Washed Up

by Berry, Tony

  ‘Very concise,’ said Dom as Bromo’s flow of words wound down.

  For a brief moment, Bromo thought he caught a hint of mockery or disbelief in Dom’s response. He quickly dismissed his reaction, putting it down to fatigue. Mind as well as body was crying out for rest.

  ‘I think I’ve got the picture,’ said Dom. ‘It’s scary stuff the way you tell it, and apparently all going on under our noses.’

  Dom sipped his drink and sat on the arm of a long, black leather lounge, legs crossed, one foot resting on the floor, the other dangling from the leg folded across his knee. The sound of voices floated up from the street, loud and argumentative. The dog’s head jerked up and he let out a long, low growl as the owners of the voices moved on and the noise of dispute faded. Bromo waved an arm in the dog’s direction.

  ‘He got a bite as well as a bark?’

  ‘You’d better believe it. He’d rip your bloody arms off.’

  ‘What’s with the name? Touch of the Latin?’

  ‘An ancient Roman hero. He kicked arse with Hannibal. Fucking well beat him and all his bloody elephants.’

  The dog nestled back down into its cushions as Bromo digested Dom’s explanation. It was a piece of the past that must have escaped his notice during Mr Bateman’s attempt to drill ancient history into a class of fidgety fifth-formers way back in secondary school. Caesar, Hannibal and Hadrian were about as far as they got, or at least as much as he could recall. No recollection of any Scipio, or even Hannibal’s defeat.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time we let loose the dogs of war,’ mused Bromo, time-shifting his references and more to himself than to his wider audience. Dom’s reaction caught him by surprise.

  ‘What, you got some crazy plan to shut these people down?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Some inside info. Your footy club mates, you said they’d been there. They know the lay-out of the place. If nothing else, we’ve got to get those girls out of there.’

  Dom’s dangling foot tapped against his shin. Bromo caught the hint of impatience and realised he was keeping him from his bed. He began easing himself from the chair’s embrace.

  ‘Anything you can do to help,’ he said.

  He resisted the urge to make a more urgent plea.

  ‘It’s getting too late now. I’ll drop by in the morning.’

  ‘Bloody idiot,’ said Dom.

  He leapt up to stand over Bromo, confronting him, surprising him by the sudden outburst.

  ‘Why go looking for trouble?’ said Dom. ‘These people are dangerous. Big time dangerous. They’ve got contacts. Everywhere, right to the top.’

  He waved his arms around as he spoke, splashes of drink spilling from his glass. Scipio raised his head, alert to the sounds of dispute. Bromo stilled any movement, wary of the dog and fazed by Dom’s reaction. He felt an urgent need to get home, away from people, safe from fights and arguments, cocooned from the irrationalities of the human race. It was too much for one day. But Dom wasn’t finished. He swivelled away from Bromo, arms still waving, voice raised and angry.

  ‘It’s stupid! You’re stupid! You have a quiet life. I have a quiet life. We do our business. These people, they do their business. Different business, but still business. Why go making trouble?’

  Bromo felt himself losing the will to argue. He was knocked out by Dom’s change in demeanour. Surely he couldn’t be that wide of the mark as a judge of the man’s character. So much in the past had depended on making snap assessments of people’s moods and mannerisms, getting behind the façades they erect and being prepared for when their public personas did a quick U-turn. He’d rarely been wrong and had always picked the biggest frauds. This wasn’t the real Dom. He stood up.

  ‘Time to go, I think.’

  Dom had run out of steam. He leaned over the dog, patting its head and fondling its ears. Bromo felt an awkwardness between them. Dom’s body language was negative minus. The familiarity of their regular contact in the café had evaporated. A gap had opened, separating them, and Bromo was fumbling for ways to cross it. He glanced at Scipio. The scene prompted the phrase “let sleeping dogs lie” to jump into his mind. For now, it seemed like good advice. He opened the door and let himself out.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Bromo woke, as too often happened, to the sound of barking dogs. A yapping ball of white fluff and a skinny brown creature of indeterminate parentage were chasing each other around in the courtyard below while their owners looked on.

  ‘Shut the fuck up! I’ve got my own alarm clock!’ he yelled.

  It was a useless outburst. He knew he wouldn’t be heard through the closed windows but gained some measure of relief from venting his anger. And harmony among neighbours was falsely maintained. The morning wake-up had become an almost daily routine of bark, curse, bark, stumble from bed, bark, silence. And too wide awake to go back to bed.

  This morning, however, was worse. It was category A, as the weather forecasters would say. He had suffered a turbulent night and the barking beneath his window extended the horrors he had experienced during the hours of darkness. The details were hazy, confused, a jumble of jagged memories,. He could recall plunging in and out of sleep, fighting images of battling his way through thick forest, dodging bullets, feeling ties binding his wrists and ankles, two women screaming in agony, hurtling at suicidal speed down a track too narrow for the vehicle he was imprisoned in and the dogs … an angry, yowling, hungry pack of them, teeth bared, snarling, leaping at him. Their barking went on and on. And that’s when he woke up.

  He shuffled through to the kitchen, running a hand through his tousled hair as he went, and switched the coffee machine on. There were some priorities that never changed. Good day or bad day, all else could wait. That included the flashing light on the phone alerting him that someone had called. However, he had no idea when. The ringing of the phone would have been just one more sound in the jumble of noise that assailed him during the night. Along with the dogs. Their presence nagged at him. There was something there beyond a bad night’s sleep.

  Bromo watched the coffee surge through the machine, thickly black with a rich foamy crema on top. He removed the glass from beneath the spout and clasped it between his hands. Restoration was at hand. His head would clear and the dogs would slink away. He ran through a mental checklist as he waited for the coffee to cool, one hand ruffling through his bed-messed hair. He had to phone Jason, confirm arrangements with Peter Jardine and Liz, try to make contact with Delia, mend broken bridges with Dom. So much to do, too much, so early in the day.

  He sipped at his drink, relishing the surge of caffeine through his system, a jolt sufficient to provide the will to play back the phone message. It was Jardine, cryptic as ever.

  ‘Give us a call when you can. Something I forgot. Might affect our plans.’

  No waste of words there. Bromo pressed the redial and scored an immediate response.

  ‘Jardine.’

  ‘Still saving your breath? What’s bugging you?’

  ‘Bad choice of words.’

  ‘What, you don’t think—’

  ‘Yes, I do!’ snapped Jardine.

  Bromo ingested a further slug of caffeine and considered the message in Jardine’s words. The possibility of Jardine’s phone being bugged hadn’t occurred to him. He tried to imagine why, and by whom. He asked the question.

  ‘They call it “monitoring service delivery”,’ said Jardine. ‘It amounts to the same thing. Someone could be listening, or taping.’

  There was silence. Bromo realised he was listening with extra effort, straining to hear the slightest intrusive sound. He sensed Jardine doing the same. The mental picture conjured up made him smile: two men at the opposite ends of the suburb, holding telephones to their ears, wishing to speak, yet both frozen into silence by an unproven threat. A farce. He saw it as a micro version of what was happening in the wider world where the perceived threat of terrorism had become more destabilising than the terrorism itsel
f. Someone had to speak out.

  ‘Don’t let the turkeys get you down,’ he said.

  ‘They don’t. I’m used to it. I cope,’ said Jardine. ‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’

  Bromo felt the implication of Jardine’s words hit home. The thought of a tap on his own phone had passed him by. He had convinced himself those days had been left far behind. The taps and bugs and hidden cameras upon which he had once so often relied were no longer his tools of trade. They had been relegated to being the toys of TV crime heroes, far removed from reality. He held the handset at arm’s length and gave it a cursory inspection. His eyes flicked around the room, seeking places where listening devices could be secreted. So many. He hadn’t thought. He shook his head in disbelief. It couldn’t be. A few words from Jardine and he was getting paranoid. He downed the rest of his coffee and welcomed a further surge of wakefulness. Jardine was waiting.

  ‘You called,’ said Bromo. ‘Speak to me.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure!’

  Bromo over-compensated for his anxiety, barking out the words. He knew his show of bravado was a lie the moment he spoke. But not one he was going to confess to.

  ‘One detail I forget to mention last night,’ said Jardine. ‘Something we might need to consider.’

  ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘There was a dog there too.’

  Bromo felt himself shudder. His nightmares were still with him.

  ‘A rottweiler,’ said Jardine. ‘He’ll need to be fixed.’

  Jardine’s words were ringing bells, extending the alarms that had beset Bromo throughout the night. He knew what was coming but had to ask to make sure, to confirm his demons.

  ‘Anyone with him?’

  ‘Yeah, a stocky sort of bloke. Not big. Short … and solid.’

  Bromo pressed on, sure of what he would hear.

  ‘Describe him. You were there, for Christ’s sake. What did he look like?’

  He heard Jardine mutter an obscenity. Frustrated, cranky. Bromo understood; it was too much to ask of any witness. Few people took note of details. Long experience had shown that asking ten people to describe a villain meant ending up with ten different descriptions, all of them swearing blind to the veracity of what they thought they saw. But he had to know.

  ‘It was a glimpse,’ protested Jardine. ‘He was dark, swarthy, a little goatee beard. A Mediterranean type. Could be Greek, or Italian. What you and I used to call a wog before the PC mob stepped in.’

  It was as Bromo feared. He heard his nightmares being confirmed by Jardine’s words. His fractious interlude at the café was making sense.

  ‘Dom.’

  Silence. Jardine either didn’t hear or failed to understand. Bromo assumed the latter. He repeated Dom’s name and added a brief account of his late-night encounter with the café owner. As he spoke, he reached conclusions he was reluctant to believe – yet he saw no alternative. Jardine must have done the same.

  ‘No more phone chat,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at your place in 15.’

  Jardine’s cryptic wariness was back. He cut the call. Bromo continued clutching his now silent phone, surprised at the sudden break in their connection.

  ‘And goodbye to you, too,’ he muttered.

  There were more calls he had to make. Urgently. He hesitated, looking at the handset and recalling Jardine’s hints of phone taps. Maybe the mobile would be safer, although he had recently read that mobiles and emails had become a huge source of easily accessed information for police and anti-corruption forces. How things had changed since his days in the service.

  His mobile saved him from making a decision as it trilled out its La Donna è Mobile ring-tone. There was no caller ID. And they didn’t bother to introduce themselves.

  ‘Bugger off, Perkins.’

  The voice was rough, deep, male and echoing. A controlled monotone. Bromo found it vaguely familiar despite sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a 44-gallon drum.

  ‘You’re out of your league,’ said the voice. ‘Next time you won’t be so lucky.’

  Bromo strained to catch the nuances and inflections. He needed to keep him talking.

  ‘Where are the girls?’

  There was no response. Yet the connection hadn’t been cut. Bromo could hear faint noises in the background, whispering, a muffled discussion.

  ‘They’re being bagged up. We’ll tell you where to collect ’em.’

  Bromo’s fears for the girls’ safety were suddenly heightened. He let himself be distracted by the content of the caller’s message. It was the same voice, foreign yet familiar, but Bromo had stopped listening closely.

  ‘Are they alive?

  There was a throaty chuckle at the other end of the line that did nothing to reassure him.

  ‘Who cares? No use to anyone. A coupla stupid bitches that don’t know their tits from their arse. Do nothing, say nothing and they’re all yours. That’s if you want to live to see next week.’

  The voice was obviously distorted. Probably using the old trick of placing a handkerchief over the mouthpiece, decided Bromo. He wasn’t given the chance to make any more guesses. The caller rang off.

  Bromo decided to risk using his mobile. He needed muscle to counteract the forces of the other side and that was a commodity Jason Conquest had in more than ample measure.

  ‘Hi, Jase. It’s me, Bromo. I need your body.’

  ‘That’s usually what the girls say. What’s your excuse?’

  He was as breezy and brash as ever. Bromo, however, had no time for banter. He was already aware before mystery man’s call that the clock was fast ticking down. Now the pace had quickened. He had to ignore the threats, pretend they didn’t exist even if they were jack-hammering away at the back of his mind.

  ‘A spot of heavy work, Jase. Right now. Urgent. Can’t manage it on my own.’

  He kept it short and cryptic, hoping Jason would read between the lines. They had shared similar moments before and Jason had usually been reasonably quick to understand and respond.

  ‘Need a few extra hands?’

  ‘Very useful.’

  ‘You’re in luck. The boys and me are on a late start. Bloody deliveries are all behind. We’ll drop by on our way through. Better tell me the address.’

  It was a risk, but Bromo took it. And added some extra instructions. He could see no alternative. And hoped no one was listening.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The coffee machine hissed and spat as Bromo waited for Jardine to arrive. He needed another shot but had forgotten to fill the machine’s water tank. It was running on empty. Bromo grabbed the jug, emptied water into the tank and switched the machine back on. Its lights blinked, sending the irritating message that it wasn’t ready.

  Bromo’s fingers tapped impatiently on the benchtop. Where the bloody hell was Jardine? The lights on the coffee machine stopped flashing. It was ready to perform. Bromo pressed the button for a double shot. He resumed the finger-tapping. What did the man on the phone mean about the girls being bagged up? He watched the machine. Two shots in the one glass. The inky black liquid streamed out, foaming into a thick crema. Shit! It was too hot to drink.

  The buzzing of the intercom startled him. Bromo grabbed the phone, checked it was Jardine and pressed the button to release the security door downstairs. He gulped at the coffee and felt the caffeine hitting home: a stimulant that calmed. Bromo studied the weather beyond his balcony as he listened for Jardine’s footsteps on the stairs. It looked grey and blustery into the far distance, yet with no signs of rain. The triple towers of the Housing Commission’s high-rises stood out stark and clear. The clouds were high enough for a Qantas jet to fly beneath them on its long descent into the airport on the far side of the city. They were a dirty off-white and unbroken by any patches of sunlight. The flag on the Town Hall mast was flapping spasmodically and erratically, indicating a swirling, changing wind.

  Bromo let Jardine in and pointed him to a collap
sible tubular steel chair. He wasn’t big on fancy furniture. Foldaway items saved space.

  ‘Make yourself at home. Coffee?’

  Jardine shook his head in rejection.

  ‘Had enough already.’

  Bromo sensed Jardine’s edginess and was suddenly aware he himself was no better. He felt not only physically taut and tense, but also cranky mentally. His tormented night was only partly to blame. The mystery phone call had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. Talk of phone taps and the constant image of Dom and his rottweiler added to his distress. He wanted to slam the door on the lot of them. Such complications belonged in his past. He rubbed the lobe of his ear between thumb and forefinger. He unfolded another chair and sat facing Jardine.

  ‘We should have gone in last night,’ he said.

  Jardine nodded.

  ‘Caught everyone by surprise in the midnight hours. Always the best time. Bodies at their lowest ebb.’

  ‘You’re rambling,’ said Jardine.

  Bromo clasped his glass of coffee in both hands and leaned forward, arms on thighs, head lowered. He sniffed and his lips formed in a brief half-smile.

  ‘Yes. Guess I am. Probably too much caffeine. Bit on edge.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  Bromo felt relief. There was comfort in confessing to nerves and fears. They could support each other. He had shared more moments than he would have liked with would-be strong silent types who were afraid to admit they were scared shitless. They usually presented more dangers than the enemy they were fighting.

  ‘So?’ said Jardine.

  His question hung in the air between them. Bromo knew it demanded a firm answer. The time had come for him to commit, to take the lead and act; not to yield to the temptation to walk away and hope the authorities would clear up whatever mess had been created.

  ‘We go in.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Purple Lounge.’