by Robin Storey
Don’t be ridiculous, that wouldn’t happen even in the worst movie.
‘Doesn’t appear to be?’ Bomber said, mimicking Reuben. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He took a brief stroll around the car park and returned. ‘No silver Mazda 2. Did you check the side streets?’
‘Why would she park further away when there are spare parks here?’
Bomber shrugged. ‘Fuck, I dunno. She’s a woman. Who knows why they do anything? Where’s the action?’
Reuben pointed to a lighted window at the top of the three-storey building, in which the tops of two poles were visible.
‘Should have brought me binoculars. How are you at shinning up the sides of buildings?’
‘Sorry, I left my Spider-Man costume at home.’
Bomber looked at his watch. His hair was pulled away from his face and tucked under his cap, accentuating his narrow features and receding chin. He reminded Reuben of a ferret. Ferrets looked harmless, but could bite you when you least expected it.
‘Maybe she needs to rest her fanny after all that slipping and sliding.’
‘Maybe,’ Reuben said.
‘We’ll give her till seven. C’mon.’
He opened the driver’s door of the ute and got in then leaned across and unlocked the passenger’s door. Reuben climbed in. The stuffing leaked out of the torn vinyl seats and the cabin smelt of stale tobacco and greasy food.
‘If anyone asks, I’m logging a job and you’re my offsider.’
He pulled a battered packet of tobacco and a packet of papers from his overalls pocket. ‘Want one?’
‘No, thanks.’
Bomber lit his neatly rolled cigarette and acrid smoke filled the cabin. Reuben coughed and wound the window down a little. The street lamps threw dim light over the car park. The lights of the main road and the whoosh of passing traffic were just a few metres away.
‘You’re a strange dude,’ Bomber said.
‘Why do you think that?’ Reuben asked, in what he hoped was a casual tone of voice.
‘For a start, I never met a crim who didn’t smoke.’
There was truth in that remark. In prison, Reuben had been part of a tiny minority of inmates who didn’t smoke. It gave him a certain amount of clout, though, as he bought his weekly ration of tobacco along with the rest of them, then sold it to the highest bidder for a handsome profit.
‘It’s the stress,’ Bomber said, ‘and all the sitting around and waiting.’
‘That’s for sure.’
Reuben flexed his fingers. ‘I bite my fingernails instead,’ he added, to reassure Bomber that he also suffered some occupational stress.
‘And you talk posh, like all them people where Frank lives. He thinks he’s one of them, but he’s kidding himself.’
‘You don’t like Frank?’
‘I’m only doing business with him, I don’t have to like him.’
He inhaled deeply, as if he couldn’t get enough smoke into his lungs, and exhaled in an explosive burst.
‘Don’t get me wrong I love the guy. Until this job is finished and he pays me then I’ll piss off out of his life forever, without so much as a Christmas card.’
He pointed to the window on the third floor. ‘Look.’
A blur of movement was visible in the lighted square; too far away to distinguish any details.
‘Fuck, I wish I’d brought me binoculars.’
Reuben scanned the cabin of the ute. ‘Where’s your gear?’
‘Secret compartment. And don’t ask where – that’s why it’s a secret.’
‘How many …’
Reuben was about to ask Bomber how many people he’d blown up in his career, but realised the question sounded nosy and naïve, and if Bomber took it the wrong way, judgmental. He didn’t want Bomber to think that he thought there was anything wrong with blowing people up.
‘Have you done many of these jobs?’
‘Enough to get by.’ He looked sideways at Reuben. ‘Why?’
Reuben shrugged. ‘Just wondered. It’s obviously a high-risk occupation. Must take a lot of guts.’
His tone held just the right combination of admiration and respect. Bomber sat up in his seat and all but puffed out his chest.
‘‘Kin oath. This’ll be my last one. Set me up nicely for my retirement.’
He rolled another cigarette. ‘Anyway, what’s your form? Frank told me he met you in the Big House.’
‘I was in for fraud.’
Bomber nodded knowingly. ‘That explains it then.’
‘Explains what?’
‘White-collar crime. Pen pushers don’t like to get their hands dirty. Think their shit don’t stink.’
Reuben opened his mouth to defend himself then stopped. Don’t rock the boat; who cares what he thinks?
Bomber looked at him and grinned. ‘Nearly gotcha, didn’t I? No names, no pack drill. I was just talking in a general sense.’
His watch beeped. He looked at it. ‘Seven bells. No sign of Loose-Lips Lucy, Frankie-baby won’t be happy.’
‘It’s hardly our fault Lucy didn’t turn up for her class,’ Reuben said. ‘Anything could have happened – she could be sick, or have something else on.’
‘Or she could be home showing hubby her moves.’
Bomber turned the key in the ignition. ‘I’m off then.’ The motor grumbled and rasped then died. After two more attempts, it shuddered into life.
Reuben opened the passenger door and jumped out. ‘Sounds like you need a breakdown service.’
Bomber grinned. ‘I’ll give you the pleasure of breaking the news to Frankie.’
I thought you were the one being paid the danger money. Reuben watched the ute pull out onto the main road and disappear into the traffic. As he walked through the car park, he glanced up at the window. A long, bare leg entwined itself around the top of a pole then slid down out of view. Thank you Lucy, for not being a pole dancer.
He was only two blocks down Gympie Road, stopped at the lights, when a police car suddenly appeared behind him. Reuben’s throat went dry. In his rear view mirror, he saw the orange light flashing and the driver gesturing for him to pull over. The traffic lights changed and Reuben pulled over on the side of the road. Keep calm, they’ve got nothing on you, the worst thing you’ve done tonight is hang out with a professional killer. He took a deep breath to slow his racing heart.
The police car pulled up behind him. Two uniformed policemen got out and swaggered over. One was tall and brawny, the other short and pudgy; as if they’d stepped out of a B-grade cop comedy. Did they teach them that swagger at the police academy, make them strut up and down like models learning the catwalk?
Reuben took off his helmet. ‘Evening, officers.’
Neither answered. They looked at him then at the Barbiemobile and back at him.
‘This your vehicle?’ the taller one asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Impressive,’ the shorter officer said. He was chubby-cheeked and olive-skinned. As he was the closer of the two, Reuben could just read his name badge in the street light. Senior Constable Bonazzi. ‘Could I see your licence please?”
Reuben dug his wallet out of his jeans pocket, slipped out his driver’s licence and handed it over. SC Bonazzi studied it and gave Reuben a long, hard stare.
‘Reuben Littlejohn. You’re the guy who had the finance company racket.’
‘Yes.’
‘Done your time already?’
‘I’m on parole.’
‘Lucky you. Not so lucky for the poor buggers you swindled.’
He handed the licence to his colleague, who walked away with it in the direction of the police car.
‘Who did you con that one from?’ SC Bonazzi nodded towards the Barbiemobile. ‘Some rich old tart?’
‘I won it in a church raffle.’
‘Of course.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Seems like you didn’t learn much in prison.’
‘It’s the truth. You can check up
if you want. Father Bryan from the New Light Mission.’
SC Bonazzi’s lip curled. ‘So you’ve found God? If I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that one I wouldn’t be standing here listening to your bullshit.’ He looked Reuben up and down. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’ve been visiting a friend, and I’m on my way home. To my wife.’
‘So I was right about the rich old tart.’
Reuben itched to punch the supercilious grin off his face. He drew in a deep breath. ‘If you’re going to stand here and insult me, I’ve got better things to do.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you have.’
The other policeman reappeared and handed Reuben back his licence. Reuben checked his name badge. Constable Andrews. ‘All clear,’ he said to his colleague.
He looked at Reuben. ‘Behaving yourself on parole, Mr Littlejohn?’
‘Yes, I am.’
SC Bonazzi whipped out his notebook and pencil. ‘This friend you were visiting, what’s his name and address?’
‘John Robertson, I don’t know his address, he just moved house. We met at the Aspley Hotel.’
‘What’s his date of birth?’
‘I don’t know.’
SC Bonazzi looked at him suspiciously, pen poised. ‘You don’t know your friend’s date of birth?’
‘We’re not in the habit of exchanging birthday cards.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
Reuben opened his mouth to protest at the questioning then thought better of it. ‘At the employment agency.’
SC Bonazzi shook his head in mock sympathy. ‘Times are tough. No jobs going for scammers?’
Fortunately Reuben was saved the trouble of replying by Constable Andrews appearing beside him with a breathalyser. ‘Have you had anything to drink tonight?’
‘No.’
SC Bonazzi looked at him disbelievingly. ‘You went to the hotel and didn’t drink?’
‘I told you, I’m a law-abiding citizen now.’
Reuben blew into the mouthpiece. The reading was zero. Constable Andrews looked grimly disappointed.
SC Bonazzi shook his head, ‘You put up a good front, Littlejohn, but you’re not kidding anyone.’ He took a step closer to Reuben. ‘You white-collar crims think you’re so much better than all the others,’ he said in low, measured tones, ‘but you’re not. You’re just as bad as the junkies and thieves and housebreakers. And I’ll give you fair warning – we’re watching you. Not just us, but all the boys. The minute you put a foot over the line, even your little toe, you’re gone.’
He turned abruptly and the two of them headed back to the police car. ‘You have a good evening too, officers!’ Reuben called after them.
***
Two blocks from home, the phone Frank had given him buzzed in his pocket. He pulled over on the side of the road, in front of a house with lights blazing in every window and TV noises blaring out. It sounded like a fight scene, with lots of banging and shooting.
‘Hullo!’ he said briskly to cover his nerves.
‘Well?’ Frank said.
‘She didn’t show.’
Silence. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. We stayed until after seven. Checked the car park thoroughly.’
‘So what do we deduce from that? That she’s given it up the night we plan the operation? Or that you’re not on the level with me?’
‘You know I’m on the level. Anything could have happened – she might be sick. Or her kid might be. Or she might have had a social engagement. Or…’
‘Shut the fuck up. Meet me at the Bulimba Soccer Club. Midday Saturday.’
Frank hung up.
CHAPTER 18
Carlene was sitting on the bed painting her toenails, feet splayed on a towel and all the accoutrements on the bedside table. She looked up as Reuben entered the bedroom. He braced himself for the inevitable outburst.
‘Hi babe,’ she said. ‘How was your evening?’
She was smiling and there was no hint of sarcasm in her voice. Was this a trap?
‘Er ... fine. How was yours?’
She shrugged. ‘Same as usual. Watched a bit of telly, called Mum. How’s Finn?’
‘He’s okay. Well he’s not, actually. That’s why I’m a bit late. He’s had another setback and I had to be there for him while he cried into his beer.’
‘Oh no!’ Carlene stopped, mid-brushstroke. ‘What happened?’
‘He met this girl and things were going great guns. Then she phoned him and told him she’d met someone else, and it was all off.’
‘That’s terrible, honey! But hadn’t he only just split up with his wife?’
‘It was a few weeks ago now.’
She looked at him, aghast. ‘A few weeks! He didn’t even give himself a decent mourning period! No wonder the relationship didn’t work out; he hadn’t resolved the issues from his marriage break-up.’
Reuben felt bound to defend Finn. ‘How do you know? Anyway, he told me his wife left him for someone else, so it’s not his fault the marriage broke up.’
‘But she wouldn’t have left him if she was happy in their relationship.’
Reuben bit his lip, not wanting to start an argument. He watched the neat, precise strokes of the brush as it glided over her toenails, leaving streaks of vermillion red in their wake.
She surveyed her toes then screwed the lid back on the bottle. She looked up at Reuben from under her eyelashes.
‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re home. I missed you.’
‘I missed you too.’
It was sort of true – he would rather have been at home with her than loitering in a cold car park being an accessory after the fact to a non-existent murder. Or for that matter, listening to the marital woes of a non-existent friend.
‘While you were out, I was thinking.’
He felt a sudden weariness – sapped of what little energy he had left. ‘Yeah?’
‘I was thinking about children again. Why bring another child into the world when there are so many out there who need a good home?’
‘You make it sound like getting a dog from the pound.’
Her mouth tightened. ‘Be serious, Rubie. We could adopt a child from overseas, from Africa or Asia, an orphan or one of those kids whose parents can’t afford to look after them.’
‘Shit, Carlene, I’ve got to get my own life together before I can be responsible for someone else’s.’
‘But honey, you do have your life together. Once you get a decent job we’ll be fine. We’ve got a great future ahead of us – don’t you think it would be nice to share it with a child who doesn’t have one?’
‘I’m confused. First you say you’re being deafened by your biological clock, then you want us to be the Brad and Angelina of Brisbane.’
‘It’s just an option, that’s all. Something to think about.’
Carlene leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. ‘It’s okay, honey, we’ll talk about it another time. I know you’re tired.’
She gave his neck and shoulders a rub as she waited for her toenails to dry. The touch of her hands reinvigorated him, and overtaken by desire, they made love – fast, but mutually satisfying. Afterwards Carlene snuggled into his side and ran her fingers through his chest hair.
‘I’m sorry that I’ve been so shitty with you about Finn,’ she murmured.
‘It’s okay, he has been rather demanding lately.’
‘He’s a friend and that’s what you do for friends. When I thought about it, I realised what a beautiful quality it is; that you stand by him when he’s in trouble.’
Reuben felt a warm glow of pride.
‘And then I reminded myself that I need to give you space. When you’ve been crammed into a prison cell for three years with no privacy, you need psychological as well as physical space.’
Although ‘crammed’ was an exaggeration, it was true there had been little opportunity for time alone. Even in his bunk after lights out, the presence of the others a
round him was suffocating. Through the thin walls of his cell he could hear the snores, grunts and moans of the others as they settled to sleep, the night air stale with despair and hopelessness. Sometimes he dreamt that he was still there and when he woke up and found he wasn’t, he could almost convince himself the whole three years had just been a bad dream.
Carlene propped herself up on her elbow and traced the outline of his face with her finger. ‘Now, when are you going to bring him home for dinner?’
Reuben gave an inward sigh. ‘I’ll talk to him before his next visit and organise something.’
Except there wouldn’t be a next visit. Sorry, Finn, the time has come for you to stand on your own two feet, there’s only so much I can do for you. Finn would either run into some financial problems so he could no longer afford to fly to Brisbane, or meet another woman who would shag him senseless, thereby rendering him with no energy or inclination to get on a plane. The second option was obviously more preferable for Finn, and Reuben drifted off to sleep thinking of the various scenarios in which Finn could meet a woman so stunning that he’d drop his oldest and closest mate like a hot potato.
***
Why did Frank want to meet at the Bulimba Soccer Club? Surely he wasn’t a soccer player. Maybe he had a kid who played soccer. Reuben couldn’t imagine Frank as a father at all, let alone a soccer dad. He hoped Frank wasn’t going to suggest another attempt in the pole dancing car park. He, Reuben, would have to come up with a better idea.
On the way to work, he racked his brains but alternative scenarios for murder refused to materialise. After parking, he took the phone Frank had given him out of his pocket, slipped out the sim card, and wrapped the phone tightly in a plastic bag he’d brought for that purpose. He disposed of it in the industrial garbage bin near the rear entrance of the cafe.
He tried not to think about his meeting with Frank. He mixed up several orders and sent an opened can of beetroot skidding off the preparation bench onto the floor. Joe was standing nearby at the time, his white apron adorned with splashes of pink.
‘Jesus Christ, boy, what is the matter with you? Sometimes you leave me speechless!’
He ranted and raved while Reuben cleaned up the mess, threw his apron off and rifled through the storage shelves to find another.