Saving Billie

by Peter Corris

  I drove to Rudi’s establishment in Marrickville—a failed supermarket he’d converted to a gym and offices. It was close to the municipal swimming pool, so Rudi had the use of an extra training facility for free. Rudi had no listed numbers and didn’t give the unlisted ones out—you wanted him, you went to see him. I parked and went through the automatic door to the reception area, which just managed to present a businesslike front with a guy behind a desk and a few meaningless framed certificates on the walls. I gave the guy my card and said I wanted to see Rudi.

  ‘What’s your business?’

  ‘Rudi knows me, and my business. Tell him I’m collecting on the favour I did him.’

  He went away, came back quickly, and took me down a short passage to an office that was within earshot and smell of the gym. The unmistakable sound of a heavy bag being hit and the equally recognisable tang of sweat and liniment were in the air like smoke and the click of balls in a pool room.

  Rudi met me at what would’ve been the door to his office if it’d had a door. It didn’t.

  ‘Good to see youse, Hardy. Come on in.’

  Rudi is a first generation Australian about whom nothing verbal of the previous generations of foreigners lingers. He looks like a Serb or a Croatian or whatever his antecedents were, with the thickset physique, aggressive moustache and balding bullet head, but he speaks broad Australian.

  I shook his meaty hand and took a seat while he put his big bum on his desk, closer to me and higher than he would have been on a chair behind it. I guessed that this was one of his managerial negotiating positions.

  ‘You done me a good turn with Ricky that night. I said it, an’ I meant it. So what d’you want? Tickets? No problem.’

  ‘Information. You remember Steve Kooti, used to work for you in an . . . executive capacity?’

  The hooded Balkan eyes suddenly brightened as if the brain behind them had just processed a lot of information and gone on the alert.

  ‘Stevie? Yeah, sure. What?’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look, Rudi, I’m not interested in past history. I don’t care what he used to do for you when he was one of your frighteners. I want to know what changed him and what you make of him now.’

  That relaxed him. He got off the desk and moved around to his chair. He didn’t move in the loose way exathletes do, he moved stiffly, like a man used to carrying heavy things. Rudi had started out as a builder’s labourer.

  ‘Silly cunt got religion. He ran into some religious freaks and they grabbed him. Dunno how. I’ve always been a Catholic. Doesn’t get in the way of nothin’ if you don’t let it. But this mob Stevie took up with—can’t do this, can’t do that. Can’t take a piss without thanking God for giving you a prick. Tried preaching that crap to me and I told him where he could put it. In the old days an insult like that and he’d have left me under this desk. And I mean under! But now it’s, “Bless you, brother”. Bullshit.’

  ‘He’s tied in with some people out Campbelltown way. A community protection outfit. Know anything about them?’

  ‘Coconuts?’

  ‘Islanders, yeah.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them. There’s a few around. I’m told they’ve got things going.’

  ‘Like?’

  He shrugged his beefy shoulders. ‘Insurance scams, immigration scams. Shit, I dunno.’

  ‘Doesn’t sit too well with praising the Lord.’

  ‘That’s fair dinkum for some, just a bloody front for others—the smart ones.’

  ‘What category would Kooti be in?’

  ‘Dunno. I’m fast losing interest in this, Hardy.’

  ‘Fair enough. One last thing—d’you know how I can get in touch with him?’

  He smiled, showing a couple of gold-filled teeth, opened a drawer in the desk and rummaged in it. ‘Gave me his mobile number in case I wanted to discuss admitting Jesus to my life. Know what I said?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I said, “Sounds like a Mex Bantam. Has he got a left hook?” I thought that was funny. What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Pretty funny.’

  He pushed a drink coaster across the desk. ‘Here you go. I don’t need it. We was havin’ a drink—I was, he wasn’t.’

  I took the coaster, pocketed it and stood. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We square now, Hardy?’

  ‘Sure. Will I say hello from you when I talk to Steve?’

  ‘Okay. Maybe he could put in a good word for me with God.’

  ‘Do you believe in God?’

  ‘Sometimes—when one of my boys gets up off the floor and kayos the other guy.’

  ‘You’re all heart, Rudi.’

  He waved his arms, embracing the room, the smells, everything. ‘Look, I own this place. Got a block of units in Earlwood, a nice home in Strathfield with the missus and the kids, holiday place in Thirroul. Of course I believe in God.’

  ‘How’re you going to vote?’

  ‘How do you reckon?’

  12

  I drove to the office and did a web search on Oceania Securities. It had a website that told me about as little as it could. Investments . . . consultancy . . . portfolio management— that kind of thing. The office was in St Leonards. There were no details given about Barclay Greaves and a web check on him turned up nothing. The Sydney Morning Herald database did better. A couple of stories on Greaves came up. He’d been a consultant in a big company merger that had threatened to go bottom up and he was credited with righting it. He was described as forty-six, married with two children, a former tax office heavyweight turned merchant banker turned big-time fixit guy. The article implied that his consultancy fee took a decent bite from both of the merging companies. Good one.

  The other piece dealt with his involvement in a New Zealand land deal thrown into doubt by a couple of the parties suddenly coming under fire for tax transgressions. Oceania Securities had arranged amnesties and compromises and the deal had gone through satisfactorily. This item revealed that Greaves was a lawyer with degrees from the universities of Melbourne and Chicago. It was unclear whether he was a New Zealander or an Australian. He described himself as an Australasian to the reporter who’d managed the briefest of interviews,

  That was something to chew on. Clearly he had some connection with Clement and not an altogether happy one from his behaviour on party night. Was he backing Lou Kramer’s work in some way? He looked like a possible source for the extra money she might need to lure Billie, but what would his motive have been for that? True love? I doubted it.

  Given the apparent scale of his operations, I was surprised Greaves hadn’t attracted more press attention. But I suppose that just as those who seek it can get it, those who don’t want it can avoid it. I had a contact at the Australian Financial Review, a former editor in fact, who now had gone back to investigative work as any dinkum journalist would. I rang her and put the question about Greaves.

  A true reporter, her first response was, ‘Why? Have you got something?’

  ‘Hey, Lily, I’m asking you.’

  ‘Pity. Mystery man, probably an Enzedder but I’ve never seen his passport. A lot of these types have a few anyway.’

  ‘He’s a type, is he?’

  ‘Cliff, I really don’t know. There’re rumours about him. He’s involved in this, he’s involved in that, but never anything substantial and he’s sort of not interesting enough for anyone to put in the time and effort on him.’

  ‘Is that because he likes it that way?’

  ‘You’re learning.’

  ‘What about his politics?’

  ‘No idea. You’re intriguing me.’

  Lily Truscott is a woman I wouldn’t mind intriguing. I’d met her at a fight night in Marrickville. Her brother was on the bill and I was sitting next to her. She was his most enthusiastic supporter, and when I made a few complimentary remarks about his work, she gave me a smile. When he won she jumped up, whooped and gave me a hug.

&
nbsp; After that, we had a drink and, as the Stones put it, spent a few nights together. But she was career oriented. So was I, in my way, but there was something there, and I suppose it was in the back of my mind to develop it when I rang her.

  ‘Tell you what, Lil. If anything comes of this I’ll let you in on it.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. But I’ll hold you to that and give you this—from what I’ve heard about Greaves, which is buggerall, so this is just intuitive stuff, I’d guess that he’s a man out to make a big score.’

  We left it there. I felt like one of those con men who sell off acres they hold a shaky title to, over and over and over again. But I just might be able to make good on the deal.

  The online bank showed that Lou’s cheque had bounced and that my account had been debited for the dishonoured fee. I rang and told them to re-present it and that I’d pay the fee to accelerate the clearance again. Hardy the gambler.

  That left me with Steve Kooti. A knock came on the door. I opened it and Tommy stood there, uncertain but optimistic.

  ‘Hey, man, you owe me a hundred bucks.’

  I had to laugh. ‘So I do.’ I felt for my wallet but discovered that I didn’t have enough cash. ‘Have to go to an ATM.’

  I pulled the door closed and we started down the stairs. On the way I told him I hadn’t meant to run out on him, it was just that I had to follow someone. ‘Anyway, I didn’t get you in trouble. I didn’t go near the house you showed me. How did you find me, by the way?’

  ‘Found one of your cards in the car.’

  ‘So you can go back and get on with your job hunting.’

  ‘Kinda like it down here.’

  ‘Hard without money.’

  There was a queue at the ATM and just for something to say I asked him if he knew Steve Kooti.

  ‘I should. He’s my uncle.’

  I looked at him sharply. ‘I thought you were a Koori.’

  ‘Koori one side, Maori the other, with other stuff thrown in. Real mongrel, me.’

  I got the cash and gave him the hundred. ‘Hang on. I’ll buy you a drink.’

  He shrugged his acceptance and we went to the pub near the railway station. His was a schooner of New and mine was a middy of light. He took a long drink and sighed. ‘That’s good. Pity I’m out of smokes.’

  I gave him a twenty and he came back with a packet and lighter. ‘I’ll buy the next round,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll see. Tell me about Steve. He used to be a heavy, now I’m told he’s in the God squad. Does he hang out with Manuma’s lot, the protection mob?’

  ‘Shit, no. Used to, but now he’s in the other church. Big John’s Island Brotherhood, Uncle Steve’s in Children of Christ.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  Tommy sucked in smoke and beer. ‘Not much as to singing and praying and that, but a lot in other ways. IB’s for coconuts only. Doubt they’d let me in, being part Koori. CC’ll take anyone.’

  ‘What else?’

  He looked at me shrewdly. ‘You’re trying to get me in trouble again. Have to pay to do that, man.’

  I thought briefly about an idea that had come to me. Tommy had an attitude and some bad habits but he looked strong and he was enterprising. He’d talked about wanting to work. I figured he was worth a chance, especially as he could be useful. ‘What if I said I could get you a job here?’

  ‘Doin’ what?’

  ‘Gardening, A month’s work for sure. Maybe some painting after that.’

  ‘Sounds good. Where?’

  ‘Lilyfield. Friend of mine’s bought a rundown house there. Big garden completely overgrown. It needs clearing and straightening up. Then the joint needs painting and repairs. You could doss there while you worked.’

  For all his street-wise toughness there was suddenly a bit of vulnerability about him. The thought of having somewhere to live, a real job to do, a place in the scheme of things, seemed to change him from a passenger to something more positive.

  ‘You dinkum?’

  ‘Yes. Course if you fucked up . . .’

  His cigarette had burned out and he hadn’t lit another. His beer was getting warm. ‘I won’t. What was it you wanted to know?’

  ‘Let’s get this fixed up first.’

  Mike D’Angelo, who operates a bottle shop in King Street, is a friend. He’d bought the Lilyfield tumbledown and intended to live there, but with three shops to care for he hadn’t the time to clear the block—round about a third of an acre. He’d asked me if I knew a reliable handyman. I bought Tommy a new pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt and he tidied himself up in the little bathroom in my building. I took him to meet Mike and they got along well. Mike handed Tommy the keys to an old ute he had parked behind his shop.

  ‘You’ll have to dump lots of loads. Keys to the house and a couple of sheds are on the ring.’

  ‘Right,’ Tommy said.

  Mike handed over forty dollars. ‘Two fifty a week. This comes out of it. You’ll need boots and gloves. There’s some tools in the ute. Power’s on and the phone’s connected, I think.’

  ‘Right . . . thanks.’

  ‘I’ll show him the place,’ I said.

  ‘Watch out for snakes.’

  ‘My totem, man.’

  Mike laughed. ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Right,’ Tommy said.

  We bought work boots and gloves in a disposal store and I drove to the Lilyfield place with Tommy following in the ute. It was a corner block near a park and every weed and noxious growth in the area, native and introduced, had invaded and taken hold. The land was choked with lantana and bougainvillea and wisteria and others I couldn’t identify. Tommy took a look and sucked in a breath.

  ‘Whew, big job.’

  ‘You up to it?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘He’s paying you two fifty a week and free rent. You’re looking at a couple of grand easy.’

  ‘I’m grateful, man. Best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.’

  ‘Good. Mike runs a pretty big operation—he’s got a couple of shops and he’s got interests in other businesses. Play your cards right and you could have a career with him.’

  Tommy nodded.

  ‘Let’s have our talk and I’ll leave you to it.’

  Tommy Larrigo told me, in his own words, that there was ongoing tension between the Island Brotherhood and the Children of Christ and those attached to both organisations. Now that he was out of the area, he felt free to say that the Brotherhood, while providing some community services, also had a dark side—assisting the Department of Housing and real estate agents in evictions and taking bribes to stave off evictions. As Rudi Szabo had said, there was an insurance scam industry in Liston and adjoining suburbs and it had to be controlled by someone. He’d assumed Steve Kooti was somehow connected with it, but Tommy assured me that the criminal element in the island community was a worry to his uncle, who’d had more than one confrontation over it with John Manuma and others.

  I helped Tommy unload the tools from the ute and unlocked the house and the sheds where there were more tools, rusty and cobwebbed but useable. His enthusiasm mounted with each discovery. The power was on in the house but the phone wasn’t connected. I gave him my mobile and asked him to call his uncle and arrange a meeting between him and me.

  Tommy laid it on thick—how I’d got him this great job with prospects and what a good guy I was and how he wouldn’t be hanging around Liston with his arse out of his pants anymore.

  After a few exchanges, some of them in Maori, Tommy shut off the phone and handed it back. ‘Says he’ll meet you at the Campbelltown TAFE—Narellan Road. He’s doing some sort of course there. Says he’ll know you. This arvo, two o’clock.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘start slashing.’

  As I’d told Sharon Marchant, in this game you never know where you’re going to be or for how long. I went home, collected the .38 and packed a few clothes and bits and pieces. I tanked up and was on the road south-west again with p
lenty of time to meet Kooti, racking up the kilometres and petrol receipts against an as yet still unpaid retainer. I’d heard of Kooti over the years from various people but as far as I knew I’d never met him. Still, if he said he’d know me I guessed he would. My plan was simple—to see if I could persuade him to help me detach Billie Marchant from the Island Brotherhood. If I had to put up with some Bible-bashing to achieve that, I would.

  Kooti wasn’t hard to spot. At about 200 centimetres and a hundred plus kilos, he stood out like a bishop on a beach. He wore a polo shirt with the arm bands stretched to breaking point by his biceps, and baggy shorts that showed the kind of legs that had made him virtually impossible to knock down on a football field. Massive head, a metre of shoulder breadth. I parked and approached him, noting the backpack and book in his hand.

  ‘Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘Good to meet you.’

  My hand got briefly swallowed up by his. ‘Mr Kooti, thanks for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘Good reasons. C’mon over here and sit down. There’s a scrap of shade.’

  We walked across to where a straggly tree threw some shade over a park bench. He stuffed the book into his backpack; I caught the word ‘faith’ in the title.

  ‘Tommy said you’d know me, and you did. Can’t see how.’

  ‘Ah, doubting Thomas. I’m grateful for what you’re doing for him. He’s not a bad kid, but wasting his life like so many of them. Maybe you’ve helped him onto a new path. Yes, I know you. I was there in the Rockdale Arms when you hauled Ricky Clitheroe out of harm’s way. I asked who you were later.’