Saving Billie ch-29

by Peter Corris

  The commercial hub of Liston was a long, low-slung building on the edge of the open space fronted by a car park that wouldn't have held fifty cars. I parked and walked down steps to the building that resembled an extra long and wide Nissan hut partitioned to form shops. There was a liquor outlet at the east end but it was shut and heavily padlocked. A sign warned that alcohol was not permitted to be consumed on the premises or in the adjacent area. At the other end was a health centre where about twenty people were congregated. I could hear coughing and babies crying.

  The shopping precinct boasted a takeaway food shop, a video store, a newsagent, a supermarket and a couple of small shops that looked like Pacific island trade stores with goods piled up and hanging as if there was no real expectation of them being sold. I could smell cooking going on at the back of one of these shops. None of the shops were doing much business. There was a lot of litter and a carpet of cigarette butts on the cement surrounds.

  The community protection office was next to the supermarket. The window was covered with notices- appointment times for a JP, Crime Stoppers and Neighbourhood Watch stickers, advertisements for alternative medicines, whacko therapies of different kinds and religious attractions. The glass in the window was clean and the area in front of the office had recently been thoroughly swept. Looking through the open door I saw two desks with people behind them and someone on a chair in front of each. There were a few more people in the room waiting their turn. I went in and leaned against the wall. There were noticeboards carrying flyers for community meetings, garage sales and work wanted. On one board three familiar documents jumped out at me-the standard police notice with a photograph of a missing person. Two females, one male, ages from twelve to fifteen. The notices weren't new.

  Both people behind the desk were Islanders, a woman and a man. The man fitted the description of John Manuma that Terri Boxall had given me. He was talking in a low voice to another Islander. I couldn't hear what he was saying but it didn't matter because he wasn't speaking English. The woman was dealing with a white woman and they appeared to be discussing the advisability or otherwise of an AVO. Of the three other people waiting in the room, two were dark; I made it an even split. With my olive skin darkened by the sun, my nose flattened by boxing and professional hazards and my scarred eyebrows, I'd often been taken for Aboriginal. Not by Kooris, though.

  The woman became free after dealing with three clients quickly, and beckoned to me.

  'Thanks,' I said. 'But if that's Mr Manuma I have business specifically with him.'

  The big man glanced up quickly but went on with what he was saying.

  'Okay,' the woman said and waved a man who'd come in after me forward.

  Raised voices and the sound of a scuffle brought Manuma to his feet. He was a giant, over 200 centimetres and heavy in the upper body and legs. He strode through the door and I moved after him to watch. Two men, one white, one black, were shouting abuse at each other while a dark woman with two clinging children stood by looking anxious. A white woman was egging the black man on.

  'Fuckin' do 'im, Archie,' she yelled. 'Fuckin' cunt.'

  Archie lurched forward, clearly not sober, and threw a punch the other man easily avoided. Manuma shouted something and an Islander woman emerged from one of the shops, clapped her hand over the white woman's mouth and wrestled her away. Manuma grabbed both men by their long hair, lifted them from the ground and brought their heads together. It's not something you see very often, if ever. The effect on both of being treated so contemptuously was more shocking than painful. The fight went out of them and they stumbled away in different directions.

  It surprised me that no crowd had gathered. Evidently such conflicts were a common occurrence and Manuma's summary justice not unusual. Nevertheless, the incident prompted a feeling of tension and I noticed that the outnumbered whites waiting outside at the medical centre moved slightly away from the dark people.

  Manuma returned to his seat and to his discussion with his client as if nothing had happened. When he was free he nodded at me and I took a seat. 'John Manuma,' he said without offering to shake hands. 'What can I do for you, Mr Hardy?'

  6

  Terri Boxall phoned me about you.'

  Now we shook hands. As well as being taller than Terri had said, he had considerably more than a hundred kilos with it. He wasn't particularly friendly and his big, broad face wore a sceptical look as I gave him a version of the story.

  'Lot of people out here, brother. Lot of coming and going.'

  I read off the address where Lou had talked to Billie Marchant. I'd driven past it-indistinguishable from dozens of others, perhaps a bit more rundown looking than most. 'D'you know the people there now?'

  He shook his massive head. 'Nothing comes to mind.'

  'Terri said she thought you'd be helpful.'

  'She shouldn't have said that without me hearing your story first.'

  'You've heard it now.'

  'Yes, and I reckon it's a lot of nothing. I don't think there's anything here for you, Mr Hardy.'

  He gave me a hard stare, then looked over my head at whoever was next in line. Not hard for him to do; sitting down, he was bigger than me in every way. His hands, on the paper-strewn desk, were the colour of teak and the size of shovel blades. He oozed impatience and aggression, and the combination lifted me out of the chair as if a hook had taken me by the collar and swung me aside. It was a new experience-being dismissed with a curiously strong element of indifference. I left the room struggling to maintain dignity.

  I learned long ago not to expect things always to turn out well, but a knock-back of this intensity took me by surprise. I wandered out into the sunshine and stumped up the steps to the car park. I hadn't replaced my sunglasses and was slow to adjust to the bright light and was almost run down by a cruising police car. I stepped back just in time and swore. An Islander woman standing nearby gave me a dirty look. All in all, it wasn't a good start to my work in Liston.

  I went back down to the shopping area and took another look at the liquor store. Still closed. I went into one of the all-purpose shops where three immense Polynesian women were sitting chatting while cooking something on a portable stove.

  'Excuse me,' I said, 'can you tell me when the bottle shop opens?'

  'Closed,' one woman said.

  'I know, but when will it be open?'

  'Closed for good.'

  'Why?'

  She shrugged and they went on talking as if the subject was of no interest. What they were cooking smelled delicious, but the shop sold vegetables, clothes, shoes and other things that meant health regulations forbade food preparation. They didn't look concerned and it seemed that Liston was in some ways a law unto itself.

  I left the shop and a man approached me with a smile on his face, the first smile I'd seen there. Tall, he was Aboriginal, built on a much smaller scale than the Islanders. In his late teens at a guess, and to judge from his clothes-a threadbare T-shirt, dirty jeans and thongs-not doing too well.

  'Think I can help you, brother,' he said.

  'How's that?'

  'I was in the office when you was talking to Johnny. I know who lives there.'

  'Where?'

  'At that address you said. And I know the woman you was talking about. I mean, I seen her.'

  'Are you sure?'

  He nodded his head and his ill-kept dreads bounced. I looked closely at him. Despite the signs of poverty, he didn't appear to be mentally adrift, drunk or drug-damaged. His eyes were clear and his body was lean but not withered.

  'All right,' I said. 'You are?'

  'Tommy.'

  'My name's Cliff Hardy. You heard what I'm here for. What're you suggesting, Tommy?'

  He smiled again and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture. 'You want to talk to the chick, I can help.'

  'Chick?'

  'Girl, whatever. Lives there with her kids.'

  'Can you get me inside the house?'

&n
bsp; 'I reckon, yeah.'

  'And about the woman?'

  'What about the money, brother?'

  'Is there an ATM around here?'

  'Newsagent got one.'

  'Wait here.'

  I drew out five hundred dollars. No telling how useful Tommy might be, or his rates. I bought a diet coke and changed one of the fifties so I'd have smaller chips to play with. Tommy was standing more or less where I'd left him.

  'Gotta smoke?'

  I handed him a twenty. 'Get yourself some and I'll see you by the blue Falcon in the car park. The dirty one with the dings.'

  He grinned, took the money and loped away. I popped the can and took a drink. Things were looking up, maybe. Tommy returned with a cigarette in his mouth and another tucked behind his ear. I stuffed the can into an overflowing bin. We got into the car and drove to the address I'd looked at before. It was one of the more hard-bitten of the houses with no attempt made in the garden, a mattress leaking stuffing on the front porch and a broken swing rusting in the side yard. Lou had described the room where she'd interviewed Billie and the furniture, including the drawer where she'd seen the photograph. I pulled up two doors away.

  'Here's the deal,' I said. 'I want to go in and look at a particular piece of furniture and ask about this woman I'm trying to locate.'

  Tommy blew smoke. 'Got you.'

  'Fifty for you, a hundred for whoever's there.'

  'Hey, why?'

  'I'm invading their home. You're just a go-between.'

  He thought about it as he finished his cigarette. He lit the one from behind his ear from the butt, then dropped the butt through the car window. 'Okay. Stay here and I'll see what gives.'

  He slipped out, slammed the door, and crossed the street, stepped through the open gate and went up the path to the door of the house. I kept my eye on him as I got out and went around to put my foot on the smouldering butt. I leaned against the car and was grateful for the sunglasses because the sun was high and bright and my battered eye still hurt a bit. The door to the house opened and a woman stood there. She had a baby on her hip and a toddler peeked around her legs at the caller. Tommy started talking and offered her a cigarette. She took it and he lit her up, still talking. He jerked his thumb back at me. She moved slightly to get a better view, shrugged and nodded. Tommy crooked a finger at me.

  I went up the path and Tommy gave me one of his winning smiles, swivelling a little to include the woman in it. 'This is Coralie, Cliff, my man. Says you have to excuse the mess in the house.'

  I nodded. The toddler scuttled away and the infant on Coralie's hip sucked on its dummy. Coralie was in her twenties, pale and freckled with greasy, mousy-blonde hair. Her heavy breasts had leaked, leaving stains on her faded Panthers sweatshirt. The finger she used to flick her hair away from her eyes was heavily nicotine-stained, but she blew smoke away from the baby. She pressed herself against the doorway to let me through. The smell hit me like a grenade-fried food, sweat, tobacco smoke and despair.

  Coralie pushed past me on her way to the back of the place. 'That fuckin' money's in my hand in ten fuckin' minutes, Tommy, or I'm putting the men on you.'

  'No worries,' Tommy said. 'Make it snappy, Cliff.'

  I was more than willing. Lou had said she talked to Billie in the front bedroom to the right of the passage. I went there and found it contained a double bed, a built-in wardrobe and a chest of drawers. The room was like an op-shop sorting area with clothes and bedding and plastic bags strewn about. I pushed through the detritus and slid open the middle drawer in the chest. It came easily and I emptied the contents on the bed and turned it over. A polaroid photograph was cellotaped to the underside and I eased it free.

  'Hey,' Tommy said. 'That's worth a bonus. How about the fifty?'

  After a quick look at it, I put the photograph in my shirt pocket. I picked the stuff up and restored it to the drawer. Slid it home. I gave Tommy his fifty.

  'How long's she been here?'

  He shrugged. 'Coupla weeks.'

  'How many kids has she got?'

  'Four.'

  'No bloke?'

  He shook his head.

  'Get her back.'

  He went down the hall and after a few minutes returned with Coralie, minus baby, in tow, both of them with fresh cigarettes going.

  'Thanks,' I said. I gave her four fifties, making sure Tommy saw them. 'Good luck.'

  Her dull, defeated eyes barely blinked as she took the money. She stood crookedly, as if perpetually ready to carry a child on her hip.

  'You said a hundred,' Tommy complained as we reached the car.

  'She needed it. Let's see if you can deliver.'

  'Best to get away from here, brother. When I said no bloke, they come and go, like.'

  We drove off and Tommy asked to go back to the shopping centre. 'I'm hungry, man. Wanna get something to eat.'

  'Get me a coffee, then.'

  I sat on a seat near the car park. If he'd been bluffing about knowing Billie I wouldn't see him again. If he was stalling, working up a story, it might take a while. The day was getting hot and there were fewer people around. The health centre looked to have closed and the homeboys had drifted off somewhere. Tommy came back with a packet of chicken and chips, a bottle of coke and a coffee in a styro-foam cup. He put the lot down and sank onto the seat with a sigh. He reached into a pocket and brought out a stirring stick and several packets of sugar. He tore open his package, ripped off a piece of chicken and stuffed it into his mouth with a fistful of chips. He chewed no more than he needed to, swallowed and sighed again. He was hungry all right.

  The coffee was thin so I put in sugar to give it some taste. He ate some more and drank his coke. I took the photo from my pocket and showed it to him. Billie fitted Lou's description pretty well-blonde, good looking, a bit tough but with a good smile and lively eyes. She wore a tight top and even tighter pants. Heels. She was smiling down at the dark-skinned boy as if he was the most precious thing on earth. Tommy looked at the photo, still chewing, but more slowly.

  'Yeah, that's her.'

  'What about the kid?'

  'How old's this picture?'

  'I've been told it could be five years.'

  'So the kid's grown and that. I dunno, he might be around.'

  'Is she around?'

  Now he was definitely stalling. He took a long swig on his coke and reached for his cigarettes. I stopped him.

  'C'mon, Tommy. If you want the money…'

  'Money ain't everything.'

  'True.'

  'But if you got none, nothin' ain't nothin'.'

  'If I want philosophy I can read a book.'

  'We've gotta problem.'

  'We?'

  'You 'cos you want the woman and me 'cos I want the dough.'

  'Look, it's hot. I got bashed the other night and I'm hurting a bit. You've earned your fifty but there's not a bloody cent more unless you tell me what you know. Up to you. It's nothing to me, the money-just an expense for my client.'

  'Good game you're in, brother.'

  I took off my sunglasses and showed him the battered eye. 'You reckon?'

  'Shit. You gotta gun, Cliff?'

  Because of what I'd heard about Liston and Billie and what I knew about Eddie Flannery, I had my Smith amp; Wesson in the glove box, but I wasn't about to tell that to Tommy.

  'I might have,' I said.

  'You better. You heard Coralie say something about putting the men onto me if I fucked her over?'

  I nodded.

  'She's talkin' about some people who sort of run things around here. Mostly coconuts, but with some Kooris and gubbahs thrown in, like.'

  'Yes?'

  'They handle the evictions and that for the Department. Booted my dad out a while ago and he's gone back to the Block. I'm still hangin' here trying to get a job.'

  'The woman?'

  'I seen her with one of them. Real tough bastard named Yoli. Lives here, but I dunno if she's still around.'

&
nbsp; 'When did you last see her?'

  'Coupla days ago. Couldn't miss her though with the fair hair. Not usual around here. She looked crook. And I heard Yoli call her Billie-well, he like shouted at her to go inside. Heard you say the name when you was talking to Big Johnny.'

  'Another hundred if you show me where he lives.'

  He shook his head. 'Two hundred, man. I'll have to get the fuck outa here. If Yoli found out I told you he'd fuckin' kill me.'

  'All right. Yoli, is that a nickname? What's his full name?'

  'Yolande something-Potare, Potato, the funny names they got, the fuckin' Fijis. I can give you the address but I can't go with you, understand?'

  I took out my wallet and gave him two fifties. 'That's for the address. I'll meet you later anywhere you say to give you the rest.'

  'Fuck, you mightn't show.'

  'So we're both taking a chance.'

  'How long're you goin' to be?'

  'I don't know.'

  He gave me the address and said he'd wait for me at the Campbelltown railway station for the rest of the afternoon. He gathered up the remainder of his food and dropped it with the coke bottle into the nearest bin. He gave me a good citizen grin, lit a cigarette and walked away.

  7

  The address Tommy gave me was the end unit in a row a few streets back from the shopping centre. The units were all of a piece-two storeyed but narrow with minimal front yards and not much more space at the back. The one I was interested in at least had some grass and a few shrubs at the side. I drove past it twice, the second time more quickly. It wasn't smarter or shabbier than the others, although the car parked outside looked to be derelict or close to it and there was a non-operational washing machine sitting out in the sun in the side yard.

  I parked in the thin shade thrown by a struggling tree at the edge of the recreation area and thought the matter over. Yoli sounded like a handful and I was in no condition to go up against an aggressive Polynesian vigilante who no doubt had plenty of backup.