by Berry, Tony
‘Time to open your eyes, Dom. The scenery’s changed.’
Dom fell for the lure. He had to check. He opened his eyes and saw the rifle levelled at his midriff. Bromo registered a flickering in Dom’s eyes. The impassivity was fading. A weapon pointed at one’s groin tended to have that effect.
‘It really is time to talk. You’re going nowhere until you do. Think of all those customers waiting for their lattes and focaccias. The girl won’t cope. Bad for business. Give us a nod and the gag can come off.’
He saw another flickering of Dom’s eyes. There was a hint of uncertainty, even fear. He was no longer staring fixedly ahead but taking in the broader view, weighing his chances. He focused on the rifle.
‘Feel afraid, Dom,’ said Bromo. ‘She knows how to use it. I’ve seen her in action. Believe me, it’s very scary. Talk?’
Dom hesitated a moment too long. Marsha took a single step with her left foot. Her right arm jerked up. The rifle barrel jabbed forward, going hard into Dom’s lower stomach.
‘Talk you bastard, talk,’ Marsha screeched. ‘Stop fucking us around.’
Dom was still nodding his head furiously up and down as Bromo ripped the tape away from his mouth. Arrogant silence had taken a fast track to visible fear.
‘So much for the softly, softly approach,’ Bromo muttered.
‘You want action, you get action,’ said Marsha.
She gave Dom’s stomach another jab with the rifle barrel.
‘Yes, always ask a woman if you want something done,’ said Liz. ‘We don’t only make the coffee.’
Bromo scowled at her and looked to Jardine for solace. All he got was a resigned shrug of the shoulders. He turned back to Dom.
‘Okay. Talk.’
This time there was no hesitation. Bromo fired questions and Dom answered promptly without a hint of reluctance, yet always with his eyes firmly fixed on Marsha and her rifle. Liz and Jardine sat behind her, listening and saying nothing to stem Dom’s flow of revelations. After 20 minutes Bromo decided he had done enough. He stood and stretched his arms full-length above his head, clasping his hands together and adding a final extra upward stretch.
‘Well, then, that’s about it.’
Dom wriggled on his chair, easing first one buttock then the other.
‘Can I go now?’
Bromo held the stretch and gave him the warmest smile he’d received all day.
‘Sure, no worries. We’ll turn you loose so you can call all your evil mates and let them know we’re about to put an end to their dirty little business. Great idea. You should be in the Comedy Festival with a joke like that.’
Bromo watched him subside. The extrovert café owner had shrunk into a pitiful little weasel who had spilled the beans in the hope of saving his own skin. The information he had given lacked any sense of loyalty. To Bromo that was almost as big a crime as the ones he had exposed. He had seen far more despicable men, and women, protect to the very end those around them rather than commit the unforgiveable sin of ratting on their mates. Honour among thieves still seemed a noble concept. Dom, however, had wimped his way out. Bromo leaned over him.
‘You’re a nasty little rat and I hope every vanilla slice, muffin, lamington and bruschetta in your miserable little café is covered in blue-green algae by the time you return.’
Bromo turned sharply away and took three deep calming breaths. He opened his arms in an all-embracing gesture to the others and indicated the table.
‘Time for action my friends. Thanks to Dom, our council of war is back in session.’
He repeated his breathing routine. At least now he could see the way ahead.
THIRTY-SIX
They analysed Dom’s statement, worked the phones, checked the street directory and called on colleagues and contacts for help and information. Jardine made a quick trip to fetch Luke and involve him in their plans. Bromo thought the youth was pleased to be there.
‘Got your old zip back by the look of you,’ he said.
Luke simply nodded, as laconic as ever.
Twice Bromo called Delia and held intense discussions well out of earshot of the others. Part of him wanted to go it alone and leave Delia to pursue whatever trails her special investigative forces were already following. He tried to convince her that his involvement was purely personal and way beneath her level of inquiry. Yet he knew he needed her official powers when the final whistle blew. He could expose and reveal and accuse for all he was worth, but someone had to clip the handcuffs on and make the charges stick. A citizen’s arrest was fine in theory but a real bugger in practice.
As they batted their arguments to and fro over the phone, Bromo suspected Delia welcomed his involvement. Both knew they had unfinished personal business. Also, Bromo had information and contacts he could tell she valued. He knew these streets. He knew the people. These were tradeable assets.
‘I could force you to hand everything over,’ she said.
‘I love it when you get angry.’
‘Stop fooling around, Bromo.’
‘Who’s fooling? This is serious.’
‘You could jeopardise an entire operation.’
‘Fraud. White collar crime. That’s what you’re chasing. Who gives a rat’s arse? We’re trying to save the bodies of a couple of young women.’
Bromo heard a sharp intake of breath down the line.
‘And you think we’re not?’
‘It’s a matter of priorities. Of people.’
There was silence. At least she was listening. And now he sensed she was mulling it over. Delia the woman was conferring with Delia the special operations cop. He had seen similar debates before and knew it was always a tough battle, and not one he would want to risk money on.
‘At least tell me what you intend doing. And when.’
Bromo smiled. Score one for the woman.
‘When I know, you’ll know,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
‘Promise.’
‘Promise. On a bottle of Lagavulin.’
She laughed. ‘From you that’s better than a stack of bibles.’
He kept his promise ten minutes later.
‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,’ he said.
‘Don’t mess around. What have you got?’
Delia the cop was back in control. Bromo played it straight. He told her what they planned – where, when and how. He was concise, formal and efficient, the way he had had it drummed into him all those years ago. She responded in similar fashion.
‘Sounds good. Go for it.’
‘You’ll be there?’
‘Not far away. And Bromo, stay safe.’
He liked that. It sounded as if she really cared. His lips firmed into a slight smile as he faced the others.
‘Luke, Peter, time to go. Jason said he and Dave will meet us there. They should be on their way by now.’
Marsha waved an arm.
‘Hey, big boy, what about me? And Liz, too?’
It was a moment Bromo had been preparing to face. He had already passed a note across the table to Liz and she confirmed she was comfortable with her role, staying back, standing by on the phone and acting as a liaison and back-up point. Marsha, however, was something else. He guessed she would demand to be part of the action. That was her way. Unfortunately, sometimes you could have too much help. Or the wrong sort. He had been on operations where he had endured both and seen a mission fail, or put colleagues’ lives at risk. That was not going to happen today. Marsha was too much of an unknown quantity, too likely to go off on an unwanted tangent. He bit the bullet, keeping his voice light and casual.
‘Thanks, Marsha. Liz is going to hold the fort here. And someone has to keep young Dom in his place. Can do?’
Marsha shrugged and said nothing. Her jaw was set firm, determined. Bromo ignored the surly look, the drooping of her face. It was nothing less than he expected. But it was Dom who spoke.
‘Sending a woman to do a man’s job, eh Bromo?�
�
It was a big mistake – and it did Bromo’s work for him. Marsha took a quick step forward, balanced herself on her toes, twisted around to face Dom, brought her rifle up to waist level, pointing it at his crutch then lowering it slightly and slashing the barrel sideways into his kneecap. The café owner let out a fearsome howl and crumpled forward as far as the ties around his waist would allow.
Marsha screeched back at him: ‘Shut up, you little shit! Shut up, shut up, shut up! I do a man’s job every day.’
She looked back at Bromo, the anger wiped from her face as suddenly as it had appeared. She was almost smiling: a devil’s smile.
‘Okay. I’ll stay. Looks like I’m needed here.’
Bromo ushered Luke and Jardine towards the door. He glanced down at the cowering Dom.
‘Can’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you I’d seen her in action. Not a good sight for someone in your situation.’
He patted Dom on the shoulder.
‘We’re off to see your nasty mates. We’ll give them your regards. They’ll be pleased to hear who dobbed them in.’
Dom shrunk even further into himself. Bromo closed the door and made for Jardine’s car. One hand went up to his ear and he massaged the lobe between finger and thumb. Bloody thing. This was no time for his personal warning lights to start switching on. He took the passenger seat, still rubbing at his ear. Luke lounged in the back. Jardine glanced at Bromo.
‘You scratching that thing again?’
‘Just an itch.’
‘Yeah, so I noticed – many times. Bit more than an itch, I’d say.’
Jardine slid the car out into Bridge Road, crawling forward in single file, the inner lane blocked by parked vehicles. He gave Bromo another look.
‘Relax. This is no time to start stressing out.’
‘A bad passenger, that’s all.’
Why admit the truth when he could get away with a believable lie? He turned in his seat.
‘You okay, Luke?’
‘Yeah. Cool.’
‘Know what you’ve got to do?’
‘Yeah. Cool.’
A true man of his time, thought Bromo. A monosyllabic youth with not a flicker of emotion on his face. Bromo turned back to look through the windscreen. Some titled guru had that week produced a plan which he reckoned would solve the city’s traffic problems. It would only cost a mere $18billion dollars and take a decade or more to achieve – if it worked and the city hadn’t choked itself to death by then. Meanwhile, back in the here and now …
‘Throw a left at the auction rooms!’ snapped Bromo.
Jardine gave him a sharp stare and choked back the snarly response he was about to make. He knew his way around these streets as well as anyone and didn’t need any know-all navigator giving directions.
‘Haven’t got all day. Take a few short cuts,’ said Bromo.
‘Wouldn’t have thought that myself.’
Bromo took a quick look at Jardine. His face was deadpan. No hints there of a rebuke or any tetchiness. He drew his own conclusions.
‘Sorry, Pete. Bit worried about the time, that’s all.’
He pushed back the sleeve of his jacket, briefly exposing the face of his watch. Jason would be there by now and impatient to get going. Plumbers were the new money-making elite and he wouldn’t be keen on hanging around when buckets of dollars were waiting to be reaped in the kitchens and bathrooms of the city’s renovators and developers.
Their progress became a succession of roars and squeals. Jardine gunned the car between the roundabouts built to slow progress down the broad treescape of Highett Street, then braked at the last minute to screech round the raised concrete islands. He took another left-hand turn, negotiated a sharp dog-leg bend and slowed as they entered a narrow street lined with flowering gums. At the far end, at the intersection with Victoria Street, they glimpsed trucks and cars crawling along behind one of the swish new three-carriage trams gliding its way into the city and on to the pier at Port Melbourne. The park where Jardine had met Jess and her kids was on the right, almost at the junction. Bromo leaned forward.
‘There’s Jason’s truck.’
Jardine nodded and braked. He eased his car into a space outside an unpretentious redbrick house with a low gabled roof and a forbidding front fence of high cast-iron spiked railings. Windows either side of a solid wooden door were hidden behind steel shutters. A semi-circular awning of corrugated metal, painted a lurid purple, jutted out over the door. Two excessively large numbers, cast in brass, were bolted into the brickwork alongside, providing an unmissable identity for anyone searching for number 15.
Jason and Dave were out of their truck and strolling along the gutter in their overalls and heavy work boots. They carried long metal rods that they prodded into drain holes and storm-water pipes. Bromo nudged Jardine.
‘They look good enough to be real,’ he said.
‘And big enough to be frightening,’ said Jardine. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Bromo welcomed his enthusiasm. A willing colleague always put points on the board. He turned to Luke, now sitting forward, hands clasped between his knees.
‘Ready?’
Luke nodded.
‘No questions? All clear on what to do?’
Another nod.
‘Remember, stand aside and keep out of the way. You’ve suffered enough damage already.’
They opened the car doors in unison, Jardine stepping out on to the road, Bromo and Luke on to the footpath. The gate set in the railing fence opened easily. Bromo hung back slightly as they walked to the front door across a few metres of flat grey concrete where a garden might once have been. He glanced slightly to his left. Jason and Dave were right outside the fence, tapping busily at the gutter with their rods. Jardine was at the door, one arm reaching to push the button on an intercom, the other draped in paternal fashion around Luke’s shoulders.
Bromo heard Jardine’s voice followed by a muffled confirmation that this was indeed the Purple Lounge. Again Jardine spoke, explaining his mission: to give his son a coming-of-age present for his birthday … and perhaps there were also some young ladies there to entertain him and his mate. Bromo strained to hear the response. It sounded cautious and not the sort of enthusiastic welcome three keen punters would expect. Perhaps it was too early for a rush of business.
Bromo saw Jardine’s hand lift briefly off Luke’s shoulder, fingers spread, and then drop down in a friendly pat. It was the signal – someone was coming to the door. Bromo relayed the message to Jason and Dave by running his hand through his hair.
He moved closer as the door eased slowly inward. Luke stepped forward, fresh faced and wide-eyed, playing the role of an innocent first-timer for all it was worth. Jardine rushed past him, his arm lashing out to help the door on its way and grab at the rather solid woman standing in the entrance. He folded both arms round the woman and gathered her close to him, one hand firmly over her mouth. Bromo pushed past and came to a sudden halt. He had been expecting to find himself in a lounge or reception area. Instead, it was like an airlock – eerily silent with the entrance door behind him and another one ahead. He looked at Jardine and his captive. The woman was squeezed into a classic purple silk cheongsam slit high up her thighs. Long, black tresses streamed down her back almost to her waist. She was unsteady on a pair of high heels, their purple fabric scuffed and dirty. Jardine struggled to muffle the attempts at a scream coming from her mouth.
The thump of work boots on the floor’s bare polished boards announced the arrival of Jason and Dave. Jason produced a roll of duct tape from his overalls pocket.
‘Here, let’s use this.’
With the skill of a man used to rapidly sealing leaking pipes, he peeled off a length of tape and stuck it firmly over the woman’s mouth. He unwound more tape and bound her wrists. He pointed at Luke.
‘Reckon you can take her out to the truck?’
‘Sure. Cool.’
Luke grabbed the woman’s elbow and guided h
er, still unsteady on her high heels, towards the door. She seemed to have lost any fight. At the entrance she kicked off her shoes and went barefoot. Jason looked around.
‘Right, what’s next?’
Bromo pointed to the door ahead. Jason nodded. Bromo levered the handle downwards and pushed. Jason and Dave stormed past him, a vanguard of muscle and testosterone. Bromo followed, Jardine three steps behind. They need not have bothered. The element of surprise was not needed. There was no one there to surprise.
‘Fuck, they’ve gone!’ said Bromo.
They were standing in a space that spread across the width of the house, the conversion of the original hallway and two rooms into one large lounge. It was gaudily draped in heavy purple velvet curtains and furnished with a motley collection of heavy armchairs and sofas. Two large, gilt-framed mirrors exaggerated the sense of space. A small curved bar with black fascia and gold trim filled one corner. A thick deep red carpet and a scattering of rugs deadened any sound. Bromo pointed to a wide staircase facing the doorway where they had burst in.
‘Upwards and onwards,’ he said and charged forward.
His words were accompanied by a cacophony of screams, shouts, bangs and the sound of breaking glass. He stopped halfway up the stairs, arms spread, his hands resting on the banisters. Jason, Dave and Jardine clustered behind him.
The noise came from somewhere further up the stairs and towards the rear of the building. It grew louder. Doors were banging, people running, women screaming, orders being shouted. Bromo turned to his companions.
‘What d’you reckon? You up for it?’
‘Sounds like fun,’ said Jason, starting to move forward.
It was no less than Bromo expected. His idea of fun differed greatly from that of Jason, who thought heaven was an endless ruck and maul up and down a rugby pitch, trading blows with opposing forwards and upending any fly-half stupid enough to try to make a break for it. Cauliflower ears and broken noses were badges of honour won on the field of play. Jason led the charge near the top of the stairs with Dave one step behind and Bromo and Jardine in the rear. A heavy velvet curtain, true to the purple theme, hung on big wooden rings from a brass bar, cloaking whatever lay ahead. Jason brushed the curtain to one side.