by Berry, Tony
She hesitated, showing doubt, then settled behind the wheel. She drove slowly down the laneway, taking care to give room to a skinny man with a backpack who was confidently waving his white cane over the path in front of him.
‘Poor bugger,’ said Bromo.
‘Yes, it must be terrible to go blind,’ said Liz, changing gear and accelerating into the wider street.
SIX
Bromo hauled the crates up the two of flights of stairs to his apartment. They were light work compared to a stereo unit, a spin dryer and a television, all of which he’d had to manhandle at various times when delivery people baulked at the idea of going any further than the foyer.
He dumped the crates in the middle of the lounge and fumbled in his pocket for the screwed-up ball of paper he’d removed from Liz’s windscreen. He studied the six terse words. The message was bold and clear but gave nothing away – no name, no signature. It was unlikely to be a prank as someone would have had to go well out of their way to deliver it. A hoaxer would have stayed on the main drag. Besides, they knew her name. This was personal and menacing, meant to be received and seen. Like the wreckage in Melissa’s flat.
The note confirmed Liz had cause for her unease. But Bromo wanted something more concrete before letting her push him into calling in favours from the police or trying to unlock official doors she claimed were closed. If he was going to get involved, he’d do so in his own time and at his own pace – slowly, casually and without stirring up the violence hinted at in the message on the windscreen.
Bromo walked through to the back room and took the sheets of paper Liz had couriered to him from inside his jacket. He wrote one of the addresses on a piece of scrap paper and put it in his pocket. He slipped the two photocopies under the keyboard of his computer. He waited a couple more minutes to be sure Liz had got well clear before he went back down to the street. Let her think he was settled at home, preparing a meal and sorting through those crates of files and papers.
He headed towards the Earl of Lincoln. The pub was a five-minute stroll away. He sidestepped a stream of city workers power-walking their way home, necks bowed, heads down, chunky joggers replacing their formal office shoes. A giggling gaggle of schoolgirls blocked the footpath outside McDonald’s, most of them texting or talking on their mobile phones. He pushed through them, refusing to be forced into the gutter. They were oblivious.
Bromo marched on past the oval where cricketers were warming up for net practice and a trainer was urging a squad of runners to do short bursts of high-stepping sprints. A thin, weedy man sat on a slatted bench, his back turned to the cricketers as he took long slurps from a bottle wrapped in brown paper. He held the bottle by the neck and raised it high in salutation to Bromo.
‘Good on ya, pal,’ he slurred and took another sip.
‘You, too, mate,’ answered Bromo, and kept walking.
Despite its lounge full of gaming machines and two big plasma screens permanently tuned to sport channels, the Earl remained very much a workers’ pub. Blokey bantering and gossip along the bar maintained a healthy rivalry to the pokies and the TV. Beer was the drink of choice, work-boots and overalls the predominant dress code.
Jason Conquest was seated at the bar, beer in hand, enjoying what he called his “palate cleanser” after a day among the sludge and grime of a block of high-rise apartments going up on the old pickle factory site.
‘Drink up and I’ll buy you another,’ said Bromo, squeezing in alongside.
Jason wrapped a long and muscled arm around Bromo’s shoulders and hugged him close. ‘Gooday, mate. Good to see you. Straying off your usual tracks, aren’t you? We don’t see many wine plonkers in here.’
He drained his glass in a swallow and pushed it towards the barman, indicating a refill. Bromo put a note on the bar and ordered a glass of light for himself.
‘Thought I might find you here.’
‘I guess that means you haven’t come to check on my health or because you felt like buying me a beer.’
Bromo shrugged, feeling sheepish. Asking a favour never came easy. It always seemed so blindingly obvious and Jason had his measure. He wished he wasn’t that transparent. Perhaps there was self-help book somewhere – How to Ask Favours Without Making Yourself Feel a Complete Dickhead, or a more abrupt Favours Without Fear. Either way, he’d be a buyer.
Jason glugged his beer.
‘So what is it? A bit of monstering? Someone giving you aggro again? I thought we’d sorted all that out with that shit at the Pistons Club.’
‘Yes, well—’
Bromo’s voice trailed off. He fumbled with his glass, twirling it, watching the beads of froth separate and trickle down the sides. He had incurred a hefty debt to Jason and a few rugby-playing mates when they provided much-needed muscle to ward off threats from a corrupt city councillor. That had cost Bromo several slabs of the best local brew. Now he needed to reopen his account.
‘Nothing heavy,’ he said. ‘A bit of chauffeuring if you’re not busy. Keeping watch. That sort of thing. Not long. Be home in time for Law and Order.’
He spoke in snatches – hesitant, cautious, gentling Jason along.
‘Almost on the doorstep. Only as far as South Yarra.’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘No catch. Just checking an address.’
He showed Jason the scrap of paper: ‘It’s not far.’
‘What’s wrong with catching a tram?’
‘It’s off the route. Down the side streets. Sort of no-man’s-land between Chapel Street and Punt Road.’
Jason knocked back his beer and slid off his stool.
‘Okay, just this once.’
He jabbed Bromo in the ribs as they moved towards the door.
‘It’s about time you got a motor of your own.’
‘No way. Not when I’ve got you to call on. The trams get me most places I want to go, and there’s always the bike.’
‘So what happened tonight?’
‘Running out of time. It’s something I want to check now rather than later. Can do?’
He wasn’t going to confess it was muscle as much as transport he was seeking as they made their way outside. Jason pointed his key ring at a mean-looking truck, gleaming black and heavy with chrome. The security lights flashed and the door locks clicked.
‘Get in.’
Bromo settled into the passenger seat and clipped the seatbelt shut. Jason glanced at him.
‘You tired?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You’ve shut your eyes.’
‘The view’s going to be better in here than out there.’
The ignition fired and tyres squealed as the truck lurched forward and Jason pushed it into a brief break in the traffic. Bromo’s arm shot up to grab the panic handle above the door. His premonition was justified. His eyes were wide open.
‘Jesus, Jase, take it easy.’
‘I thought you were in a hurry.’
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
Bromo closed his eyes again as Jason threaded the truck through gaps between parked cars, trams, two lanes of oncoming traffic and cyclists bravely using the bike lane. Jason extended an arm and punched buttons on a small computer screen fixed to the dashboard. Bromo tensed, aware of Jason’s movements. He let one eye slit open.
‘What’s that?’
‘GPS, global positioning system, sat nav, call it what you like. It’s showing us the way.’
‘Shit, Jase, you know the bloody way. It’s Richmond to South Yarra, a couple of klicks down the road. Not an expedition across the Simpson Desert. Keep your hands on the wheel.’
Jason chuckled.
‘Relax, mate. This little beauty tracks our route from go to whoa. Can’t get lost. Works by satellite.’
‘But we’re not lost. And we’re not likely to be. Bloody gadgets.’
Bromo slunk further down in his seat, eyes closed, wondering about the connection between Melissa O’Grady and an address in trendy South Yarr
a.
‘Shows all the one-way streets,’ said Jason, one hand still touching the screen.
‘So do those red street signs with a white line across them.’
The truck rumbled to a halt behind a line of cars in the right-turn lane into Toorak Road. The engine throbbed but the truck, faced with an unbroken line of oncoming traffic, didn’t move. Bromo gathered his coat tighter around him, fidgety, restless.
‘I could walk there quicker than this.’
‘Traffic,’ said Jason, tapping his fingertips on the rim of the steering wheel.
‘So, what’s the use of all that horsepower or grunt or whatever you call it? Gets you nowhere.’
‘Power, mate. Power and convenience.’
‘Nothing convenient or powerful about sitting here watching the lights change. Is this your idea of son et lumière for commuters? What’s your global gizmo got to say about this?’
Jason kept tapping out a rhythm known only to him, inching the truck forward as one car at a time made its way through each sequence of lights.
‘It knows where we are,’ he said.
‘So do I. Stuck in bloody traffic. As we always are. I don’t need a satellite to tell me that.’
Bromo sat up and opened his eyes trying to recall the route ahead, wondering about the address they were heading towards. Jason reached down to an open case of CDs. He selected one and slipped it into a slot in the instrument panel.
‘Something to get you driving along.’
A throbbing, heavy, bass-driven beat boomed out of four speakers. After four bars, a deep-throated singer joined in with a repetitious rap refrain.
‘Christ, Jase, this is a truck, not a bloody nightclub. Turn it down.’
Jason’s fingers tapped rapidly in time with the CD’s beat. He grinned: ‘Sorry. Must have left the Mozart at home.’
He hurled the truck into a sharp right turn as the lights went red, tailgating the vehicle in front.
‘Move it, idiot! Move it!’ he yelled through the windscreen.
Bromo’s hands shot forward, pushing against the dashboard, seeking support and protection.
‘Pity about the Mozart. This stuff’s not doing you much good.’
‘Keeps you alert and alive.’
‘Hoon music. More likely to get you killed.’
They took a sharp left just past the South Yarra railway station. Jason gunned the truck down a side street and over a speed hump that rocked them up out of their seats. He eased back on the speed, taking the next hump more cautiously.
‘Bloody menace, these things. Slow you down.’
‘Thank God,’ muttered Bromo.
He pointed at the GPS screen.
‘Didn’t your mate tell you it was there?’
Jason grunted.
‘Should ask for your money back.’
‘And you should listen to some real music.’
Jason turned the CD volume up.
‘Have a break from all those dead people. Move into the 21st century – even the 20th.’
‘At least those dead people are still being played and listened to.’
Bromo gestured at the dashboard. ‘This guy will be forgotten in two years.’
It was an old debate. Both knew the script and could bat the arguments to and fro for the next half-hour with no likelihood of a conclusion. Bromo was content to throw out the bait and wind in the line as long as their backchat calmed Jason’s driving. He had no idea what the GPS screen was revealing but he knew they had only a few more twists and turns to take through the back streets before they were there. He flexed his fingers, easing an unwanted tension. He couldn’t justify his nervousness. They were merely passing through, checking an address, even if it was on a list written by a young woman dumped dead in the river. He recalled the government’s catch-cry: “be alert, not alarmed”. Bugger it, he was more alarmed than alert. Jason returned to the fray.
‘Your music’s like your women.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Uptight, severe.’
This was a new tack. Jason hadn’t linked his music and his women before.
‘And what are yours then?’
Bromo pointed at the CD.
‘Like this, eh, lightweight – here today and gone tomorrow, easy to know, quickly forgotten?’
‘At least they’re fun.’
‘And my women aren’t? You got anyone in particular in mind?’
Bromo sensed a hesitation. Surely Jason wasn’t going all soft and caring, thinking of his feelings. He was slowing the truck, peering out of the side window looking at house numbers. Or avoiding the issue.
‘Come on, name names.’
‘Well, for starters, there’s that Liz bird. She’s scary. Those eyes look right into you, checking you out. You couldn’t put one across her.’
‘Why would you want to?’
‘Yeah, well—’
Jason’s voice tailed off and he made a show of turning off the ignition and setting the brake as he brought the truck to a stop outside a low-roofed house almost completely hidden behind a high white cement-washed wall. He ejected the CD, dimmed the GPS screen and checked several dials and switches on the dashboard.
‘This is worse than waiting for a 747 to taxi into the terminal,’ said Bromo.
He fumbled for the door handle to let himself out, but nothing yielded. Jason watched his struggle and laughed.
‘Central locking,’ he said.
He turned the ignition key and the door clicked.
‘Technology wins again.’
Bromo trumped him as he stepped out on to the footpath.
‘So does the scary Liz. It’s because of her that we’re here.’
They stood on the footpath, Jason head and shoulders above Bromo, neither making a move. Bromo assessed the building in front of them trying to decide its significance to Melissa O’Grady. Jason hung back, close to his truck. Still in his plumber’s overalls, heavy Blundstones on his feet, he looked like a tradie waiting for a client’s instructions, ready to give a quote for new guttering or a bathroom extension.
Two large bronze numerals, an eight and a five, saved the glaringly white wall from total anonymity, identifying its address but giving nothing away. A solid timber gate, set plum in the middle, was equally impenetrable. It had no handle, keyhole or letter-box. An intercom grille set high up in a recess was the only sign of gaining access.
‘A bloody knocking shop, if you ask me,’ said Jason.
‘I guess you’d know if anyone would,’ said Bromo.
‘Purely a professional opinion,’ said Jason. ‘They need as much plumbing as anyone else. Seen plenty. They’re all the same – big on security, high walls and a bloody big number so the punters and cabbies can’t miss them.’
A weak sun had rapidly given way to dusk and the street lights were on, creating an indeterminate halfway point between day and night. Bromo looked up and down the shadowy street. Not a sign of life except for a woman in the near distance, laptop satchel over one shoulder, an environmentally correct green shopping bag in one hand, a gym hold-all in the other. Her smart jacket and slacks contrasted with the chunky runners on her feet – the outfit of the homebound commuter.
‘I don’t know what you’ve got in mind, but it’s all clear,’ said Jason as the woman turned in to a small cottage bordered by a low brick wall. ‘You can stop twitching.’
Bromo leaned hard against the gate, more in hope than expectation. Entrances like this didn’t give at first touch. The gate didn’t yield. He bent his knees, balanced on his toes and leapt upwards. He caught a glimpse of the roof; nothing more.
‘You won’t even make the B team with a jump like that,’ said Jason, elbowing Bromo to one side. He soared upwards, a fine example of a front-row forward’s line-out leap taking him above the top of the gate.
‘Waste of energy,’ he said. ‘Nothing to see. Just a house. Security door. Light over the porch. As I said, a knocking shop, a brothel. What are you expe
cting?’
Bromo shrugged: ‘I don’t know. But it worries me that you might be right.’
He glanced up and down the street. He looked at the intercom. It was tempting. There was little risk – make up a story or simply cut and run. So many times in his youth he had pressed similar buttons, disturbing irate residents, making childish remarks – ‘Is Johnny there?’ ‘No.’ ‘So why did you answer?’ – and running off down the street.
He put his finger gently on the glowing button, and pushed – and held it there for several seconds before releasing it. He put his hand deep into his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders, absorbing the silence, half hoping no one would answer, removing any chance of conflict or complications. A quiet life.
‘Yes? Who is it?’
A female voice. Bromo thought he detected an accent, something foreign. Maybe eastern European.
‘Paul. Paul Stevens,’ he gabbled, the first name that came into his head though he knew no one called that. At least it seemed more believable than John Smith.
‘Sorry, I can’t see that name on the list. Do you have an appointment?’
His brain went into overdrive, straining, thinking on the run. List? Appointment? For what – to massage his tax return, pull a tooth, click a spinal disc back into place, polish his piano playing? Tick the boxes, make a guess, keep her talking.
‘I didn’t think an appointment was needed,’ said Bromo. He took a punt: ‘I was hoping to talk to Melissa. That’s Melissa O’Grady. You know …’
The woman’s voice cut in, sharp and quick: ‘She’s not here.’
‘But …’
‘I tell you, she’s not here. Many weeks she’s not been here.’
‘When—’
Bromo stopped. He was talking to a vacuum. The line was dead. The space beyond the wall was suddenly flooded with light. Dogs began barking. The gate was flung open and two snarling dogs leapt towards Bromo. The biceps of a tall, squat-nosed man bulged and flexed as he restrained the two Alsatians lunging on their leashes.
‘Didn’t you hear what the lady said?’
The man’s voice was throaty, guttural – an accent similar to the woman on the intercom.