‘In the country?’ said Mick. ‘Where?’
‘Muswellbrook.’
‘Muswellbrook?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Jesse. She looked directly at Mick. ‘Mick. I’ve been reading more of that diary. And I’ve been thinking.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ said Mick.
Mick told Jesse what was on his mind. Jesse listened intently and agreed with everything Mick said.
‘The Australian government would be bad enough,’ said Jesse. ‘But imagine what would happen if those bomb-happy, paranoid Yanks got wind of what we’ve found.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mick. ‘They’d keep it for themselves. And no one would ever hear from us again.’
‘Exactly,’ nodded Jesse. ‘But like you say, we can’t just leave the thing sitting there.’
‘No. We can’t.’
‘So what I propose, Mick, is this.’ Jesse tilted her head and looked directly at Mick. ‘Why don’t we go and see if we can find it? Tesla’s left clues to its whereabouts in the diary, I’m sure of it.’
‘Keep talking,’ said Mick.
‘I’ll take my camera. And if we should find it, we’ll sell the story to the press first. Then let the government know. That should cover our bacon first up.’
‘And what if we don’t find it?’ said Mick.
‘We’ll still sell the diary and the story to the press,’ said Jesse. ‘And whoever wants the bloody thing can have it. But at least we’ve done the right thing. ‘And we’ve covered our arses at the same time.’ Jesse waited a moment. ‘Does that make sense, Mick?’
‘I think so,’ answered Mick. ‘If we’re in the news, it’s a bit hard for anyone to make us disappear. Hey! We might even finish up national heroes.’
‘We might,’ said Jesse. ‘And we’ll make some money as well. A fair bit, too, I would imagine,’ she smiled.
‘What if we find it and set the thing off?’ asked Mick.
‘Well, in that case, darling,’ answered Jesse, ‘we’ll have nothing to worry about, because our arses will be floating somewhere between Jupiter and Mars.’
Mick smiled at Jesse sitting behind the counter. ‘You’ve always got a wonderfully simple way of putting things, haven’t you, O ocean of wisdom.’
‘I try,’ Jesse smiled back.
‘Okay,’ said Mick. ‘You’ve got me. When do you want to go?’
‘Tomorrow morning about eight,’ said Jesse. And we’ll come back Monday. Mum will look after the shop while I’m away.’
‘All right,’ agreed Mick.
‘Stay here tonight. Get a chicken and I’ll make a salad. And if you behave yourself,’ smiled Jesse, ‘I might even surrender my tender young body to you.’
Mick wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Will you put the school uniform on?’
‘How about the nurse’s uniform and you can be the evil doctor?’
‘Ooh-ooh,’ said Mick. ‘I’d like that. Okay. I’ll get going. By the time I sort things out and get back, it’ll be time for dinner.’
‘That would be delightful,’ said Jesse. Mick went to leave when Jesse looked hurt. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something,’ she said, and puckered up her lips.
‘Forgive me, my treasure.’ Mick leant across the counter and gave Jesse a sweet, soft kiss on the mouth.
For some reason the kiss started to go on a bit. Next thing Jesse had slipped the tongue in and Mick had a hand up under her T-shirt when ribet! ribet! sounded above the door. They stopped what they were doing and got themselves together as a blond-haired young man wearing a pair of grey overalls came up to the counter.
‘Yes,’ smiled Jesse, running a hand through her hair. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Have you got any books by Charles Bukowski?’
‘Yes,’ replied Jesse. She pointed to a section of the shop. ‘There’s South of No North. And Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness over there. What were you after?’
‘Dangling in the Tournefortia.’
‘I can have it in for you next week.’
‘Hey, that’d be unreal,’ smiled the young man in the overalls. ‘Thanks.’
‘I might get going,’ said Mick.
‘Okay,’ smiled Jesse. ‘I’ll see you when you get back.’
Mick could hardly have been happier when he pulled up in his driveway. The Buick was going great, he was taking it for a spin in the country with Jesse, and there were no dramas. Mick wasn’t confident they’d find Tesla’s doomsday machine after all this time, but he agreed with Jesse that just the story about finding the diary in the old car would be worth money to the press. 60 Minutes might even be interested. If the story went global, he and Jesse could clean up big time.
The Wardleys, Mick’s neighbours on the left, were away in Tasmania. So Mick called straight in to see Mrs Parsons on the right. Mick liked Mrs Parsons and nicknamed her Mrs Doubtfire. Her husband Reg liked to play bowls some afternoons, then get drunk with his old mates and Rose would drive down and bring him home. Sometimes if Reg had a win on the pokies and got totalled, Rose would get Mick to help her walk Reg inside. Whistling softly, Mick walked up and pushed Mrs Parsons’ buzzer. A few seconds later Mrs Parsons opened the door wearing a blue cardigan and wire-framed glasses with her grey hair done up in a bun. Behind her the delicious aroma of lamb roasting wafted out from the kitchen.
‘Oh hello, Mick,’ she said brightly. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good thanks, Rose,’ replied Mick. ‘Gee! Something sure smells good in there.’
‘Yes. I’m doing a leg of lamb. Reg will probably be too drunk to eat much when he gets home. Would you like some?’
‘No thanks. I’m having dinner over at Jesse’s.’
‘Oh all right then.’
‘Hey Rose,’ said Mick, ‘I’m going away for a few days. Would you mind keeping an eye on things?’
‘No. Not at all, Mick,’ replied Mrs Parsons. ‘How long will you be gone for?’
‘I should be back Sunday night. I’m going to Muswellbrook.’
‘Lovely. It’s nice out there, this time of year.’ Mrs Parsons smiled in the direction of Mick’s driveway. ‘I see you’ve got your car back.’
‘Yes. I’m going to take it for a run.’ Mick pointed to the van. ‘The garage is full of junk at the moment. So I’ll have to leave the van in the driveway.’
‘That’s all right. Reg’ll keep an eye on it.’
‘Unreal.’ Mick chit-chatted with Mrs Parsons for a while then left her to her cooking and went inside.
Taking his time, Mick set the timer so the lights and the TV would come on at night, erased any old messages on the answering service, then checked all the locks and made sure the doors to the sundeck were closed. They wouldn’t be away long. But Mick took extra clothes should there be a change in the weather, along with a few other things, including a book and the kitchen radio to catch up on the news, as the radio in the Buick was playing up and he couldn’t get it fixed while the car was sitting in the garage. But the CD player worked perfectly, so Mick picked out enough CDs to ensure they’d have plenty of music on the trip. Satisfied he had everything he needed and everything was in order, Mick picked up his travel bag and a small overnight bag, locked the house and walked over to the Buick. After taking a bag of tools out of the van, he placed them and his gear in the Buick’s roomy boot, had a last look around, then climbed behind the wheel and headed for Jesse’s. By the time he stopped for a barbecued chicken and two six-packs of Jesse’s favourite beer, it was dark and well and truly dinnertime when Mick parked the Buick in Jesse’s backyard and closed the gate.
Although the bookshop took up most of the bottom half of Jesse’s house, there was a small storage room behind it plus a large kitchen with an adjacent laundry. A set of stairs ran up from the kitchen to a large loungeroom with a comfortable beige lounge, a bar fridge, a four-speaker stereo and a wide-screen TV. A narrow enclosed verandah looked out over Mitchell Street and off the loungeroom were two be
drooms and a toilet. Jesse liked having the kitchen downstairs because you weren’t always putting your head in the fridge and smoking food, as she put it. At the back of the house, a small wooden verandah led up to a screen door surrounded by pot plants.
‘Anybody home?’ Mick called out as he rapped on the flyscreen, before walking in carrying his overnight bag, the beer and the chicken.
Jesse was at the kitchen table putting the last of some fresh cooked peas into a potato salad. ‘Ain’t nobody here but us chickens,’ she sang.
‘Well, here’s one chicken you missed, baby,’ said Mick, placing everything on the kitchen table.
Jesse noticed the beer. ‘Oh yes. Cantina,’ she said. ‘Stick them in the fridge, good looking. And knock the tops off two right now.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ smiled Mick.
Mick did what Jesse said, then they toasted each other’s health, letting go a healthy simultaneous burp before they compared notes on their day.
‘You know, I’m glad we’re going to Muswellbrook to try and sort this thing out,’ said Mick.
‘Yes. Me too,’ answered Jesse.
‘You still reckon we’ll find Tesla’s legacy?’
Jesse shrugged. ‘We can only try. But win, lose or draw, we’ve got to make some money out of the story.’
‘And we can all do with a little extra money,’ said Mick.
‘You’re not wrong there,’ agreed Jesse. She took a mouthful of beer and belched lightly. ‘So what are you going to do with your share of the loot, Mick?’
‘Me? Buy you a diamond ring that would make Elizabeth Taylor jealous. Then ask your father for your hand in marriage. What else?’
‘Do you think he’d give it to you, after you vomited all over the dog at my brother’s twenty-first?’
‘He will if he wants any more wiring done. What about you?’
‘Send some of it to Paul Watson at Sea Shepherd,’ Jesse replied tightly. ‘And hope he sinks those rotten bloody Japanese whalers.’
Mick raised his bottle. ‘I’m with you there, Oz.’
They talked a while longer and finished off two more beers. Then Jesse decided it was time to eat. She got a large knife and cut up the chicken, then placed a bowl of potato salad and another of crisp green salad on the table, and they got into it over two more Cantinas. They finished with coffee then cleaned up and it was time to watch TV.
‘What do you fancy watching, Oz?’ Mick asked as he put the last plate in the cabinet.
‘Deadwood,’ she replied.
‘Yeah,’ enthused Mick. ‘That’ll do me.’
Jesse had exchanged two old encyclopedias for the six DVD set of Deadwood. It was the most violent, sexist, racist, depraved, callous, foulmouthed, whisky-sodden show imaginable. But the stories were so good, the settings so authentic and the characters that strong, Mick and Jesse found it compulsive viewing. They took the remaining beer upstairs then made themselves comfortable in front of the TV for tonight’s episode, titled ‘Mr Wu.’
Mr Wu, the despised Chinese meat provider, goes to the Gem Saloon to tell Al Swearengen, the proprietor and meanest, most horrible dropkick in Deadwood, that his supply of opium has been stolen. Al finds out who the culprits are and makes one throw himself off the balcony then drowns the other in a bath and feeds him to Mr Wu’s pigs. The simple moral of the episode, amidst all the bashings, shootings, shots of whisky and filthy language, was: tamper with Al Swearengen’s stash and you’ll end up pig shit.
‘Hey Ossie,’ said Mick, when the episode finished and Jesse was putting the DVDs away. ‘What do you think would happen if you walked into the Gem Saloon and asked Al Swearengen for a bottle of Corona with a slice of lime?’
‘What would happen?’ answered Jesse. ‘I reckon you’d look pretty funny walking down the main street of Deadwood wearing a spitoon for a hat and an empty whisky bottle sticking out of your date.’
‘Yeah, I think you’re right,’ chuckled Mick. ‘So what’s doing now?’ he asked.
Jesse gave Mick a quick kiss on the lips. ‘Stay there,’ she purred. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Jesse put an old Supremes CD on and went to her room. Mick was sipping a beer and cruising along to ‘Baby Love’ when Jesse appeared in front of him wearing a drastically shortened blue nurse’s uniform, a suspender belt and fishnet stockings. She had a little white cap on her head and a watch in her top pocket. She handed Mick a stethoscope to place round his neck.
‘And how are you this evening, Dr Vincent?’ she asked, wiggling herself in front of Mick’s face.
‘How am I?’ said Mick, placing his beer down and putting on the stethoscope. ‘Very angry with you, Nurse Osbourne.’
‘Oh dear me,’ cooed Jesse. ‘Whatever have I done?’
‘You’ve been a very naughty nurse,’ said Mick. ‘And I think you need a good spanking.’
‘Oh you wicked, horrible doctor,’ said Jesse. ‘I was a good girl.’
‘Oh no you weren’t. Now come here, you naughty little nurse.’
Mick spread Jesse across his knee and when her dress rose up, the sight of Jesse’s lovely derriere under her lacy white knickers had Mick wanting to bite a large piece out of it. Instead he gave Jesse a spanking. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just enough to make Jesse giggle and squeal and tell Dr Vincent what a cruel beast he was and he should be struck off.
By the time Mick and Jesse had got round to playing doctors and nurses, Agents Moharic, Coleborne and Niland had landed at Williamtown Air Force Base where they were met by Special Agent Zimmer Sierota. Agent Sierota had been posted in Australia two years. But the sun and fresh air hadn’t done his sallow, pock-marked face any good, or added any colour to his pallid, oily skin. Standing on the tarmac in his green sports shirt and black trousers, with his greasy black hair catching the breeze, he still looked more like a vicious Colombian drug dealer than an agent of the United States Government. Earlier Sierota had been in touch with the United States Embassy in Canberra and all the right wheels had been oiled and the right pressure brought to bear. So the three agents’ arrival at Williamtown had been little more than a formality. The only minor glitch was a Major McKell from Military Intelligence demanding they declare their weapons and wanting to know why they needed three Colt .45s, a Remington M870 pump-action shotgun and three hundred rounds of ammunition just to check out a relatively quiet harbour like Newcastle. Now they were in a black Jeep Cherokee with darkened windows, being driven by Sierota to their safe house at Redhead, two streets back from Webb Park.
Agent Niland turned to Agent Moharic seated behind him as the streets of Newcastle went past in the night. ‘I still didn’t like the way that nosy big Aussie major checked our weapons. And what did he mean when he said, “You Seppos couldn’t have an Edgar without taking a gun with you”?’
‘I couldn’t understand anything he said,’ answered Agent Moharic. ‘Do they all talk that weird out here?’
‘And how come they drive on the wrong side of the road?’ said Agent Coleborne.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ grunted Sierota. ‘Just concentrate on the job ahead. I want you out of here by Sunday.’
‘You’re calling the shots, Zim,’ said Agent Coleborne.
They continued the rest of their journey in silence till they pulled up in the driveway of a neat four-bedroom bungalow with a low brick fence out the front and a white cross above the door. Sierota pressed a remote and a garage door on the right swung open. He drove inside, pressed the remote again, and it closed behind them.
The men got out of the Cherokee and followed Sierota through a door that led straight into a blue carpeted loungeroom. It had a TV and a matching lounge suite. But most of it was taken up by a state of the art computer system, surveillance equipment and a satellite scrambler. A kitchen ran between the main loungeroom and a smaller one that was furnished with little more than a large pinewood table and chairs. Four bedrooms and a bathroom ran off a corridor that led towards the front of the house. The only hint of decora
tions were thick blue curtains on the windows and a sprinkling of American landscapes on the walls. Sierota let the three agents pick their rooms and sort out their belongings then called them into the smaller loungeroom where a black shoebox sat on the pinewood table next to a small stack of Bibles. He sat the men down then stood at the head of the table.
‘Okay,’ said Sierota. ‘I’ll be brief. You would have noticed the short-sleeved white shirts hanging up in your wardrobes?’
Agent Niland nodded to the Bibles. ‘Does that mean…?’
‘Yes. If anyone should ask, you’re Mormons.’
‘Spreading the word of Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour,’ smiled Agent Coleborne.
‘He’s coming back, you know,’ said Agent Niland.
‘Good,’ said Agent Moharic. ‘Make sure he brings some more ice. The beer’s getting cold.’
‘Okay. Settle down,’ ordered Sierota. ‘Now we haven’t got a great deal of information about Michael Vincent at this point in time, or a photo. But I have managed to find out a few things about him. In particular, he drives a white Volkswagen Transporter with M and M Electrical Services on the sides. Vincent had a business partner, Mark Brooks, who was killed on the job a month ago. It was in the local paper. There was a lot of ill feeling at the funeral and Mark Brooks’s brother Andrew, who’s done gaol time, objected to Vincent driving the work van with his brother’s name still on the side. He said, quote, “You killed my brother. You arsehole Vincent. I’d like to blow you and your van to pieces.”’
‘This was actually in the news?’ said Agent Moharic.
‘Yes it was,’ nodded Sierota. ‘So, gentlemen. This is what we are going to do.’
Sierota opened the shoebox and took out a bomb. It consisted of little more than a detonator, a relay mechanism and four sticks of gelignite. He let each agent take a good look at it before speaking.
‘As you can see, compared to what we use these days, the ordinance is quite dated. But that’s how we want it. When the police forensic team go over the wreckage of Vincent’s Transporter and find the remains of an unsophisticated device like this, Andrew Brooks will no doubt get the blame. He’ll get more gaol time. And you’ll all be back home. Case closed and no link to us.’ Sierota looked around the table. ‘Any questions, gentlemen?’
The Tesla Legacy Page 7