by Graham Guy
When she got back to the table she looked at all three brothers. “Can we go out to my car for a few minutes, please?”
She left without waiting for a reply. She reefed open her driver’s side door, then slammed it shut after climbing in. Moments later the three brothers all joined her.
“This is all very mysterious…”
She didn’t wait for the sentence to finish before she exploded. “Franco, I’ve just been stood up in the bloody wash-room by Marcella telling me she fucked Enrico the other night and he told her something big is going down. Now for Christ sakes! Enrico, what the fuck did you tell her?”
“Piss off, Gina…”
Next thing, Franco’s elbow caught him hard in the face. “Jesus, Enrico, did you spill your guts?”
“That’s bullshit!” he protested. “Fuck you, Franco! You do that to me again and I’ll fucking kill you!”
Franco again struck his brother.
“You sonofabitch!” he screamed, holding his face, blood now oozing from a cut over his lip.
“What did you tell Marcella?”
“I didn’t tell her shit!”
“Then how come she knows the fucking date of the heist in Portofino?” Gina yelled at him.
Enrico was wiping the blood from his lip and now his nose, on his shirt sleeve. Luigi and Franco both cursed loudly, throwing their hands in the air.
“We’re buggered then!… Well done, little brother.” Again Franco jammed his elbow into his brother’s face. “You sonofabitch! Can’t you keep your cock in your pants? Jesus Christ! now what?”
Gina went on. “I was able to smooth it over with Marcella. I told her Enrico was referring to a surprise party we are having for you, here at this place. Enrico was just mouthing off. I hope she bought it.”
“So do we stay on track, or do we abort?” Luigi asked Gina.
“It’s up to you guys. It’s your call. I say it’s OK. You may think differently.”
Franco spoke. “You’re a bloody dickhead, little brother. An absolute and total dickhead. I say we keep going.”
“Then we keep going,” Luigi added.
“And right now, little brother, you can get going. Home! All right? You go home! You hear me?”
“Fuck you!”
“You go home, all right? We’ll talk again in the morning. Meantime, you talk to no-one. You hear me! You talk to no-one.”
“Jesus Christ, all right, I bloody hear you, all right?” “All right!
We talk again in the morning.”
All four alighted from Gina’s car. Three of them watched Enrico drive away.
* * *
When they re-entered the club, Marcella walked up to Gina. “Where’s Enrico?” she asked smugly.
“He’s not feeling well,” Franco told her coldly as he brushed past. “You’ll have to fuck someone else tonight.”
Marcella moved away, and watched the trio from a distance. By Christ, I know I’m right. They’re into some damn thing. I just know they are.
She found herself a place at the bar, not taking a great deal of notice of where she chose to sit. As she spun her backside around on the stool, she accidentally bumped the person on the next seat.
“Sorry,” she said, casually.
The person on the other seat was a slightly built man who appeared a little nervous, a little edgy. Marcella glanced at him, then took a second look. She took a cigarette from a packet. “You got a light?” she asked him. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”
The man nervously lit her cigarette. “I haven’t been here before,” he replied.
“Jesus, you’re in for an education! Where do you fit in? You gay? You a pimp? You fancy little boys? You a bloody crook? You a drag queen? Everybody in this joint fits in there somewhere.”
He forced a small grin and shrugged. “None of them, I guess. I just called in for a beer.”
“What’s your name?”
“Peter Heatherington,” John James said.
“Nice to meet you Peter, I’m Marcella.”
He turned to Marcella. “Do you think I’m ugly?” he asked.
Marcella looked each side of herself, then came back to him. “Jesus, are you asking me that?”
He nodded, now appearing more nervous than ever.
Marcella looked at him. She tried to remain expressionless as she took in his unfortunate face. She tried to make light of the question. “Well shit, Peter! There’s those out there who say my face is one only a mother could love. Maybe yours is the same.”
“But you have a beautiful face.”
Marcella was embarrassed. “Whoa there! Next thing you’ll be asking me to marry you. Let me buy you a drink.”
Suddenly, John James felt an overwhelming desire for the woman. “You order and I’ll pay.” He noticed that Marcella appeared enormously impressed with the roll of notes he took from his pocket.
“Christ! you’re not broke, are you?”
“You live around here?”
“Pretty close.”
“You married?”
Marcella shook her head. “Got close a couple of times. Left my run a bit late I think,” she replied, taking a sip from her drink.
He put her hand on the roll of notes. “Don’t get mad, OK. There’s about a grand there. You can have it if I can spend the night with you.”
Marcella didn’t flinch a muscle. “I don’t drive. I’m two blocks away. You want to walk or get a cab?”
“Walk.”
Chapter 10
McLoughlin and Bourke retained their room at the University Motor Inn on a week-to-week basis. Since McLoughlin’s initial spotting of The Weasel, the trail had gone cold. Dead cold. Night and day they would cruise the streets of the city and the suburbs. McLoughlin maintained the regularity of the weekly phone call to Victorian Police Commissioner Jack Rowland and each week the report would be the same.
“No sign of him, sir.”
“Keep on it, and keep in touch,” would come the reply.
In the four weeks the two detectives had been in the harbour city, they had wandered in and out of scores of gambling dens, strip joints, night clubs, leagues clubs, RSL clubs, hotels, bars and restaurants. During that time there wasn’t the slightest indication they were anywhere near their man.
“The prick’s gone to ground, mate, no doubt about it,” McLoughlin said to his partner.
“You’d reckon after showing his picture a thousand times, some bastard somewhere would have seen him,” Bourke answered.
“I’ve always believed he was a loner. Now I’m totally convinced. I didn’t want to do this but the time has come to put the prick’s photo in the mail tray of every cab driver and into every patrol car. I’ll get onto Johnson, the New South Wales commiss. Sure as hell we’re not going to turn him up this way.”
McLoughlin spoke with Colin Johnson and explained what he wanted. Commissioner Johnson told the Senior Sergeant that the operation would be up and running within twenty-four hours. It was.
Ken McLoughlin had decided to issue a mug shot of The Weasel for display in every police patrol car across New South Wales, with specific instructions that under no circumstances was he to be apprehended. Instead, if spotted, The Weasel was to be kept under surveillance and the number supplied with the photograph be phoned immediately. The same request was sent to every cab company in the state with the instructions the photograph not to be displayed in the vehicle. Should The Weasel hail a cab and see his own picture displayed it could well jeopardise the safety of the driver.
“Why don’t you want the coppers to grab him?” Bourke asked. “Might save us a lot of bloody grief.”
McLoughlin shook his head. “No way. I reckon he’s such a secretive bastard that, if we pinch him, we’ll get nothing. He’s got to have a stash. He’s got to be linked to all those bloody robberies. We drop down on him, we’ll never know. No mate, we’ve got to find him and stake him out. And I just have this gut feeling we’re in for a bloody long haul. But
by Christ if somebody spots him, we’ll have to keep our distance because he already knows we’re onto him. I just hope some trigger-happy bloody copper doesn’t piss himself with excitement if he spots him and tries to make a hero of themself.”
“So this time tomorrow it’s full on?”
McLoughlin looked at Bourke. “This time tomorrow, when we leave that motel room, we better be prepared to go. Anywhere. Keep that elephant gun well oiled. Check the triple twos. Keep the vests in the car. Wear your bloody Glock like it’s a second skin. Don’t forget your spare clips and strap those back-ups onto your ankles. I reckon we’ll get just one go at this bastard. If he spots us, and we lose him again, it’ll be goodnight nurse. He’ll go to ground. And that’s the bloody thing, Dave. Finding exactly where the bugger does go.”
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” Dave Bourke asked his boss.
McLoughlin’s expression changed. “Christ, I hope not… what?”
Bourke was grinning. “Didn’t you want to find a post office?”
“Oh shit! That was yesterday. Why didn’t you remind me?”
“I did. Three times. Must be a pretty important letter?”
“Postcard, actually. Mind your bloody business,” he grinned.
* * *
Bill Murphy parked his Commodore utility in front of the South West Rocks post office and checked his mailbox. There was the usual array of bills and other paraphernalia, except for one. It was marked ‘personal’ but he couldn’t determine who it was from either by the PMWG on the envelope or the post mark. He didn’t wait until he returned to his vehicle to open it. It was from the Port Macquarie Writers’ Guild inviting him to be guest speaker at a gala dinner to mark the fiftieth anniversary of the organisation. The State’s Premier would also attend and officially open what would be a week of celebrations. An attached list named other VIPs invited to attend, along with some of the country’s biggest stars in the entertainment industry.
Our congratulations for the continuing success both locally and internationally of The Fires of Midnight. Accordingly, we would be deeply honoured…
Bill Murphy shook his head in disbelief. “Bloody hell! They want me as the guest speaker. With all those whackos there! Good god! They want me ! Why the hell would they want me?” he asked out loud. “Two years ago, no bastard wanted to know me! How times change!” he laughed. “How bloody times change!”
He was tempted to discard the letter into a nearby garbage bin, but then had second thoughts. “Bugger it! Why don’t I do it?”
He checked the bottom of the invitation for the RSVP and a phone number. Taking his phone from his pocket, he dialled the number.
* * *
Franco, Luigi and Enrico had moved into top gear. Their attendances at Lay Lady Lay had reduced to about once a fortnight as they mounted a concerted effort to steal high-priced, late model Mercedes Benz cars. In six weeks their early morning raids were carried out in Albury, Newcastle, Gosford, Goulburn, Wollongong, and Katoomba. Only three vehicles were stolen from the Sydney metropolitan area. The procedure was always the same. Steal the car, take it back to the workshop and completely dismantle it.
They soon discovered there was a ready market, willing and able to deal in ‘midnight spares’. The compliance plates were as good as currency, as too were the log books.
On two occasions the vehicles were driven straight from the workshop at a price tens of thousands of dollars under book value. All deals were in cash. No paperwork. No names. No identification. At Gina’s insistence she was always the one to call Franco. She couldn’t risk his calling her should she be in the company of Sebastian McAlister. She knew he didn’t like it, but he went along with it.
“We’ve got three hundred,” Franco told her. “Will that get us started?”
“Can you spare Enrico to go to Karumba?”
“It’ll be pushing it, but yeah, he better go I think.”
“Does he know what to look for?”
“I spoke to a bloke the other day,” his voice broke off as he offered a slight chuckle, “a sort of client, if you get my meaning? He’s a bit of a flyer, so I made up a cock and bull story about a couple of blokes I know who want to buy a plane and fly it round the world. Had to be cheap. What should they look for? All that crap. He said to go for an old Cessna C441 turbo prop. Very reliable and you can get them for a couple of hundred… if you know where to look. So I’ve told Enrico we should aim for something like that.”
“When do you think?”
“We knew it was coming up, so he can go. We’ve acquired a vehicle for the trip. We’ll pack him up and send him on his way in a day or so.”
“Fine.”
“What about the money?”
“Take ten with him. That should be enough to get the ball rolling. You sound tired.”
“Stuffed, Gina… but not too stuffed that I can’t see you,” he said.
She thought quickly. Sebastian was in Perth for three days. He had spoken to her only two hours earlier, so there was no danger of any paths crossing. She knew, too, she must always be there for Franco.
“Don’t be long. It’s late and I’m a working girl, remember.”
* * *
Katie Caplin had just arrived back at the farm from shopping in Naracoorte. Joker, now slowing down somewhat, hauled himself off the verandah to go and greet her as she got out of the car. He always seemed to know when she’d been shopping. Brushing up against her, his tail wagging furiously, Katie stroked his head and laughed.
“All right… all right… here you go, taking out a large bun from a packet. It was oozing with cream and Joker woofed it down.
“Good lord, anyone’d think you haven’t been fed for a week. Where is everyone?”
“I here, Miss Katie,” Kazumi called. “You want help with shopping, yes?”
Kazumi was taking care of the last of the bags as Gabe arrived home from the paddock. “Hi babe,” he called to Katie. “Many in town?”
“The usual.” Katie’s face broke into a broad grin. She beckoned Gabe, who gave her a puzzled look. “Watch this,” she whispered in his ear. “Kazumi,” she called.
Kazumi appeared from the kitchen.
“Look what I’ve got,” she said, waving an envelope.
Kazumi’s eyes lit up. “For me. A letter for me?”
“Who the hell’s that from?” Gabe wanted to know.
“Guess?”
Kazumi looked at the letter and hugged it to her breast. Her face went bright red and she spun on her heel and rushed back into the kitchen.
Katie looked at Gabe. She could see he still didn’t have a clue. “Ken McLoughlin, dummy!”
“I’ll be buggered! I didn’t think he’d give her another thought.”
A few moments later, Katie poked her head around the kitchen door. “Everything all right, Kazumi?”
Kazumi’s face was lit up like a beacon. “It’s from Sergeant Ken, Miss Katie. He say hello to everyone and thank you for lovely day. He tell me he very busy, but he tell me again to keep the fires burning. He say he come back one day. Oh, Miss Katie…”
“How come no bugger tells me anything around here?” Gabe cursed.
* * *
Georgette McKinley walked into Jack Rider’s office. “Port Macquarie! What do you think?”
Not wanting to appear that her request to interview Bill Murphy was ‘cut and dried’, he leaned back in his chair and gave her an inquiring look. “You reckon you can get him?”
“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”
“Have you got onto his publisher…?”
“Stop the bullshit, Jack! Yes or no?”
Rider had to bite his tongue. This was the part of the job he hated. Sacred cows. If any of the other staff spoke to him like that, he’d show them the door. But there was nothing he could do about this one. He’d also grown to detest the woman. Scoops or no scoops, he hated even having to talk to her.
“Why do you bother to ask?” he told her curtly. “Obvio
usly, if you want to go to Port Macquarie, you will, irrespective of what I say.”
“So it’s OK?” she asked sarcastically.
Rider looked at her, about to say something when his boss entered his office. “No problem, Georgette,” Hanks answered for him. “Port Macquarie’s fine. When do you want to go?”
Georgette explained the situation saying it was writers’ week and it may take a day or two to corner Bill Murphy.
“Go early Friday and come back Sunday. You happy with that?”
“Yes, that’ll be fine. Thank you, George.” She turned to Rider. “See! quite painless wasn’t it Jack?” she said as she walked from his office.
Rider sat there seething. George Hanks moved over and put his hand on his shoulder. “Mate, I told you. Let it go. You’re not going to change it. If you take her on, you’ll lose. Forget it. She’s not worth it.”
Rider spun round to face his long time friend and boss. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to have her walk jack-shit all over me?”
George Hanks looked around himself. “No-one saw, Jack. It pisses me off, too. I can’t change it. You can’t change it. But you better get yourself together or she’ll see you out of here. I can only smooth things over so far. So mate, come on. Christ, I love you like a brother, don’t let some piece of arse get the better of you. We’ve both been around too long for that.”
“Fuck the bitch! OK. It’s forgotten.”
George Hanks patted his good friend on the shoulder. “Good on ya, son! Worry about every other bugger.”
* * *
John James McGregor-McWeasely was frightened out of his wits. After being spotted by McLoughlin in the aftermath of the George Street shootings, he had watched the policeman and his partner from a distance. After they drove away he caught a cab to Lane Cove, a neighbouring suburb of Ryde. He purchased several weeks’ supply of food and groceries, then caught another cab to his flat. He scrambled inside the front door, spilling packages all over the floor in his haste. John James hated McLoughlin, but even more he hated the thought of being captured. For two weeks he didn’t venture outside his front door. He slept lightly, ever expectant of the knock on the door. When it didn’t come he began to breathe more easily. As effortlessly as he inflicted death and injury on others, the very thought of any harm coming to himself reduced him to a trembling mess. Cautiously, very cautiously, he began to venture out. Usually late at night and into the early hours of the morning, and only once a week. He learned of the all-night book and paper shops in King’s Cross and would return home laden with reading matter. He also learned of the Lay Lady Lay night club. Nervously, he entered and took a seat at the bar. A chance meeting with a woman at the bar led him to believe he may at last have found a female friend.