on the bottle, and he saw her shoulders drop. ‘Are you going to invite me in, or do I pop the cork here? Then we can drink from the bottle like a couple of Palm Beach winos.’
She looked at him. ‘Barrett, it isn’t …’
‘That’s what they call me. Although I have been known to go under the name, Warren.’
She smiled weakly, and the door opened fractionally. It was all he needed. First sign of weakness – go for it.
It felt strange to be inside Andrea’s house again – as if he hadn’t been there for a long time. ‘So … what did you think of the opening ceremony?’ he said, making small talk while he eased the cork out and she got the flutes. He was aware she was avoiding eye contact.
‘Oh – it was spectacular, wasn’t it,’ she said without much interest. She put the glasses on the bench as a small amount of froth creamed over the bottleneck. ‘What were you doing there, anyway?’ she said, still not looking at him. ‘It’s not really your scene, is it?’
‘I was working,’ he said, pouring carefully. ‘Security. I’d suggest there wouldn’t be an idle security officer anywhere in town at the moment.’
‘Oh. Of course.’
When they were holding them, he delicately clinked his flute against hers. ‘Well, here’s to the good life. Plenty more where this came from. If everything goes according to plan.’
Hard Yards Page 27