Inlet Boys

by Chris Krupa

  A dark-haired man in his late twenties with wavy dark hair appeared from an open doorway marked ‘Staff Only’. He approached the counter and squinted at me. The embroidered nametag said George. ‘Can I help you brother?’

  I smiled congenially. ‘G’day George. I’m Matt Kowalski.’

  His eyes sparkled and a grin spread across his face. ‘Holy shit. The old man said you were coming down.’

  His enthusiasm rubbed off on me, and I laughed.

  He rounded the counter and approached me with open arms, but stopped, looked down at his grease-covered overalls, and offered a hand instead.

  I shook it.

  He appraised me with a childlike glee. ‘I’ve got a private detective for a cousin! That’s sick, mate. So, you spy on people and shit, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that. It’s not quite like on TV, but I undertake surveillance, insurance fraud, that sort of thing.’

  George’s humour left his face as he nodded and held my eyes. ‘Thanks for coming down, for helping us. I know Dad talked to Zia Valeria over the phone. I remember her from when I was growing up. She’s a really nice lady.’

  I nodded, noting that he’d shot up and bulked out since the last time I’d seen him.

  He shook his head. ‘Man, I don’t even remember the last time I saw you.’

  ‘You were probably... oh, I don’t know... eight or nine. It was at Gina’s wedding.’

  George tried to suppress a laugh. ‘Holy shit. Don’t tell the old man. He’d go ape shit. That was the first time Rob tried some mull. He took two puffs and was off his face. You should’ve seen Dad. He was cut like a mad snake.’

  George laughed and rubbed his face, then sighed, and when he looked at me, his eyes had glassed over. ‘Fuck. I can’t believe he’s gone. You know? I can’t believe he was only in the workshop last week. Right there.’

  ‘It’s the reason I’m here.’

  He nodded and we stood silent for a while.

  Finally, he looked up and said, ‘Hey, you want a coffee or something? Just use the machine over here, okay? It’s one of those George Clooney ones. Chuck in one of those dispensable things and it does everything for you.’

  ‘No thanks, but I like the look of them. I might get one myself.’

  ‘Best four hundred bucks we’ve ever spent.’

  I whistled. ‘You’d hope it pays for itself. How’s your Dad?’

  George shrugged. ‘He’s like a zombie, you know? He doesn’t sleep much, or eat. Me neither, to be honest. I’ve just been too twisted. It’s hard to focus on work, you know? Really, really hard. I’ll be doing a wheel balance, and I’ll forget what I need to do next.’

  He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘It’s really shit. I mean, I’m the first to admit Rob wasn’t an angel, but he didn’t deserve this shit.’ He trailed off for a minute. ‘I loved him, man. I don’t know what to do now, you know?’

  I nodded.

  He exhaled and rubbed his neck. ‘Dad’s down the back. I’ll go and tell him you’re here, okay? Hang here for a tick.’

  He went back through the doorway, and I took the opportunity to inspect some of the photographs on the wall. One in particular caught my eye. It showed Carmine standing between two taller young men, each of whom had an arm around his shoulders. I recognised the muscular frame and angular face of Robert Demich on the left, and the man on the right, George, had smooth skin and appeared ten kilos lighter. A sign over the roller doors read ‘Demich & Sons’. The sign was noticeably absent when I’d driven up.

  A rack of business cards on the front counter had George’s name, mobile number and email address on them. I took one and slipped it into my wallet.

  George reappeared and waved me over. ‘Come through the workshop, mate. Dad’s office is down the back.’ He led me through the workshop area to a modest office obviously retrofitted to the existing structure.

  The man I recognised from the photo shuffled over and greeted me with a large calloused hand. ‘Carmine Demich.’

  We shook hands. He smelt like White Ox rolling tobacco.

  ‘Mr. Demich. How are you?’ I said, not quite ready to call him ‘Zio’, even though, legally speaking, he was my uncle.

  He seemed to sense my apprehension. ‘Remember on telephone. Call me Carmine. Sit if you like. Please.’ He gestured to a plastic chair.

  I sat down and looked around the room. A large cheap desk took up most of the space, several filing cabinets sat nestled side-by-side against the far wall, and a spare chair sat next to me.

  Carmine eased into a leather chair on the other side of the desk, moving slowly, almost cautiously. His rough hands scraped against the leather. As soon as he settled, he yelled, ‘George!’

  George reappeared in the doorway.

  Carmine said, ‘Make Matthew coffee.’

  I detected a look of barely contained annoyance on George’s face. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I prefer something stronger, if you have it.’

  Carmine nodded, and George turned on his heel and disappeared.

  Carmine opened a drawer and produced a glass decanter of what appeared to be whiskey. ‘You drink?’

  ‘Whiskey, wine, the occasional beer.’

  Carmine nodded and, from the same drawer, produced two glasses. He poured two nips, passed me one, said, ‘Salut,’ and downed his in one hit.

  I did the same.

  He eyed me up and down. ‘I don’t remember. I’m sorry. Your father Serbian?’

  Any question relating to my father, no matter how redundant, always took me aback. I cleared my throat. ‘Polish.’ I said. ‘As far as I know.’

  He nodded.

  I took out my notebook and pen to be professional. ‘Carmine, I need to know what happened to Robert. Can you tell me a little bit about his murder?’

  He seemed to shrink into his seat a little, and poured another whiskey. He took a quick pull, then closed his eyes for a moment. After a while, he sighed, long and slow.

  He then opened his eyes and said, ‘They find his body at construction site for new houses. He was jackhammer operator. Police say someone hit him with concrete brick in head. Many times. Many times.’ He took another pull on the whiskey and offered to top up my glass.

  I accepted and took a sip.

  He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘They drag his body behind these pallets and leave him there. Like a dog. My son.’ His eyes watered and he put a hand over his mouth. ‘Rob was my boy.’

  In an effort to break him out of his reverie, I said, ‘And how is George coping with everything?’

  His eyes refocused and he looked at me as if I’d just entered the room. ‘Mi dispiace?’

  ‘Your youngest son, George. How’s he coping?’

  He shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know,’ then shifted his weight and sighed again. ‘George is my son, but Robert... he was my boy.’ He placed a hand over his heart. ‘My boy. Understand?’

  All too well.

  Robert, being the eldest son of a European, carried a huge cultural significance. Robert could have strangled a nun with her own underpants, and his father would still have considered him an angel.

  I nodded solemnly, to be polite. ‘Did the detectives find anything?’

  ‘They say they investigate but they no tell me nothing.’

  ‘Was he robbed?’

  ‘No. He had two hundred dollars in his wallet.’

  ‘Did the detectives talk to anyone you know?’

  ‘You have to talk to police. I don’t know.’ He sighed yet again, and looked across the room, then rubbed a gnarled hand across his stubbled chin. ‘Rob got into trouble sometimes. He took this ice. He took drugs. He didn’t tell me, but I know. Sometimes, he stole something—money—or sometimes he asks for money. I don’t know what to do for him.’

  He buried his face in his hands and started to sob quietly.

  I waited and let him take a breath.

  After a minute, he straightened his shoulde
rs and recomposed himself. ‘Matthew, can you find the bastard who do this? I don’t want to waste another five thousand dollars.’

  I wouldn’t get anywhere with pleasantries and false promises, as Carmine had the nose of a pugilist, misshapen and indented with pockmarks, no doubt broken in countless scraps from his youth. He had street smarts.

  I kept it calm and cool. ‘Carmine, I can’t promise I’ll find the person or persons responsible, but my investigation will be thorough. If I uncover evidence that leads to a particular person of interest, I’ll present it to the detectives of the homicide squad, which may lead to criminal charges being laid in relation to the murder of your son. I’m sorry. I know this is very hard. Can I ask... was there anyone who’d threatened Rob, or who may have wanted him dead?’

  He looked at me for a moment before taking another pull on his drink, then sniffed, blinked a few times, and shook his head. ‘Robert always in trouble. With the police, with other people. People who are no good. Drugs, money, guns. Dangerous people. You can talk to these people? You don’t run away like this fucking Mooregold, scared of his fucking shadow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t do this because we family?’

  There’s an old notion I agree with: ‘never mix business and family’. I’ve seen many a family unhinged over mismanaged loans, misunderstandings, and poor property management. I wanted to be clear from the start that I’d undertake the investigation purely via a contractual obligation, rather than a familial one, despite my promise to Zio Fausto.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘However, this is a copy of my standard contract if you’d like to have a look at it. This way there’s no confusion. I hope you understand.’

  He fell silent, then nodded.

  I felt in that moment as if I’d passed a test, or at the very least, presented myself as trustworthy.

  He got up and gingerly crossed the floor toward me, and took the seat to my right.

  I handed him a copy of my contact to look over. I’d had them drawn up by a solicitor friend I helped once. I offered Carmine my pen, and he took it.

  He said, ‘I pay one thousand dollars.’

  ‘I’ll need a retainer for initial costs, and then a daily fee of a hundred and fifty dollars plus expenses. Fifteen hundred.’

  Carmine held the pen aloft for a moment, then nodded. ‘Okay.’ He scribbled a signature and passed the contract back to me.

  Once I’d signed it, I tore off the carbon copy and gave it to him. I felt a mix of anxiety and elation that my first murder case was underway and then hated myself for it. Even though we weren’t close, I felt an extra element of pressure to prove myself.

  Carmine crossed the room to a metal cabinet and pulled out the top drawer. ‘Matthew, you do this for me and your Zia Valeria, okay? I don’t want to see her disappointed.’

  There it is.

  The ink was barely dry and Carmine had pulled out the classic passive aggressive Roman Catholic guilt manoeuvre.

  In the cold light of day, I wasn’t related by blood to Carmine. Zio Fausto had married my mother’s sister, so there wasn’t much I could say for family loyalty.

  Mannaggia.

  We shook hands and I told him I’d keep him updated with any news. I walked back through the garage and out through the front office.

  George was looking at my ute and, when he saw me, grinned. ‘Nice beast, mate. 2004, six-speed auto.’

  ‘She gets me around.’

  He asked for my phone number and I gave him my card.

  I indicated the workshop. ‘This going to be yours some day?’

  George scoffed. ‘Nah, not if Dad has anything to do with it. He reckons I’m soft.’

  We shook hands, and George suggested we meet up for a drink while I was in town. I agreed, and he said he’d text me when he got off work.

  Chapter 5

  I drove back to Sussex, parked at the motel, and decided to walk the two blocks to the Spar supermarket. I picked up some sausages, brie, bananas, three bottles of soft merlot, a loaf of whole meal bread, and some Vegemite. At the checkout, I marveled at how management had marked everything up by twenty percent above the average, but it was enough to live on until Carmine’s retainer came through.

  I carried the supplies back to my motel room and made an instant coffee, then turned on my laptop. I created a folder called ‘R. Demich’ and ruminated on it. With something as serious as murder, Rob’s case wasn’t dissimilar to an insurance case—you go out, gather information, follow leads, get tips, and talk to people who knew the victim. You build up a profile and remember to log everything, as even the smallest piece of information could lead to a resolution. You sit down and think, long and hard, preferably with a few glasses of wine in you. You draw lines away from the claimant, or in this case, the victim, and follow where they lead. Invariably, there will be people who had it in for Rob, an individual who seemed to burn his bridges, and often.

  I researched Sussex—the pubs and clubs, cafes, restaurants, and the demographics—thanks to combined census information freely available to the public. I’d always had an interest in social dynamics, discerning the gap between the have and the have-nots, and studying the pertinent court matters heard in the local court. Drug possession and distribution seemed to be the prevailing issues, and various online articles detailed the Shoalhaven Area Command conducting various surveillances and raids over the prior year, and reporting the successful closure of meth labs along the coast.

  Barely a drop in the ocean.

  A text came in from George telling me he’d be at the Leagues Club a little after five o’clock.

  I replied in the affirmative and made a mental note. After unpacking the food and placing it into the fridge, I decided to meet and greet with the local blue and white club, and looked up the location of the police station.

  I drove there and parked at the front of the single-storey, sandy-bricked, converted suburban home located on a quiet suburban street with no guttering. It must have been forty years old, with CCTV cameras at various spots around the awnings, and a warning by the screen door that proclaimed in large red letters that everything was being recorded. A standard silver box next to the front door contained an emergency button. The wheelchair ramp appeared to be an obvious recent addition.

  A sign near the top of the steps posted the opening hours—2PM to 8PM. I checked my phone: 1:40PM.

  I noticed a liquor shop a little up the road and situated on the opposite corner, so I walked up, went in, and selected a packet of beef jerky.

  The man at the counter smiled an extra white smile as he scanned the packet past the laser. ‘Here for the fishing?’

  ‘I’m actually waiting for the cop shop to open up.’ I handed him a tenner.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah, all good, just some business I need to take care of.’

  He nodded, scooped out some change and dumped it in my hand. ‘Yeah well, there’s only two coppers looking after the whole area. Paul Green’s the sergeant and he’s got a new one in there now with him, a constable, sheila by the name of Sue something or other. I think she came down from Sydney. She’s a funny one.’

  ‘You mean funny ha-ha?’

  ‘No, funny up here’. He tapped his head. ‘Oh, you know, just what I’ve heard. I think she’s only been here a few weeks. I haven’t had anything to do with her.’ He looked around the shop and winked. ‘I’ve been dry six years this April. I only sell the stuff.’

  I laughed, opened the jerky and offered him some.

  He waved it away. ‘No thanks mate. I wolfed down a kebab five minutes ago. But thanks all the same.’

  When I stepped out of the store, the sun had intensified and the heat hit me. I snacked on the jerky as elderly people made their way into the Spar and the small boutique shops across the road. I imagined being twenty-three, Rob’s age at the time of his death, and imagined having grown up in a place like this. What would it have been like at the age o
f fourteen, having the choices of fishing, surfing, or doing burnouts to pass your time? It required no big leap to assume that, if you were a kid who had zero interest in any of those things, you’d turn to drugs or alcohol as some means of escape. I didn’t condone drug use, and believed anyone could make their own fun, but the place was a veritable ghost town.

  Back at the cop shop, a patrol car was parked in the driveway. I opened the screen door and stepped into a tiny air-conditioned waiting room outfitted with a row of old plastic chairs and an old wooden counter. Spider webs hung in the architraves, and the yellowed walls displayed various posters promoting neighbourhood watch and family counselling services.

  A female officer appeared from a rear hallway carrying an expansion folder. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, medium height with a strong wide jaw that shouted ‘determinism’. She was athletic and carried herself solidly. She’d constrained her curly chestnut hair into a professional ponytail but wiry strands escaped from various places.

  ‘Afternoon, sir.’ She placed the folder on the counter. ‘How can I help you?’

  Her name badge read Constable Sue Hunter.

  I smiled. ‘Afternoon. I’m Matt Kowalski, a private investigator down from The Gong.’

  I showed her my CAPI licence, which I kept it in a plastic display window in my black leather mobile phone case.

  She glanced at it briefly then met my eyes.

  ‘I’ve been hired to look into the Robert Demich murder that occurred last Monday evening.’ I said. ‘I understand it’s under investigation. Is there any way I could attain information from you in relation to the matter?’

  She nodded concisely. ‘You’re the second PI to come through here.’

  She asked for my licence, and I understood why—the plastic sleeve partly obscured the stark photograph of me. I’d only had a dozen people ask to see the licence up close; most accepted me for who I said I was in direct proportion to how long I displayed the licence. The longer it hung there for the world to see, the quicker the trust and acceptance kicked in.