by Nick Place
Wildie still surprised but managing to keep his hard stare going, saying, ‘I might keep moving. But good to know where you live.’
The cop saying, ‘You only had to ask. Buzz 2-3-0 and the key button next time. Save you the climb.’
Laver enjoying watching the struggle behind the man’s face as he tried to regain the upper hand.
Wildie wondering how this kept happening with this fucking cop. Finally saying, ‘You might want to watch your back while you’re riding that bike of yours around, pig.’
‘You threatening me? I thought you only took on defenceless dogs, road ragers and used-car salesmen. Why wait until I’m riding? I’m right here.’
‘Now is not the time. But it will happen.’
‘What I don’t get,’ Laver said, ‘is why you’re even bothering to be here. You saw those guys at the supermarket this afternoon and bolted. You were more scared of them than you are of me.’ ‘I’m not scared of you.
I’m not scared of anything,’ the Wild Man snarled. ‘You’d do fucking well to remember that, pig. I only came here to say why don’t you just pull your head in, and your little grocery mate too. I don’t give a shit if you are a cop. You’d do well not to keep crossing my path.’
‘Or what?’
‘You don’t want to know the answer to that question.’
‘Hmm, threatening a police officer. A charge all on its own, along with trespass and the rest,’ Laver cocking his head stagily. ‘Last chance for a beer if you want one. I’m pretty sure I can hear the sirens.’
Wildie hated himself for it but he got out of there. Again.
***
Stig was on Smith Street, watching the front of the shop. He was waiting for Rachel, the manager, to disappear. No sense being forced to go over the potentially unpleasant details of those missing funds from when he left Friends of the Planet.
He had enough on his mind, still trying not to panic at the thought of Brunetti and Wilson, definitely Jenssen men, talking to Barry at the supermarket. Unable to believe Paxton had sold them out within a day and wondering if – shit – maybe it wasn’t him, maybe it was the dweeb who worked for him and kept hanging around Lou?
Finally, Rachel disappeared out the side door and then reappeared in a Toyota Prius, turning left into Smith and heading towards the city. Stig crossed the road and bought a coffee, sitting at one of the tables near the front of the shop as he looked around for Louie.
She finally came down the stairs from the first floor, Stig watching those legs of hers in stripey stockings, a purple miniskirt over the top. She saw him and visibly sagged, but walked over and sat down.
‘You shouldn’t be anywhere near this place. What are you doing here?’
‘Came to see you,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t here.’
‘I was upstairs. A meeting about protesting the bay dredge is taking forever. Stig, I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘You did the other night. More than talk.’
‘I told you. A mistake. And then a bunch of pigs turned up.’
‘They weren’t accusing me of anything. I’m here, aren’t I? It was nothing.’
‘There was a murder in the paper that day. Some bloke out at Tullamarine.’
‘Which I know nothing about. Jesus, Louie. You think I’m a killer these days?’
‘I have no idea what you are, Stig. That’s the problem.’
‘Who’s this kid you’ve been hanging around with?’
‘That again? What is it with you guys and Jake?’
‘Jake. That’s him. Hanging out with cops last time I saw him.’
‘When? You were watching Jake?’
‘At his little supermarket. Looking very cosy with a cop.’
‘What were you doing at the supermarket, Stig? I didn’t think the sort of thing you sell could be bought in aisle 3.’
Regretting it the moment she said it.
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Louie? What do you know about anything I might be trying to sell?’
She shut up.
‘Did little lover boy tell you about that? A bit of pillow talk from the Groc-o-Mart?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry, babe? What was that?’
‘It’s nothing to do with Jake.’
‘Louie, I think we should get out of here and have a little talk. You clearly know things that I need to know.’
‘I’m not going anywhere with you, Stig. Piss off or I’ll be the one calling the cops. You can watch me chat with them, seeing as that’s apparently your new thing. Watching my friends.’
Stig had a look on his face she hadn’t seen before and Louie wondered if she should run, if she’d have any hope of getting away, but the noise from upstairs saved her. The twenty people from the bay dredge meeting clattering down the stairs, finishing several conversations, but then seeing her and asking if she felt like a drink. A wind-down beer after the meeting?
And Lou was relieved to say, absolutely, let’s go right now, to the astonishment and delight of the several male activists who had dreamed of this moment for some time. They were so pleased, they barely even noticed the eyes of the man Lou was leaving behind at the table.
But Lou did.
Stig just watched her go.
Laver fought his first instinct: to phone Dolfin and report that Stig and his mate knew where he lived. Flipper probably wouldn’t take his call anyway. Laver thinking he needed to somehow take the initiative in this situation, not sit at home wondering who they were and when they might turn up again. But without resources, without ideas.
Laver not used to feeling alone and vulnerable, and not coping too well now the thug had gone and his adrenalin had ebbed. He tried watching television but couldn’t. He poured a whisky. He tried reading, but quit after two pages of reading repeatedly but without any memory. He dug through his vinyl collection and put on a new LP by the Black Keys. He wondered where Marcia was right now. He ate the stir-fry he’d made. He felt it welling up inside him. He wondered how he and Marcia had unravelled so fast. He had another whisky. He sat on the couch and stared at the night. He thought about ringing Cecy or Damian or somebody who might actually take his call. He wondered where Coleman’s ghost was. Saw his bullet hit the man again, for the thousandth time.
He could feel it approaching, rising through his throat.
A text message chimed onto his mobile phone and as always, every time his phone rang or a text arrived, his breath caught: Marcia! But, as always, it wasn’t. It was his gym enthusing that he should sign up five friends. Laver deleted the message while wondering if he even had that many friends.
Marcia. He was marvelling at how many red Mazda 323s were on the road, so that he thought he saw Marcia driving past every time he set foot outside his apartment. Having to check the number plates before he could relax. Haunted by Mazdas. It was getting closer. He thought about that man’s hand on her arm, the familiarity of it. Cop instincts telling him to stop bullshitting himself, that he knew, even if he had no proof. He thought about how much he’d love to be able to talk to his mother right now, given his dad would be something worse than useless.
His brain, the bastard, drifting back, to before Marcia. Not fair, so not fair. His brain not on his side at all. Needing to have his shit together in case Stig’s mate came back. But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking the single word: Callum.
And that was it. Laver was suddenly crying violently, uncontrollably, explosively, as though something had snapped inside of him and the ghost of Wesley Coleman, his lost son, his ruined career, Marcia and every other hurt he’d been carrying around for so long came gushing out in a vomit of tears.
Laver curled up on the couch and cried and cried and cried: huge sobs from his stomach that surprised him in their savagery and rage and pain. He was close to retching while crying, the physical reaction was so intense. Snot poured from his nose, his eyes stung, but he didn’t fight it. Didn’t fight at all. Drowned in his tears.
He let himself cry. He let himself fall into abject misery. Surrendered to it.
He had no idea how long it lasted. All he knew was that the sobs would finally lessen and then subside so that he lay there, breathing shakily, trying to regain himself – and then he’d start uncontrollably sobbing again. He was helpless, exhausted, either shaking with grief or recovering before the next onslaught.
Finally, he rose from the couch, blew his nose, had a large glass of water and sat down at the table between the kitchenette and the living area. He blew his nose again and briefly shook with sobs but fought them down.
The sobbing was over, but the empty feeling remained and Laver suddenly knew he could not stay in his flat. He needed to connect with someone, anyone. He needed noise and light. Anything to distract him from where he was right now.
He SMSed Damian: ‘Which pub? What time?’
And received a reply by the time he was out of the shower. ‘Corner Hotel. 10.’
Bless, thought Laver. The Corner Hotel was only a couple of kilometres away, in Richmond.
It was raining out, so he drove, despite the whiskies he’d consumed pre-tears. He felt horribly sober. The kind of sober that cannot possibly be softened. A cold, hard light that shone on his life – no chance of denial. He didn’t know if it was Marcia or the shooting or the humiliation of Siberia or maybe just his age, but something had died in him – and he feared it would never come back.
Best not to think about it really. He parked in front of the Dimmey’s department store, walked down to the rail pass and dived headlong, with thankfulness, into the sweaty noise of the crowd at the Corner.
Damian, tonight lead guitar for Senor Retardo, was already on stage, wailing away on one of the band’s two decent songs. Laver had to wait three back at the bar, deafened by the music, until he could finally order a beer. Gazing around the room, he felt a jolt of recognition and then smiled for the first time in hours. Just what he needed. He forced his way through the crush of people to a small table where a man about his age, jockey-sized, was sitting, wearing an old-school brown hat with a feather in it, his arm around a tired-looking blonde in a push-up bra barely hidden by a singlet that was at least two sizes too small.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ the little man said, seeing him.
‘No, just me,’ Laver shouted back over the music, moving into the table’s spare seat. ‘How are you, Stavros?’
‘Nose clean, thank you, Detective.’
‘Call me Tony. I’m off duty, as I’m sure are you.’
‘I’m not in the habit of calling cops by their first name, Detective. No offence.’
‘None taken, I suppose. What about your lady friend?’
‘Denise definitely doesn’t talk to pigs. Do you, love?’
‘Fuckin’ A,’ said the blonde.
‘Charmed, I’m sure. So how’s the pickpocket business?’
Stavros stared ahead at the stage, acting as though he hadn’t heard the question.
‘I’m serious, Stavros. Relax, I’m off duty. I’m just curious. Has the global crisis, talk of recession and all that been good or bad for you guys?’
Stavros gave him a look, and shook his head. ‘I’m not biting, prick. You want to question me, arrest me.’
‘You’re not much of a drinking buddy, Stavros.’
‘That’s because we’re not drinking buddies, Detective. Now can I be left alone please?’
Laver shrugged and stood up again, to see Damian mid-solo. He was lying his guitar on the stage in front of him, not even holding it, and sort of jabbing at the strings with his right hand. Then he somehow got his left hand’s fingers to the neck in time for some complicated notes, and picked the guitar back up, in position, without losing the solo at any point. Laver would have to ask him how he did that next chance he got.
The crowd was going nuts, whooping as Damian brought it home, but one corner of the dance floor had a different energy: the unmistakable feel of conflict, with people making room, turning to watch and trying to stay out of it. Laver saw a shaved head with an orange mohawk somewhere on the other side of the jostling crowd. Words were being exchanged.
Laver ducked back down and tapped Stavros on the shoulder.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said the small man.
‘Stavros, you’re not going to believe me but I have a job for you. I’m not kidding. There’s money in it.’
***
The Wild Man had thought the guy was going to throw a punch, wanting him to, a big footballer by the look of him, plenty of muscle. The Wild Man eager for the physicality, still disconcerted that he’d been forced to retreat yet again by that cop. Sick of Stig’s inactivity. Freaked by Jenssen men in the Heidelberg car park. In other words, totally up for the satisfying jar down the forearm that he’d feel landing a decent punch. Dying to see the blood explode from this footballer’s face. Legs itching to sink boots into ribs to feel them break and give.
But then the guy had thought better of it, a very smart decision, and let his mates drag him out of reach. Wildie was disappointed, snarling until the guy was on the other side of the room, but still finding he had a circle of space that nobody else seemed to want to enter.
Until he was bumped into from behind. He turned from the waist and found a smallish man, only just maybe reaching Wildie’s shoulder, even in his hat, and looking very pissed.
‘Shorry, mate,’ said the drunk. ‘She pushed me, the bitch.’ The man waved generically at the crowd behind him.
‘Fucking watch yourself,’ Wildie growled.
‘I will, buddy. I will,’ nodded the drunk. ‘Mate. Mate! I’m really shorry. Give us a hug.’
And lurched into Wildie, front on now, to try and wrap him in a drunken bear hug.
Wildie got a hand between them and pushed hard, sending the pissed idiot flying.
‘What is it with this place?’ he spat at the woman next to him, who was giving him worried looks. ‘Can’t a bloke watch a fucking band in peace?’
She edged a metre or so away, the packed dance floor somehow finding even more room for Wildie. He looked around, but the small drunk had been swallowed by the crowd.
***
In the men’s toilets, Stavros stood outside the closed door of a cubicle and said, ‘You owe me one, Laver, you bastard. That guy could have killed me.’
Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, Laver was going through the wallet. A Quiksilver one, very worn. Laver marvelling that somebody could have no credit cards: just $300 in cash. He dug through pockets but there was no pot of gold, like a driver’s licence. There was a blurry photo of a parrot, sitting on what looked like a couch. A condom packet, promising pink fluoro strawberry bubblegum–flavoured fun. Jesus. A Dr Who Official Fan Club discount card. And finally a membership card for a video shop in Narrabeen, NSW, in the name of Colin Wilde. Member number 000356.
It wasn’t much but it was something. Laver pocketed the card, emerged from the cubicle and handed the wallet to the pickpocket.
‘Stavros, you’ve done really well. The cash is yours if you want it. But keep in mind who you’re dealing with. If he realises it’s missing, you might want to be several suburbs away.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m gone. This band is shit anyway.’
‘Hey, that’s a mate of mine on stage. Careful.’ The noise of the band rose as the door to the toilets swung open. They both pretended to wash their hands as a guy wandered into the cubicle Laver had left, closing the toilet door and fumbling with a lock that didn’t work. Laver handed Stavros some notes and said quietly, ‘Here’s the two hundred we agreed, anyway. The bad news is I need you to return the wallet.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Giving a wallet back must be easier than taking it.’
Stavros looking sniffy. ‘What would you know about my art?’
‘Art.’
‘Absolutely it’s an art, Detective. Just because it isn’t legal doesn’t mean it’s not a skill.’
Laver thought about
that, and nodded. ‘Fair enough. I don’t really give a shit. Just don’t let him know his wallet was lifted.’
Stavros looked genuinely pained. ‘How am I supposed to do that?’
‘Dunno. You’re the artist. If you don’t, I’m going to tell him you stole it.’
‘Bloody coppers.’
In the end, it wasn’t that hard. Denise danced right up next to the big man, looked at the floor, squealed, bent, wiggling her butt, showing plenty of g-string and came up holding a wallet.
‘Look what I found on the floor,’ she said to him. ‘Is this yours?’
The Wild Man felt his pocket and yelled back, ‘Yeah, it is. Shit, thanks.’
He was looking hard at her push-up bra, exploding from within her tiny singlet, Denise grooving in front of him, an eyebrow raised.
‘Wanna dance?’ he said.
‘We just did,’ she replied.
Three songs later, the band finished and Wildie staggered out of the pub, feeling the beers he’d put away. There’d been a few. He walked straight past the queue waiting for a taxi and took the first one, giving a glare to anybody thinking about arguing.
He gave the cabbie the address and closed his eyes, which was a mistake because the world started to spin. He’d only had eight beers. He was getting soft from all this sitting around. Melbourne was boring him rigid and it was time to move on. He’d have to talk to Stig once he sobered up, maybe tomorrow. Let him know that if they weren’t going to sell the stuff right now, he was going without it. Pull a robbery of some kind for cash and blow.
The taxi pulled up outside the house in Rathdowne Street, Carlton. Wildie even paid the driver, under orders from Stig to not attract any more pointless attention from the police or neighbours. It was a double-fronted brick house and Wildie didn’t have a front door key so he lurched around the side, fumbling with the gate and finding his way to bed through the unlocked back door.
Laver, in his Pajero, watched until Colin Wilde was out of sight and the lights went off in the house. Then he drove home, actually hoping he could conjure up the ghost of Coleman to rant against tonight, to keep his mind off where else that silver-suited bastard’s hands were roaming over the body of his ex-fiancée.