Too Easy

by J. M. Green

I ended the call and checked the time: almost one. I had an hour to get to Ricky Peck’s house.

  52

  I RAN to the exit, tapping my phone and dodging punters. Finding a way out of Crown wasn’t easy; their cheesy cardboard racehorses and Melbourne Cup replicas blocked my path. I kept trying numbers, but the networked seemed to be overloaded. I was staring at the screen and hoping for a connection when a text popped up from Bunny:

  Change of interview location. Ricky Peck’s house. Film crew meeting us there if you want to watch.

  No! Bad Bunny! Couldn’t she just meet Cuong at the temple, like she said? Why did she have to complicate everything?

  Now I had to get to the North Sunshine dope house before Gorman and the other Flowers, and help Phuong arrest them all, even though I hadn’t told her any of this yet. And I needed to have the whole thing sorted before Bunny and Cuong showed up. If Gorman saw Cuong, he’d kill him on sight. When I hit the street, every taxi was full.

  I stood on the corner, frantically tapping numbers.

  Finally, Afshan answered, and he was in the city doing a delivery. He said he’d be happy to come and get me. I gave him directions and told him I owed him. Again. More than ever now. A few minutes later, he pulled up in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

  I continued my futile attempts to contact Phuong as we fanged west, passing the docks and crossing the Maribyrnong at lightning speed. At a notorious bottleneck leading under a railway bridge and into Footscray, our pace slowed. Afshan kept his cool and manoeuvred the van to front spot at the lights. He assured me he knew a faster shortcut. Soon we were in an industrial area, taking corners on two wheels and defying the laws of gravity.

  On my last try, Phuong picked up.

  I got straight to the point. ‘The Flowers are heading to Ricky Peck’s dope house.’

  ‘What? How? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I think even the Turk will come out of hiding,’ I said.

  ‘He’d never do that.’

  ‘He would to confront me.’ I gave her a brief version of my conversation with Alma. ‘Enright and Gorman won’t be able to resist either. The fucking lot of them will be at Ricky Peck’s house,’ I said. ‘This is the arrest of your career.’ If all went well, I thought, an ABC film crew would be there to film the aftermath.

  ‘I’m on my way. Stella, do not go to that house.’

  I told her I wouldn’t, then asked Afshan to hurry. The rat run took us directly to Sunshine North — and in no time, to the surprise of us both, the van pulled up outside the house in one piece. The street was quiet, no neighbours were about. There were no motorbikes or muscle cars parked near Peck’s house. The sun was out and set to scorch mode, baking the road, killing vegetation, directing waves of shimmering heat onto my head.

  Afshan wished me luck. ‘If you need me I’ll be at my office.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Wait, what office?’

  ‘Funky Town.’ He swung the wheel.

  I opened the gate, went up a couple of steps to the entrance, and peered in the front window. It was in much the same state as I had left it. The front door handle turned in my hand and the door swung in on its hinges. I hadn’t left it like that.

  My eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom inside. The front room and the adjoining room were still strewn with the detritus of a hydroponic set-up: tubes and leads and ripped pieces of gaffer tape. The wardrobes in the bedrooms were open. I couldn’t remember if I’d shut them. In the hall, I inspected the lino. This time, I easily spotted the loose square; it had been dropped askew, and the hole in the floor was visible underneath.

  I crouched down, ready to climb into the subfloor cavity. I leaned over and a man’s head popped up out of the hole.

  We both uttered profanities of surprise.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ the man said.

  I thought about going with the Marion Cunningham real-estate-agent ruse again, and trying to back away slowly like I didn’t have a clue what was down there. But then I saw he had a face tattoo — the words fuck yeah scrawled across his forehead.

  ‘Stella Hardy,’ I said.

  He seemed relieved. ‘The social worker? Cuong’s friend?’

  I nodded. ‘And you’re Isaac Mortimer.’

  He put out his hand. I hesitated, felt stupid, then I extended mine. He grabbed it in his meaty mitt and squeezed till my eyes watered. These blokes must work out their every muscle — arms, wrists, fingers.

  ‘Everyone is looking for you,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mortimer gave an unconcerned shrug.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ I said. ‘It’s dangerous.’

  ‘I’m looking for the fucking money. Thought I had it when I found the trapdoor in the floor. But I checked down there and if there was any money there it’s gone now.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Peck’s petty cash. Over five hundred grand.’

  ‘Maybe Gorman found it.’

  Then he scratched his head stubble. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Me? I’m trying to get the last Corpse Flowers out in the open. I didn’t think you would be here, but you are, and now they’re coming.’

  ‘Good,’ Mortimer said. He was still in the hole in the floor, and now he leaned back with his thick arms folded.

  ‘They’ll kill you.’

  He pulled a large hand gun from his waistband and put it on the lino. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Might not be enough,’ I said, edging back slightly.

  ‘Hold this.’

  He handed me a heavy, olive-green, softball-sized orb with a pin. I was horrified. ‘No,’ I gave it back. ‘You hold it.’

  ‘Nah, you’ll be right.’ He winked. ‘Let’s wait for them out the back.’

  He jumped out of the hole, replaced the cover, and shoved the gun in his waistband. I had planned to wait for them somewhere safe, like in the reserve next door, or across the road behind a wheelie bin. But Mortimer’s confidence and serenity was contagious. I found myself sauntering behind him.

  We went outside into the glare; the concreted yard radiated shimmering heat. The plants in the concrete planters were still dead, the green pond water was steamy. I scanned the shadows near the fence. Waste from the hydroponic operation, empty takeaway noodle boxes, scrunched up Madame Mao’s Handmade Dumplings bags, a few pizza boxes. Piles of crushed beer and Jim Beam mixer cans.

  We stood together in the shade of the fence.

  I thought for a moment. ‘Who killed Ricky Peck?’

  My theory, it was the kids. Maybe a few of them together, say Brook and Ange and that boy. If they had all held him down …

  ‘Cuong,’ Mortimer said simply.

  Damn.

  ‘Had to,’ Mortimer was saying. ‘He and I agreed, Peck was psycho. He had to go.’

  ‘Stella?’

  I looked up and saw Phuong walking slowly down the back steps from the house in black leggings, a sports Adidas singlet, iPhone strapped to her upper arm, earbuds around her neck, and her gun in her hand. ‘Easy now, Mortimer. Take it easy.’

  ‘It’s okay, Phuong,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a grenade.’

  She paused, thinking, then she continued. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

  We both raised our arms.

  ‘Not you, Stella.’ She did her trademark half-smile. ‘On the ground, Mortimer. Sit down. Hands on your head.’

  ‘He’s cool,’ I said, but Phuong aimed the gun at Mortimer’s head, and he lowered himself to the ground.

  Her eyes moved to me. ‘A grenade?’

  ‘Yes. And Mortimer has a gun.’

  Mortimer sniffed. ‘Only fair, he wants me dead.’

  A car engine revved in the street. A single car door slammed.

  ‘I’m getting up,’ Mortimer said.

  Phuong frowned. ‘Alright
. I’ve put in a call to special ops. They’re on their way.’

  ‘You better hide,’ I said to her. ‘If they realise you’re a cop, they’ll kill you first.’

  Phuong looked around at the ground. ‘Get some of those Madame Mao bags.’

  I picked out two dumpling bags still in reasonable nick from the rubbish pile. She put her Glock in one. I put the grenade in the other and gave it to her.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Buster came waltzing down the steps, orange fluff on his head wafting in the breeze, and holding a shotgun by the barrel.

  Mortimer waved. ‘Oh, hi,’ he said, casually. ‘How’s things?’

  Buster held back, confused. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Mortimer’s here to kill Cuong,’ I said, the only thing I could think of. ‘Gorman’s orders.’

  He pointed at me. ‘You’re dead.’

  ‘Nah, I’m good. We just ordered dumplings. You want one?’

  ‘Is someone going to pay me?’ Phuong asked, acting annoyed. ‘Twenty-five dollars!’ She was playing the delivery girl. Fortunately, Buster didn’t question it.

  Unfortunately, her terrible overacting struck me as hilarious.

  I couldn’t look at her. I squinted at the sky and bit my lip, hard. If she said it again, I’d lose control, maybe wet myself.

  Buster turned to Mortimer, confused. ‘Ox said I could do it.’

  ‘Change of plan,’ Mortimer said.

  He frowned. ‘Jeez, I just spoke to Ox. He goes we gonna pop a few cunts, but he never mentioned you.’

  ‘They never tell you anything,’ I said, trying to sound sympathetic.

  Buster hesitated, thinking that over.

  Then Mortimer ran at him, shoulder down. Buster tried to raise the shotgun, moved too late, and Mortimer rammed into his side. Buster stumbled, bounced off a concrete planter, dropped the shotgun. He came up, fists swinging. But Mortimer blocked him, his fist up in front of his face, boxer-style. Buster swiped a right at Mortimer’s ear. Mortimer absorbed the blow and countered with a left punch to the ribs. Buster staggered back, winded, then ran again at Mortimer, raining clumsy head punches, which Mortimer skilfully neutralised by moving in close. They wrestled, until both men fell on the ground.

  While they struggled, I picked Buster’s shotgun up by the barrel. I was better with those — in my teens, one summer in Woolburn, I’d killed a dog. It was a seminal moment. In that I now hated shotguns. I threw it in the murky pond.

  Mortimer got to his haunches and bounced up on his toes. With his fists drawn martial-arts-style, he circled Buster, who was still on the ground.

  Phuong retrieved her Glock from the bag, and showed it to him. ‘Get up.’

  ‘That’s not a dumpling.’ Buster got to his feet, scoffing. ‘You don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Try me,’ she said. ‘Now, I want you to stand in front of me, and if you say one word when Gorman gets here, I’ll shoot you in the head. Understand?’

  ‘You don’t owe these people anything,’ I said to him. ‘They’re horrible to you.’

  He pouted. ‘Money’s good, but.’

  ‘Anyone home?’ a voice called.

  Senior Detective William Blyton stepped from the house into the backyard. He was as wired as I’d seen him at Afshan’s place when he’d taken Cuong away. He paused and looked from Mortimer to Buster to Phuong, taking in the situation.

  ‘On the ground, mate,’ he said to Buster.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Buster dropped obediently back onto the ground like he knew the drill. He lay on the hot concrete on his stomach, hands clasped at the back of his head.

  To Phuong, Blyton said, ‘Hello, Detective. You can put those on the ground now, please.’

  Without a word, she set her gun on the ground and placed the dumpling bags on top of it.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he said to me. ‘Stella Hardy, Client Liaison Officer, and colossal bloody idiot.’

  I kind of deserved that.

  He addressed Buster, still lying on the ground. ‘She leaves her fucking calling card. Can you believe it? Normally, I’d give her straight to Gorman. Lucky for her, I intend to kill the bastard myself.’

  Mortimer spat. ‘Get in line.’

  ‘Shut up, traitor,’ Blyton walked around and put the gun to the back of Mortimer’s head. ‘Jeff would still be alive if it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘It wasn’t him,’ I said, carefully. ‘It was Copeland.’

  Blyton looked confused. ‘Copeland?’

  ‘Yes. He lied to Josie to take pressure off himself. He said that Jeff Vanderhoek had ratted her out in Thailand.’

  ‘Bruce said that?’ Phuong said.

  ‘Sorry, Phuong, it’s true,’ I said.

  A door slammed and voices shouted inside the house. Phuong bent down, reaching for the dumpling bags. Buster started to get up. Mortimer moved his hand slowly to his waistband.

  ‘Nobody move,’ Blyton growled under his breath.

  Everyone stopped, and we all looked expectantly at the back door. Josie, AKA Philomena Josephine Enright, came trotting down the steps. She had a long-barrel weapon over her shoulder. As she approached us, she pulled out the clip, checked it, put it back in, pulled a lever down, pulled back and released a handle. Countless war movies, and documentaries about African rebellions, had taught me that Enright’s weapon of choice was an AK-47. These bikies could get their hands on anything.

  Blyton changed aim from Mortimer to Buster’s head. ‘Stop there, Enright. Or I make a mess of your goon.’

  Buster whimpered.

  Josie stopped two metres from where Blyton stood, gun vaguely pointed at the area of Blyton’s chest. She clocked Mortimer, then her gaze moved to Phuong and then to me. ‘What seems to be the trouble, William?’ Her voice was calm.

  ‘You ordered the hit on Jeff,’ he said. ‘You had him fucking tortured.’

  She shrugged. ‘Rats get what they deserve, William. You know that.’

  Blyton let out a deranged laugh. ‘Jeff had nothing to do with you getting busted in Thailand,’ he said, arms locked straight, gun aimed at Buster.

  She lowered the AK-47 a little. ‘What?’

  ‘Tell her, Hardy.’

  Mortimer, I noticed, was moving slowly towards the dumpling bags Phuong had placed on the ground.

  ‘It’s true,’ I said, struggling to keep the panic under control. ‘The feds were all over the Thai operation from the start.’

  She moved forward. ‘The feds?’

  I darted a sneaky glance at Mortimer. Crouching, moving slowly back.

  ‘Of course,’ Blyton was saying, defiant now, like something had broken free inside him. He, too, had known who ratted out Josie all along. ‘And you went inside that fucked-up Asian slammer, and believe me, it hardly raised a sob,’ he smirked. ‘The syndicates running the distribution networks, that’s who the feds were after.’

  Josie muttered an obscenity.

  Blyton turned, moving the gun from Buster to Josie. Buster scrambled to his feet and ran down the side of the house.

  ‘You’re lying.’ Josie raised the butt of the AK to her shoulder, put her eye to the sight, and aimed at Blyton.

  ‘No.’ Blyton shook his head. ‘You had Jeff killed on a rumour.’ Tears streamed down his face as he raised the gun and fired two wild shots. The bullets struck the side of the house.

  Josie ripped a hail of shots with the AK. Shells bounced at her feet.

  Blyton fell back on the ground. His arms flung out at odd angles from his now motionless body. His bloody gut still pulsing rivers of red.

  53

  I REALISED I was screaming.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ Josie shouted at me, bringing around the business end of the AK to point at my face. ‘What the hell is your story?’

  I didn’t understand t
he question. My mind was in pieces, part of me floating away. Phuong was acting like a shocked bystander, looking scared. But I knew she wasn’t frozen in fear, she would be calculating her next move.

  The wise thing would be to say nothing. But I found myself saying, ‘My story? I don’t have a story.’

  ‘Then you’re next.’

  ‘But I know about the Thailand job, and the informant.’

  ‘You’re just making shit up,’ she said, but she cocked her head, ready to listen.

  ‘Sorry to tell you, Josie, but Jeff Vanderhoek never talked.’

  ‘You’re saying there was no informer. And the Thais just magically discovered all the details, the flights, our hotels — it all fell into their laps out of the clear blue sky.’

  ‘No. There was an informer. And he told the feds, and they told the Thais.’

  ‘Shut up, Hardy. That’s bullshit.’ The speaker had come into the yard from the driveway. He was a man I’d never actually met before, but I knew instantly who he was. I didn’t need to check for the missing finger and the stab wound to know it was the number one Corpse Flower.

  ‘Hello, Gorman,’ I said.

  ‘Ox?’ Josie said, her eyes never leaving me. ‘She’s saying the feds knew about me before the job, that it wasn’t Vanderhoek who told them.’

  ‘Darling, we can talk about it later,’ Gorman said. ‘First, we have to get Mortimer to tell us where Peck’s money is. Then we can deal with him and go.’ He looked at me and then Phuong. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Dumpling delivery,’ Mortimer said.

  ‘No shit? You cunts ordered dumplings? Excellent.’

  Josie rolled her eyes. ‘Ox, forget about the fucking dumplings.’

  ‘Right,’ he coughed. ‘Come on, Morty. Where’s the money?’

  Mortimer sneered, but said nothing.

  ‘Ox, ask her who the informer was,’ Josie said.

  ‘On second thoughts, forget the money. Spray the lot of them,’ Ox Gorman said. ‘I’ll put the bodies in the house, and we’ll light it up, what do you say, honey?’

  Josie hesitated. ‘Okay … but …’

  ‘And then we get their fucking dumplings. What kind did youse order?’