Jack remembered the day Ziggy Brandt leaned into his driver’s side window, while his boys pushed some poor power-suited bastard into the back seat. Middle of the night. “Take him out to Smithfield and dump him somewhere off the highway.” Ziggy pointed at the glovebox. “There’s something in there for you.” As Jack drove away, he looked. Even wrapped in an oily black cloth, he knew it was a gun. His test. His moment. The initiation. Club membership for life.
In the back seat, the guy had pissed himself. He had a broken pinkie finger and a few bruises around the kidneys. He kept repeating his split-lip promise that he would never cross Ziggy’s yellow-brick road again. Jack did not say a word to him: just glanced into the rear-view mirror of the big black Mercedes while the guy babbled. He drove straight to the emergency ward at the Royal Prince Alfred and left him in the car park. Then he went out to Ziggy’s luxury city apartment, parked the car in the street, lit a cigarette and walked away. He was still waiting for the fallout. Ziggy Brandt was a very patient man.
Jack sat up, looked out the window. They were heading south. Not the way to the police station.
“I want to see Glendenning.”
“That’s nice.”
“Where the fuck are you taking me?”
The detective smiled, said nothing.
Jack slipped down in the seat. His head felt like ten hangovers, his body like an old mattress thrown out into the street. He figured Peterson would probably drive him around for a while, cook him up a little. The Ziggy Brandts of this world were not the only ones who stuck it hard and mean to their fellow man.
They passed the airport, Brighton le Sands, drove towards Cronulla. The suburbs were quiet, damp, their leafy front yards deserted but for kids’ bikes and garden hoses scribbled on concrete driveways. Australian flags were draped in the windows of a few houses, as though a parade had passed by.
They turned onto the highway, headed for Wollongong.
“What’s down this way?”
The detective yawned. “Gotta see a man about a dog.”
“You really think Glendenning’s going to believe I had something to do with Kass’s murder? He’s not as stupid as you.”
“He already believes it, Jackie boy.”
“Just like that? No evidence necessary? I thought that was priests, not the police.”
“Who says there’s no evidence?” Peterson grinned into the rear-view mirror.
Jack tried to adjust his wrists inside the tight handcuffs. Everything was starting to feel tight: his neck, shoulders, his lungs, his stomach. He looked through the window. Oncoming traffic drove by, people off to work. A nice job in a bank, his mother used to say. A cheap loan, buy a house, get married. Two or three kids. Live like a normal person.
They followed the highway for a while then turned off and took the coast road, climbing gradually, cutting through hill flanks thick with trees. Sharp morning sunlight pierced the clouds and dappled the car. Jack’s ears popped. There were glimpses of the deep blue Pacific on their left. The coastline was all cliffs and jutting headlands and hemmed in beaches only fish and seagulls could get to. Further out the horizon was endless, blurred by mist and glare. Everything was big: Jack’s life had never seemed so small.
Peterson wound his window down and cold air blustered in, raw and wet and clean. They passed Stanwell Park. A few more bends and then onto an unsealed road. It followed the coast for a while until it swung up into the trees covering a long hill. No cop stations here. No nearby neighbours either. Everything was perfectly still. The bush was damp with shadows, cold and silent. Jack listened to the car tyres splash through puddles and chew the coarse paste of wet dirt road. His uneasy feeling had a sudden growth spurt. He knew where they were going.
It was dark the last time Jack passed through, but he remembered the loaded calm around him: like a gun on the ground, just waiting for somebody to pick it up.
“So how’s Ziggy?” The words caught in his throat as though they were written on wet pieces of cardboard.
Detective Geoff Peterson looked into the rear-view mirror. His face was hard and cold as tombstone granite. That Nazi face again. He returned his eyes to the road. “Dying to see you, Jack.”
“And why’s that?”
The detective shook his head.
“Come on,” said Jack. “I’m not the corrupt cop. You tell me.”
“Don’t think I can’t deliver you with a broken jaw.” Peterson swung the car left, hard, just missing a huge rock by the edge of the road. Jack fell across the back seat, hit the door with his shoulder.
“Shouldn’t be so touchy, Detective. The touchy ones never last.”
“I wouldn’t worry about me if I were you.”
Jack flicked hair out of his eyes, stared at the back of the detective’s head. He was trying to think, tune his thoughts, and got nothing but static.
“What does he want with me?”
Peterson laughed. He parked the car under a sagging pepper tree that somebody had planted for shade.
“Your balls is what he wants, Jackie boy. What else?”
The weatherboard cottage was at the top of a long climb of cracked concrete steps: a little hilltop hideaway where Ziggy Brandt liked to bring some of his girlfriends. Or sometimes his business associates — those who needed what Ziggy liked to call convincing. Jack had never been inside, never climbed the steps, was always made to wait down in the car. Looked like he was going to get his opportunity today.
The detective opened the car’s back door and grabbed him by the arm.
“What’s all this got to do with setting me up with Kasprowicz?”
“Move.” Peterson dragged him out of the car and up to the steps. Jack stumbled, his legs wobbly from sitting down. The fresh air was sharp in his nose.
“You’re going to get into a lot of trouble, Detective,” he said, trying to believe it.
“Keep moving.”
They reached the top of thirty steps. Wet, ankle-high grass strapped their shoes as they walked over to another set of steps that led to some decking. Rusty nails creaked in the timber. Peterson held Jack by the arm and pulled open a torn screen door. He pushed a key into the front-door lock and swung it open. A musty smell: dead air and old carpet. The detective shut the door behind them. Jack had the feeling he had just been sealed in a box.
Peterson sat him down in a cane chair. He unlocked the handcuff on Jack’s left hand and clamped it onto the armrest. It was a fairly large L-shaped room with a low ceiling. There was a breakfast bar cordoning off a kitchen area down the shorter length of the L. Orange walls and a thin carpet of pale green. The light fittings were long tubes like cartoon torpedoes, with brass brackets. It reminded Jack of his childhood home. Not that he was comforted.
Detective Geoff Peterson walked over to a window that looked down the way they had come and peered through a crack in its dusty yellow curtain. Then he took his mobile phone out and stared at the screen. He pushed some buttons with his thumb. He brought it to his ear and listened and looked through the curtain again.
“I like anchovies,” said Jack. “And get some garlic bread.”
The detective ignored him. “It’s me,” he said into the phone. “I’m here.” He frowned as he listened. “You think I’ve got all fucking day to hang around?” He flicked the curtain with a bony forefinger. “Well don’t piss about.” He snapped the mobile shut.
“You going to tell me what’s going on?”
Peterson stared at Jack, said nothing. He flipped his phone open and dialled another number. He turned to peer through the curtain again. The hard look on his face softened. “It’s me … Yeah, I’m down here … Not till later … I know, I know … No, that’s all fine … Okay … Don’t be long, baby.”
The detective smiled and slipped the phone into his pocket. When he noticed Jack looking at him, his face turned into a fresh scowl.
“I bet she’s a real looker,” said Jack. “What’s the cop discount these days?”
“You know what, Susko? I’m not going to hit you. I think I’ll shave your head instead.”
“How long you been working for Ziggy?”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Must be nice, the extra money. What am I worth?”
Peterson looked at him smugly. “A dollar-fuck-all.” He glanced through the curtain again. “This is just a small favour. A little token of thanks. Like a block of chocolate.” The detective turned back to Jack. He laughed. “You look confused. It’s your big gob, Jack. Spraying too much spit around. It was always going to get you into trouble.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask your friend Chester.”
“Sinclair? Come on, Geoff. You expect me to —”
“No joke, Jackie boy. He had plenty to say to me and Detective Sergeant Glendenning about you and all your wonderful adventures. Mr Brandt was very interested.”
Jack shook his head. Jesus Christ. Chester had asked Jack about Ziggy Brandt once, about his time driving for him. Jack had been vague: but all he had done was give Sinclair room to stretch his ridiculous imagination. Jack could see Chester talking himself into it with gusto, a whole load of fantastic bullshit, feeding it to the cops in buckets.
“Ziggy knows I’d never say a word,” said Jack, mustering a little confidence in his voice. “And even if I were as stupid as you, he wouldn’t go to all this trouble just to fuck me over.”
The detective walked round to the back of Jack’s chair and ran a hand through his hair. He leaned in, close. His breath was sour: cigarettes and toothpaste and empty stomach. “But this isn’t just about you, baby.”
Jack turned, looked hard at Peterson. Kasprowicz. The old man’s name popped into his head, smoking like a piece of burnt toast. “Where’s Hammond Kasprowicz?”
Peterson pushed Jack’s head away roughly. He walked back to the window. “He’s in Hong Kong, Jack, you know that. Doing a runner after doing his brother.”
“Bullshit.”
The sound of a car. Peterson put his eye to the crack in the curtains. He shook his head; a look of anger contorted his face. He sat down in the gold and red, floral-print couch opposite Jack. His right knee jerked up and down impatiently.
Footsteps over the timber steps and decking. The hinge-squeak of the screen and then the front door opening. Peterson looked up. Jack turned his head in the same direction. Ian Durst stood in the doorway. He glanced at Jack, then set his blue eyes on the detective. He put his hand on his hips.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” said Peterson.
Durst screwed up his face, tight as a cat’s anus. He nodded his head as though agreeing with something he had just confirmed. “Fucking Glendenning’s onto us.”
~21~
Peterson stood up. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s fucking onto us!” repeated Durst. He was wearing a thick black coat over a stiff-collared white shirt and designer jeans. And, courtesy of Jack, a black eye and a bruised cheek, too, both turning yellow. “He came around to my apartment asking questions.”
“About what?”
“You, for fuck’s sake! He wanted to know if I knew you.”
Detective Geoff Peterson looked at Jack, then back at Durst. “He’s fishing.” But his tone lacked confidence. “What did he say exactly?”
Durst walked into the room. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit up with a red disposable lighter and blew smoke with a long sigh.
“He said, So you know Detective Peterson? And I said no. Then he said, But you’ve met him before, and I said that I didn’t think I had. I couldn’t remember, maybe I had, you know. Then he nodded his head. Smug as all shit. The fucking cunt.”
Peterson stared at Durst and said: “He doesn’t know anything.”
“It’s fucking Celia,” said Durst, sitting down heavily on the couch. “She’s sniffed something and gone to Glendenning.”
“You wouldn’t be here if she had.”
“No, she has, I can sense it. She’s not talking to me … I can’t even touch her … She’s looking at me with those crazy fucking eyes of hers … I’m telling you, she knows.”
“Her old man’s just been murdered, for Christ’s sake! What do you think she’s going to do? Have a fucking party?”
Durst’s face brightened a touch. He looked at the detective for more reassurance but that was it for the day. His face went back to looking bleached. “So why does she keep asking me why I went to the apartment to meet her, instead of the shop? I keep telling her it’s because I fucked up the days, thought it was her day off, but she keeps asking …”
“It’s all in your head.”
“Bullshit.” Durst looked around nervously. “Anyway, she’s out in the car.”
“What? You fucking brought her here?” Peterson was not happy with the news flash.
“I don’t want her going anywhere near Glendenning. If she’s with me I know where the fuck she is.”
“Oh man, fuck me …”
“Don’t worry about it. She thinks I’m delivering a letter for a friend, to his grandmother.” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket. “There’s nothing in it.”
“Just like your fucking head.”
“Fuck off.”
“Amateurs. Always start cool and then lose it to paranoia.” Peterson put a finger to his forehead, leered at Durst like a school bully. “She’s got no idea about what’s going on, just stick to the fucking story. Kass was dead when you walked in and you struggled with Champion and the gun went off and that’s fucking it. Unless you talk in your sleep and told her that you hid in the bedroom and waited for Champion to do the deed and then shot him, she doesn’t know a goddamn thing.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
The detective shook his head, looked at the floor. “Glendenning’s just checked your record that’s all,” he said, his tone reaching for an ounce of conviction. “Saw my name as the arresting officer when you got done in the toilets last year with the coke and that slut.” The detective turned and looked through the curtains again. “Glendenning likes to be thorough.”
“How fucking thorough?” Durst flicked ash at the carpet.
“Don’t worry about it. I can handle Glendenning,” said Peterson. Nobody in the room believed him.
“Well, you’d better. And you’d better make sure no connections pop up with that scumbag idiot Rory Champion, either. If anybody finds out —”
“I told you to relax.”
“You fucking relax!”
Jack adjusted himself in the chair. “Not easy getting away with murder,” he said, as though to himself. “Even with a cop on your side.”
“What was that?” Ian Durst stood up and walked over to the chair. He slapped Jack across the face. “Every time you open your mouth, smart-arse, that’s what you get.” He slapped Jack again, snapping his head the other way. “That’s credit. Want to say something else?”
“Sit down, for fuck’s sake,” said Peterson.
Jack shook his head, rubbed his stinging jaw with his free hand. His brain ticked over, adrenaline-fuelled. He looked up at Durst and smiled. “So you’re the sucker with the gun.”
Ian Durst glared down at Jack.
“Glendenning went to see you because he didn’t believe a word.” Jack stared coldly into Durst’s eyes. Doubt flashed across them like a flock of startled pigeons. It was worth risking another punch. “You sure you told your story the same way each time? Remember the order of things?”
“He’s just fucking with you,” said Peterson.
Durst lifted his chin. “When are they picking him up?”
“Later. George and Red are coming. Remember them, Susko?”
Jack looked at Peterson.
Durst grinned, his confidence returning. “Yeah, that’s right.”
George Papatheophanous and Red Sneddon. Two hundred and twenty-odd kilos between them. Each had the muscle-to-brain ratio of a bron
tosaurus. Ziggy’s broom boys for cleaning up messes.
“They’ll be by in a little while.”
Jack had heard better news. But he smiled. Rubbed his jaw some more. Don’t worry about the boys. Think. Peterson and Durst had Glendenning on their minds.
“Hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, looking at them both and massaging his cheek. “George and Red hate complications. They’re easily confused. Can’t handle corners. Might be a good idea not to mention Detective Sergeant Glendenning going round to see Durst here. Remind me to keep my mouth shut.”
Peterson sat down on the couch, leaned his head back and hoisted a foot onto his knee. He stared at the ceiling and sighed. “Sorry, Jack,” he said, amused. “You’re out of my hands. But good luck with everything.”
Jack looked at Durst. “You do Kasprowicz as well as Kass? That wipe your slate clean with Ziggy?”
Durst’s eyes widened a fraction: the whites were bruised and bloodshot.
“Sucker with the gun,” said Jack. “Where’d you put him? One of Ziggy’s construction sites? That place at the bottom end of George Street? Or the one on Castlereagh? Or did you go all the way out to Parramatta, use one of the new apartment developments he’s got going out there?”
Peterson stopped staring at the ceiling, levelled a hard, dirty look at Jack. Durst glanced at the cigarette in his hand and dropped it to the carpet, extinguished it with his foot. Nobody said a word. The roof creaked.
“It’s a good plan,” said Jack, as though he meant it. “Kasprowicz kills his brother and does a runner. That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Detective? But instead of Hong Kong he’s in ten metres of concrete foundations, under twenty-five floors of first-home buyers being smart with their money. Gone for a hundred years.”
“You read too many books, Susko.” Peterson stood up, slipped his hands into his pockets and assumed his natural arrogance. “Made your brain soft.” He turned his back on Jack and walked over by the front window. Durst remained in front of the chair, arms stiff by his sides.
Death by the Book jsm-1 Page 17