‘We’re closed, and you’re both too bloody old for it anyway.’
She looked to be about sixteen, with dirty scraggly hair and a face devoid of make-up. Her lips were bruised and puffy and she had a reddish rash on her cheeks and neck. Full breasts and hard nipples poked out against the tie-dyed cotton blouse she was wearing and a pair of unlaced and too-big tan buckskin boots covered her feet. There was nothing between the bottom of her shirt and the sagging top of the boots. She might have been wearing underpants but Berlin had his doubts.
‘Interrupted something, have we, love?’
The girl blinked hard at Roberts but didn’t answer. Berlin judged from her bruised and puffy lips and slightly dilated pupils that Bob was probably right on the money.
Roberts pushed the door open with his right hand. ‘We’re police, we want to talk to whoever runs this little . . . establishment. We don’t have time to piss about, love, so can you whistle him up for us?’
The girl had blinked harder at the word ‘police’ then she stepped back as Berlin and Roberts brushed past.
‘Hey Jim, it’s the wallopers. They want a word.’
Berlin’s eyes were still becoming accustomed to the darkness, though he very clearly heard someone say ‘shit’ from somewhere above him. There were scuffling noises and then the squeak of rusted window hinges. A narrow shaft of light from upstairs lit up one wall, illuminating a staircase with a wooden banister. From somewhere outside the building they heard the sound of tin and glass hitting the pavement.
‘Wouldn’t be able to find a light switch for us, would you, sweetheart?’ Roberts asked.
The girl swung the heavy entrance door closed and then felt her away along one wall. There was a click and a single fluorescent tube flickered to life on the ceiling. The place was bigger than Berlin had imagined, though the black-painted walls gave it a closed-in, gloomy feeling. The ceiling was only nine or ten feet high and the nylon parachutes that covered it had most likely come from the army disposals store round on Russell Street. The parachutes must have been white at some point, but cigarette smoke and burning incense had stained the fabric the colour of weak tea.
Berlin suddenly wondered what had become of his parachute after they had cut him down from the pine tree after the raid on Kiel. He had been too busy getting beaten senseless by angry German soldiers to pay much attention. Captured airmen were Terrorfliegers, Terror Flyers, to the relentlessly bombed German people and if a beating was all you got you were lucky. Not a lot of Buddhists in Germany at that point in time, he supposed. Did they have discotheques in Berlin? With military surplus parachutes stapled to the ceilings? Of course, it was West Berlin now, a city occupied by British, French and American soldiers, the victors, and ringed by landmines and a wall of concrete and barbed wire. The other part of the city, East Berlin, was occupied by the Russians who had built that wall to stop East Germans from defecting, and he was damn sure there would be no discotheques behind it.
There was a raised stage at the far end of the room but it was only a foot or so higher than the dance floor. Battered, black-painted speaker boxes were set up on each side of the stage and there were spotlights mounted on steel poles with bits of coloured plastic taped over the front of some. Apart from the front door, the only obvious exits were doors at the rear with a sign indicating the way to the toilets, and the flight of wooden stairs running up one wall. Berlin walked towards the stairs but the girl got there before him.
‘They’re coming up, Jim.’
Berlin heard more scuffling. ‘Keep your shirt on, Jim, we’re not from the drug squad.’ He glanced at Roberts. ‘Have a bit of a poke around down here first, will you? I’ll get started up there.’
He turned back to the girl. ‘What do you say to leading the way, so we can all have a nice chat together.’
Berlin followed the girl up the steep staircase. He was right about her having no underpants on.
Upstairs appeared to be a cross between a cafe and a club. Walls painted brown this time and a bar arrangement with a big urn for hot water, a fridge and shelves full of mismatched mugs and plates. There were tables and chairs spread about the place as well as a number of battered sofas. Cheap tapestries showing scenes of pyramids and camels and palm trees took up the spaces not occupied by framed photographs and engravings. The engravings featured fairies and knights and maidens, King Arthur and Guinevere and exotic Indian dancers. The photographs, mostly shot with very wide-angle lenses, showed long-haired, naked hippy women and children posing in forests or by cliffs and waterfalls. He recognised some of the photographs as coming from an American counter-culture magazine called Evergreen Review. Rebecca got copies of the magazine on a regular basis from overseas, though the government sometimes cracked down on importation when the articles were deemed too politically controversial or the illustrations pushed things a bit far in terms of explicit nudity. In those cases Berlin got copies for Rebecca through the vice squad, who always had plenty to share.
A man with a beard and a mop of black curly hair was sitting on one of the couches. He had obviously dressed himself quickly, mismatching the buttons and buttonholes on his shirt so it didn’t line up at the collar. He was wearing jeans but was barefoot. A pair of lime green underpants were draped over one arm of a couch along with a pink bra and a leather miniskirt. A tie-dyed cloth shoulder bag was on the floor near the couch. The room had the same overpowering stink of incense and patchouli and marijuana, though up here the stale toasted cheese smell was stronger. So was the smell of recent sex.
Berlin walked over to the open window. The window frame and glass were both painted over with brown, as were all the other windows in the place. Berlin leaned out. Roberts was down in the cobblestone-paved laneway. That downstairs stage area was somewhere underneath him, Berlin judged and he could see the top edge of an open door. Probably how the bands got their instruments into the building.
He gave a whistle. Roberts looked up. ‘Someone up there has been a very bad boy, Charlie.’
He held up his hands. Berlin could see a tobacco tin, rolling papers, matches and the fag-end of a joint held in a roach clip. He turned back into the room. The girl had put on her skirt and underpants. She was barefoot and struggling back into her bra under the tie-dyed shirt.
‘What’s your name?’
The girl finished wriggling inside the shirt. ‘It’s Dee, you know, like A, B, C, D.’
‘Yeah, D, like the bra cup size too,’ the man on the couch added.
Berlin glanced over at him. He was wearing the buckskin boots now. It was always good to know first up you were dealing with a smart-arse, it made things easier. Berlin put his age at about thirty. He kept looking towards the couch, holding the man’s gaze. There were several fresh-looking love bites on his neck, though Berlin was certain love had nothing to do with it.
‘So tell me, Dee, how old are you?’ He asked the question without taking his eyes off the other man’s face. The man’s eyes flicked away from Berlin and towards the girl standing behind him.
‘I’m eighteen.’
She sounded like a kid answering a question on a school test. Berlin turned back towards her and smiled. ‘That’s a nice age. Gemini, I reckon, June ’49? Am I right?’
The girl shook her head. ‘No, it’s Scorpio, November second, 1953.’
‘Jesus, fuck, Dee!’
Berlin and the girl both looked towards the couch. The man had his head in his hands.
‘Sorry, Jim,’ the girl said, ‘he confused me.’ She turned to Berlin. ‘That wasn’t fair, you tricked me.’
It sounded almost sweet, the way she said it, and Berlin felt a little sorry for her. ‘You’re right, Dee, but it’s my job. Now why don’t you pop downstairs and give your details to my friend Detective Roberts. He’s got a daughter about your age. I’m pretty sure she’s in school today, which is where you should be.’
The girl turned towards the couch. ‘What should I do, Jim?’
Jim looked up and shook his head. ‘
Oh, just piss off, you stupid fat cow, who bloody needs you?’
Dee took a sudden step back. She looked like she was about to start crying. Berlin knew words could sometimes do as much damage as a fist, especially when you were young. The man on the couch had just given the girl a good, hard smack without touching her. Berlin really felt sorry for her now.
‘You run downstairs now, Dee, and tell my friend I said he should put you in a taxi after he gets your details. I’m going to have a little chat with Jim. I’m sorry he’s got such bad manners.’
The look of shock was gone from the girl’s face and now she was just angry. She grabbed her cloth shoulder bag from the floor and ran down the stairs without looking back.
TWELVE
Berlin took a chair from one of the tables and put it down in front of the couch. He sat down and leaned forward. His first words were spoken softly, casually. It was always the best way to begin.
‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Charlie Berlin, Jim, but you can call me Mr Berlin or Sir. Dee seems nice, you really shouldn’t have yelled at her. Nice looking too. By the time you get out of Pentridge she’ll probably be legal. Probably have a kid or two and maybe a husband as well by then, but life rolls on. You might not even like girls by then anyway, some blokes change when they’re inside for a spell. Now, before we get to the drug possession and carnal knowledge part of the proceedings I need to know everything that happened in this place on Saturday night, and I mean everything. And look at me when I talk to you.’
Jim kept his head down. ‘I told the other cops when they came, and the detective who came to my place yesterday arvo, that Selden bloke. It was just the usual stuff, just a normal Saturday night, you can ask him.’
‘But I’m asking you. So it was just sex and drugs and rock’n’roll?’
Jim looked up and into Berlin’s face. ‘That’s right, and a light show and we also had some folk music up here too. There was a banjo, as I recall.’ The last part was said with a hint of a sneer.
Berlin leaned in closer and spoke very softly. ‘You might want to watch your tone, sunshine. I don’t want to hit you but I will if it’s necessary.’
Berlin held the other man’s gaze until Jim was forced to look away.
‘Look, it was just a normal night, okay? Until this old chook comes in around eleven and starts disrupting the place, yelling out for some bird named Gertie or Gladys.’
‘The girl’s name is Gudrun.’
‘Okay, Gudrun then. An old bloke with a driver’s cap comes in after her and about fifteen minutes later there were cops everywhere and that was it for the night. The band packed it in and so did all my customers. That’s all I know. Don’t know anyone named Gudrun, never met her, never saw her, don’t know where she went. I don’t even know if she was ever here.’
Berlin heard Roberts coming up the stairs behind him. Roberts knew enough to stop at the top, to keep still and listen.
‘She was here all right, Jim, and now she’s gone missing. She’s just fifteen and it seems you have a bit of thing for fifteen-year-olds, going by young Dee there.’
Jim stared Berlin directly in the face. ‘That bitch told me she was eighteen. And you can’t prove she didn’t, so fuck you, pig.’
The last four words were said in a lowered voice but Berlin knew he was definitely meant to hear them. ‘You’re a little bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you, Jim? Don’t own a dog by any chance, do you?’
‘What?’
‘You know, Jim, a dog. Woof, woof, woof? Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Old Yeller, that sort of thing.’
Berlin had asked the question in a soft voice and Jim stared back at him, confused, head tilted to one side. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘I like dogs, Jim. I used to have a Doberman once, those skinny German dogs with no tail, pointy ears, a big chest and very, very big teeth. Savage buggers, they use them for guard dogs. The bloke who sold it to me, the breeder, he told me Dobermans do what they’re told to start off with but eventually they will always have a go at their owners, just to see who’s really in charge. And a bloke can’t have that, can’t have a dog snapping at him, can’t have an animal that doesn’t know who’s in charge, can he, Jim?’
Berlin kept his eyes fixed on the other man’s face. ‘This bloke reckoned that what you do when they turn nasty, the dogs I mean, what you do is grab the choke chain and hold them up so their back paws are just off the ground. You let them dangle there, struggling, choking and gasping, until you think they’re about ready to pass out and then you look them right in the eye and punch them in the face, as hard as you can.’
Berlin looked into Jim’s face, into his eyes. ‘He reckoned there’s a bloody good chance you’re going to break a couple of bones in your hand but the dog will be okay when it eventually wakes up.’ Berlin leaned in very close and spoke softly. ‘And from that moment on, this bloke told me, there is absolutely, absolutely no question about who is in charge.’
Berlin still hadn’t takes his eyes off the other man and even though his voice was low and the tone neutral, the message was very clear. ‘You want a smoke before we get on with the questions, Jim?’
Jim nodded. Berlin held up his hand. Roberts crossed the room and shook a cigarette loose from the pack in his hand. Jim took the offered cigarette without looking away from Berlin. Roberts lit it for him. There was no way Jim could have done it for himself at that moment, given the way his hands were shaking.
‘It was just like every other Saturday night, Mr Berlin. It was a good crowd, given they had Jeff St John on at the Thumpin Tum. We have a pretty strict dress code that keeps the dags out and we never have any problems. We’re getting to be popular, even though a lot of the bands are starting to play in pubs now, and just lately we’ve had some pretty good coverage in the music magazines as well. We get lots of photographers coming by to shoot the bands and the crowds. We’ve even had photographers from Go-Set and GEAR stopping by.’
‘That’s good to hear, Jim, I’m pleased for you, but let’s just stick with Saturday night for the moment.’
By this stage Jim was quite attuned to Berlin’s tone and he got the message.
‘Sorry, like I was saying, it was just a regular Saturday night until the old chook – that lady – came looking for her daughter. I don’t really know what else I can tell you, Mr Berlin.’
‘It wasn’t the old chook’s daughter but that’s not important. You the only person round here with a taste for jailbait, by any chance?’
‘Look I told you —’
Berlin held up one finger. It was enough.
‘Okay, we do get the odd dirty old man but we can make it uncomfortable enough for them that they leave. And sometimes we get older blokes who say they’re just keeping an eye on their daughters, making sure they’re safe, but believe me, that’s not where their eyes are looking. Just lately we’ve been getting some Yanks too, not many, R and R from Vietnam, down from Sydney. You can spot them easy from the clothes and the haircuts. And mostly they’re a bit twitchy, if ya know what I mean.’
Berlin didn’t nod but he did know what Jim meant.
‘And we always get a few of the awkward younger ones, you know, pimply kids in brown cord pants and paisley cravats and desert boots. They’re usually too shy to ask the girls to dance or even to talk to them and they generally leave by themselves after a bit. Probably go out peeping in windows or home to spend the night in bed wrestling with Mrs Palmer and her five daughters.’
Was that what Peter’s Saturday nights had been like? Berlin wondered. Was breaking and entering easier for a pimply fat boy than asking a pretty girl for a dance?
Jim took a long drag on his cigarette and dropped the butt at his feet. He crushed it into the dirty floorboards with the tip of his right boot. ‘Look, we don’t sell booze, so if these teeny-boppers’ mums and dads don’t mind them coming into town and staying out late, what can I do? You can’t really tell how old they are by the way they dress and most of them reckon
they’re on the pill anyway, and they always say they’re old enough. If they tell you they’re eighteen and they look it, no bloke in his right mind is going to knock them back. Would you? You must have been young once.’
Berlin shook his head. ‘No, Jim, I don’t think I ever was.’
THE MISSION
Dessert was some sort of preserved fruit he didn’t recognise served with a runny custard. After the meal one of the brothers on the raised platform performed a benediction. While the girls who had served the meal gathered up the bowls and mugs, the boys scampered outside to play in the last of the fast-fading daylight. Those who had spent the most time wriggling on the hard benches of the dining room moved quickly in the direction of the privy.
The moon was just beginning to rise when the clanging of a handbell indicated it was time for bed. Several of the brothers herded the boys in the direction of the dormitory and, once inside, began calling out names. Those who were called picked up towels from their beds and went into the bathroom. The rest of the dormitory’s inhabitants changed into their nightshirts and sat waiting on their beds under the flickering light of the hurricane lanterns. He could hear running water in the bathroom and shouts from the brothers who were supervising the washing session. Several brothers lounged by the bathroom area smoking and talking and occasionally looking in to see what was happening.
He carefully checked the contents of the small cupboard beside the bed and noticed that several items had been rearranged. The empty kitbag had been moved away from the back wall but a surreptitious check showed that the dagger still remained hidden. He pushed the kitbag back against the wall. Finding a better hiding place would be his first task tomorrow.
The freshly scrubbed boys came back into the dormitory, and he noticed a couple were crying. Brother Brian came into the room and the boys climbed off their beds, kneeling beside them on the hard, bare boards with hands clasped. While Brother Brian led them in a prayer, another brother lifted the hurricane lamps down from the ceiling using a long pole and lifted the glass on each to blow out the flame. The room was dark when the prayer was over and the boys scrambled into bed. Brother Brian walked the length of the room holding a lantern and the boy noticed that the approved sleeping position appeared to be with both hands outside the thin blanket. Brother Brian winked as he passed the boy’s bed and left the still-burning lantern on a chair by the dormitory door.
St Kilda Blues Page 9