On the Run

by Colin McLaren

  ‘I will have six more men here tomorrow morning for you,’ replied Massimo flatly.

  ‘And six more guns, please,’ requested the chemist.

  ‘Si, si,’ said Giuseppe.

  Massimo placed the palm of his right hand on the white dusty chin of the chemist and said very fondly, ‘You have done well for us again, Otto, my friend. Your Swiss bank account will feel our appreciation tomorrow night.’

  The chemist smiled greedily and shook both men’s hands firmly before he walked away, turning to impart a final message: ‘I need a shower, guys—this stuff is getting into my skin.’

  Katherine took a firm hold of the leave certificate that a nervous Jude had handed across to her. She glanced at her cynically over the top of her glasses.

  ‘Four weeks, girl? We’ve got a few others on leave at the moment. I’ll have to check.’ She opened her leave folder, licked her index finger and paged through the file to Jude’s record.

  ‘You want to start leave today?’ she asked, somewhat surprised as she studied Jude’s request slip more closely.

  ‘I have to, Katherine. I’m sorry. I would have given you more notice if I could.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Jude. I’ll have to run it by the boss. It being such short notice and all. You understand?’

  Jude leaned in to the business manager.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Katherine. I need to take you into my confidence. You see, there’s something very important I need to do.’

  Jude knew that Katherine was the confirmed office gossip and that any attempt at confidentiality would be betrayed within nanoseconds of her leaving the office. Katherine leaned forward, a little too eagerly.

  ‘You can tell me anything, Jude dear.’

  ‘Well, Katherine, you see, it’s just that, well … ’ Jude began very softly, struggling to get to the point, ‘Katherine, you see I’m … well, you know … I’m pregnant. I need to get it fixed. I need my leave immediately.’ A tear dropped from her eyes and fell to the top of Katherine’s desk.

  The glasses fell from Katherine’s face and she looked back at Jude in shock, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Oh dear, Jude, oh dear, you poor dear,’ was all she could offer. She instantly stamped the leave application approved and handed it back.

  Less than a minute later, Jude walked from Katherine’s office, mission accomplished. She headed out of the ACA building for four weeks. In that same minute, Katherine was at the door to Inspector Mack’s office with a sordid slice of gossip.

  By the time Jude had made it to the bottom of the final flight of stairs and into the basement carpark of the ACA building she was beaming. Sandra stood waiting for her next to Jude’s little white diesel Golf.

  ‘Easy work,’ she boasted. Sandra greeted her with open arms and enveloped her in an enormous hug.

  ‘Good luck, girl,’ she whispered. ‘Tell him thanks for all the worry.’ She let go, and handed Jude a sealed yellow envelope, ‘I hope you know I can’t take you to the airport, in case someone sees us.’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve got my suitcase all packed and ready in the boot with the ticket. I’ll go straight there now, hide my car in the longterm carpark and have a few lattes till the flight. No one will know.’

  ‘Good luck, babe. Report back—you know where my desk is.’

  5th July

  The simple suburban Trattoria al Forno on the outskirts of Leverkusen, five blocks from the industrial estate, was known for two reasons. First, it offered probably the finest and most authentic Italian cuisine in that part of Germany, what with its real Calabrian owners, genuine Calabrian chef, and meticulous attention to authentic produce. Second, although only a 30-seat establishment, it had found itself splashed across the front pages of every newspaper in Europe only two years earlier. A Mafia feud between the Plati clan and the neighbouring San Luca clan had festered to the point where it was resolved in the trattoria.

  Both clans had earlier invested in the Bayer pill press, and had installed it in the factory. Production ran swimmingly for a year or two until, one day, the San Luca clan decided they would move the press to a different location, and not take the advice of the Plati clan, who preferred to leave it where it was and to continue to share the spoils. No amount of negotiation could shift the San Lucans. On the eve of their attempted coup of the massive machine, six of them were gunned down in the trattoria. The pill press remained where it was, temporarily immersed in tonnes of tractor parts, hidden until the heat died down and the investigation faded.

  A year later, Massimo, Giuseppe, Illario and little Pino decided that all was well again. They sent the electricity back into their valuable contraption. There hadn’t been a peep from the San Lucans since. Well, not until a few months earlier when, mysteriously, a white flag was dropped in the centre of the piazza at Plati. Any wonder, with the massive fortunes to be made in Leverkusen.

  Massimo sat at the head of the table with Illario to his left and his cousin Giuseppe to his right—a spot that until recent times had been for Pino. The remnants of a four-course meal lay before them; the last of the linguini al forno with the discarded prawn shells and tails, the leftover quail bones and a sprinkling of spinaci con aglio. The near-empty carafe of vino rosso sat among their plates. They clinked their final glass together. Massimo struggled with quail meat between his teeth.

  ‘Buona fortuna, Giuseppe. Buon viaggio.’

  ‘Grazie, Massimo. I’ll be home in three days.’

  ‘Slowly, slowly, cousin. Don’t break any records.’

  ‘Si, si, hold a gun to the driver’s head. No speeding,’ Illario quipped.

  ‘Si,’ said Giuseppe smiling broadly.

  The door to the trattoria was pulled open and a recently bathed chemist, without his white coat, walked briskly to the spare chair at the table. His hair was still dripping wet but combed back. As he sat, he clicked his fingers towards a timid waiter.

  ‘ We are done, again, Massimo,’ said Otto.

  Massimo glanced at his watch. It was 7 p.m. ‘A good time. The highway police will be having their dinner.’

  The comment brought a mild laugh from the four. A stein of beer with a massive head of froth was placed before the thirsty Otto. The three Italians watched in amazement as the chemist consumed the entire litre in one long gulp. He banged it down hard on the table, and demanded another.

  ‘Will you stay for dinner, Otto?’ asked Massimo courteously.

  His German friend looked around at a table that appeared far from appetising.

  ‘I think dinner is finished. A couple more steins and I’ll go home to my computer. I have a bank balance to check.’

  ‘You’re a hard man, Otto,’ said Massimo.

  ‘I’ve learnt that with the Calabrians, business is business. Isn’t that what you taught me?’

  ‘And business awaits,’ Giuseppe interrupted. He got up from the table and dropped his napkin awkwardly onto his seat. He kissed both cheeks of his two amici and rubbed his hands through the chemist’s wet hair as they said their goodbyes. Giuseppe left the trattoria with his overnight bag and walked the hundred metres to a waiting small Mercedes truck, sporting French licence plates, and its Italian driver. He climbed on board. Behind it was a diversion car, a nondescript white Opel sedan, rented the same day by one of Massimo’s men using a false driver’s licence and credit card. The car, its driver and two passengers were armed with Uzi sub-machine guns and would tailgate the truck for the entire journey, thereby ensuring a clear passage all the way back to Calabria.

  At the back table of his usual Lygon Street restaurant sat the Griffith Godfather, with his arms folded and a fixed stare; he was silent. Opposite was a more upbeat Inspector Mack, alongside Donny, who also looked pleased with himself. They had just finished explaining that their corrupt customs official had agreed to ensure the safe passage of the Mafia’s container into Australia. Inspector Mack had enjoyed a long lunch with his customs contact, promising him $100 000 for his involvement. Friends of
more than twenty years standing didn’t need more than a handshake on such a deal. The old Godfather was impressed and promised a similar alliance in the future.

  ‘You have done well, Commissario,’ the old Godfather said. He unfolded his arms for the first time since the explanation had commenced fifteen minutes earlier.

  ‘As long as the lovely comes through,’ replied a confident Inspector Mack. He tore the tops off four sugar satchels to sweeten his espresso.

  An uncertain Godfather looked across at Donny.

  ‘He means money,’ said Donny.

  The old man smiled. ‘You Australians have funny words.’

  ‘We have funny ways too,’ Mack said. He was about to make a non-negotiable condition. ‘Your payment must be in cash, and not into my bank account. I will collect it myself in Calabria the day the shipment leaves.’

  The old Godfather sat silently for a moment or two. His mental arithmetic complete, he finally nodded, happy with the condition.

  ‘Make no mistake, Giovanni,’ a finger-waving Mack continued, ‘no mistake at all. Or else your shipment is doomed.’

  The old Godfather for the first time in his life placed his Italian hand out to shake that of a policeman. ‘No mistake,’ he said, ‘no mistake, Commissario. And your Australian detective? Have we heard?’

  ‘No. But he will be home soon. His girlfriend has just had an abortion and will call him back.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the undercover slut. I asked for a photograph.’

  Inspector Mack reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced the missing photograph of Cole and Jude.

  ‘Perfetto, perfetto,’ the old Godfather said.

  For such an old industrial estate, the plumbing was in fine condition, Otto thought. In fact the entire structure was soundly built, typical of German engineering. He stood beside his fortune-making pill press; the water pressure emanating from his hose was magnificent. The machine was now well doused with all telltale signs washed away. He turned the tap off, as his two most trusted assistants used a ragbag full of cloths to mop up the excess fluid before applying a fine coating of oil to the polished steel surfaces. It had been a busy day but, as with all successful operations, it was just as important to clean up as to do the exercise in the first place. Last of all was the draping of the heavy green tarp, which had been dragged down the steps from the mezzanine, to cover the clandestine press. The machine would be rested for a few months before Massimo would again set the wheels in motion. It was midnight before Otto finally locked the steel door; his assistants had long gone. He glanced back as he turned off the last of the lights, at his mountain of tractor parts and the disengaged forklift that sat parked beside it. He flicked the final light switch and snapped the padlock shut. He reckoned he had seven hours to go before his flight to the Caribbean and then a summer on an island with a pretty Fräulein and a case of rum before he needed to think of Leverkusen again.

  As the engine of Otto’s Audi A4 Cabriolet roared into the distance, a small clang could be heard on the concrete floor of the warehouse’s mezzanine. High up in the apex of the roof, in the cavity between the asbestos roof tiles and internal sheet lining, crawled a surveillance operative, covered in dust. With as much strength as he could muster, he pulled himself clear of the space. He attached his guide rope to a metal truss and dropped the rope to the ground. His mate at the opposite end of the roof apex executed the same manoeuvre. He too was covered in grey dust. They simultaneously shimmied down their four-metre-long ropes and flicked their hooks free of the overhead truss. Both carried a tiny bum-bag with a digital video camera that, like the day before and the day before that, had filmed the largest shipment of ecstasy tablets ever watched by a police department. As always, they meticulously cleared away the small amount of dust on the floor, before quietly sneaking down to the sliding factory door. Two raps from their knuckles and it was swiftly opened by Commissario D’Alfonso. He stood proudly and immaculately dressed alongside his German equivalent, who held up a master key to the padlock.

  ‘Bravo, bravo Signori.’ He patted the dusty men on their backs, as the lock was snapped to its original position.

  A busy Leigh was attempting to clear his desk. It was a shambles. He clipped pins to papers, read over a handful of reports and generally tidied in preparation for a month away from the office. He could see Sandra through his glass partition wall, still sitting at the desk in the tearoom. He shook his head, silently mouthing ‘blind faith’. Spud, who happened to pass by at that moment, caught the end of the gesture, and turned towards him.

  ‘What?’ he queried.

  Leigh stopped his cataloguing and looked up at the analyst, now firmly planted in front of his desk.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he began with a sigh. ‘It’s just that the poor darling’—he indicated towards Sandra who, as if on cue, looked up from her own work to stare at the silent telephone—‘just sits around all day long with that pathetic look on her face waiting for that damn phone to ring.’

  Spud, too, turned to look at Sandra. He shrugged his shoulders as he said, ‘The rest of the office think she’s just lost the plot.’

  ‘If only they knew … ’

  At that moment Leigh’s phone rang. He picked it up and was duly informed that he had a visitor downstairs at the security office. He excused himself to Spud and, taking his folder and pen, he walked down to reception, where he found himself standing face to face with the prettier of the security officers.

  ‘Detective,’ she greeted him sweetly.

  ‘Champer,’ came the professionally delivered reply, accompanied by a polite nod of the head.

  The security officer looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘You haven’t sweet-talked me for a few days, why not?’ Her face was cocked quizzically waiting for a flirtatious response. ‘Is your mind elsewhere, Detective?’

  He stood thoughtfully, uncomfortable with the question. He settled on another polite smile, which resulted in the raising of two arched eyebrows.

  ‘How romantic,’ she replied, a little miffed. ‘Anybody I know?’

  ‘You’ve got a curvy young brunette waiting to see you, Detective. Looks like it’s your lucky week all round. Wouldn’t give her name,’ she said, still looking at him expectantly. ‘She looks awfully nervous. I sat her in the waiting room.’

  Leigh smiled, offered her his thanks and turned to walk into the waiting room, where he found Penny, the waitress from Café Azzurra. Her head was bowed as she flicked through a magazine.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous. What a nice surprise,’ Leigh said with a genuine warmth in his voice. ‘What brings you down here?’

  It was obvious by the look on her face that she was troubled.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, pulling up a plastic chair and leaning in to her.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know … well, I’ve resigned from the café, Leigh. I’m going to work with my sister in the Whitsundays.’

  Leigh was secretly pleased and more than a little impressed, but there had to be more to the change of employment than Penny had offered.

  ‘What’s she do at the Whitsundays, gorgeous?’ he asked her.

  ‘She works at the Proserpine Pub. They’re looking for bar staff. I start tomorrow. There’s something I need to tell you before I go, Leigh.’

  ‘I’m all ears, gorgeous.’

  ‘A couple of nights ago, I heard the old man … He was talking his usual gangster rubbish with his mates, you know the sort …’

  ‘And?’ probed Leigh.

  ‘They were talking about “ending” someone, “a blonde slut”. It had something to do with that undercover couple who used to come to the café. They had me fax their photo …’

  ‘You’re sure of this?’

  ‘Positive. The old man, he’s getting information from somebody in the cops. On the inside, definitely.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘Dumb girl, Leigh. It’s been too long. Time for me to get out … to move on.’

  She
looked up to Leigh’s face and then past his head to the entrance of the waiting room half-a-dozen paces away. She could see the back of someone’s head. It was poised as if listening to their conversation. She tapped Leigh lightly on the knee and threw her eyes towards the door. Leigh turned and jumped quickly from his seat, inadvertently dragging the plastic moulded chair squeaking along the floor. As he untangled his trouser leg from the chair, he caught a glimpse of Inspector Mack walking briskly up the stairs. The Inspector keyed his PIN to break the seal on the door, turning back momentarily to the reception area below to see Leigh standing alone, staring up at him.

  The cunning Inspector, a man who prided himself on his ability to outsmart the system and just about everybody in it, felt somewhat rattled by the time he had reached the sanctuary of his desk. He loosened his necktie and wiped the sweat from his nose with a tissue. He was absolutely livid that Leigh had caught him eavesdropping. As far as a lifetime of work was concerned, he was only five minutes away from securing a million dollars from the dago connection. He couldn’t afford any suspicion right now. There was only one loose end in the police department, only one thread that could unravel him and his corrupt ways, and he had great plans for young Donny once he got hold of the lovely. There would be no 20 per cent commission for that useless excuse for a junior detective. No way would he be giving $200 000 of his hard-earned dollars to that pathetic little weasel. Once he had his hands on all the cash, Mack would offer $50 000 back to Massimo to kill Donny. So simple—after all, Massimo was planning to bump off Cole and Jude and, for an extra $50 000, why not the trifecta, he thought.

  He admired his beautiful princess and her clever strategy. He had never seen the possibility himself, until the other night when he and Dorothy had snuggled cosily together to plan their retirement—plans that had inevitably led them to lust. From the lounge room sofa, to the kitchen bench adjacent to the fridge, where they had stopped briefly to collect another bottle of champagne, and finally to the bedroom. They tumbled together like a couple of puppies with more and more passionate sex until the wee hours. While the delicious thoughts of their acrobatic love-making and financial management had rolled around his head often in recent days, he now found himself tormented at his downstairs waiting room blunder. He walked thoughtfully from his office into the tearoom for a jam fancy and coffee. To be taken with a slice of peace and quiet.