The Bear Pit

by Jon Cleary

  He’s no longer Acting, thought Ladbroke. He’s going to be harder to mind than I thought.

  “You can forget the woman you had in mind,” said the Police Minister and Premier. “Hans was the target, not you.”

  Where did he get that from? Ladbroke wondered. He definitely is going to be hard to mind.

  “You’re sure?” Aldwych was surprised that he felt disappointed. Surprise was new to him: he must be getting old.

  “Absolutely sure. You were not the target. Nor you,” he told Jack Junior.

  The latter didn’t try to hide his relief. But: “How much more do you know?”

  Eustace could be voluble, but now he was trying for a new model: the Sphinx. He had no idea who or what the original Sphinx had been; Peter Kelzo might have told him, but he would not ask the time of day of Kelzo. His model was the Sphinx in Egypt and when he had told Ladbroke, the latter had at first been relieved, grateful that he would not have to write corrections for a mouth that too often had run off the road. Then he had begun to wonder how you wrote press releases for a monument.

  “I know enough, Mr. Aldwych. Just take it for granted, you’ve got no worries.” He stood up. Somewhere in the past couple of days he had gained a semblance of dignity, of authority. The image-makers would have been encouraged, though he was still in the developing fluid and the desired image still was fuzzy. “Thanks for the Iced Vo-Vos. Pity they’re now owned by the Americans.”

  “The Americans own everything,” said Madame Tzu spitefully.

  Eustace looked at Camilla Feng. “Will you be seeing Jerry Balmoral again?”

  “There’s no point now, is there?” she said. “He was getting nowhere and now he’s going nowhere.”

  “You have so much good sense for a young woman,” said Madame Tzu. “I was like you when young.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Aldwych.

  “The old make better use of youth than the young.”

  Ladbroke raised his eyebrows. It sounded like old times, The Dutchman mangling the language into aphorisms that sounded like sense.

  Jack Junior had no time for philosophy, not if it got in the way of business: “Nothing that’s been said in here will get outside this office, will it?”

  “Of course not,” said Ladbroke and sounded annoyed it should be suggested that a minder would not know when lips were sealed.

  “You should of worked for me,” said Aldwych with a grin, “before I retired.”

  “It would have been easier,” said Ladbroke and gave Billy Eustace a smile to say he didn’t mean it. Not much.

  Eustace straightened his tie; he was always in fashion round the neck. Two years ago ties had looked like regurgitation; last year they had all been yellow, like an outbreak of sartorial malaria; this year it was the Olympics tie, a squiggle on the chest. “It will be a pleasure working with you all.”

  When Eustace and Ladbroke had gone, Aldwych went into the outer office, told the two secretaries to go for a walk and sat down at one of their desks. Then he called Homicide: “Scobie?”

  “Jack. What’s on your mind?”

  “Scobie, just to prove we’re mates, I’m telling you what I’ve just learned. Forget Joanna Everitt—Jack and me were not the targets.”

  “You’re sure? Where’d you get this?”

  “You sound disappointed. So’m I, in a way. I’m sure, Scobie. I got the drum from the horse’s mouth. Well, he’s a horse’s arse, actually.”

  “You’re not going to tell me where you got it, who he is?”

  “Just take my word.”

  “Then do you know who paid for the hit?”

  “No, I don’t. If I knew that, I’d tell you.”

  “You don’t know, but you’re making an educated guess?”

  “You’re a hard man to be mates with. No, I dunno and I’ll leave the guessing to you. But forget the bitch.”

  “Well, thanks, Jack. Yeah, I’m disappointed, it was never an odds-on bet that it was her. Take care.”

  “You too, Scobie.”

  Aldwych hung up, sat a while pondering who had paid the hitman. He was sure that Billy Eustace knew; or had made an educated guess. Whether, as Police Minister, he passed that on to the Police Commissioner was another matter. Aldwych remembered police commissioners who had passed nothing on to their political bosses. But those had been the good old days . . .

  Aldwych stood up as the two secretaries came back to the outer doorway. “Finished, Mr. Aldwych?”

  “Not quite, girls. But don’t go, just one more call.” He took a small diary from his pocket, checked a number, then called it. “Joanna? Jack Aldwych. You gunna be home the next half-hour?”

  “I’m leaving for work in half an hour—”

  “We’ll give you a lift. Don’t argue, Joanna. Just be waiting for us.” He put down the phone, smiled at the two secretaries. “The wife’s sister. Too independent for her own good.”

  V

  Aldwych and Blackie Ovens waited in the Daimler outside Joanna Everitt’s apartment block. Across the street Aldwych had seen the parked car with the two plainclothes men in it. “Cops, Blackie. They’ll be following us when we pick up our girl.”

  “Just like the old days, eh?”

  Then Joanna Everitt came out of the block and Blackie got out and went across to her. She turned towards the unmarked police car, as if she might call for help; then she changed her mind and came across to the Daimler with Blackie. She got into the back seat, where Aldwych sat.

  “I usually drive myself to work—”

  “We’ll do that for you,” said Aldwych. “You can catch a cab home.”

  As Blackie took the car away from the kerb Joanna said, “What do you want? I can scream my head off and those guys back there will come to my rescue. They’re cops—”

  “I know, Joanna. No one’s gunna hurt you. I’m here to tell you you’re not gunna be hurt. Relax.”

  She sat back in the seat, but still looked suspiciously at him. She was dressed in a green suit with a yellow blouse; she wore expensive shoes and carried a matching handbag. She looks like a top-price hooker, thought Aldwych, but that was only because he hated her.

  Instead he said, “You look like a million dollars. Don’t she, Blackie?”

  Blackie Ovens just nodded, keeping his eye on the road. He hated these buggers who thought that a couple of old coots in a Daimler shouldn’t be on the road. Twenty, thirty years ago he would have chased them and ironed them with a tire lever. There was no fun to growing old.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” said Joanna. “Some day I’ll have a million dollars, maybe more. Like you.”

  He grinned. “I’m still a battler at heart. Ain’t that right, Blackie?” Then he looked back at Joanna. “Girlie, I picked you up to tell you you’re off the hook.”

  She was puzzled; not by the term but at what looked suspiciously like benevolence. “Off the hook? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had it on good authority that you didn’t hire that bloke August to hit me or Jack. Or both of us.”

  “I told you that!” She leaned forward, then gathered herself and sat back. She said nothing for a while, even turned and stared out the window. Then she looked back at him: “Look, Jack, I’ve started a new life. I’ve changed my name—everything in the past I’m putting behind me—you, Jack Junior, the time I spent in jail—”

  “Listen to me, girlie. I’m letting you off the hook, but I’m not giving you absolution or whatever it is the priests dole out. If ever you come near me or Jack again, I’ll have Blackie call on you—”

  “Boss,” said Blackie Ovens, eyes still on the road, “I don’t do women, you know that.”

  “I know that,” said his boss amiably. “I’m just trying to frighten the shit outa her. I’ve done that, haven’t I, Joanna?”

  “No, you haven’t. I’m not afraid of you, I never was. And you can tell that to Jack Junior and that stuck-up bitch of a wife of his.”

  There was no ferocity to what she w
as saying; they could have been discussing the weather or the traffic. Aldwych just sat studying her, deaf to what she was saying. He disliked her; no, hated her. He had never hit a woman, not out of any gallantry but because he had feared Shirl. If ever she had learned he had hit a woman, even one of his brothel girls, she would have left him. Shirl would not have liked Joanna, but she would have protected her.

  At last he said, “What are you gunna do with your new life?”

  They were riding over the Bridge, the police car two cars behind them. Blackie eased the Daimler into the transport lane, heading for the southern toll gates; the cab between him and the police car blasted its horn, telling him to get a move on. He ignored it, kept to his usual steady sixty kilometres an hour; the days were long gone when, as the getaway driver in several of Aldwych’s bank hold-ups, he hadn’t known what a speed limit was. The cab swung over into the inner lane and went past in a rush, the driver yelling abuse at him. Twenty, thirty years ago, Blackie thought . . .

  “Fucking wog,” he said, then looked in his driving mirror. “Excuse me, miss.”

  “We’re both racists,” Aldwych told Joanna. “Too old to change. What are you gunna do with your new life?”

  “I’m establishing myself at the casino. Then—”

  He waited, then said, “Then?”

  She was relaxed now. She turned in the seat and looked almost friendly. “There’s a rumour there may be another casino licensed to operate, out of Sydney—”

  “Where?” He succeeded in looking genuinely curious.

  “The rumour is Coffs Harbour. I’d like to finish up there, managing the floor. I understand the gambling game now, every aspect of it, and I’m a good manager.”

  “I’m sure you are. Well, well. Coffs Harbour. I thought of retiring there once. Nice place, lots a nice friendly people. All waiting to be fleeced.” He grinned at her.

  “It’s their money,” she said. “Casinos just provide a service.”

  “Like ambulance stations?”

  “When did you become anti-gambling? You robbed people right, left and centre.”

  “I robbed banks, not people.” He managed to sound pious, St Aldwych of Assisi throwing crumbs to the battlers.

  When they dropped her at the casino, Blackie got out of the car and opened the door for her, like a real chauffeur. The parking valets looked at her, wondering if she had been making a bit on the side with one of the high rollers.

  “Been nice meeting you, Joanna,” said Blackie. “Look after yourself.”

  “Oh, I will, Blackie.” She looked back into the car. “Goodbye, Jack. I hope we don’t meet again.”

  “Oh, we’ll meet again,” said Aldwych, but under his breath.

  They drove away and he sat in the back of the car chewing his cud as if it were candy. He looked up and saw Blackie eyeing him in the driver’s mirror. The two old men smiled at each other.

  “Well, Blackie, waddia know? I never tasted revenge before to see if it was sweet—I just done it. But up in Coffs Harbour—”He laughed, a hearty sound from the belly, a sound that would have frightened the birds out of the trees around Assisi. “I’m gunna be licking my lips.”

  VI

  George Gandolfo couldn’t believe what he was hearing:

  “We’ll do lunch with Clizbe and Balmoral,” said Peter Kelzo.

  “How do you do lunch?” asked Joe St. Louis.

  Kelzo did his best to look patient. “Joe, for Crissakes, it’s just an expression. When I get elected, I’m gunna be spending a lotta time with the high life around town, the smart-arses with university degrees and all that. I’m gunna have to use words like incredibly this and that, or basically or at the end of the day. It’s the way the smartarse end of town talks.”

  “I wouldn’t trust that Clizbe,” said Gandolfo.

  “George, that’s what democracy is all about. That’s what Socrates said—you gotta grab democracy by both ends of the stick.”

  One of these days, when he slowed down, George Gandolfo was going to look up everything Socrates had said. In the meantime: “Why are we gunna have—do lunch with them?”

  “We’re gunna bring ‘em into our camp. I’ve got the buzz—Billy Eustace is kicking them outa Boolagong. We can’t get Jerry Balmoral inna there—that old witch Gert Vanderberg isn’t gunna let democracy in the gate.”

  “Meaning who?” asked Joe St. Louis.

  “Meaning us, for Crissakes. Shut up, Joe, while I explain the facts of life to George. Balmoral ain’t gunna get inna parliament this election, but we promise to take him over and groom him for the future. He’s got what it takes for this new century—he’s got bullshit all done up in a new shiny package. While we’re taking over him we take over Trades Congress.”

  “I gotta admire you, Peter,” said Gandolfo. “You take the long view.”

  “It’s the Greek in me.”

  The long view backwards? But Gandolfo kept that question to himself.

  And now they were doing lunch at the Summit, the revolving restaurant at the top of a tall tower in the heart of the business district. Kelzo had booked a window table and the five men sat there and looked out at Sydney as it slowly, ever so slowly, changed below them. The weather was perfect and any politician, or would-be one, could stretch his imagination up here and see as far west as the State’s boundaries. It was the closest most of them could come to the long view.

  “It’s all ours,” said Kelzo, gesturing. “All we gotta do is plan.”

  “I don’t know I’m prepared to wait that long—” said Balmoral.

  “Jerry, Athens wasn’t built in a day—”

  Rome, said Gandolfo under his breath, all at once protective of his heritage.

  “—you’re young, Jerry, we’ll build you up—”

  “What about me?” said Clizbe in the tones of a man who could see himself being pushed aside. “I’m young. Well, half-young.”

  “Norm—” Kelzo was practising sounding patriarchal. “We need your experience in union matters. You don’t wanna get into parliament, do you?”

  “I dunno, I wouldn’t mind. Maybe down the track. I’d like to retire into the Upper House. It’s a nice retirement.”

  “We’ll look after you, Norm—down the track. Jerry, I promise you, ten, fifteen years down the track, we’ll have you in The Lodge in Canberra. You and your lady friend. I saw you the other night out at dinner. She’s one of them Olympic Tower people, isn’t she? A nice touch, her being Chinese. You’ll be the first multicultural couple in The Lodge.”

  “You’re a bit premature, Pete—”

  “Peter.”

  “—she’s a bit stand-offish at the moment. But I’m getting there.” You knew that, if he had been there at other times, he would have got there with Queen Elizabeth the First or with Marie Antoinette. “Like you say, she’ll be an asset.”

  “You see, Jerry, that was what I was saying. All we gotta do is plan.”

  “In the meantime,” said Clizbe, “who does the donkey-work? The planning, I mean.”

  “Why, me and you,” said Kelzo, but sounded like a general, or Pericles, inviting a corporal in for a chat.

  “Who’ll look after the finances?” asked Balmoral.

  “George will,” said Kelzo. “You’re good at that, aren’t you, George?”

  “I used to be,” said Gandolfo.

  Kelzo raised his glass of Hunter red ‘95, a classic year, the waiter had told him. “Here’s to us, a brotherhood.”

  “How’s your nose, Norm?” asked Joe St. Louis. “I’m sorry I decked you that time. Pete told me it was in a good cause—”

  “Peter,” said Kelzo automatically, and smiled at Clizbe. “Bygones are history. Socrates said that.”

  Bloody Socrates, thought George Gandolfo and looked at Balmoral, wondering whom he would be quoting when he got to the Prime Ministership and The Lodge.

  11

  I

  IN THE morning August paid his motel bill, wished the woman owner a beau
tiful day and drove back north. It was a good day for driving, too bright for murder but otherwise perfect. He switched on the car radio and heard Alan Jones, king of the talk-back, say, “There’s a coincidence in this latest development—the Channel 15 reporter is the daughter of the Homicide inspector on the August case—”

  He switched off the radio, slowed down the car, blinded by fury. He could see the Malones, father and daughter, comparing notes at the end of the day: How next can we pressure Mrs. Masson?

  He pulled off to the side of the road, waited while the fury abated. He had always been subject to rage, but in the past it had been a cold rage. There had been the chilling anger at his father, the man with big ideas and no talent who had gone away to jail for the third time and never come back; there had been promises, promises, promises, but in the end there had been nothing, not even love. He had turned to his mother, but she had turned to God and there had been no love there, not for him. There had been several women, then his wife, and there had been no love there. Perhaps it had been his own fault, perhaps they had seen the emptiness in him and had not trusted it. Then he had met Lynne and suddenly there was love and no rage, cold or otherwise, at all. Now it was all over.

  He drove on into the city, allowing it to swallow him so that he swam beneath its surface, as in a sea. He parked the car in the Goulburn Street parking station and walked up to the cinema complex almost opposite the Olympic Tower. He and Lynne had been only occasional moviegoers; he had never kept up with the latest offerings. He had time to fill in, so he turned in to the box-office, looked at the titles on the board above the window, named a movie and bought a ticket. Despite his rage he was a patient man; he could not move further till late at night. He sat through a coming-of-age film that, as far as he could remember, bore no relation to his own youth; he sat between two teenaged couples, who were coming but not of age, and felt embarrassed. He was glad when the interminable credits began to roll, when such creative artists as accountants and stand-by drivers got credit, and he stood up and escaped.

  He went out and into the nearby McDonald’s. Lynne, who loved to cook, had never allowed him to eat junk food; he smiled at the thought as he waited to kill two people for love of her. He was flirting with danger being so close to the Sewing Bee and Olympic Tower—“Criminals too often return to the scene of their crime”—but the adrenaline kept him going. He ate two hamburgers, having had no lunch, and drank two cups of coffee and, as usual, cleaned up after himself. Coming out of McDonald’s he almost bumped into two uniformed police, but they just stepped aside, said “Excuse me, sir,” and passed on. In the clothes of Mr. Milo he obviously looked like a man to be respected. Clothes maketh the man, as a tailor on the make once said.