‘HOG appreciation night,’ says Nuts.
‘HOG?’
‘Harley Owners Group. We’ve got a room booked in Charing Cross.’
‘Oh, well that’s a good area too,’ says Linda, and the boys know they are home. Her voice degenerates to a wail: ‘But tell me about these vandals.’
‘Graffiti. Just the one wall, thankfully. But there’s, er—’
‘Salty language,’ says Nuts.
‘Oh dear,’ says Linda. ‘Shame.’
‘Yes, a real pity. Such a nice home. We did the rendering, didn’t we Jimmy. Back in the day.’
‘The rendering. Yeah. In the bathrooms.’
‘There’s more than one? Susan said—’
‘Mr Sutton never mentioned he was selling. I’m taken aback.’
‘A sudden decision; that’s my impression.’ Linda becomes absent, sizing the lounge / assessing the carpet. ‘Lovely room; thank heavens they didn’t come in here. Police notified?’
‘I’m not sure Sutto wants to bother with that.’ Vespa turns and calls Eric by name, instructing him to bring the can. The eavesdropper appears—shy, sullen—and Vespa receives the spray paint with avuncular weariness. ‘They left this behind. Shocking thing, vandalism. It’s what happens when you don’t give the youth something to do. Bring back Nasho I say.’
‘That sounds like a very good idea,’ says Linda LaSalle.
‘What’s Nasho?’ says Eric.
‘Just put me in a room with the little bastards,’ says Nuts Finnegan.
11
Bopper Dean reverses into a tight spot, happy with his effort despite the rooted gearbox. He glances at the gallery to check it is the right one. Rare for him, the sensation of being early.
Five Ways is close. He wants a strawberry milk but doesn’t fancy the locals—glamorous flip giving distasteful eyes from the trendy cafes he’ll have to pass. He wears the spattered whites of a painter and the district is kind to painters but not to ones like him.
Bopper runs the gauntlet, self-awareness presenting as an aggressive gait. He wears a timeworn Sharks beanie tight around his ears and never looks ahead / only ever to the side. The instinctive fear of one who would only ever strike from such an angle. When he returns to the car he sees that Rawson has broken into it.
Bopper’s glare is barbarous. He rounds the vehicle and sips through sullen lips, entering on the passenger side with a flounce. ‘Just come on in.’
Rawson’s shrug is pitiless. ‘I didn’t know how long you were going to be.’ The detective sounds tired, possibly testy—but Bopper is not known for emotional intelligence.
‘So you what—fucken B&E the thing. How’d you even know it’s mine?’
‘Because it’s a bright-red panel van with a sticker on the back that says Mr Fuck.’
‘I never put that there.’
‘No, Bop—but you never took it off.’
The Incremental meditates, his eyes just mineral slits. Bopper stews. Christ, sitting in the passenger seat of your own vehicle—how emasculent. Rawse with the form guide folded on his lap / he always was a martyr to the neddies. ‘Didn’t know you supported Cronulla,’ says the policeman eventually.
‘Me? I follow the Panfers.’
‘Ah, developed a second taste. All that prison time in the Shire.’
‘Piss off. Haven’t been in for years.’
‘Yeah. Two.’
‘And them new charges they want to lay are bullshit. My solicitor says the alignment of law and justice is an incidence.’
‘Really. An incidence. What new charges?’
‘Was driving a truck up from Yass, not even mine.’
‘Maybe that was the problem.’
‘Don’t be a comedian. I was doing it for mates, Heelers pulled me over and done illegal searches.’
‘And found what.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Just the giraffe.’
‘What giraffe?’
‘It was only a baby one.’
‘I didn’t ask for its fucken birth certificate—I asked what it was doing there.’
‘It wasn’t doing nothing! It was dead.’
Rawson sighs and massages temples. ‘Artarmon.’ He can almost enjoy the passenger’s reflexive squirm.
‘What am I doing here, Rawse? I don’t appreciate being summarised in the middle of a busy day—’
‘Armaguard.’
‘Huh? Are you goin somewhere with this insinuendo?’
‘Cut the shit. Clyde Palmer is putting it around.’
‘Oh, the cunt.’
‘Yeah. You could say that. How stupid are you?’
‘I’m not stupid,’ says Bopper fervently, as though this is the charge most commonly laid, the citation he resents above all else.
‘Yes you are,’ says Rawson back. ‘You are a profoundly stupid man.’
Bopper crosses the space like a panfer but the cop deflects the attack with a waft, slamming Bop’s head against the dash and holding it there. Bopper’s lungs expand and contract like a piano accordion, the only movement in the car, but he manages to express a muffled croak. ‘What. Do you want me. To do.’
The Big Ship answers as though bored, as though no altercation is in progress between them. ‘Don’t want you to do anything. But you better stop squealing about northside bank jobs before some sworn member feels obliged to nab you.’
‘I’m gonna kill that dog.’
‘No you’re not. He’s a proper leg-breaker is Clyde.’
‘So am I.’
‘A proper nuff nuff is what you are. A failed fucken bus driver. You couldn’t heist the primary school fete.’
‘Fair go.’
‘Who else knows about this little scheme?’
‘No one.’ Rawson hears the lie and squeezes. ‘I’m serious! Clyde only knows cos I wanted him for trigger man.’
‘I take it he declined.’
‘I declined him. He was sniffing round Trish.’
‘That raddled bit of mutton who dances the Ox?’
‘That’s my missus, pal!’
‘Oh.’ Rawson signals remorse by releasing his grip; Bopper straightens slowly, massaging his thin and stringy neck. Reproachful sniff. ‘For your information, it’s the Clarence, not the Ox. And she knocks ’em dead.’
‘No question. I was thinking of someone else.’
‘Fuck oath.’
‘Still—no more fibs now, Bop. You can’t tell me Les doesn’t know about this. He’d fillet you like steak if you put a job on without his blessing.’
‘Who you think give it to me? Bloody wedding present.’
‘An armed robbery? How thoughtful.’
‘And you never seen one so ripe for the—’
‘Quiet. I’m thinking.’
In the distance the shape of Angelo de Souza. He turns the corner and surveys the street, a penguin baffled by all the tall exotic trees. Bopper sees him second and straightens like a setter. ‘That bloke’s a cop.’
‘Debatable.’
‘Know him?’
‘He’s coming to meet me. Need your office for a bit.’
‘Office?’
Rawson indicates the space around them, the vehicle in which they sit. ‘The car, dopey.’
‘But I got errands to run.’
‘You can’t run unless there’s a siren involved. Errands to walk is what you have. Errands to fucken stroll.’
Bopper shakes his head, a knowing jurist. ‘If you want the car you have to renumerate me. It’s the law.’
‘But the law is just an incidence—you said so yourself. Collect it later, Mr Fuck.’ Bopper looks willing to argue the point but the second police is closing. He touches the gearstick lovingly, opens the passenger door.
‘Keithy?’
‘What.’
‘Watch your back. That boss of yours is a nasty little squirrel.’
‘Mr Prime? Nah, he looks out for me.’
Rawson’s shake of hea
d is mournful. ‘No, Bopper Dean. He doesn’t.’
—
Angelo was never physically impressive, but lately he’s enjoyed too many of his mother’s nine-course dinners: in profile he looks like a capital D. The cause isn’t helped by gabardine slacks, worn high in deference to long migrant practice.
‘Here it comes, doing its sore-thumb routine.’
De Souza has contrived to miss the blazing van, the shaggy giant within. ‘Sore thumb?’
‘As in, Sticking out like a. Get in…So, how’re the mean streets of Point Piper treating you? Gettin by? Jeez, Ange, I wouldn’t swap assignments with you for anything. Rose Bay? Rose Beirut more like.’
‘You’re taking the piss.’
‘Sprung. Like my wheels?’
‘Not bad. Reminds me, actually—we found your cruiser the other day. Rookwood.’
‘Lordy me, what the hell was I doing in Crookwood.’
‘She was in pretty shabby nick, mate. Bit like you.’
‘I’m alright, just coming off a largey. What did you do with the ve-hickle?’
‘She was mounting the kerb, racking up tickets. We ran it through Bando’s for a tune-up.’
‘Forgot I had the bloody thing.’
‘All sweet; we put her back in the pool on the sly.’
‘You’re a good man, de Souza—I don’t care what they say. Now, about that disturbance report.’
Angelo gathers himself, places hands upon his gut as though the facts of every case repose there. ‘The neighbour called it in. Older lady, complaining about the music.’
‘Is she aware she’s shacked up next to an international rockstar? I.e., a species of person universally known for getting up at all hours and making a shitload of noise?’
‘It was quiet when they got there but she gave them Sutton’s plate.’
‘Nosey tart.’
‘He pulled up in his truck and took the bikes inside. Then she reckons he cased the joint.’
‘Her logic being?’
‘When he first rocked up the dog was in the tray. But when he left it was in the cabin, the back covered over.’
Rawson broods, steeped in volatility. He has always been a biter of nails and now he is giving them a good old chew. In ninety minutes Drunken Circus / a deep and yet deeper breath. ‘What else did Miss Marple spy from behind the drapes.’
‘Nothing much, but yesterday’s Tele ran a pastry piece about it.’
‘A puff piece. Pia What’s-her-face.’
De Souza nods, yawns. ‘Carozza. Nice girl, actually.’
‘To look at?’
‘To talk to.’
‘Don’t tell me you returned her fucken call. You’ll never shake her now.’
‘Wouldn’t want to. She’s pretty.’
‘And just dying to meet a specimen like you. Did anyone pull Sutton’s chain?’
‘Foster was going to check it out with Hammond, but the agent says he’s in the UK. Hammond, that is—not Foster. But we reckon Sutton’s clean.’ De Souza looks across at the gallery, the rendezvous, a modest landmark with splendid renovation façade. ‘My nonna likes art, collects that Franklin Mint stuff. You know, the figurines.’
‘That’s not art, baby—that’s craft.’
‘This is the joint that nearly burnt down.’
‘Right you are.’ Rawson is admiring for a change. De Souza will never win a medal but he has a cop’s memory, a policeman’s interest in all larcenies great and small.
‘The bloke was a speed dealer.’
It makes the Incremental smile. ‘Oh, he’s a master crim alright. Real kingpin. But don’t you worry—Bobby Cobra’ll take care of him.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Fuck no. Even the fire was just insurance, a brother and sister squabbling over the spoils because there wasn’t a will. Let that be a lesson, Ange: don’t die intestate.’
De Souza is grave, careful to absorb the homily. ‘Yeah, like in Queensland or something.’
Rawson’s groan is cut short by a blaze of brunette in his right-side mirror. A lean creature, glossy-maned, camped in a car across the way. ‘What have we got here,’ he wonders, sounding pleased. ‘A decent sort in the silver Falcon. I do believe I’m being surveilled.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Ipsafacto, Brother de Suze.’
‘That’s Karen?’
‘What?’
‘Karen Millar. She put out an all-freak last night.’
‘On who?’
‘On you. I called her up, said you’d be here—told her you probably busted your pager on the turps.’
Rawson’s oath is unrepeatable. He smashes a fist against the steering wheel / the panel van beeps for mercy.
10
They run in an unfamiliar suburb, a place far inland from necessary sea. A once-is-enough cafe gives them shelter, breakfast, Bloke panting a hungry smile at a procession of wind-up dogs. They are cosmopolitan little fellows who could be swallowed at a go if he resolved to turn cannibal / he is told be good.
Sutton checks out of the Marco Polo, navigates through drizzle to the outline of Canterbury Park. The truck is stashed above poor discarded Bloke and the man lines for entry in the warm autumnal rain. When he climbs into the grandstand he has it almost to himself, a soul solo and disinterested as they conduct the day’s first race. The creatures are juvenile, provincial, a gallop in town just to see if it suits them.
It does not seem to: the runners are muddied, harried, out of sorts like the carpenter who stares. In the time between events he eats a bad-idea sandwich, smokes a single cigarette. It is his end-of-day gesture but he has not observed it, not since Susan left. Lying doggo, disdaining tobacco, rising each morning with a promise inside / Tonight I will drive south and do it.
—
The being that reflects in the gallery glass is stern and piratical / Rawson will not meet its gaze. Easier just to look at Karen Millar.
Much: she’s moreish on the eye, though the anatomy of her precise appeal is difficult to scan. Ongoing project. She doesn’t wear make-up / it’s interesting.
‘Listen, on second thought.’
‘What.’
‘Nothin.’ Rawson firms before the truculent note, the set of her hips. Fuck it: she can have both barrels, just like in the car. ‘You ever worked with a living legend?’
‘Official virgin.’
‘That’ll be the day.’
He gives her a frank leer, head to toe, sees a bunch of things he likes and a substantial one he doesn’t. He plucks it from her grasp and passes it under his nose, a delightful high-end notebook with a creamy leather face. ‘This thing’s wearing more perfume than you are.’ Rawson cocks his wrist as though to cast it away, boomerang the offence into a thicket of shrubs.
Doesn’t. It’s too impressive—the menthol cool of her total non-reaction. Millar is athletic, bordering skinny, but ten minutes in her presence and he can tell the girl has heft.
‘Here, put it away. This isn’t exactly a note-taking opportunity.’
‘Then how am I supposed to learn.’
‘Trust me, darlin—I think you’ll find this very educational.’
She slips the delicate book into the thin dark leather of her document case. It matches nicely with the rest of her look, her disgrace of a lawyer’s aesthetic. Bonecrusher’s spite is souring with downhill velocity, a momentum that is quietly shocking him. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you wear a fucken wire.’
‘Like I said in Mr Fuck, Internal is all the past.’
‘And as I said back: dogs and spots and leopards.’
‘Why are you stalling? I thought Bobby Cobra was a man of action.’
His action is to spit, switch to a full-scale growl as he grips the handle of entrance. ‘I don’t give a continental what you thought, Miss Millar. But if this is the future of the force then we are all in very deep do-do.’
—
The curator affects a sensation of space via natural light and the hanging
of stuff-all paintings. The initial room is displaying three works, plainly the products of three different schools. The first is an infernal landscape the breadth of Rawson’s wingspan and the second is a faceless nude and the third a classic study of still life about which it takes a moment to detect the departure / subversion. Just your typical plate of fruit except the apple is acrawl with maggots. The Incremental addresses her profile.
‘Not a word.’
‘Fine.’
‘Pain of death.’
The assistant is a vision in mauve who makes an enormous noise when her heels hit the hardwood. Her everything bespeaks expenditure: modish purple glasses and purple skirt and burnished purple shoes, their enamel texture approximating as crocodile. She’s a tall girl, twentyish and slender, but as she approaches she cranes her neck as though Rawson is a bigger landmark than supposed. He seems to warp and jeopardise the space they have air-conditioned and citrus-scented, the china shop that has found its bull of ancient prophecy.
‘Can I help?’
‘The boss.’
‘Perhaps I might—’
‘Keep walkin, baby.’
It’s like he’s slapped her; not so much in the here and now, more in some previous life—the suspicion feels residual, reincarnated from an insult paid in Carthage or Machu Picchu. She falls back like a receding cobra and Rawson strolls hands-in-pockets to the landscape. The eucalypts are crimson-barked and some are on fire and some, in fact, are pale-bodied women. Loggers are at large with archaic chainsaws and strange conquistador helmets.
‘Rawson.’
The voice of the proprietor; he has entered without warning, without being warned. His face dismantles as he speaks the name, which he does like a spell of last resort. The kingpin wears designer jeans and dark Italian boots, silver cufflinks that police a sumptuous purple shirt. The hair is lank, dirty blond, just long enough that he is obliged to sweep it out of his face every other moment.
‘Callum as I live and breathe.’
‘It’s Caallum. The a is long.’
‘That’s right,’ says Rawson, ‘because you bunged another one in there. Give me a gander at that business card: Caallum Baker-Murphy, Professional Wanker.’
‘What do you want.’
‘Some quality time with that lovely assistant would be nice.’
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