by Peter Temple
I could hear the music on his car stereo: a symphony.
‘Something tells me,’ he said, ‘that you may end up knowing more about this family than we would have wanted. Perhaps we should have had you sign a confidentiality agreement.’
‘Take it as signed,’ I said, to make amends.
I was Martie Harmon’s first of the day, no waiting. He was fortyish, short, plump, red-lipped, had opted to confront baldness by shaving his head.
‘Sit down, Mr Calder. How can I be of help?’ He had a warm, welcoming smile.
‘Mark Carson. I’m engaged by the family. They’re worried.’
The smile went and he made a scornful laughing noise. ‘Mark. They’re worried? Believe me, Mark worries lots of people. I no longer have anything to do with Mark. There is nothing I have to say about Mark. I don’t want to discuss Mark. Full stop.’
I looked around the office, at the framed things on the walls: a degree certificate, something with a Rotary cog on it, a graduating class photograph.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, this is a working office.’
I sat absolutely still, hands below the desk, looked him in the eyes, looked down, looked at him again, focusing on the inside back of his skull, didn’t blink.
He couldn’t bear it.
‘What are you, some kind of intimidation? Fuck that, buddy. Fuck the Carsons. I’ll get security in here in thirty seconds flat.’ He picked up his phone.
‘How’d that crowd-control device go?’ I said. ‘I reckon the best way to control crowds is to spray them with Russian fish meal. From the Caspian.’
Martie Harmon replaced the receiver, held both his hands up, pinkies facing me. ‘That’s not funny. That’s why Mark and I are no longer in any way associated. I have believed the lies and I have paid the price. Also I have done nothing wrong or unethical. So, will you go?’
I shook my head. ‘We’ve got off on the wrong footing, Mr Harmon. No one’s accusing you of anything. It’s Mark the family’s concerned about. They can’t contact him in Europe.’
Martie Harmon made a chewing movement and his shoulders relaxed a little. ‘Just as long as it’s understood,’ he said. ‘I have no involvement with the bastard, nil, zip.’
‘Understood,’ I said. ‘His father’s had a threatening phone call. From Poland.’
Martie closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘Mark and the fucking Poles,’ he said. ‘And they’re not even Poles, they’re Russians. The Poles are the frontmen. They’re the ones you meet, the ones that went to college in America.’
‘You know about this Polish business?’
‘Oh yes. Mark came to me with this crap about building a film studio in Warsaw. I told him, Mark, are you mad? This is the fucking Russian Mafia, they kill people they don’t like by putting a helium hose up their arse and blowing them up till they float away and pop.’
‘What was the deal?’
He jiggled his hands at me, like someone with palsy. ‘The Russians wanted a two million dollar, that’s U.S., line of credit. They don’t intend to draw on it, what it’s for is to bring in the other investors, sucker them in. It’s for show. Then when they invest and the fucking studio’s built, Mark owns twenty per cent of it, plus he gets twenty per cent interest on the two million no one’s ever had to put up. Fucking dream deal, right?’
‘Why would you build a film studio in Poland?’
‘Porn. The Russian Mafia wants to take over the world porn industry. They can supply women by the planeload. Ukrainians, Chechens, Tartars. All colours, shapes and sizes. They’ll do anything, all the things the girls in the West won’t do. And you can forget about your fucking safe sex. Anything goes. Mark was really taken with the idea. There’s a weird side to him, I don’t know. He can give you the creeps.’
‘How’d you get involved with him?’
Martie sighed. ‘I fucking ask myself that. Daily. Hourly. I met him about ten years ago when he was with Ross, Archer amp; Stegley. We used to have them on the other side every now and then. He was Mr Hotshot Young Lawyer. And compassionate, night a week at the Altona Legal Centre. Out there in the chemical smog. Then he resigned at Ross’s, gave up a partnership.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, the prick says it’s because he wanted to get out of the law, make some real money. That’ll be the fucking day. Anyway, I ran into him again, we got talking, he had this terrific-sounding proposition.’
He made a gesture of despair. ‘In short, I was a boof-head. It’s the Carson name. He trades on it to the max. He comes on like he’s fully underwritten by CarsonCorp, like he’s the entrepreneurial arm of the company. Entrepreneurial arsehole’d be more like it.’
‘This Polish deal, what could have gone wrong?’
Martie laughed. He had big teeth, capped teeth. ‘How about everything?’ he said. ‘Every last fucking thing. A, they’re bullshitting you from the word go. B, they don’t have a highly developed respect for the contract as a document binding both parties. They think a contract is like where you write down how much you’re going to give them. And C, if they find out they can’t screw you, they get really pissed off. You know the way these junkie streetkids tell you to fuck off if you won’t give them a dollar? Magnify that by a million and you’ve got an idea about dealing with the old evil empire’s new capitalists. Bring back fucking Stalin, that’s what I say.’
Orlovsky’s father wouldn’t approve of that view, I thought. ‘In this particular case, what would you say went wrong?’
He shrugged extravagantly. ‘I’d be guessing, right? But what I’d say is Mark found some fuckhead American to fall for this not-to-be-drawn-on two-million-buck-line-of-credit shit. Then the Mafia says, listen, we need some of the money for a little while, the investors want to see the gold. So maybe the prick actually forks over some cash. Then the Ivans want a bit more. Mark’s sucker sees the light and says no, sue me. What’s this, says the Mafia to Mark, we’ve got a fucking deal with you? Give us the rest of the money. Or else. And since the bastard’s been handing out CarsonCorp business cards, the Mafia feels entitled to come after the family too.’
‘Martie,’ I said, ‘as someone who knows a bit about how these ex-Communists work, would you say they’d be capable of operating here?’
‘Operating? How d’you mean?’
‘Carrying out threats, that sort of thing.’
Martie’s phone rang. He had a short non-committal conversation, not a definite word in it. ‘Get back to you on that,’ he told the caller. ‘But keep breathing.’
He looked at me, frowned. ‘Oh yes, operate here. I’ll tell you a story. There’s a bloke in Sydney, a stockbroker, he decided he’ll broker other things. So he gets involved with these Russians in selling cropdusting planes to the Philippines. Big deal, about six million bucks involved. A couple of planes arrive, tiptop. Some money paid. The buyers’ rep, he’s also an Aussie, he goes to Russia to see the rest of the planes loaded, put on the ship. No problem. Goods as described loaded. The buyers hand over the rest of the money. But when the buyers open the crates in Manila, they find they’ve bought the biggest fucking collection of aeronautical junk ever assembled, much of it dating from World War Two and not airworthy then.’
Martie had a good laugh, he liked this story, took out a spotted handkerchief and wiped his eyes and his mouth.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘for various reasons, the stockbroker hasn’t paid the Russians yet when the shit intersects with the fan. You’ll understand, they expected to have the money by then. And he tells them he’s got these Filipino feudal lords on his back, he’s not handing over anything until they get the right planes.’ He paused. ‘Well, the Russians made a few threats. He told them to piss off, this is Australia.’
Martie was nodding at me. I waited.
‘The bloke lives in an apartment block, just a small block for millionaires, on the harbour. North shore. The Russians ring up. They tell him, watch your boat. He can see his sixty-foot
motor yacht from the balcony. Before his eyes, it explodes, they find yacht fittings a kilometre away, the blast takes out three other boats.’
He laughed again. ‘But there’s more. The explosion’s still ringing in his ears, the alarms in the underground carpark go off. The place has had about half a tanker of petrol poured into it and now a few million bucks worth of cars are burning. A miracle the whole building wasn’t blown into the harbour.’
‘What’d he do?’
‘Sent them the money. In the Swiss bank inside an hour. He thought he’d rather take his chances with the Filipino land barons. That answer your question about can they operate here?’
‘Comprehensively. Martie, I’m grateful for your time. Can I ask you just one more thing?’
‘Sure.’
‘When you say Mark’s got a weird side, that he can give you the creeps…’
Martie was less happy about this line of inquiry. ‘I don’t know, something in the eyes. My wife saw it, my ex-wife. And she normally likes good-looking blokes, believe me. Does something about it, too.’
‘Just something in his eyes?’
He fiddled with his tie. It had little yellow ducks on it.
‘He’s got a way of talking about women, I can’t describe it, it’s like a contempt, like they exist for his benefit, like they’re dolls or something.’
‘He liked the porn studio idea.’
‘Excited by it. We were on the plane…Well, he loved it.’
‘You were on the plane.’
Martie checked his watch. ‘I’ve got a 9.30,’ he said, ‘some preparation required, so if…’
‘The plane from Europe? Is that after you’d talked to the Poles?’
A show of palms, a frown. ‘I never said I didn’t check out this deal. I never said that.’
‘No, you never said that.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘So you went to Poland with Mark?’
Nods. ‘I had other business in Europe, so I went, yes. Not in Poland. The other business.’
‘And you checked out the deal?’
‘Yes. We went to fucking Poland and got the spiel and I came back and talked to some people and I told him, I told him, no way am I dealing with these animals. And I was out. Out. Haven’t seen him since, don’t want to, never will. You can tell the Carsons that. Don’t know where he is, what he’s doing. He doesn’t call and I wouldn’t know how to call him.’
Swallow, the bobbing of the throat apple. ‘Mark Carson is not in my life anymore.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ I said. ‘Martie, what excited Mark about the deal?’
Martie opened his eyes wide, then closed them for a while. Long curving eyelashes, noticed for the first time. He ran both hands over his naked head, penitent’s head in other times, clasped the back of it, pointed his elbows at me. A man trying to tell me he was comfortable.
‘Couldn’t stop talking about the women in the films,’ he said. ‘They showed us some films. Blonde Ukrainian women. These Russians, three of them, they talk about the girls like…like, I don’t know, cattle, sheep. Here’s a good one. Do you like that? There are many more like her, we can deliver a dozen, easy, that is easy.’
He was anxious now, anxious about what he’d been involved in, seen.
Done.
Done on his trip to Poland. Perhaps.
I said, ‘Martie, I’m very grateful that you’re talking to me at all. So anything about Mark, the family will be grateful. The women in the films, is that what excited him?’
‘Young, girls,’ said Martie. ‘With these massive blokes, never seen anything like it. Dicks, fists, dogs, anything. Violent. I closed my eyes, I can say that honestly. That’s not my idea of fun.’
‘Mark enjoyed it?’
He said nothing for a while, biting his ruby bottom lip, making small hand movements.
‘On the plane,’ he said, ‘he was pissed. He kept saying things like, the little bitch really got it, didn’t she, did you see the look in that fat cow’s eyes, that wasn’t acting, that was live, she didn’t know what hit her…’
Martie tailed off. ‘That kind of talk. He couldn’t stop talking about it. I had to pretend to go to sleep. Listen, I’ve got a client in about five minutes, I really…’
‘One thing. Apart from these Poles, would Mark have any special enemies? People who’d really want to hurt him? Really hurt him. Do anything? Hurt his family? Kids, anything?’
He looked at me for a while, working out the meaning of the question, held up his hands. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Just business between us. Personal. I know nothing. Tell them.’
I said my thank you. He came to the door with me.
‘Mark’ll turn up,’ he said. ‘He’ll talk the Poles into something. And I’m clean. Clean.’
26
‘Mark sounds nice,’ said Orlovsky. ‘In fact, I feel the whole family really growing on me.’
We were drinking coffee down the road from Martie Harmon’s office. ‘Mark’s a concern,’ I said. ‘But my heart says this thing isn’t masterminded by Russian pornographers. The stunt at the football, why waste the money?’
‘And why bother with the girl in the first place?’ said Orlovsky. ‘Presumably they’ve got Mark. They could ransom him.’
‘That might backfire. Barry for one wouldn’t be chipping in unless it was to have them keep him.’ I drank black coffee. ‘The vehicle, the Tarago. How long have they got to register it in a new name?’
‘Fourteen days.’
‘Too long.’ All the rivers ran dry. You knew more about the Carsons than you wanted to but that didn’t help you find the girl. Was that something to feel bad about? You could have all the resources of the force on this and still not find her. Anyway, I had no hope of finding her. I needed to keep telling myself that. I was just asking the basic questions, clearing the underbrush for the real investigators to come. If she was dead, that would be Vella and his gang of cropped-haired Homicide plodders.
I should not have stopped the Carsons calling in the cops. My chance to get out from under this mess thrown away, the perfect opportunity missed. I urged them to tell the cops, then, through sheer force of argument, I convinced them not to.
‘What makes you think she’s alive?’ said Orlovsky. He was watching a young woman in grey inserting wine bottles into an overhead rack. Every time she reached up, she exposed milky skin and vertebrae as prominent as the knuckles of a clenched fist.
‘Nothing.’ I had the last inky drop. ‘I just think they’re not finished. If I’m wrong and it’s not crazy people having fun or simple payback, something else, she may well be dead.’
‘What would something else be?’
‘I might have another one. You?’
Orlovsky nodded. I stared at the espresso machine jockey for a while, caught his eye, made the snail sign. His face said he didn’t like signals, he might or he might not respond.
‘Coffee’s like horse,’ Orlovsky said. ‘Millions of coffee junkies, that’s perfectly okay. They can’t get through the day without it, they’d rather drink it than eat. About something else? Like what?’
‘Who the fuck knows. What worries me is the silence. There’s nothing been done that could spook them. This is a very confident silence.’
‘The voice,’ Orlovsky said. His gaze was now on the street. ‘I should have thought of this earlier. That’s something to think about. It’s got intonation.’
‘What?’
‘Stresses words. As in saying “I don’t screw for money” and “I don’t screw for money”. The intonation makes all the difference.’
‘So?’
‘Well, what the guy is doing is speaking into a device. I said it before, it’s not a cheap voice-disguiser. If it was, we could get his real voice in seconds. It’s a voice-recognition program that’s producing an electronic version of what he’s saying and it’s mimicking his intonation. It’s not just volume, it’s the actual way he’s saying words. Like when he says ble
ed. He says it with about five es in it. BLEEEEED. Capturing that, that’s a very complicated thing to do.’
The coffees came, brought by the wine stacker.
‘Thank you,’ said Orlovsky. ‘And may I say that you have beautiful lower vertebrae.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you for saying that. You don’t know the work I’ve put into those bits of cartilage.’
We watched her go.
I cleared my throat, got his attention. ‘What does it mean if it’s complicated?’
‘He didn’t buy it. He developed it or he got it from the developer. I can’t see the developer lending it, though.’
‘Let’s say he developed it.’
‘There’s probably only a couple of dozen people in the country working on stuff like that.’
‘How many here?’
‘Not many.’
‘Could you find out?’
‘I could ask the obvious places, sure. If it’s a bloke in a garage, that’s a problem.’
‘Would a bloke in a garage develop something like this without ever talking to other people in the field? How would he know it hadn’t already been done? What would he be planning to do with it? Presumably he didn’t do all this work just to disguise his voice for a kidnap.’
‘There’s no knowing what blokes in garages will do. But those are certainly interesting questions.’
‘Interesting questions?’ I said. ‘You know, I liked your personality more when you didn’t have this air of running a special tutorial for the dimwitted, when you were just a scared prick trying to prove he was as hard as the next man. And failing. Remember that?’
Orlovsky gave me a smile that conveyed enjoyment, drank some coffee. ‘Can’t bear it, can you?’ he said. ‘Other people move on, develop, grow. You were snap-frozen at fifteen, thereabouts. Know what they do with these huge tuna they catch to sell to the Japanese? First, they hook them, then they shoot them, in the water, in the head, get them close to the boat and shoot them in the head with a.22. But that doesn’t kill them, that isn’t what you want to do. You want to get them on board, very gently, they’re upset, they’ve been hooked and shot, then you core their brains while they’re alive, like you’d core an apple, with that thing you force in, push down, twist, pull out the core. Then they stick a wire down the spine. Now the fish is brain-dead, automatic nervous system gone, no more alarm signals being sent out to the flesh, and in top-class condition for slicing and eating. Raw.’