Yesterday's Shadow

by Jon Cleary

  “You haven't told me where you live—”

  “Wisconsin, Bruce.”

  “You're in a bank there? Jesus—Wisconsin?” He tried to remember where it was in the United States, but couldn't. “That's not exactly the hub of the universe, is it?”

  “Trust me, Bruce. I'll be in touch.”

  When he had gone Farro went back to the living room and picked up the gun. He handled it gingerly, as if it were alive; he felt himself beginning to tremble and he put the gun down. He slumped into a chair, began to wonder if he would go ahead with the bargain he had made. But a million was a million . . .

  V

  Malone and Lisa had taken their respective parents to a Hungarian restaurant only two minutes' drive from the Malone house in Randwick. There the goulash and dumplings and the cheesecake had made all six forget the winter's night. Malone had brought two bottles of shiraz and Jan Pretorius brought a liqueur for the dessert and coffee. Brigid Malone had a glass of the shiraz and a glass of the liqueur and began to hum “Danny Boy'; Malone, shocked at his mother's levity, looked at her and wondered when she was going to break into Riverdance. Elisabeth Pretorius offered to sing a Dutch folk song, but was dissuaded by Lisa. Hans, a conservative, and Con Malone, an ex-communist, agreed that, barring a few exceptions, the politicians of today were enough to warrant non-compulsory voting. Malone sat quiet, enjoying the dinner because of the others' good humour, but not joining in.

  The Pretoriuses took Con and Brigid home in their Jaguar. Con, still talking about bloody politicians, sat up front with Jan. Elisabeth and Brigid sat in the back, two dowagers from opposite ends of the social spectrum, bound together by wine and love of their offspring and grandchildren. When the car drew up in the narrow street in Erskineville, Con, suddenly and for the first time in his life drunk with snobbery, hoped the Wogs and the Yuppies and all the other foreigners who had invaded his street would be there to see Mum and him get out of the Jaguar.

  Lisa drove herself and Scobie home, six blocks during which they didn't speak. She drove the car into the garage, switched off the ignition and waited.

  “Well?” He knew when questions were going to be asked.

  “What happened at the office today?”

  “Do we have to sit out here to discuss it?”

  “Don't get shirty with me—keep that for the office.” He couldn't remember how many times she had told him that. “Tom's home tonight. You won't tell me what went wrong, not in front of him. And I'm not in the mood for office discussions in bed.”

  “Who's shirty now?”

  She sat patiently; she had a gift for patience, which, generally speaking, isn't a universal gift. At last he said, “Delia Jones let me down today.”

  A wifely silence is a desert of air; marriages, and life, have been known to perish in it. Somewhere a cat howled, like a lone barracker in an empty stadium.

  He waited, but she out-waited him. Then he explained what had happened in the line-up: “We had him nailed—and she just walked right by him. She recognized him, we saw it in his face, but she gave us the finger, not him.”

  “She gave you the finger.”

  He said nothing, and after a moment she went on:

  “You should have stayed away from her.”

  “Oh, for Crissake!” He was suddenly angry, not so much with her as at the whole bloody situation. “I'm not on her case—I'm on the Pavane case! How the hell do you expect me to walk away from her? She could've wrapped up the Pavane case for us—”

  “Simmer down.” That was what Clements was always telling him: simmer down. “All right, I said the wrong thing. But I told you—that woman is dangerous. She hasn't forgotten what might have been.”

  “That's what she said.” He opened the car door, got out. “Don't let's fight, darl. Not over her.”

  She got out, came round to the back of the car and took his hand. “I'm not fighting you. I'm fighting her. I could kill her—”

  He kissed her cheek. “That's all I want—three murders. I love you.”

  “You'd better,” she said and kissed him fiercely on the lips, biting him.

  Just as Delia would have done if he had let her.

  VI

  As Malone came out of the bathroom, ready to go to bed, the phone rang: “Inspector Malone? Sorry to call you so late, but I tried you earlier on your mobile—”

  He had left it at home, deliberately. “It's on the blink, Garry. What's the problem?”

  Garry Peeples sounded tired. “A coupla the guys on surveillance on our man Baker, they called in an hour ago. Baker went to see that other guy in your report, Bruce Farro, at his apartment.”

  “Where's Baker now?”

  “Back at Wharf West. Our guys lost him this afternoon for a coupla hours—”

  “How'd they manage that?” He was irritable.

  So was Peeples. “Scobie, when did you last tail someone in a cab and you in your car? He gets outa the cab, crosses the street against the traffic—”

  “Did he know he was being tailed?”

  “We dunno. Anyhow, they lost him and picked him up again when he went back to Wharf West. They're there now. We've checked the airlines—he's booked out tomorrow afternoon for LA on Qantas.”

  “Hold him, Garry. Tell your fellers.”

  “What on?”

  “Anything you can dream up. Seducing a minor, treason, anything at all. Just so long as it delays him. I don't want him leaving the country till we've got that DNA order. He's our man, Garry.”

  “Why would he have gone to see Farro?”

  “I hope to find that out first thing in the morning. You going off now?”

  “I'm halfway out the door. Scobie—what are our chances with this guy?”

  “I never bet, Garry. The only time I ever did, Russ Clements told me about a horse he said couldn't lose. I put a tenner on it at 20 to 1. Halfway down the straight it was five lengths in front. Then the jockey threw himself over the rails. Said a bee had stung him. I wanted to pinch him for false pretences, sodomizing a horse, anything. They had to drag me away in a patrol car.”

  “Goodnight, Scobie.”

  10

  I

  BRUCE FARRO was in trouble. He had gone last night to a café in Kings Cross, having called his cocaine dealer. The café had a reputation for being “clean,” that no drug deals or bank jobs or killer hits were ever planned on its premises. Which made it an ideal place for Farro and his dealer to meet.

  “I can't meet your request, Mr. Farro—”

  His name (he said) was Fidel Salazar and he claimed he came from Colombia (where else?). He was a fidgety little man, always winding his watch, as if telling time to hurry up. He was as sleek as a water rat, with the same sheen to him, and Farro, fastidious about company, wished they could have met in a dark lane.

  He claimed to have had a Fulbright scholarship to Harvard and sometimes tried for a Harvard accent. He could lie in five languages and was reasonably evasive in two others. He had a legitimate business as a rug dealer, bringing in imports from such well-known rug capitals as Bogota, Caracas and La Paz. So far the authorities had failed to nail him, but, as in all bureaucracies, failure was not looked upon as a defeat but as a reason for increased budget.

  “Not at the moment.” He had a soft voice, a result of selling secretly. “What you are asking needs due diligence—”

  “For Crissakes, Fidel, this isn't a board meeting. All I'm asking—” All?. He wondered at his own choice of words. “I'm willing to pay. Why can't you arrange someone immediately? I want it done tomorrow night—”

  “Mr. Farro, trust me—”

  “Fidel, forget fucking trust!” He had raised his voice. The waitress, passing, shook her head in mock admonishment. He lowered his voice. “I've had enough of that. Let's get down to business. What's the problem?”

  “Well, first we have to discuss my placement fee—I'm acting like an employment office, right?” He didn't smile; Farro realized the little man was serio
us. “You'll pay that?”

  “How much?”

  “Five thousand.” The fee came so glibly that one had to wonder how many hitmen he put in employment each month.

  “Jesus, Fidel, no wonder you drive a Maserati! Okay, how much will the man cost?”

  “The price varies—this man's a tradesman. Different situations, different prices. Like a plumber. Fifteen to twenty-five thousand, depending—”

  Farro thought a while, working out the percentage against a million. “Okay, when can he do it?” “I'll talk to him. Excuse me.”

  He got up, hurried out of the café. Small men hurrying always look self-important. Big men, so think big men, just look purposeful. Out on the pavement Salazar put a mobile to his ear. There was a few minutes' discussion, then he came hurrying back into the café and sat down. “He'll do the job. Wednesday of next week.”

  “Wednesday of next—! Fidel, I want it done tomorrow night!” He had involuntarily raised his hand as if to thump it on the table between him and Salazar.

  The waitress, a blonde a stage short of prettiness, appeared above them. “You want something else, honey?” She was filling in time, waiting to be discovered as a profitable hooker.

  Farro, distracted, looked up at her. “What? No, nothing. Later.”

  “Whatever you say,” she said and winked at Salazar, whom she knew. He winked back, but he might have been closing a lid over a marble.

  Farro waited till she had gone away, then he leaned forward across the table. “Fidel, I can't wait! I need the guy tomorrow night. I'll pay more—10 per cent above what he asks—” Even when desperate he was greedy. Or uncharitable.

  Salazar shook his head. “He's adamant, Mr. Farro. He doesn't do rush jobs, he says. He likes to plan. He was in the army—you know, Plan A, Plan B—”

  “Armies never have a Plan B—they haven't had since fucking Vietnam. Get me someone else, Fidel—anyone!”

  Salazar shook his head again. “Too risky, Mr. Farro. There are dickheads around town would do it for a coupla thousand, but you're a businessman, Mr. Farro—you don't invest in dickheads. No, I advise you to wait for this man. He's an expert, works to a schedule. Does four jobs a year and lives very nicely. He sells insurance the rest of the time.”

  I'm being jerked here, thought Farro. He stared at the little man, then stood up. “Forget I asked you, Fidel.”

  “We've never met,” said Salazar. “See you Friday night for the usual? Good luck with your quest.”

  “My quest? Who do you think I am—Don Quix-fucking-ote?”

  For the first time Salazar smiled, a pleasant baring of teeth. “A windmill would be easier than what you're trying to tilt at. I always had a soft spot for Don Quixote—we South Americans do. Good luck.”

  And now this morning, with Don Quixote's luck, here were Inspector Malone and a burly man he introduced as Senior-Sergeant Clements knocking at his door. Before he'd had breakfast: “Inspector! So early? Why?”

  “I'm glad we haven't upset you, Mr. Farro—”

  Not much. “Not at all. Come in. I often have business breakfasts—”

  “Good. This is business. Go ahead with your breakfast. Thanks, we'll have coffee. And Sergeant Clements will have a croissant. Now—”

  Farro paused, about to pour the extra coffees. “Yes?”

  “You had a visit from Jack Brown last night. Or Julian Baker, as he now calls himself.”

  Farro had no trouble looking indignant; which isn't far from looking afraid. “You're keeping tabs on me?”

  “Not on you, Mr. Farro. Why did you think we would?”

  Farro managed to keep his hand from shaking as he handed across the cups. “It never crossed my mind—”

  “Neither it should,” said Malone comfortingly. “No, we were just keeping an eye on Jack Brown. Why did he come to see you?”

  Farro poured himself some coffee, took his time. He had had a mouthful of yoghurt and he could feel it turning sour in his stomach. He managed not to make a sour face. “He wanted to talk business.”

  “He wanted to invest in Finger?” said Clements and, unasked, reached for a warm croissant. He was a pastry man, but only when away from Romy's iron rule. “What did you advise him?”

  “You're interested in the stock market?” Farro was fencing for time.

  “He is an expert,” said Malone. “That's why I brought him along. What sort of business did Mr. Brown want to discuss?”

  Farro could see his briefcase, with the Walther and the ammunition in it, lying on the couch behind Clements. “No, he wasn't interested in my company. He wanted to discuss the long-term prospects of some of the blue chip companies.”

  “He was looking to the long term?”

  “So he said.”

  “Did he mention where he had spent yesterday morning?”

  “No-o.” Farro didn't pick up his coffee cup, for fear that his hand would shake. “Should he have?”

  “I think he should have—in view of the long term. We had him in a line-up at Surry Hills police station. He didn't tell you that?”

  Farro looked suitably shocked; he was gradually settling his nerves. “In a line-up? God, what for?” Then he showed some acting ability: “He's not—?”

  “Not what?” said Clements round a mouthful of croissant.

  “The American Ambassador's wife—you don't suspect him of being involved in that? Christ!”

  “I'm afraid we do, Mr. Farro,” said Malone. “And frankly, we're surprised he came to see you last night and discussed business and didn't even mention, in passing, that he'd been to see us. Wouldn't you, if you were in our place, wouldn't you think that a bit strange?”

  Farro bit into a croissant. There were only two and Clements had been eyeing the second one. Farro had no appetite, but he wanted time, something to chew on while he got his mind in a straight line.

  “It wasn't a pleasant meeting, Inspector. We argued—I think it boiled down to the fact that we didn't trust each other. Never did, I guess. We were involved together in that little business fourteen years ago, but we were never close. I'm afraid last night's business chat came to nothing. I was glad to see him go.” Which was the truth and he felt more confident as he said it.

  “He didn't mention a Mrs. Jones?”

  “Who's she?” He was comfortable now; all he had to do was sit them out. “An old girlfriend?”

  “Not of his,” said Malone, not looking at Clements. “I'm a little puzzled, Mr. Farro, I have to say—he was here half an hour and you did nothing but argue?”

  “Well, no, not all the time. We—well, we reminisced for a while, I think we were both sizing each other up. And then things got—well, abrasive, I guess you'd call it.”

  “You argued over blue-chip shares?” said Clements, mouth clear now. “I thought no one ever argued over those. Except BHP when it got on the skids.”

  “No,” said Farro and drank some coffee, his hand steady now as he lifted the cup. “We argued over what went wrong fourteen years ago. We agreed to dislike each other and he left.”

  Malone looked out to the wide verandah, where a frieze of five gulls stared in at the three men. “Do you feed the gulls?”

  “My cleaning woman does. The buggers can starve as far as I'm concerned. They crap all over the verandah.”

  “You should be in our game, Mr. Farro. There's crap all over, everywhere.” He stood up. “Finished, Russ?”

  Clements wiped his fingers on the paper napkin Farro handed him. “I think we misjudged you, Mr. Farro.”

  “People are always doing that,” said Farro.

  “If Mr. Brown comes back for another argument,” said Malone, “let us know.”

  “He won't be back,” said Farro, rising, wishing them to be gone as soon as possible.

  “He said that?”

  “Well, not in so many words—”

  “Did he say anything about leaving the country, going back to Canada?”

  “Canada?” Farro hid his surprise. “N
o, he said nothing about going anywhere.”

  “You're not going abroad?” said Clements. “On business?”

  “No. There's too much going on here.”

  “Indeed there is,” said Malone. “We may be in touch again. Take care.”

  When the two detectives had gone, Farro finished his breakfast, drinking another cup of coffee, going over what had been said at this table. He had not stumbled, given anything away; but they had left him with the deep impression that he was still in their notebooks or computers or whatever they used. He got up, went to the living-room door, opened it and shouted at the gulls. They spread their wings and whirled away, but he knew they would be back.

  He went back into the room, took the gun and the ammunition out of his briefcase, went into his bedroom and locked them away in the bottom drawer of the desk by the window. Then he showered and dressed, left the breakfast dishes for the cleaning woman and was on the way to the front door when the phone rang:

  “Bruce?”

  “Jack! I've just had two detectives here asking after you—an Inspector Malone, I've met him before, and a Sergeant Clements—”

  “Oh?” A moment's silence. The gulls were back on the verandah railing. “Why'd they come to you?”

  “They've got a tail on you, Jack. They knew you were here last night.”

  “What'd you tell them?”

  “Oh, come on, Jack! Nothing, for Crissakes! But they told me something—they said you were going back to Canada. Canada? You told me you were living in Wisconsin—”

  “Bruce, that's where I do live. You think I want the cops to know? Trust me, Bruce. How are you going on our plan?”

  “It's not proving easy, Jack. I think I may have to call it off—”

  “No!” The voice was sharp. “You've got to do it, Bruce. You can't pass up the million, I know how much you need it. The money is yours, Bruce . . . Do it, Bruce. Do it!”

  “What'll it matter if they pick you up? They sounded pretty sure they could stick it into you.” How did I get into this? I'm sounding like an accomplice. But he knew how. The million dollars floated before him like—what did they call it? Virtual reality. To become really real, when . . .