by Gordon Reid
‘Just the saltimbocca.’
‘Anything to drink, sir?’
‘Oh, what is that winery you see driving in from the east?’
‘At Yenda? That’s Yellowtail, sir. I used to work there, during the harvest.’
‘You must have been busy?’
‘Frantic, sir. Would you like a Yellowtail?’
‘Do they have a light, dry red?’
She hurried away. Did not seem to be the woman. Did not bend down to intimate anything. Nor was her top button undone. He sat there, embarrassed. He should have got a paper and sat there reading it. Or not reading it. Only pretending. At least that would have made him feel better.
Then, at the next table, sudden excitement. An old man had arrived. Everyone at the table had stood in welcome, gasping with respect, ready with their smiles and cheers, one or two clapping. He was bent and lined and wobbly, grinning in a vaguely childish way, waving a stick and escorted by the lady in red on one side and a buffoon in a party hat on the other. It must have been the old man’s birthday. He sat too quickly, almost fell. Doddery, on his way out. On his last legs.
He was family, you could see. An old man, a patriarch, perhaps a don, but not in the Godfather sense. Nothing but a wobbly old man, grinning, not all his teeth there. All rushing to help him, but unnecessarily, the lady in red already having pulled out a chair, a hand under an elbow. Others reached for his shoulders, his stick.
The waitress came back with the Yellowtail. Showed him the label. He nodded and she poured. So he sat there drinking, waiting. He was not a heavy drinker.
At a table not far away sat a couple—a solid young man with a crew cut and a tight grey suit, a well-dressed woman with beads or pearls. He was not sure. Her blond hair kept falling over one eye as she drank soup. Probably minestrone, he thought. The man’s back was to Becker, but the woman was drinking quickly and glancing at him.
At first he avoided her eyes, sure she was amused to see a solitary male. No girl to romance tonight? Oh, poor man. When he looked back, she was seriously smiling. Quite deliberate, he thought. She winked. Then she looked from him to the group at the big table and back again. As though pointing with her eyes. Now, he realised. He had backup. Chook had thought of everything.
The same waitress appeared. ‘And here’s your saltimbocca,’ she said.
So, he ate and he waited.
A small group in informal costumes appeared. As Chook had said, it was a violin, a bass, a clarinet, a concertina and a tinkling piano. They began with Arrivederchi Roma, and kept going for what seemed to be forever, the diners and the drunks and the children and everyone singing along. So, he sat back, pretended to be a connoisseur of light red wine, and listened. And thought about what might have been if they’d got away. Gone to Perth like she’d said. Full of enthusiasm, like a kid going on a picnic. And driving in her own car, which was now his car, the BMW. Off to see the world with lots of lovely cash, millions of it. Then the squeal of brakes and Bang, bang!
‘Excuse me, sir—’
Another woman was standing beside him, not actually beside him, but behind his right shoulder. Very close, so close that he could not clearly see her, very personal. But he could sense her, in the way he could sense Evelyn and not Robyn.
‘How is the barramundi?’ she asked.
‘The barramundi? Oh, it’s—It’s fine. Just what I wanted.’
‘I’m so pleased, sir.’
He’d already seen her, a tall straight brunette at the other end of the room, briskly serving. Smiling as if she knew every guest personally. Now and then bending down, a hand on a shoulder, occasionally laughing. Like a good woman, very polite. Very welcoming. Now her face was only a few inches from his. The top button of her blouse was undone, so he could see an inch or two of cleavage. But also a small gold crucifix.
‘I am Angelina,’ she said. ‘Please call me if you need anything.’
She walked away briskly, leaving nothing but her presence. And her voice, it was like Evelyn Crowley’s voice, dark and earthy. A gritty sort of voice, from the deep south.
He ate and sipped more light red. When he’d finished, he ordered a dessert.
She suggested a tiramisu. He’d never had it, so she had to explain. Lady fingers dipped in coffee layered with whipped eggs, sugar and mascarpone cheese, and soaked in Marsala wine. He waited for that to come, then ordered coffee, long black.
‘That sounds fine,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir. Shall I charge that your room?’
He was going to protest that he’d pay cash, but woke up.
‘Oh, sure, if you like.’
‘What number, sir?’
He showed her the key.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Becker finished about eight thirty and went back to his room. Watched a program on the ABC on the dangers of atmospheric pollution. Several times he thought he’d switch over to something more dramatic, such as Hey Hey It’s Saturday. Then he realised that he’d thought quite the opposite when walking with Evelyn Crowley by the lake in Canberra.
Back in those days, when he respectfully thought of her as Mrs Crowley. She was some woman then, walking along, her skirt swinging with her steps, her handbag held before her body, bouncing off her knees, off her thighs. Her heels, her high heels tapping musically on the concrete like a measured tympani, as they’d walked on and on, slowly, casually. Toward the High Court and the National Gallery, and talking. Chatting. She had opened up then and said she’d been to a concert, a symphony concert, which had been wonderful. They’d played something by some fellow called Sibelius and, in the last movement, there had been swans flying away, sixteen of them, over a lake. And the music had gone up with them and she’d said: Sometimes I wish I could fly away with those swans—up and up into limitless nothingness—and never come back…
Suddenly, a knock at the door. It was a few minutes after ten. He must have been asleep in the chair. It must have been the wine. He’d not slept well last night. Wide awake for hours, worrying.
He went to the door.
‘Who is it?’
A woman replied. But it could have been anyone. He opened the door, only an inch or two.
She was standing there.
Coming along the corridor behind her were three women and a man, laughing. One was singing the old Dean Martin song: Volare, oh oh/ E cantare, oh oh oh oh oh ho/ No wonder my happy heart sings... She lingered, making sure she’d been seen. That was part of the plan. She walked in.
‘Hullo,’ he said.
‘I hope there has been no misunderstanding,’ she said.
‘It’ll take only a minute.’
‘Oh, no, it must take longer, if it is to work.’
‘Yeah, of course.’ Then he corrected himself: ‘Yes.’ He didn’t know why he did that. It must have been the situation. You didn’t say, ‘Yeah’ to a woman you didn’t know, but is trusting you with her life.
‘I am to give you something,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘And you are to give me something?’
‘That’s right.’
He opened his bag and took out the package wrapped in plastic. She accepted it gingerly, as if it would explode or burst into flame. ‘It is worth so much money?’ she asked.
He was surprised. Her family dealt in drugs, but perhaps she was never told anything about that. In fact, maybe a grand silence was maintained at home. No one was told anything they did not need to know.
‘About a hundred-thousand,’ he said. ‘On the street.’
‘Dollars? Oh, my God.’
She looked like a young woman, who really did believe in God. She had done up the top button, but he could still see the crucifix, the golden top of it. And the chain.
‘You’d better put that away,’ he said.
‘Yes, yes, of course.
’ She had a large leather handbag, into which she placed the package—carefully tucking it down, securing it as if handling dynamite. Then took something out.
‘This is for you.’
It was a long, sealed envelope, the business type. No name or address on it. Becker put it in a jacket pocket.
‘What shall we do now?’ she said.
‘Just talk.’
‘What shall we talk about?’
‘About you, I guess.’
‘About me?’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Oh, I don’t think—’ She glanced at the door, listening. She seemed nervous and yet excited. She was getting out. The police had everything arranged. They would look after her. And they were the Federal Police. That’s what she had wanted. When her sister had gone to the local police, the State police, something awful had happened.
He went to the bedside radio, turned it on. Found some more music, classical music. He left it on low, but not too low, hoping no-one could hear them.
‘You like Prokofiev?’ she asked.
‘Is that what it is?’
‘Yes, Romeo and Juliet.’ Then she added: ‘I love it. So dramatic, so cruel and so unhappy.’
She was nervous, tight, wary.
‘What do you do?’
‘Oh, I—’ She looked around, took a seat. Becker sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I teach music, in the high school.’
‘And why are you doing this?’
‘Why?’ She shrugged, tightly. ‘Someone has to do it.’
‘What if your father hears about this?’
‘He will hear about it.’
‘What are you going to tell him?’
She shrugged again. ‘I’ll be gone by then.’
‘Gone where?’
She didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked from him to the door, then back. Maybe she’d been instructed not to say. Not to tell a soul. Not even him.
‘I hope he will be dead by then.’
‘Why would he be dead?’
‘If he gives them what they want, he will not live long.’
‘Give who? The police?’
She nodded.
‘Someone will kill him?’
‘Si, kill him.’
Becker was startled. He’d never heard a woman say such a thing.
‘And if they do not?’
‘Then I will be dead.’
‘He will kill you?’
‘No, I will do it myself.’
‘How will you do it?’
‘With the acid.’
‘Acid?’
‘That’s what they did to Connie.’
‘Connie?’
‘Concetta, my sister. She went to the police. But she spoke to the wrong man.’
‘Here in Griffith?’
She nodded. She looked tired and frightened.
‘They killed her with acid? A woman? Why acid?’
‘It’s what they do, back in the old country. To a woman, if she talks. They make her drink the acid.’ She shuddered, a hand to her throat.
‘What kind of acid?’
‘The hydrochloric, you call it.’
‘Your father, why didn’t he stop them?’
‘He was responsible, along with the rest of them.’
‘Who?’
‘Gli capi.’ Becker didn’t have enough Italian, but he thought she was referring to important people. Thought too he was getting the picture.
‘He went along with it? The murder of his own daughter?’
‘Si,’ she said.
He was shocked. ‘Did he do it? Your father? With the acid?’
‘No, not him.’ She paused. This was hurting her, he could see.
‘Someone else?’
‘Mio fratello,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘My brother.’
‘Your brother did it? Why your brother?’
‘It was a matter of the family’s honour, he said.’
‘Who said? Your father?’
‘Yes, to toughen him up. To make him understand what he must do, if ever the time comes.’
Becker didn’t know what to say, so he changed the subject.
‘Why did Connie go to the police?’
‘She was in love with someone, a good man.’
‘An Italian?’
‘Si, he refused to kill someone. Walk up behind a man in the dark and shoot him. He said he could not do it. It was dishonourable to shoot a man in the back. Also, he did not know the man. He had nothing against the man.’
‘And?’
‘He said he was going to go to the police.’
‘And?’
‘They killed him.’
‘Killed her boyfriend?’
‘Si, he was found floating in a ditch.’ She meant an irrigation channel. ‘Face down,’ she added, putting a hand to her throat again. On one finger was a gold ring.
‘You’re married?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I wear it to keep the men away.’
‘You don’t wish to marry?’
She looked away, then back at Becker. ‘I am about to marry the Lord Jesus Christ, if all goes well. If they can hide me away.’
‘You’re going to be a nun?’
‘They have promised to get me away, hide me.’
‘The police? Who said?’
‘The tall one, she said it was all arranged.’
‘You mean Anastacia?’
‘Si, Anastacia.’
Now he understood. They’d pick her up in a few minutes, probably at the back door. Perhaps she wouldn’t have packed a bag. She would need none of her clothes where she was going. She’d slip out, a car would be waiting, possibly Chook driving. There would be a long trip through the night, not to the Griffith airport but to another, maybe Wagga, maybe to Sydney, where, next morning, she would fly away. Up, up and away to some far nunnery, where she would take the veil. Free of men forever. And never show her face again. It was neat, the thought. Very neat. He had to hand it to Chook, she was smart. He stood up.
‘I think we’ve taken long enough,’ he said.
‘Si, si.’ She rose too, clutching her handbag. It was a heavy bag, not because of the package but personal belongings. Some toiletries, some underwear and perhaps a few mementoes of what she was leaving. He went to the door, turned the handle.
‘Good luck, Angelina,’ he said.
‘There is something—,’ she said.
‘Something?’
‘I have to do. Before I go.’
She seemed uncertain, perhaps embarrassed. But she stepped forward and kissed him on a cheek.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now I must go.’
‘Where are you going to meet Maria?’
‘Outside, in the back lane. In her car.’
‘Then she takes it back to Wagga? Tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘And where do you meet Anastacia?’
‘In the lane too. She will be watching. When Maria is gone, she will pick me up.’
‘Then off to a new life?’
‘Si,’ she said. Angelina looked at the door, but hesitated. As if uncertain. It was now twenty past ten.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.
‘I used to be a bad man, but I rolled over.’
‘Rolled over? What does that mean?’
‘I decided to go to the commissioner, tell him what I had done.’
‘Ah, uno penitento?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘A penitent. I am una penitenta, but I shall pay my penitence to God.’
On Monday Becker took a call. He was in the paddock with Nutty. He used to bark at the cattle, which would l
ower their heads and flick their tails warningly. Nutty was a tan kelpie, a sheep dog born and bred. Not a particularly bright one, but it had finally dawned on him cattle were not sheep. He now followed Becker around, happily sniffing. He had a good nose, especially for finding dead things, where you would never expect to find a dead magpie or a dead man. One day they’d been out walking, Becker and Nutty. Suddenly, Nutty had raised his nose, began sniffing, deeper and deeper. Then he took off along the lane and around a corner. They went three of four-hundred yards, Nutty getting more and more excited, wagging his tail. Then they saw a man. He was very old, like a swaggie of old, sitting by a fireplace. Made of stones and some sticks and ashes. There was an old blackened billy can, but no fire. The old man was sitting at the base of a tree, quite dead.
He made a lovely picture, iconic. Hans Heysen would have loved him.
Becker called the police, who called an ambulance. The old man was taken away. Becker never heard who he was or where he’d come from or where he was going. On his bad days, Becker felt like that old man. He too would be carted away, removed from the landscape and no-one would know he’d ever existed. He did not know why he thought of that old man. Maybe it was one of those pictures in which nothing happens. And yet they seem to be overwhelmingly significant. Significant of what? He did not know. But one thing was clear. One minute you can be alive and the next minute you can be dead. And it doesn’t take a bullet to do it.
‘Yeah?’ he said.
‘Bingo!’ she said. It was Chook. She sounded happy.
‘Bingo?’
‘Everything went like clockwork.’
‘And Angelina?’
‘She’s flying first-class with a female officer beside her.’
‘Where?’
‘Ah-ha!’
‘So what about the bust?’
‘Like clockwork, too. Last time I saw your little cousin, he was rolled up on the floor of an interview room, crying his heart out.’
‘On the floor?’
‘In foetal position, sayin’ he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his fault. His fuckin’ Dago wife had got him into it. Just to pay off a few bills. And have a good time. Be somebody.’
Becker remembered a scene.
Many years ago, when he was ten or eleven, he was walking along Fitzmaurice street and heard someone crying. The sound was coming from a garage. It wasn’t much of a garage, just three pumps, Super, Special and Diesel, all Mobil. A dark little workshop, only one dim and yellow and spotty light hanging over a utility truck, its bonnet up. Barry Barnes was crouched against a bench, crying. His father towering over him, saying, I told you to hand me a fuckin’ plug brace, didn’t I? And what d’you hand me? A fuckin’ monkey wrench! A monkey wrench for a spark plug? What’ve y’got t’say f’y’self, eh?’ And he was kicking the boy, curled up like a baby in the womb. If not kicking him with his greasy boot, then tapping him with the toe. ‘Y’fucking useless little bastard!’ And little Barry Barnes was saying over and over, ‘I didn’t mean to, Dad! I didn’t mean to!’