by Peter Temple
‘Pick you up 11.45. Second, my cousin’s birthday party. You might like to come.’
‘When’s that?’
‘June the second. Small affair. Don’t get dressed up.’
‘I’ll put it in my diary.’
I showered, put on work clothes, set out for breakfast. At 7.10 a.m., the pavements of Brunswick Street were quiet. Everything else in the street had changed but 7.10 a.m. was still much the same. Only a few people on foot, even numbers of the purposeful and the Where-the-fuck-am-I.
The difference was that the latter seemed younger, paler and sicker these days, courtesy of waves of cheap smack. Cheap only a few times. Once-in-a-lifetime bargains.
I parked outside the newsagent, bought the Age and lugged it down the street to Meaker’s. Sharon the actor came to take my order. She had the frozen-faced look of someone better suited to the three-to-ten shift.
‘No conversation,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Grilled ham. Grilled tomato. Toast. Mustard. Long, strong black.
Enzio himself came out with my order. The cook: short, swarthy, balding, unhappy.
‘This is an honour, maestro,’ I said.
He put the plate down. ‘Got a job in Daylesford. Gettin out of here.’ He scratched his beard stubble.
Enzio began making announcements like this as soon as winter set in. Usually, he was off to warmer climes: Cairns, Broome, Vanuatu. I looked at the plate. He’d been generous, no portion control here.
‘Back to the kitchen,’ I said. ‘We’ll have a word later.’
He left. While I ate, I went through the paper looking for a mention of Steven Levesque. When I’d finished, I paid at the counter and stuck my head into the kitchen.
‘Daylesford,’ I said. ‘Pretty. Gets cold, though. Sure this is a good move?’
‘No respect here,’ he said, stirring scrambled eggs with his left hand while using a delicate wristy action with his right to keep an omelette in motion. ‘Bloody cook. Just a bloody cook.’
‘Enzio, how can you talk about respect? Respect is for ordinary chefs. You’re beyond respect. Your customers won’t let you go.’
A laugh-cough, a suspicious look out of narrowed bloodshot eyes. ‘You hear this bullshit where?’
‘Where? Everywhere. I meet a customer, that’s what I hear. Enzio. That’s what we talk about. Know something?’
Pink eyes shifted to me again, hands in ceaseless motion.
‘People don’t call this place Meaker’s.’
Eyebrows up a fraction.
‘The regulars, they call it Enzio’s. Know that?’
He shrugged, took the pans off the heat. ‘Hah. How come I only hear this when I’m leavin?’
I sighed. ‘Enzio, people get used to brilliance. Take it for granted. I’m guilty. We’re all guilty. From now on, I’m going to make sure you hear what the customers think.’
Enzio grunted. ‘Think about it some more. Maybe.’
I patted him on the arm. It takes work to prevent the painstakingly woven fabric of your life from returning to its natural state of short bits of unconnected thread.
At Taub’s, I started on the carcass of the western wall of Mrs Purbrick’s library. Today, most cabinets are made of medium-density fibreboard, dressed up with veneers and the odd piece of solid timber. Charlie pretended not to know of the existence of MDF. A Taub cabinet began with a carcass of forty-year-old European ash. To that was attached a frame-and-panel exterior of timber chosen from The Bank. Taub panels floated in their frames: no glue. Joints, interior and exterior, were mortice and tenon or dovetail, all handcut.
Today, we had the ripping of the ash. Charlie had put out the wood, left me a list of dimensions on a strip torn from the edge of Tuesday’s Age.
In ripping long lengths of bone-dry hardwood, there’s an element of danger. The machine’s purpose is to cut cleanly to precise dimensions. But to do that the timber must be forced into a sharp-toothed steel disc going at great speed the other way. The disc is unwelcoming, wants to reject anything coming at it. And, in the process of partition, one piece of timber must pass between the vicious blade and a machined-steel wall. The tolerance is minute. No guarantees of operator safety are available. Jamming is not uncommon. Pieces of wood have pierced throats, impaled people five metres away, men, usually men, pinned through the solar plexus like butterflies. Eternal vigilance is all: smooth feed, constant pressure against the fence, listen and feel for vibration and chatter.
Tiring work but relief from the ceaseless ramblings of the mind, the endless tongue-probing of tender places, of crevices harbouring decaying matter.
I was stacking the last three-metre length, helmet off, feeling the tension leaving my neck and back, when the doorbell rang. Charlie wasn’t a great responder to the doorbell. The doorbell often triggered a need to explore the farther reaches of the enterprise. The more rings, the farther the reaches.
But Charlie wasn’t here. This was bowls morning. Charlie was having breakfast at home, thinking about the humiliation he planned to inflict on certain junior members of the Brunswick Lawn Bowling Club.
I went to the door, sawdust on my face, in my hair, clinging to me like a garment. A tall woman in her late twenties, early thirties, short dark hair, masculine haircut from the fifties, tweedy jacket and flannels. The man was a little older, round glasses, jacket and tie.
‘Mr Jack Irish?’ The woman.
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry to bother you at work.’ She had TV commercial teeth, black Smartie eyes. There was a tiny male cleft in her pale chin, impression of a fingernail in pastry.
Something told me not to smile back. These were not seekers after classic cabinetmaking. ‘You haven’t bothered me yet.’
They glanced.
‘Come in?’ asked the male, smiling. His eyes were tired, and fractionally too close together.
‘Not open,’ I said.
Their eyes met again. She said, ‘Mr Irish, it’s about Meryl Canetti. We’re worried that you won’t have the full context.’
I said, ‘We. We are who?’
‘We work for the Federal government.’
I said, ‘Outside.’ They backed off, onto the narrow pitted pavement, stood apart. Empty street, above us Melbourne’s dirty-dishcloth sky. A grey car was blocking McCoy’s exit.
‘Let’s see the ID.’
The man produced a flat leather wallet, flipped it open, handed it over. Photograph, seal of the Commonwealth of Australia. No name, just a line saying: This serves to identify the holder as an employee of the Commonwealth of Australia.
It gave a Canberra number to ring for verification.
‘This is useful identification,’ I said. ‘What are you, clerks in the Department of Agriculture? Maybe you’re in Weights and Measures. Work the scale, run the tape over things.’ I handed the wallet back. ‘And the phone number, that’s useful too. Self-fulfilling prophecy.’
The man said, ‘Can we go inside? Little public out here.’
They followed me in. I leant against a clamping bench.
‘Anywhere to sit down?’ said the man. His fair hair was combed sideways, little widow’s peak, touch of grey at the temples. He could pass for a Uniting Church minister. Probably was on the side.
‘This is a workshop,’ I said. ‘Generally, we work standing.’
He looked around, shrugged. ‘Fine.’ He seemed to be making an effort. ‘I have to ask you not to repeat to anyone what I tell you or even that we have spoken to you. I’ll be brief. Meryl Canetti isn’t a well person.’
‘How do you come to associate me with Meryl Canetti? Whoever she is.’
Smoothing of the hair, nod, understanding smile.
‘Meryl’s been under surveillance,’ he said. ‘For her own protection. You’ve been talking to her. We’re trying to do the best for Meryl and her family.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Mr Irish, Meryl’s husband does important work, highly confidential work. Sometimes he h
as to be away for long periods. Meryl has difficulty coping with this, she’s prone to fantasies, has depressions, mildly manic states.’
His expression asked me to show understanding, to nod. I didn’t accede to the request.
‘Another problem is that she won’t stay on her medication for any length of time. After a lot of agonising…’
Pause.
‘I’m sure you’ll understand how difficult these things are. Her husband recently told Meryl that he couldn’t continue with the marriage. This triggered something and she’s taken to telling weird stories. Sometimes Dean’s missing, sometimes he’s dead. What is worrying to us is that some very strange people are encouraging her.’ Pause. ‘Follow so far?’
‘Who do you usually tell stories to? Sheep?’
He looked down, gesture of contrition, flashed pink palms chest high. ‘Sorry. Sorry. No insult intended. I’m concerned to avoid misunderstandings.’
‘You’re saying Mrs Canetti is deluded and that she was not told that her husband was missing. That right?’
The woman nodded. ‘Right. Exactly.’
The man looked down, scratched his forehead above the left eye. ‘Mr Irish, the reality is that Meryl Canetti may end up being institutionalised. We hope not. Another concern is that she and the people urging her on will make it impossible for Dean to carry on his work. Believe me, it’s important work.’
‘What is the work?’
‘If I could tell you that, I would,’ he said. ‘And then I wouldn’t have to do any more to convince you.’
After you’ve listened to hundreds of people buffing up their lies with bits of truth, you come to notice things: tension in the shoulders, quick blinks, taut tendons in the neck, a certain budgie-like movement of the head, tendency of the hands to comfort the mouth, the nose, the ears, even the teeth.
All I saw in this man was tiredness.
‘This visit’s got a point, has it?’ I asked.
The man put his hands in his pockets. ‘We wanted to make sure you knew what’s been going on, that’s all,’ he said. ‘You understand, this is a bad time for Dean. He should have sought help sooner but he’s only human. May I ask you a question?’
I nodded.
‘Would you mind telling us exactly what your interest is in Dean Canetti?’
‘I don’t have any interest in him. My interest is in finding Gary Connors. I take it Gary’s known to you?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t know the name. What’s this person’s connection with Dean Canetti?’
‘He was following Gary on April 3.’
He frowned. ‘Sure of that?’
‘As I can be.’
He nodded, took out a wallet, extracted a card, offered it. ‘The Federal Government values your co-operation,’ he said.
Card with a telephone number, nothing else.
‘We’d appreciate it if you’d talk to us first if you’re concerned about anything to do with the Canettis. Tell the operator it’s a Section Sixteen matter.’
‘Section Sixteen?’
‘That’s right.’ He held out his right hand, thumb up, tilted to the right. The open, honest, unaggressive way of inviting a handshake.
I shook it, a surprisingly hard hand, a hand that knew labour. The woman didn’t put out a hand. She moved her mouth into the smile position. Man shakes, woman smiles. Would that be in the manual?
I followed them to the door. They were walking towards their car when the man looked over his shoulder, turned and came back.
‘Jack,’ he said, ‘piece of no-bullshit advice. You don’t want to be involved in anything to do with Dean Canetti. At the very least, it’ll be a serious embarrassment. Could be much, much worse than that. I can’t say more. Wish I could.’
I watched them go, woman driving.
24
Friday night. In the beginning, Linda flew back every Friday night. The anticipation started around Tuesday. One Friday night, at the front door, she stripped to her bra and pants, filmy black bra, tiny black pants, long legs, athlete’s legs, ending in high heels. When I opened it, she said, ‘Hi, I’m the flying fuck no-one gives. Except me.’
Not the time to dwell on the past. I poured a glass of Mill Hill chardonnay from Smeaton and rang Drew’s office.
‘Hanging around late?’ I said. ‘Cooling off from exertions in the mines of justice?’
‘As we speak,’ said Drew, ‘deodorant is being applied to all hollows, cavities and deltas. To expunge the odours that adorn champions of the oppressed. Although I might add that some find them hugely stimulating.’
‘Talking to one on the phone,’ I said, ‘I’m perfectly happy with an image of a solicitor behind a desk, finger marking the place in some legal tome. Resting on the vital precedent, perhaps.’
‘Before the night’s done,’ said Drew, ‘my sensitive fingers may well have tested a vital precedent or two. Although I hasten to add that I don’t set out with ambitions of precedent-testing. Not at all. More an exchange of pleadings.’
‘Close encounter of the fourth kind?’
‘Indeed. With what I gather is called a babe.’
‘The word is banned. Recent third encounter, would that be?’
‘In Georges yesterday. Stunning creature in black. We fell to talking about the coincidence of both ordering portions of smoked eel.’
‘Goes beyond coincidence. Weird. Four first choices and you both go for the eel. I’d be frightened. Want to come to the footy tomorrow?’
He sighed. ‘Going on with this madness, are you? How can I go to the footy when I don’t give a shit who wins? I don’t have that love-to-see-a-great-game, don’t-care-who-wins mentality. That’s all absolute bullshit.’
‘Come.’
Pause. ‘Christ, I don’t know, I may not have got out of bed by then. Could be in a love knot. Where?’
‘Waverley.’
‘Settles the matter. Another time perhaps.’
‘Sure?’
‘Waverley? That’s love. You go to Waverley because you love your team. Out there, in the wind and the rain, two sides you don’t give a continental shit about? I give you an unequivocal sure, Your Honour.’
‘So. Live a pointless life. Enjoy it. She’s probably a hooker. Lots of hookers do lunch at Georges. Saw you coming. Is she tanned? Don’t take her on a shopping trip.’
Instant of hesitation. ‘You shit. Poison any well, wouldn’t you? How’s your personal life?’
‘If a champion of justice changes his mind,’ I said, ‘the convoy leaves the Prince around 12.15.’
‘Properly speaking,’ said Drew, ‘one old Studebaker Lark full of geriatrics isn’t a convoy.’
‘Fleet of memories.’
Comfort food, I needed comfort food. Eggs. I had eggs. Farm eggs, home-delivered in the heart of the inner city. The little old lady down the street sold me half a dozen a week, complete with authentic-looking substances stuck to the shells. She got them from her granddaughter, who was battling on a small farm on the way to the snow. That was the story. I liked it, paid six months in advance and she left them in my mailbox every Thursday.
An omelette, a simple cheese omelette, made with Parmesan melted in a little white wine. If I had any Parmesan left. Yes, rock hard and sweaty but otherwise in reasonable condition. Would that that could be said of me.
The phone rang. Simone Bendsten.
‘Some progress,’ she said.
‘I might step around.’
Now she was dressed for business: cream high-necked blouse, black linen trousers. I sat in the same chair.
‘Drink?’ She pointed at an open bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter. I nodded, watched her go. Even in low heels, she had an unusual leg-torso ratio for a small person.
She came back with two long-stemmed glasses, gave me one, fetched a big wirebound notebook, sat down opposite me.
‘Carlos Siebold,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I turned up a Carlos. There’
s an outfit in Washington called the Richard Nixon Institute for Truth in Government.’
‘Very droll.’
‘Yes. Joke name but they’re serious. Monitor the US Congress, the Washington bureaucracy. Huge database, most of it stuff on the public record, some definitely not. Some from really obscure sources. Carlos Siebold comes up in the hearings of the US Senate Foreign Relations Subcommittee on the International Narcotics Trade in 1989. A witness says he was with a Filipino called Fidel Ricarte, he calls him a President Marcos crony, and he says, I quote: “Fidel said the money should go through Carlos Siebold in Luxembourg because the President trusts him.’’’
It crossed my mind, not for the first time, that the pursuit of Gary Connors was getting completely out of hand. ‘What money is he talking about?’ I said.
‘Marcos’s cut of profits from drugs being exported through Manila International Airport and Clark Air Base. The US air base.’
‘Right.’ Out of hand was putting it mildly.
‘A Carlos Siebold also shows up in the London Sunday Times database,’ she said. ‘In a story on the arms trade written in 1990. The writers say a Tamil Tiger agent said under interrogation…’
‘They were interrogating him?’ I said. ‘Tie him to the footrail in some Fleet Street pub. Flog him with sodden bar towels. Is that ethical for journos?’
She allowed me a smile. Somewhere between a polite smile and an amused smile. Self-contained person, Ms Bendsten. ‘They don’t say who was doing the dirty work. Only that the man said he negotiated with a Carlos Siebold in a hotel in Zurich to buy Russian-made weapons. The writers spoke to the office of a Carlos Siebold in Hamburg. An associate said Mr Siebold was a commercial lawyer with no links to arms dealings of any kind.’
‘That’s it?’
‘For now. Plenty of other places to look. Then I did Major-General Ibell.’ She looked at her notes. ‘US Marine, active service in Vietnam, served on the staff of General Edwin F. Black, head of the US military in Thailand. Later on the staffs of the National Security Council and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Military career seems to end in the mid-1970s. I found a Nixon Institute reference to him as president of a company called Secure International with offices in Washington, Hamburg, Hong Kong, Manila, Teheran and Sydney.’