Grace threw off the blanket and watched Kavanagh walk away, then put her hands behind her head and repeated the stretch. Her hands found her plait and pulled it forward in front of her eyes to study it.
By the time the big tank on the Toyota was full, Kavanagh had come back out of the roadhouse wearing a cheap straw hat, broad-brimmed cowboy style, to shade her eyes.
‘You find anything good for breakfast in there, pardner, or just the hat?’ said Ford, hanging up the fuel hose.
She didn’t speak, just lifted her hands to show him a fistful of muesli bars in one, and a pair of water bottles dangling from between the fingers of the other.
‘I need something more substantial,’ he said.
‘Roadhouse food,’ she said. ‘It’ll clog your arteries.’
Ford felt his mouth water and checked his pocket for his wallet before wandering inside. Two women watched him from behind the counter as he swung open the door and the bell rang. The young woman behind the till gave him half a smile, swept the lank blonde hair from in front of her face and waited while he studied the menu on the wall. It was all fried food, and there was a pie warmer full of precooked burgers and rolls. Ford ordered a bacon sandwich and a coffee from the second woman, whose face was red and damp from standing over the grill. She wiped her brow with her apron and gave him a look that made him wish he had taken something from the pie warmer.
He paid for the fuel and the food and the woman handed him a paper bag. He looked inside to find two flat, limp slices of white bread with a thin stripe of barbecue sauce between, the bacon only evident by its smell. He heard the car horn sounding outside, and saw Kavanagh waving to him, her face a picture of frustration. He tucked the sandwich under his arm, picked up the ribbed cardboard cup of coffee and with his free hand opened the door.
When he stepped out into the heat the big man was standing in the middle of the driveway facing him, between him and the Toyota. It was a moment before Ford took in the black suit and tie, the broad brown face, and recognised the driver of the blue Nissan. He looked around and saw it parked in front of the Toyota, nose-to-nose, their bull bars touching. Beyond both vehicles the Chinese man was standing out on the forecourt in the blaring sun under the shade of his umbrella. His black hair was cut short and thick in a mop-top bowl cut, and he wore the same black suit and tie. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling up around his face, and he was watching Kavanagh. She was looking at him through the windscreen from the driver’s seat of the Toyota, her eyes wide with concentration. She turned to Ford and pointed to the door to let him know she had locked herself in the car. Ford couldn’t see Grace, and he hoped that Kavanagh had made her duck down in the footwell out of sight.
He turned back to face the man in front of him, who had not moved. He’d been letting Ford take his time assessing the situation, allowing him to work out how much trouble he was in. He was huge, easily six inches taller than Ford, with broad shoulders that only a tailor-made suit could cover. His crisp white shirt and black tie fitted snugly around a bull neck and the top button was done up despite the heat. The only sign that he was aware of the temperature was a few beads of sweat on the dark skin of his shaved head. Tattoos twisted up his neck and looped around his right ear in a series of spirals, spreading into delicate swirls that cut across his forehead and cheek. His arms were folded across his chest, his back straight.
‘How are you today?’ he said, the faintest smile curling his lips. The vowels were short and the consonants clipped, and if the size and colour of the man had not told Ford he was Maori, then the tattoos and the accent did.
‘I’m doing fine,’ said Ford. He grinned to show the Maori he was easy-going, keeping it together, but the man just kept staring, widening his eyes slightly. Ford took the sandwich from under his arm and lifted the coffee to take a sip. ‘You were following us all of yesterday,’ he said. ‘Maybe now you’ll introduce yourself.’
‘Are you asking me my name?’
Ford nodded. ‘And I’d like to know why you’re following me.’
‘Oh, I think you’ve got a fair idea, mate.’
‘You’re looking for my wife,’ said Ford. That provoked a smile from the Maori, so he tried again. ‘You work for Roth.’ This time the smile vanished.
‘Look at the colour of my skin, man,’ he said, holding his hand up in front of his face and looking at the brown skin across the back of it, flexing the scarred knuckles.‘Why would someone like me take orders from an Afrikaner bastard like him?’
‘So you know him?’ said Ford.
‘Of course I know him. That guy thinks everyone works for him, even when he’s a hired hand himself. Thinks everyone’s just waiting around for him to give the order.’
‘You know where he is?’
‘Oh, he’ll be around here somewhere. That fucker always shows up when there’s trouble. Don’t know if he causes it or if the smell attracts him. When you run into him, be sure to let me know where he is.’
‘You met him in Macau?’
‘The man called me a kaffir to my face. The first man I ever met who, when he looked at me, didn’t think twice about making trouble.’
‘I heard he left Macau. You looking for him here?’ said Ford.
‘I’ll tell you what I heard. I heard you were the man that shot him.’ The Maori held out his hand and took a couple of steps towards Ford. ‘My name is Bronson. I’d like to shake your hand, brother.’
Ford looked at his hand, then showed him his own, the coffee in one, the sandwich in the other, and shrugged.
‘I hope you’re not going to start fucking with me,’ said Bronson, leaving his hand outstretched.
‘What kind of thing would I do that you’d think of as fucking with you?’ said Ford.
‘You’re fucking with me right now.’ Bronson let his hand drop, his arm swinging loose at his side; he seemed to be finding his balance on the balls of his feet. Ford saw his right hand starting to move and watched it rise. He moved to duck out of the way of the uppercut, shifting his head swiftly into the path of Bronson’s left jab. It caught him on the nose and the eye socket, a jet of blood shooting down across his chin.
‘Fuck!’ said Ford, dropping the coffee and staggering three steps backwards, his eyes streaming tears. He sat down hard on an oil drum beside the door and put a hand to his nose to stem the bleeding.
Bronson bent over, his hands on his knees, and looked Ford in the face. ‘Oh, come on, man,’ he said. ‘That was just a little love tap. Make sure you were paying attention. You listening to me now?’
Ford nodded.
‘I need you to tell your girlfriend to unlock the car and get out, or else I’ll have to fetch a tyre iron from my car and break the windows, and that might mess up her face a little.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Kavanagh from behind him. ‘I’m out of the car.’
Bronson straightened up slowly and turned around. Kavanagh was leaning against the side of the LandCruiser, her arm stretched out along the bonnet and the pistol pointed at Bronson. His Chinese partner took three steps forward before Kavanagh swung the gun on to him and he stood still, his face as impassive as before.
‘So you’re the cop,’ said Bronson.
‘You’re a smart guy,’ said Kavanagh, turning the gun towards him.
‘Nobody pulls a gun just to threaten someone. You draw, you shoot. You don’t stand there talking, unless you’re police.’
Ford could see that Kavanagh was afraid of him, and afraid of showing it. Her expression was vague, lost, then came back into character with an expression of determination.
‘Take five steps backwards away from him,’ she said. Bronson held his hands out to his side, palms towards her, and stepped back. Kavanagh looked over her shoulder at his partner.
‘You need to walk around here behind our car where I can see you,’ she said.
The Chinese man didn’t flinch; he just finished his cigarette and dropped it on the ground.
> ‘He doesn’t speak much English,’ said Bronson.
‘Then you tell him to move,’ said Kavanagh. ‘He got a name?’
‘We call him Wu.’
‘Is there a surname to go with that?’
‘That is his last name. At least, I think it is,’ said Bronson. ‘You never know with these Chinese names. One day it’s forwards, the next they turn it around the other way, last name first.’ Bronson was still relaxed, his arms hanging loose, showing her that he was cool, still in control despite the gun. ‘We call him Wu Song,’ he said, ‘but that’s just some nickname he was given by the boys.’
‘Well, you tell him to move or things are going to get loud around here.’
Bronson jerked his thumb at his partner and said something short and harsh in Cantonese. Wu carefully folded his umbrella and stepped under the shade of the canopy. He walked slowly past the Toyota, Kavanagh tracking him as he went, until he was standing several metres away from Bronson, so that Kavanagh still had to swing the gun from one to the other.
‘What’s with the umbrella?’ said Kavanagh.
‘He’s just staying out of the sun,’ said Bronson. ‘These Chinese, they’re obsessed with white skin. Wu gets the piss taken out of him by the brothers in Macau for being so yellow. They tell him he’s a peasant. He should see what life’s like with skin like mine.’
‘I need you to drop your guns,’ said Kavanagh, moving to the back of the Toyota so she had a clearer line of fire.
‘If we had guns, would we still be talking like this? We’re unarmed, darling.’
‘I’m not,’ she said.
‘We don’t need guns.’
‘You’re going to need one soon.’
‘It’s not my style,’ said Bronson. ‘I never needed a gun in my life.’ He tensed his arms, opening and closing his fists.
‘I thought Macau was crawling with gangsters?’
‘On the street, sure, but I’m in the casino. The creeps on the street know better than to step inside carrying. They do that and they end up at the bottom of the Pearl River.’
‘That your job?’
‘No, that’s Wu’s business. He deals with the brotherhoods. Don’t let that Moe Howard bowl cut fool you. He’s stone cold.’
‘If he’s Moe, you must be Curly with that shaved head,’ said Ford. He was standing now, blood splashed down his shirt, still pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘It looks like you’re one Stooge short.’
‘How you doing now?’ said Bronson, turning to him and smiling. ‘Let me see it,’ he said. Ford took his hand away from his nose. ‘You’re alright, man. It’s not busted.’
‘If Wu is the muscle, what’s your job?’ asked Kavanagh.
‘I’m more of what you might call middle management.’
‘And who’s at the top of the tree? McCann?’ asked Ford.
Bronson laughed out loud at that, but didn’t answer. Kavanagh nodded at Ford to join her at the car. He shuffled across the forecourt, unsteady on his legs, and turned to look through the window of the roadhouse. The two women behind the counter were staring back at him wide-eyed. He put a finger to his lips, then went and stood behind Kavanagh.
‘Which one of you killed Harding?’ she said.
Bronson shrugged. ‘Who’s that?’ he said, his face as blank as Wu’s.
‘The guy in my house,’ said Ford. ‘His name was Harding.’
Bronson shook his head.
‘You didn’t make much effort at being inconspicuous,’ said Kavanagh. ‘We saw you following us all day.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Bronson. ‘Macau’s the most crowded city on the planet. Easy to get lost in a crowd. Out here, seriously, where the fuck is everybody? We drove three hours through this wasteland, and never saw another car. All we saw were flies. The only other creature we saw was a dead kangaroo on the road, and all that fucker was doing was breeding more flies.’
‘You were seen outside my house,’ said Ford. ‘You’re quite the odd couple.’
‘We don’t exactly blend into the environment,’ said Bronson. ‘You know what you get if you cross a Maori with a Chinaman?’
‘Tell me.’
‘A car thief that can’t drive.’
Kavanagh’s face stayed determined, the gun resting on the roof of the car. She opened the driver’s door and waved Ford inside. ‘Get in, you’re driving,’ she said.
‘You should do as your girlfriend says,’ said Bronson, grinning, still enjoying it.
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ said Ford.
‘You sure about that?’
‘I would’ve noticed.’
‘You’re right,’ said Bronson. ‘You don’t have what it takes to handle a woman like her.’
Kavanagh stepped forward to let Ford sit behind the wheel. He looked over his shoulder for Grace in the backseat. There was movement under the blanket in the footwell, but no sound. He unwrapped the bacon sandwich and took a bite.
‘Start the engine,’ said Kavanagh, trying to keep her voice steady. She circled around the back of the Toyota, the gun staying levelled at the men in black. She opened the passenger door, and turning swiftly brought the gun to bear on the blue Nissan. She fired three times, putting a bullet in each front tyre and the third in the radiator. She sat down, slammed the door and slapped the dashboard. ‘Get us out of here,’ she barked.
Ford slammed the LandCruiser into reverse and, as it lurched backwards with the wheels spinning, the two men calmly watched them pass.
When clear of the bowsers, Ford put it in drive and gunned the engine, roaring off down the highway, the silhouettes of the two men receding in his mirror.
ELEVEN
The road north from Nullagine passed through a series of stony valleys, the ridges bare and blackened from a recent bushfire, the rocks painted from a simple palette of red and black under a bleached blue sky. The gravel road looked no different from the landscape either side of it, a barren strip swept clean of boulders, bearing the imprints of vehicles that had snaked between the potholes.
Ford and Kavanagh made no attempt to talk to each other. Even if they had felt the need for conversation, the noise inside the Toyota prevented it. The rumble of tyres over the corrugated road provided the bass line, the roar of the engine filled out the middle range and the rattle of the air-conditioner played over the top of it all.
Kavanagh was sitting up front, the cowboy hat pulled low over her eyes, her Cuban heels resting on the dash, cradling the pistol in her lap. She was pretending to sleep but Ford saw her hat twitch to one side every few moments to check the side mirror, which she had adjusted to let her see the road behind. Ford checked his own mirror regularly, but the view behind was the same as the road ahead, the only difference being the cloud of dust thrown up by the Toyota.
The road emerged from the hills and the horizon opened out to the east, falling away to a featureless plain of rocks and spinifex, and Ford had the sense of the continent stretching away from him, a thousand kilometres of flat desert reaching to the state border and carrying on beyond it. Ford watched as a willy-willy moved across the country, a dark column of dust swirling across the plain, a spinning vortex of hot air pulling red dirt upwards, swaying as it danced towards the horizon.
In the back seat, Grace had drifted off to sleep again, her plastic ponies arranged on the seat beside her, her head lolling against the window, her bare arms raised in goose bumps from the air-con. He reached around and tucked the blanket over her.
‘You two don’t talk much,’ said Kavanagh from under the hat.
Ford turned his eyes back to the road, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, letting the four-wheel drive find what grip it could on the loose gravel so it could weave between the ridges of sand.
‘I’m not much of a talker,’ he said, ‘and she takes after me. Self-contained.’ He glanced at Kavanagh. ‘I thought you’d understand that.’
‘Does she miss Perth?’
Ford shook his head. ‘She k
nows she’ll be back there soon. I’m just doing a year in Newman to tide us over, until the legal dispute over the trust fund is settled. Diane can help with that. Tell the receivers it’s her money, not McCann’s. Tell them to leave it alone.’
Kavanagh tilted the hat back on her head and opened her mouth to speak, but as she did the Toyota bucked and there was a solid thump in the suspension. The rear end swung sideways and Ford gripped the steering wheel harder as he fought the slide, gritting his teeth as the car bounced between potholes, the rear end fishtailing. As the car straightened, Ford stamped on the brake pedal and the Toyota skidded to a stop, spitting gravel from under the tyres and kicking up dust. Kavanagh was holding the handle on the dashboard, her hat fallen in her lap. Ford took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Puncture,’ he said, trying to keep his voice level. ‘In this heat, when they let go, they do it suddenly.’
He turned to Grace and smiled at her as she rubbed her eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll have it fixed in a few minutes.’
He stepped out of the cab into the furnace of the desert, the hot air hitting him in the face. He could feel the moisture in his eyes drying instantly and he blinked against it and squinted in the searing sunlight. He walked around to the back of the LandCruiser and surveyed the damage. The rear left tyre was flat but intact. He looked back down the road at the snaking skid mark in the gravel, and at the pothole they had hit. He waited for the cloud of dust to clear so he could see further down the road. There were no other cars in sight, the road empty to the horizon.
He could tell where the sun was without looking, he could feel it on his body through his clothes, feel it burning through his hair onto his scalp. Heat shimmered off the road like fumes from fuel. There was nothing moving besides the willy-willy, still lazily waltzing eastwards. It looked black now, and following the column of air downwards he saw a smudge of smoke close to the ground, strands of it being pulled upwards into the spiral, and he stared at it until he could see the flames among the spinifex. The bushfire was at least a kilometre away, not moving fast enough to threaten the road. Something caught his eye among the flames, a dark shape moving swiftly, looping in the smoke above the fire. It turned and he saw its outline, a bird with broad wings and a forked triangular tail. It dived suddenly and disappeared into the long grass.
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