by Berry, Tony
‘I think you’ve got some work to do, eh?’
West nodded.
‘Yes, Vern.’
His voice was a squeak, lacking its normal timbre.
‘I was on my way when you arrived.’
‘On your way? Where to?’
‘North Richmond. The two students. That girl Melissa’s friends.’
Rosen took a step back, but continued eyeballing West, glaring and unblinking. He wanted more. West sent his tongue on a lap of his lips, curing their dryness. He gathered saliva in his mouth, making moisture for his vocal chords.
‘Perkins is moving them out …’ his voice was coming back, deeper, more assured, ‘… taking them to a refuge.’
The information defused Rosen’s anger. He turned away from West, hands thrust into trouser pockets, contemplating the floor as he paced out the few steps back to his chair. He sat back, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, feigning the image of a man at ease – as relaxed as a cobra at mealtime. He flicked a glance at Theopoulos.
‘This your idea, Con?’
The Greek nodded.
‘Sounds a lot for one man to handle,’ said Rosen. ‘Even for a cold-blooded fish like Cool-hand Carl here.’
He looked at West.
‘You need help?’
‘Could do. Depends what has to be done.’
The cobra uncoiled. Rosen leapt from his chair.
‘Christ-all-fucking-mighty!’ he roared.
The ring fingers on each hand pointed at Theopoulos and West, stressing his words, a frenzied conductor berating a couple of sluggish musos.
‘What has to be done!’ he screeched. ‘What has to be done is that you two fix this bloody mess for once and for all. Finito! Kaput! Geddit?’
Theopoulos was stunned into silence, sweat beading his brow and spreading the stain under his armpits. West took the initiative.
‘Sure, Vern. I was on my way when you burst in,’ he said, the voice stronger still, seeking to calm the storm, his confidence returning. He eased himself off the wall, standing upright and moving towards the door, bike helmet in hand.
‘Your offer of help sounded good. Got Perkins and the two girls to handle. Could get messy. Might need a hand.’
Rosen snatched a sheet of paper off the desk, not looking to see what it contained, ignoring a tentative reaching out by Theopoulos to take it back. He tore off a strip, turned it over, picked up a pen and wrote a number. He thrust it at West.
‘Ring that number when you’re ready. The boys will be waiting. I’ll tell them to expect your call.’
‘These the guys from Number 85?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Heavy.’
‘Efficient and discrete.’
West opened the door and started to leave. Theopoulos scraped back his chair and half rose, almost trance-like, a man still in shock with one beseeching hand extended forward, fingers widespread.
‘Please, Carl,’ he whispered, ‘no more killing.’
Rosen stretched out and pushed the Greek back into his chair.
‘Shut it. This is your mess we’re clearing up. He’ll do whatever he has to do. Whatever it takes.’
He turned his head towards West.
‘On yer bike!’ he rasped.
His words went unheard. West had gone and the door was shut.
TWENTY-THREE
Bromo needed transport. A taxi would be a poor alternative. He had visions of a grumbling cabbie confronted by Adriana and Lottie loaded down by backpacks, bedrolls and probably four or five of those large pink, blue and white striped carry-alls. Jason’s ute was the only answer. Okay, so it was the middle of a working day and the big galah was probably stuck on some building site. But he was a mate. He liked doing matey things, keeping up the Aussie image. Bromo made the call.
‘Jase? A big favour. Any chance of a quick trip in the ute?’
‘What, another brothel tour? Didn’t you have enough excitement last time?’
‘Much easier. Got to pick up a couple of girls.’
He heard Jason chuckle. An expected reaction. A bloke’s response, as ever. True to form from someone who packed down every weekend in the front row for one of the city’s few rugby teams.
‘You must be getting desperate.’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Convince me.’
‘They’re kids in trouble.’
Again that chuckle.
‘Trouble for who? Sounds dicey.’
‘Not really. Get them to a refuge and they’ll be fine. A quick run across town. Richmond to Hawthorn. ‘
Bromo could hear hammering in the background, a voice calling out. Jason was on site somewhere. Probably in a ditch, crawling under a house, maybe threading pipes between joists. A bad time to call after all.
‘Where and when?’
‘Here, now,’ said Bromo. ‘Drive over to Cremorne, then drop them off just off Burwood Road. Take about half an hour.’
‘And the rest.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’m out in bloody Ringwood. Putting dunnies in a block of flats. Some of us have to work, can’t just drop tools.’
Bromo knew he’d backed a loser. He had to accept it had been a long shot from the start. Ringwood was almost an hour away down the freeway even for someone driving to the limit and catching the road on a day free of accidents and lane closures.
‘Sorry, Jase. Hoped you might be working around here.’
‘Another time, eh? Perhaps meet up later, check out these girls of yours.’
No point in explaining, thought Bromo. Jason was testosterone territory. Go with the flow.
‘Drop round this evening,’ he replied. ‘We’ll have a couple of those bevvies I owe you. Meantime, I’ll chat with the warden and see how the girls settle in. They might even welcome a bit of normal company.’
Not that there was all that much that was normal about Jason – oversized, big in spirit and personality, overpowering in voice and imposing in physique yet totally harmless unless you were an unfortunate opposing fly-half sprinting for the try line. A clatter of metal and a hurriedly bellowed “Gotta go, mate’ assailed Bromo’s eardrum. The line went dead. He was left with no choice.
He took another look outside. A scattering of blue patches overhead but more dark clouds were rolling in from the south. Forget the cab. He’d call one from the girls’ place once they were set to leave. He needed air and exercise. If he moved briskly he could treat his body to both and probably get to Adriana and Lottie before the next downpour.
Bromo began power-walking along Coppin Street, musing on the synchronicity of his route. He was heading towards Cremorne, a corner of the city that was once home to an entertainment showpiece some old-timers had described as the Disneyland of the 1850s. It was founded by the infamous George Coppin, the man commemorated in the tree-lined street along which Bromo now strode.
At the time, Coppin’s notorious Cremorne Gardens were labelled by some as a hotbed of vice. By Bromo’s reckoning, not much seemed to have changed in 150 years. Today the area was favoured by petty criminals and gangland matriarchs. In its rowdy pubs, police and the underworld happily co-mingled and many a shady deal was consummated over a glass of VB.
Eventually George Coppin went broke – not for the first, or last, time – and the pleasure park was subdivided for the homes and factories that Bromo had watched gradually being transformed into warehouse apartments and high-rise flats. Thrice-married Coppin, close friend of Nellie Melba and Sarah Bernhardt, was remembered by one elderly resident as “a big fat old fella stuck in the back of a cab”. The recollection suggested to Bromo that Coppin was little more than a mild template for the far more devious civic wheelers and dealers who had followed in his footsteps and still littered local politics. If only they’d go away and give him some peace.
Bromo turned on to Swan Street, endlessly clogged with trucks, cars and trams. It was a motorist’s nightmare – a too-narrow main s
treet built in horse and buggy days now having to double as the main artery to the sports arenas at Olympic Park and two huge entertainment centres. Car rage broke out as a woman in a tiny sedan blasted a four-wheel drive that sped out of the service station centimetres from her front wheels. She received a one-fingered salute in response. Bromo smiled at the exchange of hostilities and marched steadily on through the Church Street junction, overtaking fuming motorists stuck in slick machines moving at half his pace.
He weaved along a footpath booby-trapped with tables and chairs from a succession of cafés. So many people with nothing better to do than lounge around drinking coffee. He envied them. He was on the verge of a caffeine crisis. It had been too long since the last cup. He hesitated outside the Grissini Café, thought better of it and hurried on. Display stands from clothing shops, the video store and the $2 shop impeded his progress. The sole butcher shop had one customer – a seller and a buyer holding out against the invasion of the supermarkets. Bromo could remember being spoilt for choice – which butcher to favour with his shopping list. Back then, there were several greengrocers, too. But they’d all long gone. Now everyone was forced to shop with the monolithic Fresh Food People. What a joke. How fresh was fresh when it had been stuck in a semi-trailer for three days before sitting out the back of the store awaiting its turn to be stacked on the shelves?
Bromo sidestepped around a couple of tuneless buskers and scrambled clear of a motorised wheelchair. Its elderly occupant was giving a reasonable imitation of Schumacher on race day.
‘Look out for Brabham Corner,’ said Bromo.
Too late. The ersatz Schumacher had sped on.
Bromo enjoyed the walk, even on a cluttered footpath. For once, the slow-movers and aimless drifters failed to irritate him. It was good to be free of the office – and of people – to feel his body unwind. A fresh belt of pressure would be building soon enough, like the dark bank of clouds massing over towards the city. He turned left immediately after the railway bridge unaware of Carl West, keeping pace but 50 metres or so behind on the other side of the street. He entered a warren of short, narrow streets lined by tiny cottages. Most of them occupied blocks little bigger than the lounge-rooms of homes out on the new estates. A tiny patch of dirt or cement paving filled the space between their front doors and the footpath. Low brick walls with cracked render or wooden fences with palings missing defined their borders. Front rooms were hidden behind grimy slatted blinds set at drunken angles, or bed sheets strung up as temporary curtains. Letterboxes overflowed with unwanted junk mail. Discarded fast-food cartons and drink containers cluttered the gutters. It was rental territory.
He found a house with a number screwed to its front gate and counted up from there. Occasionally he passed another house that bore an identifier to confirm his counting. He pitied the poor postie delivering letters to such anonymous dwellings. Maybe it was a way of ensuring bills were not delivered, or at least delayed. To friends, they would be known as the house with the blue door; to officialdom they were anonymous. Let the landlord fix it, if he cared.
If his counting was accurate, one of the few double-fronted weatherboards in the street was where he’d find the girls. The house was almost smart compared to many of its neighbours. A simple early Victorian with pitched iron roof, it showed signs of having been splashed with a layer of paint within reasonably recent times. The relatively new roof looked as if it would repel the worst of the winter storms. A cluster of flourishing pot plants and containers of herbs filled the minuscule front yard. The miracle was not that they were alive and healthy but that they hadn’t been stolen.
Bromo unlatched the fly-screen and knocked on the solid timber door it shielded.
‘Come in. It’s open,’ yelled a female voice, muffled by the door.
He wasn’t sure whether it was Adriana or Lottie. Whoever, they were too trusting. He turned the handle – an old twist and push model – and stepped into a long corridor of bare boards, stained and polished. There was no one in sight. Two doors opened off either side of the hallway. At its far end he glimpsed a room which seemed to be set across the width of the house
‘The Richmond Rapist here,’ he called out. ‘Just doing a house call.’
‘That’s not funny.’
Adriana almost collided with him as she flung open the door to his right and stepped into the corridor.
‘We don’t joke about things like that around here.’
She was eyeballing him, brows furrowed, matching him height for height, standing tall in high-heeled leather boots which encased the lower lengths of a pair of jeans. The denim couldn’t have fitted any tighter if it had been sprayed on. A pale green flimsy cotton shirt flapped open over a tank top stretched tight across her breasts. Distracting. Bromo looked away, noting the streaks of colour in her hair had faded since their last meeting. They were muted and less strident. But not the woman beneath. She had hands on hips, leaning into him.
‘Don’t you know how bloody upsetting a remark like that can be?’
Bromo shrugged. Of course he knew, just as he was aware there were times when apologies went nowhere. No use explaining he was illustrating the hazards of an unlocked front door. Falling back on the excuse of natural flippancy would only inflame. Let her have her rant. She was sure right was on her side. It was a bit like being balled out by the headmaster or the sergeant-major in his previous lives, but far more pleasant to watch.
‘Hi there. Come on in.’
Lottie’s appearance dowsed the flames. She was framed in the doorway leading to the back room, cheerful and chirpy, a pocketful of energy in black slacks and a loose white tee. Bromo watched Adriana deflate. She stepped to one side.
‘Yeah, go on in. We’re almost packed.’
‘As you said, only two bags each,’ said Lottie, as he joined her in the back room.
Bromo looked at them – only two backpacks sure enough, but each one big and bulging is if in readiness for an assault on Everest. He pointed in the direction of an alcove leading to a galley kitchen and laundry cupboard.
‘You’ve forgotten something.’
Lottie caught on.
‘The sink belongs to the landlord,’ she said. Bromo grinned at her quick acknowledgment of his obtuse remark. Her brain was as lively as her body. A long low settee covered by what looked like a couple of plaid picnic blankets offered the only seating. Bromo made room between a scattering of newspapers from other days and a heap of coats and sweaters.
‘Discards,’ explained Lottie. ‘At least for now.’
Bromo sank deep on to the settee’s creaking springs.
‘Bit of a bum-cracker.’
‘Top of the range for impoverished students.’
She rummaged through the jumbled pile of coats and extracted a lurid green jacket with white faux fur trim down the front and at the cuffs.
‘Second thoughts,’ she said. ‘My happy coat. It always brings me luck.’
‘You might need it,’ said Bromo.
His hand went towards his pocket for his phone.
‘If you and Adriana are about ready, I’ll call for a cab.’
He was never sure what exactly he noticed next – whether it was the shocked look on Lottie’s face, the muted squeal of pain from Adriana or the agony of his arm being twisted behind him and forced up towards his neck. They all occurred within seconds. The sequence was immaterial.
Bromo was briefly aware of Adriana being thrust into the room by a tall, swarthy man in a black tracksuit and chunky basketball boots. The logo on his back-to-front baseball cap proclaimed allegiance to the Collingwood Football Club – enough to inflame the passions of any die-hard Richmond resident. One arm was around Adriana’s neck, pushing into her windpipe. The other held a handgun – the local gangland’s weapon of choice despite it supposedly having been banned for at least the past five years. He handled it like an extension of his hand, relaxed and confident. Any action would be reflex and without a second thought.
Bro
mo guessed his own assailant was of the same build and dress. His head was being pushed into his knees by the man’s leverage on his arm. His spine was being stretched into unremitting agony. A quick glance to one side revealed a black-clad arm dangling another handgun, nonchalantly and ready for action. He could see Lottie’s feet and the lower half of her legs. She was rigid, hadn’t moved a step.
‘Okay, Bomber. Cuffs, gags, blindfolds!’ barked a voice that rang bells in Bromo’s memory bank.
Somewhere, recently, he’d heard that same sonorous tone. Perhaps a pitch or two higher and not so commanding, but so very similar.
The pressure on his back eased as he was levered upright. He felt the snap of metal around his wrists. Smoothly done. Professionals. Whoever was giving orders was out of sight, somewhere along the hall, outside the room. Adrianna was near the door, hands behind her back. A thick belt of cloth had been jammed into her mouth and tied behind her head. She looked at Bromo, speaking with her eyes, scared and pleading as her attacker folded another strip of black cloth into a blindfold, his handgun temporarily thrust into the waistband of his track pants. Bromo knew he was helpless. They were outnumbered and definitely out-gunned.
‘I told you to shut the door,’ he said.
Another one for the book of famous last words. Adriana managed to flash a glare in Bromo’s direction in the seconds before the blindfold cut vision between them. Her captor pushed her back against the wall.
‘Stay there. I’ve got your little friend to fix. Don’t move.’
Wasted words, noted Bromo. The terrified woman wasn’t likely to be going anywhere. He wriggled his hands behind his back, testing the cuffs, aware of the muscleman standing close. Tight. Secure.
Bromo watched the man named Bomber stride towards Lottie. His movement startled her into action. She unfroze, let loose a squeal – the cry of a wounded animal – and turned in the direction of the kitchen. Bomber lengthened his stride, extended his arm, grabbed her round the waist and gathered her in. One fluid movement was all it took. This was the elite mob in action. If Richo could have taken a mark as smoothly as that at the MCG last week, Bromo and the rest of the Tigers’ fans would have screamed themselves hoarse. This wasn’t the G.