Washed Up

by Berry, Tony

  ‘What, just like that? Us, taking the law into our own hands?’

  Bromo heard the improbability of his plan echoing in Jardine’s words and brushed it one side. The thought of Adriana and Lottie being “bagged up” stayed with him.

  ‘Not just you and me. There’ll be others. A bit of muscle on the side. And bring Luke.’

  Jardine pushed forward in his seat, agitated, leaning into Bromo.

  ‘No, not the kid. He’s gone through enough.’

  Bromo reached out towards Jardine, arms extended, palms down, moving in a calming gesture. He was starting to feel good, seeing the way ahead, sure of Luke’s role and confident he’d be in no danger.

  ‘He’ll be fine. He’s our entry ticket. Once inside, he can disappear. There’ll be people to look after him. Trust me.’

  Bromo bit his tongue on his final two words and crossed his fingers. He had sat in on too many tactical seminars that failed to match the later reality. There had been war games that provided an adrenalin rush but bore little relation to frontline action. The best of theories got turned on their head by the simplest of hitches. The strategists swore they planned for unforeseen eventualities yet had no answer when the eventualities did what was expected of them and became unforeseen. Jardine shuffled in his seat, uneasy, unconvinced.

  ‘In daylight? Isn’t that going against all we’ve ever been taught?’

  Jardine was right. Bromo knew it. He had already fought his own internal debate on the timing and won a narrow victory. His counter-argument was ready.

  ‘Yes. But these are night people,’ he said. ‘Most of them will be catching up on sleep. It’s a quiet time for business. Only the occasional desperate, the no-hopers.’

  Bromo spoke with a conviction he didn’t feel. He knew it was a weak argument. However, he reckoned that with any luck they would be there before the lunchtime rush when workers sloped off for a quickie, making excuses about going to the gym, nipping out to the TAB to place a bet or having to check a few things with their bank. Anything but admitting they needed a quick sexual fix because things weren’t right at home or the girlfriend wouldn’t put out.

  Bromo saw his words were having little effect. Jardine remained hunched up, head bowed, frown lines of doubt creased deep across his brow.

  ‘I reckon you’d look more enthusiastic if I asked you jump off the Eureka Tower.’

  Jardine sniffed, his face relaxing briefly into a rueful half-smile.

  ‘Yeah, a 300-metre drop sounds a pretty good alternative to what you’re offering. Why the rush?’

  ‘The girls, Peter. The girls.’

  Bromo sensed he had sparked a light. Jardine jerked up, his face less furrowed, his attitude more alert and interested.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  He shook his head, as if shaking away a shroud.

  ‘Must admit I’d forgotten about them. Too much going on. Not a great excuse but it’s the only one I’ve got.’

  Jardine spread his hands in a gesture that combined regret with apology. It would have to suffice. Bromo gave him a despairing glare and marked him down, but kept his opinions to himself. Voicing negative comments would achieve nothing. Instead, he told Jardine about his threatening phone call and the menacing detail that Adrianna and Lottie were being “bagged up”. Jardine brought his hands together, clasped the fingers and flexed them. Bromo welcomed the signs of concern.

  ‘So, we go in?’

  ‘My oath.’

  ‘We get the girls and Theophanous and his mates lose their bargaining power.’

  ‘And if we don’t?’

  ‘We’ll probably be picking more bodies out of the river.’

  ‘What good will that do?’

  ‘Fear, Pete. Sheer fear. No one will be able to prove a thing. Or won’t want to. Like it was with Melissa O’Grady. Just another couple of floaters in the river. Kids no one cares about yet they carry a message.’

  Jardine nodded. He didn’t need to be told. Too many bruised and broken kids passed through his care at the refuge.

  Bromo slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. It was a show of enthusiasm he didn’t really feel but something had to be done. The sudden action surprised himself as much as Jardine.

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Jardine still looked startled.

  ‘What, now? I thought—’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  He put an arm around Jardine’s shoulder and guided him gently towards the door.

  ‘That’s later, Pete. First, we’ve got a bit of housekeeping to do.’

  *

  A long line of commuters leaned against the tubular metal guard rails at the tram stop, waiting for the Number 75 trundling towards them, its two carriages already packed to the limit. They faced a jarring 20-minute ride of strap-hanging alongside sweaty armpits or waiting for the next tram in the hope it would be slightly less crowded. Alongside the tram tracks, a double line of nose-to-tail vehicles crammed the road into the city, most of them with no more than a single occupant. The footpath, however, was almost deserted as Bromo led Jardine along Bridge Road towards Burnley Street.

  He nodded to a woman tugging the lead of a reluctant terrier that showed all the signs of feeling short-changed by the brevity of their excursion to nearby Citizens Park.

  ‘Got a handful there.’

  ‘Too frisky by half,’ said the woman.

  ‘Half his luck,’ said Bromo. ‘What’s his secret?’

  ‘Young and stress-free.’

  A depressing answer, stirring only regret for a distant past. A dog’s life indeed. He should be so lucky. They walked on and turned into a narrow side street a few metres from where they had glimpsed Dom carrying out a table to start setting up his roadside patch of outdoor seating.

  Jason and an equally tall and bulky companion were standing by their plumber’s truck, leaning back against the bonnet, hands in the pockets of blue tradie’s overalls. A matching pair of no-nonsense, likeable rough diamonds.

  Jason eased himself off the truck and nodded in his companion’s direction.

  ‘Hi. Bromo this is Dave. Dave, Bromo.’

  Bromo refused to display even the hint of a wince as Dave gripped his hand in a bone-crushing greeting.

  ‘Good to have you along,’ he said. ‘A bit of muscle’s always welcome.’

  ‘Thank our suppliers,’ said Jason ‘Stupid stock-on-demand system may work for them but it’s bloody useless when there’s a rush on and we need things today, not when their system says so.’

  Bromo and Jardine nodded sympathetically as if they understood the vagaries of plumbing supplies. They heard him out then Bromo told him what he had in mind.

  ‘Pity about the clearway this time of day,’ said Jason. ‘Would’ve been good to park outside.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Bromo. ‘Too bloody obvious.’

  ‘We sussed out the backyard,’ said Jason. ‘You’re right, the dog’s there. Running around at the end of a long chain.’

  ‘Good.’

  Bromo peered round the corner. He watched Dom place a couple of chairs at the table and go back inside the café for more.

  ‘Right, Peter, he doesn’t know you. You go and distract him. Get me a croissant.’

  He turned to Jason and his mate.

  ‘You two follow Pete … and bring me back that Italian fruitcake.’

  Bromo stood on the corner, watching, sensing a ripple of nervous energy. Things were moving. It felt like old times. There was an almost irresistible frisson about being involved in events on the darker side of society. He had to remind himself he had long ago decided it wasn’t the life he wanted anymore. He had to reject the recurring argument that it was a decision made for him, forced upon him for that single misdemeanour that the hierarchy refused to understand. Whatever. Now was not the time for such inner debates.

  Jardine strolled into the café. Dom finished arranging a couple of chairs and called out as he moved in behind him.

  ‘We’re
not quite ready. The machine’s still warming up.’

  ‘Coffee can wait,’ said Jardine. ‘I just want a croissant.’

  There was a rush of bodies. Jason and Dave filled the doorway, gathered Dom in close to them, spun him round and hustled him back outside. A young woman, thin, half awake, brushing strands of red and turquoise-streaked hair off her face, emerged from a back room, tying on an apron. She was not alert enough to understand what was happening.

  ‘What—?’

  Jardine waved his hands at her.

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie. Your boss has got called away on urgent business.’

  She still seemed dazed.

  ‘You’re in charge,’ said Jardine. ‘Hope you know how to work the Gaggia. Forget the croissant.’

  He hurried out, brushing through the hanging plastic strips of the fly-screen curtain covering the entrance.

  Jason and his mate were turning the corner with Dom squeezed between them, his arms gripped fast behind him, propelling him forward, almost lifting him off the ground and hardly scoring a glance from the passing stream of car-borne commuters. A jogger shuffled past, a headset covering his ears and an iPod strapped to his arm, too immersed in his private world of pleasure and pain to notice anything unusual.

  Bromo waited by the truck, a roll of duct tape in his hand. He ripped off a strip and smoothed it firmly over Dom’s mouth. Jason stretched the man’s hands behind him, gripping his wrists as Bromo unwound more tape to bind them tightly together. Jason and Dave hefted him into the rear seat. Jardine peered back around the corner. Bromo sensed his anxiety.

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘Not yet, but there could be when the girl in the café comes to her senses.’

  ‘So, let’s get out of here. Everyone in the truck.’

  ‘Where to?’ said Jason.

  For a while there was silence. Everyone was waiting. Bromo had no immediate answer. He needed to think things through. Decisions made on the run tended to be dangerous decisions – dangerous for those who made them rather than those on the receiving end.

  ‘Can you drive round?’

  ‘It’s not a bloody tour bus,’ said Jason.

  ‘Yeah, okay, just give me five minutes.’

  Jason turned the ignition key and eased the truck away from the kerb.

  ‘We’re due on site in 30 minutes. So make your mind up.’

  They cruised gently along the back streets, down Abinger, up Lyndhurst, a turn into the wide downward slope of Malleson, which becomes Wall on the other side of Coppin, and right into Mary. No one spoke. Bromo stared ahead, one hand resting on the ledge of the door panel, the hand in his lap rubbing finger and thumb together as he considered his options. His own place was getting too dangerous. Too many hidden watchers. He had seen no one lurking around but everything pointed to it being under continuous observation by people he didn’t want to encounter. Jardine’s place was probably safer but out of the question. He didn’t want to jeopardise the kids’ sense of security. They were fragile enough already. That left only one place that was reasonably secure and so far untroubled by intruders.

  ‘Okay, Jase. Left at the next intersection, then a sharp right and stop about halfway along. By the big timber double gates.’

  Bromo pulled out his phone and made a quick call. He thought it only fair to warn Liz to expect visitors, especially one now trussed tighter than a Christmas turkey.

  Liz eased open one of the gates as they arrived. Bromo noted her lack of surprise as they unloaded their limp cargo. She was as ice-cool and smooth as ever, showing little of what lay beneath.

  ‘Ever feel like kicking the cat?’ said Bromo.

  ‘Yes, often,’ she said.

  Then gave that half-smile that he felt looked right through him, translating his thoughts. ‘But not when anyone else is watching.’

  It was as he assumed but not something to be debated right now. He kept watch on the street as Jason and Dave carried Dom into the courtyard and across to the house. He and Liz followed.

  ‘Sorry to do this to you, Liz. Bit of an imposition but it seemed the best option. Nowhere else seems safe.’

  ‘Glad to help.’

  She smiled and briefly clasped his elbow.

  ‘It’s good to be part of the action. After all, I started all this.’

  He felt he’d scored a hit. She seemed almost excited, like a kid lighting the blue touch paper on cracker night and standing back, waiting for the bang.

  By the time they got inside, Dom had been tied to a high-back chair, hands behind the frame, ankles bound in tape. His mouth remained sealed. Jason and Dave stood over him, alert and confronting. Marsha, a borrowed dressing gown enfolding her, shuffled into the room, sleepy-eyed and brushing hair off her forehead. She slumped down into a deep armchair.

  ‘Have I missed something?’ she said. ‘This looks like fun.’

  Jason looked at her, not sure of her role in events.

  ‘Could be. Depends on Bromo. We’ve done our bit. All wrapped and delivered.’

  He moved towards the door.

  ‘Guess you won’t be needing us anymore.’

  ‘Depends … maybe later. But thanks a million so far,’ said Bromo.

  The hint of an incomplete assignment hung in the air, although no one else showed signs of noticing.

  ‘Couldn’t have done it without you.’

  Bromo stood back and admired their handiwork, fixing Dom with a look he hoped contained no trace of their former friendship. He acknowledged Jason’s departure with a quick wave of his hand.

  ‘I guess I owe you one.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard that before,’ said Jason.

  He stepped out into the courtyard, Dave ahead of him.

  ‘Add it to the rest of the account. If it gets any longer you’ll be better off buying a pub.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The next hour passed in a blur. Bromo gathered Liz, Jardine and Marsha around the long table of darkly polished jarrah in the far corner of the room. He had a notepad and pen in front of him.

  ‘A council of war,’ he told them.

  ‘Without the war, I hope,’ said Liz.

  Bromo greeted her remark with pursed lips. He sighed. One could only hope. There had been too much death and bloodshed already and he had no plans to cause any more. Much would depend on how Delia and her undercover people, and whatever other forces she called upon, handled themselves. That in turn would be decided by the level of opposition they encountered. The domino effect all over again. No one ever called a halt. Marsha nudged him.

  ‘You still with us?’

  Bromo surfaced from his reverie and gave his head a clearing shake.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better make some coffee,’ said Liz.

  She gestured to Dom, still sitting lashed to the chair with his mouth firmly taped.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He can get his own coffee,’ said Bromo. ‘If he ever sees his café again.’

  The comment was off the cuff, the mouth working before the brain. It was, however, the catalyst he needed. He knew he’d been floundering and trying not to show it, the agenda unclear. A reluctant leader without a route map. Now he could see their starting point. He turned to Marsha.

  ‘You feel like doing your Annie Oakley act again?’

  She took a while to understand, still groggy from the sleep of exhaustion. She rubbed her eyes and continued her battle with the strands of hair falling over her face. Frowns contoured her brow.

  ‘You don’t mean—?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Bromo. ‘Riding shotgun, Blazing Saddles, trigger-happy Marsha. All of the above.’

  He leaned forward and rested a hand on her lower arm. His voice dropped to a low confidential murmur. They were conspirators. He felt her stirring, shuffling off the slumber.

  ‘Let’s bring a bit of excitement into young Dom’s life,’ he said. ‘Give him something to remember us by. Nothing too serious. Just scare him a bit. I want him to talk.’


  She giggled.

  ‘Sounds like fun. I’ll get dressed. Woman in a dressing gown is not a good look when you’re trying to frighten a crim.’

  Bromo liked the purposeful way she marched off towards the bedroom. Marsha the action woman was back on the scene. No sign of a trance or a straying mind. He took a mug of coffee from the tray Liz held in front of him. Strong, long and black – just as he liked it. Jardine did likewise. A jug of warm milk was there for those who wanted it. Muesli biscuits, too. Liz picked up the jug and lightened her coffee from black to creamy tan. Marsha zoomed in from the bedroom, lifted the remaining mug, took a large gulp and grimaced.

  ‘Ugh. Needs sugar.’

  She replaced the mug and kept walking, out through the front door. She called back over her shoulder.

  ‘Three spoonfuls please. Back soon.’

  ‘A woman on a mission,’ said Bromo. ‘El Desperado is on his way.’

  He ignored the quizzical looks exchanged by Liz and Jardine. They would find out what he meant quick enough. He pulled a chair across from the table and sat facing Dom. He matched the café owner’s stare, which was made all the more fixed by the tape holding his skin taut. There was no reading him. It was poker without the cards.

  ‘Feel like talking, Dom? Nod for yes, shake for no.’

  There was no movement.

  ‘Fair enough. I guess we can wait until Marsha gets back. Like a coffee?’

  Dom closed his eyes. Bromo sipped from his mug. Marsha stepped into the room, a rifle cradled in her arm, barrel pointing to the floor. Bromo nodded at her and flicked his hand in Dom’s direction.

  ‘He says he doesn’t want coffee and doesn’t feel like talking.’

  Bromo felt Marsha’s hip pressing against him as she moved close alongside him, legs slightly astride, slowly raising the rifle to waist level.

  ‘Ask him again,’ she said.

  Her hip pressed harder. Bromo decided to ignore it. Probably using him as a prop to steady her rifle arm. He kept his voice low and even, showing no impatience.

  ‘Marsha wants to know if you’d like a coffee, Dom. We could take the tape off if you want to talk.’

  Bromo felt the tension around him. Marsha’s hip seemed to be pressing harder. He could feel the warmth. No one was speaking. Or moving. Not even sipping at their coffees. He was conscious of time passing with nothing happening. Now was not the time for playing the waiting game, even though he believed it would be short-lived. He had already classified Dom as a minor division player, well out of his depth and lacking the staying power of the real pros. He raised his voice, sterner, more forceful.