Old Scores

by Whish-Wilson, David;

  Heenan grunted. In the background, Swann heard the ABC news start up, the symphonic strains familiar to millions: marching music on the road to truth.

  Heenan hung up, and Swann replaced the receiver. He turned on their small TV, already tuned to the ABC. The vision was of the Old Swan Brewery, the announcer getting in a punning headline before the morning papers, stealing some sub-editor’s fun – ‘Trouble brewing on the banks of the Swan’. Aboriginal protesters had set up camp by Kennedy’s Fountain to protest the government’s plan to redevelop the Brewery into a hotel complex. The Brewery was built on a sacred site. There were images of police clashing with angry men and women, Nyungar elders in the background, arm in arm.

  9.

  Blake Tracker crouched in the dark shadow of a flowering wattle, sweet air scenting his head. He’d scouted down the back alley to check for dogs, peering between the sheets of rusted tin that did for a back fence. It was a warm night but in the rear yard the southerly carried the caustic stench of the Kwinana refinery, something like burnt rubber and the sweat of hot metal. It was better in the front yard, out of the wind. He still had on the shorts, tee-shirt and sandshoes he’d worn during his escape. He’d managed to stay warm by walking through the dark hours, keeping to the bush that followed the foothills south, sometimes running over well-lit open ground when there was no other way. To avoid the main roads he’d waded across farmers’ creeks that trickled down from the higher ground on the scarp and fed into the Canning River, avoiding the lights of Gosnells, Kelmscott, Armadale. He followed the South Western Highway in the early hours, sleeping in the bush when he got near Mundijong, the sun rising over the forested hills behind him, wedging himself into the gap between two granite boulders.

  He slept a few hours with his tee-shirt over his face and had woken hot and dehydrated, his feet sore and his legs heavy. His ribs were still bruised and it hurt when he yawned, and his wrist was still swollen. To loosen up he shadow-boxed, rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles then began to head west across the bush and sparsely populated farmland that would take him to the southern edges of suburban Perth. He was hungry and thirsty but it felt good to walk. It was the long way round, but it was better than being caught. No way was he going back inside. Those guards were going to kill him, for real.

  When the sun broke, he slept the next day inside a drainage culvert until the darkness came. It took another night’s walking before he hit Stock Road, which ran north–south, where he’d camped for a few hours in the banksia swampland by Beeliar Lake, waiting for the shadows of late afternoon. As soon as the sun dipped behind the dunes to the west he’d turned north, cross-country again, but always staying near the highway that took him into Coolbellup, the blue-collar suburb where his father lived.

  His father and his father’s mates were drinking in the kitchen, as always. He heard his father’s laugh like thunderheads in the darkness. His uncle Dennis, who always had that wheezy laugh. A woman whose voice he didn’t recognise. Might be white, might be black. In the front room the television blared through the uncurtained windows past the ripped-up couch and plastic chairs on the front porch, a yard of dried weeds and the odd stem of lemongrass. Behind the open front door was his father’s bedroom. It was dark in there, smelt of Champion Ruby and goon wine, sweaty leather boots and engine oil – a cave that his father only entered to sleep.

  It was good that his father’s dog was missing. Betty was a pig dog with bitten ears and a misty eye. She would smell him from a mile off, and get to barking. The three of them had made the journey down from Laverton to Perth four years ago, Blake and Betty in the swag on the ground at night, his father with some old mission blankets on the truck’s flatbed tray, afraid of snakes. The old Datsun banger had a busted head gasket and a dud radiator, and pissed out steam every fifty k. But the Datsun was his father’s pride and joy, still had the same faded yellow panels with bogged patches and rusty sills, and was now parked beneath the fibro shack’s front porch, as close to his father’s bed as possible. His father slept with an axe handle next to his pillow, and could be out the door in seconds.

  The run-down workers cottage belonged to his father outright, paid for in cash. Blake had never asked where the money came from. His father was old-school about things like that. He’d made his mistakes and had served his time in Freo prison. Two long stretches before and after Blake was born. It was only after Blake’s mother died of pneumonia that his father came back into his life. Had come out to the desert to collect him. What he thought was the right thing to do.

  That was Blake’s father for you. He’d say half of something and it was up to you to figure out the rest. He’d been through the Law, however, and that counted for something, even in the city.

  It was all – a man does this – a man does that. What a man is, and isn’t. What a man should do. What a man should never do.

  But they were just words. Even Blake could see that. And Blake had seen at his trial how words meant nothing on their own. How they could be twisted and turned to mean something else.

  In the mouth of a witness. In the mouth of a lawyer. In the mouth of a judge.

  In the mouth of a father, too.

  Blake sucked the bitter juice out of another stalk of lemongrass. Dogs had probably pissed on it, but no matter. The drinkers in his father’s kitchen had gone quiet. Rolling out their swags against the eastern fence in the grey dirt backyard, shaded from the morning sun.

  He heard a water hammer bang through the old pipes that clad the western side of the house. Last drink of water before hitting the sack. Last piss. Last fart. Last spit.

  The television went off, and so did all the lights. The front door slammed shut. Goodnight, Pops.

  10.

  Swann was asleep when the phone started to ring. He looked at the clock on his bedside table. Two am. He rolled onto an elbow, flipped his bare feet onto the floorboards. Paused, hoping the phone would ring out, except that it didn’t.

  He made the kitchen and hefted the receiver. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Swann, it’s Heenan again. Sorry about the time. But it’s important.’

  Heenan always spoke in short sentences, which had a lot to do with his weight and lack of puff, but now it was exaggerated, sounded winded. ‘I spoke to you earlier about favours. We’ve been asked. A close friend of the premier, on a delicate matter. Total discretion. Can’t have the coppers involved.’

  Swann scratched his belly, yawned. Whatever he’d been dreaming about, it had been good. He wanted to go back there. Out of reflex, he flicked a switch on a black box spliced with a joiner into his phone line. In his line of work, threatening phone calls were part of the job, but he always made sure to record them. The key word that made him reach for the switch now was discretion.

  ‘Have you had any dealings with Mr Le?’

  ‘Jesus, Heenan, get on with it. You mean Charlie Le?’

  Swann knew the answer. Big wheel in the Chinese community. Owned a couple of restaurants, ran illegal card games, was into the thoroughbreds, but only if they raced in Hong Kong.

  ‘He’s been taken for half a million cash. A card game gone wrong. Reckons he was put under a “black spell”, though I reckon he was drugged. His head still isn’t right. Keeps falling asleep. Heavenly Swindlers, he calls them. They’re Triad.’

  ‘Le is good mates with Tommaso Adamo. Why did he call you? If these jokers are Triad, why doesn’t he let the Italians help him? I assume he wants them tracked down, cash returned, et cetera.’

  ‘There’s your answer. He wants the cash returned. All of it. It isn’t his, strictly speaking.’

  Swann sighed. He was awake now. There’d be no getting back to sleep. ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘He borrowed it, at short notice, from Larry Conlan. Or Conlan’s bank, Harrowgate, to be precise.’

  Which made sense to Swann – Harrowgate the only bank that would hand over half a million cash to a Chinese businessman for the purposes of a card game.

  ‘Swann
? I understand how it looks. I know Harrowgate money’s behind some of the people you’ve been … looking at lately. But quite frankly …’

  ‘None of my business, I get it.’

  Larry Conlan was an old-school racetrack shark and property developer who’d started his own bank four years ago. At the time, Swann like most people thought it was a joke. He’d taken a bankrupt local footwear company called Harrow’s and changed its name to Harrowgate Investment Bank. Credit was cheap internationally, and he’d been able to borrow heavily, and find borrowers of his own. Against expectations, the bank had become a major player in the local scene. On the back of his brother’s cheap credit, Larry Conlan’s brother Maitland had become the city’s biggest tycoon.

  ‘But why doesn’t Le want the coppers involved?’ Swann asked. ‘Ok, stupid question. Same answer.’

  ‘Precisely. It’s complicated. The premier would take it as a personal favour if you could drop everything else, track these men down. There are four of them; that’s all I know. They’re Chinese, a range of ages, they posed as high rollers, the reason Le brought so much cash. He’ll lose face in his community, not to mention the monetary loss.’

  ‘We scratch Le’s back, he brings his community vote for evermore.’

  ‘Something like that. These are clever people, Swann. But we have one advantage. Le explained it to me. They won’t expect anyone to come after them. They know that Le doesn’t want it in the papers, that he won’t report it.’

  Because Swann was recording the conversation, he asked the question. ‘That’s all fine, but what if I need to get heavy? There’s four of them, and they won’t just hand it over …’

  Heenan attempted a laugh. ‘You’ve been watching too many Bruce Lee movies. These guys are grifters, not muscle. You’ll be ok. We’ve got someone looking at the airport, and the bus station. They’ll call you if they see anything. Whatever you need to do, Swann. Hire who you need to hire. I’ll reimburse any expenses. But we’re wasting time …’

  Swann hung up, watched the red light on the receiver box glimmer and fade. The receiver automatically sent the conversation wirelessly to a hidden recorder in the roof-space, just in case the house was burgled. You couldn’t be too careful.

  *

  Swann drove east through the sleeping city, thinking about the Heavenly Swindlers. Despite himself, he’d always admired a good con-artist, part of a breed common enough during his childhood, operating mainly out of the racetracks. The kind of set-up that had conned Charlie Le took patience and nerve – each of the four men would hold down a role, and get it right like a trained actor. There was the added anxiety of prison time, or worse if they were discovered early on.

  He crossed the Swan River at Canning Bridge, alone on the road, only the pale shapes of sleeping pelicans on the river pylons for company.

  Swann doubted that the Heavenly Swindlers would flee by car. There was two thousand kilometres of wheat stubble and desert until they hit the next city. Being the world’s most isolated metropolis had its advantages. The men were a chance to exit from the Fremantle port, although the Swindlers would almost certainly have flown in.

  More likely they’d hide out in a motel near the airport. There were dozens clustered along the Great Eastern Highway leading into the city.

  He thought of calling the night desks of each of the motels, but that would take time. Set a thief to catch a thief. The men would be wired after their success. Adrenalin would keep them awake. They could take the edge off with drink, but there was something better, and therefore more likely. Swann dialled as he drove, punching in the numbers of the escort agencies he kept in his notebook. Prossies were always good for a bit of information, madams even better. They were predisposed to help Swann after he’d ruined his career trying to find brothel madam Ruby Devine’s killer. Many of the city’s working girls also knew Marion, who saw them at their workplaces. If the Heavenly Swindlers were calling down women, Swann would get the information.

  Swann parked near the Ascot racetrack, on a dark street by the river. A streetlight leading to a nearby jetty was engulfed in thousands of moths, swirling in and out of the yellow haze. He lit a cigarette and scrolled down the driver’s window, felt the night chill on his bare arm. He held the car phone in his other hand, while he waited for the madam of Magenta Escorts, Sally Sargent, to check her books. The Swindlers wouldn’t go out to a brothel and leave the cash unattended. And they wouldn’t want Asian girls – it might get back to Le. The chances were good they’d opt for busty blonde Aussie women, or a variation on the type, ordered by the motel night desk, for a finder’s fee.

  The phone clicked. ‘Swann? Yeah, we sent one girl out to the Raceway Motor Hotel, Candice, about two hours ago. Hired for the night. But that’s about it.’

  Swann considered, but it didn’t sound likely. ‘No parties tonight?’

  ‘Nah, all single punters. Mostly regulars. Average Tuesday night. That’s the only one to a highway motel.’

  It wasn’t impossible. Cheap, to order one woman for four men. Cheap and nasty, but not impossible.

  ‘The night desk – what’s his name.’

  ‘That’d be Derek.’

  Swann hung up, and punched in the numbers. The phone rang and was answered immediately. Smoker’s voice, scratchy and worn. Not much to do between midnight and dawn except smoke. Tinny radio in the background.

  Swann introduced himself to Derek, and told him what he wanted. Derek’s delayed reaction confirmed Swann’s suspicions.

  ‘Nup, nah, can’t help you mate. What our clients do in their rooms, their business. And besides, no Chogies here, mate …’

  ‘Yeah, alright. What I want to know is how much the four Chinese gentlemen are paying you to keep your mouth shut. To keep their room off the books. To tell people like me to mind their own business.’

  Swann waited while Derek, he assumed, tried to double whatever he was being paid. Obviously not good at maths. Took him near ten seconds.

  ‘One thou. Cash. And I’m fucken keepin’ it.’

  ‘I want you to keep it, Derek. And I also want to double it. All you got to do is tell me which room the gentlemen are in, turn off all the corridor lights, leave out the key and take the phone off the hook. Reckon you can do that?’

  Didn’t take Derek long to think about Swann’s offer. Swann asked him what the men had been drinking, and how much. Derek had delivered them two bottles of Dewar’s and three buckets of ice, about two hours ago. Derek told Swann the room, and hung up.

  *

  Just as Derek had promised, he’d cut the lights to the motel parking lot, forecourt and quadrangle around which were clustered the mostly single room apartments. Even double-storey fleabags like the Raceway, made of salmon-brick and orange terracotta, usually had a couple of self-catering rooms for larger groups or a family. Down the end of the darkened row was number sixty-three. Without Derek’s help he would have found it. Dawn wasn’t far away, and sixty-three was the only room lit. Swann took out his .22 pistol and checked the safety. It was a Beretta 87 Target. The gun wasn’t registered – Swann had two pistols at home that were legal – but it suited his purposes. If things went south he could ditch it. He had the advantage of surprise, but no knowledge of the men on the other side of the shitty veneer door.

  He wiped spit onto the key before he inserted it, in case the lock was tight. He felt the lock give. He didn’t know whether the doorway was visible from the lounge room, but he guessed that it was – the sound of murmuring was loud. He opened the door and sighted the pistol and strode into the brightly lit and overheated lounge. All of the fluoros and two lamps were on, and for a reason. While one older man, who looked like Buddha with hair, sat on the couch and had his dick sucked by Candice, another younger man was mounted on her back, pumping away like a Chihuahua riding a Great Dane. The other two were sprawled across the carpet, looking up at the show, stroking themselves through white briefs. It couldn’t have been better – their other hands were busy wit
h whisky and cigarettes.

  Candice was a big unit, and she didn’t flinch. Swann still looked cop, and she knew the drill. She shrugged off the bareback rider and reached for a towel.

  The silence remained, until Swann broke it. ‘You been paid?’

  ‘Yes, hon. I took quite a bit of convincing to let this happen. I’ll be on my way.’

  Swann stood back and let Candice gather her pumps and frock, her knickers and sequinned handbag. She left in a cloud of sex and cheap perfume, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  ‘Righto. Who’s the boss?’

  Swann was met with three empty stares, and one of piercing hatred. The two men on the ground, and the fat man on the couch were glassy-eyed and reeked of whisky sweat. Their chubbies hadn’t faded, which was a good thing. In all his years, Swann had never seen a man with a stiffie throw a punch.

  But the young man who’d been riding Candice was sober, which at least showed a degree of smarts. He’d be the one to wake them, get them packed and onto the next plane. His nodded his chin to a matching pair of white briefs on the couch, and Swann waved the gun, yes. This was where it could get tricky. That much money, they might have stashed it nearby; outside in the garden, an air-conditioning vent, a roof-space. Swann would have to play the game. They would have to believe that he’d torture it out of them, even if that wasn’t the plan.

  ‘Where is it?’

  The younger man smirked. ‘You know who we’re with?’ American accent, but all the vowels kicked out.

  Swann looked the man up and down, chicken legs and wings, belly like a soft-boiled egg, white undies pulled high. He too was acting a part.

  Swann didn’t have cuffs, or rope, so he waved the gun again, pointed at the bare space of carpet where Candice had been. ‘You, get on your back. Lie down.’

  The young man complied, folding himself into a spider’s crouch, energy poised for a moment, the fierce hatred in his eyes and mocking smile never leaving his face, before he unfurled on the carpet. Swann kicked the fat man on the leg. ‘Get on top of him. Facedown.’