BECKER

by Gordon Reid

  ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘We let him go, as soon as we’d milked him dry.’

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘We nabbed her too, screaming her head off. This must have been shortly after twelve, when she turned up with the package in Wagga. But we let her go too, when we’d finished with her.’

  ‘Denying everything?’

  ‘She couldn’t deny it. Angelina had given the package to her as soon as she left the motel. Maria drove home and gave it to Barnes. A few minutes later, we burst in.’

  ‘You and the couple at the next table?’

  ‘Ah, you noticed them?’

  ‘Couldn’t help it. She was winking at me.’

  ‘Then you cottoned on? That was Laura.’

  ‘Laura who?’

  ‘Langley, she’s from the CIA.’

  ‘Really?’

  Chook laughed. ‘No, she’s our woman in Wagga. Dave Hanson is her side-kick.’

  ‘So that was the team?’

  ‘No, we had three others flown in from Sydney. In case Cosco tried to stop her.’

  ‘And Cosco himself?’ Becker asked. ‘Will he talk?’

  ‘Never in a million years.’

  ‘Who was the old man welcomed with open arms at the big table?’

  ‘The big cheese out there in Griffith, Mario Pescii.’

  ‘He’s running things there? A derelict like him? He could hardly walk. And he grinned like a demented child.’

  ‘They all respect him.’

  ‘So I saw. And Melbourne? Who’s the big cheese down there?’

  ‘Laura doesn’t know. But she said she thought it’s a woman.’

  ‘A woman? They’d never allow a woman to be the big boss. She must be wrong.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  Becker felt both pleased and sorry. He was not dead. All was back to normal. But someone in Griffith would remember him, the guy with Angelina. The one she was with in his room the night she crossed over.

  ‘She was brave,’ he said. ‘Angelina,’ he added.

  ‘Did you have a cuddle?’

  ‘Just a kiss on the cheek.’

  ‘I told her to give you kiss and a cuddle. A big cuddle. She must have been shy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why a cuddle?’

  ‘To put her scent on you. In case anyone sniffed you.’

  Chapter 17

  Nutty was making a hell a racket one day, barking at the other fence, the one on the right-hand side, the western side. A really furious bark, even growling. Much unlike him. So Becker went out, angry. He’d been talking to Chook on his mobile, getting the latest. The dog was at the fence, going at it so hard it was amazing he hadn’t burst through it. Which would have been suicidal, if he had. On the other side was a big blue cattle dog, baring his teeth, hatefully. Not so much barking as snapping and snarling and walking around menacingly, as if thinking of jumping the fence and making a meal of Nutty. And beside the cattle dog was old Albert Henschke, standing there, hands in pockets, looking around, seemingly deaf to the racket. A strange look on his face too, indifferent. As if he did not care what the blue dog did, even killed his neighbour’s dog. A good-for-nothing animal like that. A yappy young sheep dog.

  Becker went over. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  Bert did not reply. Instead, he continued looking this way and that, sniffing like a man testing the air.

  ‘Nutty! Come here!’

  Nutty did not respond. He kept on barking at the blue dog, even when he dragged him away from the fence. ‘Come on, get back there! Go to your kennel! No, no, no! Go back, go back!’ Becker raised a hand. Nutty cringed, then thought he’d have another go at the intruder, then thought better of it. He circled back, panting, tongue hanging out. ‘That’s better,’ Becker said, and went to the fence.

  ‘Got a new dog, Bert?’

  ‘Not exactly new, been ’round a bit.’

  ‘Haven’t seen that one before.’

  ‘Son’s dog.’

  Becker knew Bert had a son, sometimes living with him, sometimes not. But he’d never seen the dog. The son was the kind who never talked, just nodded and walked on. A surly type with tattoos and a shaven head, like a truck driver or a shearer. He drove a beat-up utility and did some work each year, when the shearing was on. Otherwise, he didn’t seem to have any visible means of support.

  ‘Staying with you for a while, is he?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try to keep Nutty on the other side of the house, while he’s here.’

  Bert did not respond, still looking around. He had an irritating habit of not looking directly at you, even when speaking to him. But anywhere else, as if he couldn’t bear the sight of you. Impossible to have a real conversation with him. The really strange thing about Bert Henschke was that he did nothing with his property. Like Becker’s place, it was one square mile. Worth at least 350,000 dollars. What he did to earn a living was not apparent. Possibly he was on an age pension. Becker could not see why a man who was sitting on that much money deserved to have a pension. He should sell it, support himself.

  He didn’t grow anything—no wheat, no corn, no meat or any sort of sustenance. The land was neglected, weedy, bracken here and there. Occasionally a fallen tree, or at least a fallen branch. It had no creek, but there was an old dam and an old windmill, plus a couple of rusted sheds behind the house. It was a small timber house, not much bigger than a hut. Probably only four rooms and a verandah and a red tin roof. Whether it was red with paint or rust was not clear. At a distance, the cottage looked picturesque, the kind that artists loved to paint. But close up, it was dying on its feet. Occasionally they heard him blasting away at something in the distance, probably rabbits or possums. Or kangaroos. Or crows.

  ‘Nice to talk to you, Bert,’ Becker said, with an edge of sarcasm, and began to retreat. He was not sarcastic by nature, but couldn’t resist it. Old Bert was a pain in the arse. But, as Becker’s mother used to say before she was admitted to Kirralee, it takes all types.

  He’d not gone more than a few steps, when Bert spoke.

  ‘That Bob Elliott, the other day, was it?’

  ‘Bob Elliott?’

  ‘Bloke on the verandah, talkin’?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago? Know him, do you?’

  Bert did not answer at first, still looking around, the new dog at his heels, panting and staring at Nutty, himself standing behind Becker and panting.

  ‘Yeah, I know ’im.’

  ‘Where did you know Bob Elliott?’

  ‘Where’d I know ’im?’

  Old Bert always flung your question back at you.

  ‘Out there,’ he said. He might have been indicating some remote spot out west. But on the other hand, he might not.

  ‘Wybilonga?’ Becker asked.

  Old Bert did not answer the question. ‘Yeah,’ he said again. ‘Knew all about Bob Elliott, once.’

  Next day Becker went to town. He always said he had to go to town to pay bills or see the bank or talk to old Tommy. Which was true, but he didn’t always do that. Or didn’t do all of it. He had to see Chook, whenever she had something best not to be said on a phone. So he met her and the two others at the Hovell. They were sitting in the front lounge with the wide windows, through which you can see the passing parade on Baylis Street, the four of them—he, Chook, Laura Langley and her side-kick, Dave Hanson. He and Hanson were both having a beer, Chook, her usual Jack Daniels and Laura was playing with a gin sling.

  Laura gave him a rundown on Saturday night.

  ‘We got Barnes to talk. He had to agree that Cosco had given him the coke. Otherwise, we’d charge him with receiving and that’d be the end of his career.’

  ‘But Cosco di
dn’t give him the coke.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. He was caught in possession.’

  ‘What’d Cosco have to say?’ Becker asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing at first. We said, “Quite clearly you ordered her death. And you made your son Silvana do it. That’s what’s in Angelina’s statement. It’s signed by her. Look, see here, her signature.” We gave him a copy. He took a long time reading it, his eyes going as hard as a stone. He is a tough bastard. Never gives anything away. So, we said, “What’s it going to be, Angelo? You tell us who’s running the Mafia and everyone from him down, the whole structure. And who killed Evelyn Crowley and Polly Politis in Canberra. Or, do we show this statement of Angelina’s to the press?” Remember, it was a signed statement. Everyone knew her signature. All her friends.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘He was astonished for a moment, wasn’t he, Dave?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Dave said.

  ‘As if he couldn’t believe it. He was trapped. If he did talk, he wouldn’t be charged with the murder of his daughter, Concetta Cosco. But, if he did talk, he’d be killed by the Mafia—way before he got to court. Of course, the agreement was to be between him and us. The state cops did not know a thing about it. But if they got wind of it, if they charged him, that’d be too bad for him. Nothing we could do about it. If he did not agree, the whole world would know he’d killed his own daughter, Concetta, with acid.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ Becker asked.

  Laura shrugged. ‘We wait.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Two or three—’

  There was a sudden scream, more like a shocked gasp.

  They looked around. The young waitress was backing away from a group of men at a far table. A hand to her behind, insulted.

  ‘What happened?’ Becker asked.

  ‘It looks like someone groped her,’ Laura Langley said.

  ‘I saw it,’ Chook said.

  Becker was going to intervene, but Chook got up. ‘Stay there, mate.’

  She went over and leaned on the smelly little bonehead, who’d groped the girl. Leaned on him heavily, full force on a shoulder and her fingers about his neck. The young lady was standing back, red-faced and trembling and ashamed. Such a thing happening to her in front of a whole room full of patrons. She being a decent sort of girl, well brought up and probably trying to earn a few dollars while she worked her way through college.

  Chook bent down, spoke in an ear. ‘You,’ she said, ‘get up.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said.

  ‘Get up, or you’ll be shitting teeth.’

  ‘Eh?’ he said.

  ‘Are you deaf or something?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, wriggling in his chair, trying to elbow her out of his life. He had no hope.

  She lifted him out of his chair. Took him by the scruff of his neck, dug in her fingers so far the tips must have reached bones. He gasped, he began to go blue. Magically, like in one of those wizardry shows on TV, where you see bodies float slowly into the air at the wave of a wand, the slob rose slowly, squealing like a stuck pig. She got him to his feet, then turned his head around. So everyone could get a good look at him.

  Becker was surprised. It was old Albert’s son, or so-called son, the one who never said even good day, when you tried to be polite over the side fence. He was as bald as an egg and twice as yellow. His eyes were popping. His tongue was out. He looked as though he were going for the big spit.

  ‘What’s your name, sport?’

  ‘Uh, uh, uh,’ he was saying.

  ‘Can’t think of your name?’

  He glared at her with eyes which refused to focus.

  ‘Can’t think of your name?’

  The two young boozers with him were astonished. They sat there, beer in hands and a mouthful of frits and sauce, chewing.

  ‘You’re going over there and you’re gonna apologise to the little lady.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Walk, shithead!’

  Chook was still speaking quietly, but you could guess what she was saying. A few inches from his gormless face. He had a few days’ growth, but that did not make him look tidy or intelligent or worth knowing in any way.

  ‘Eh?’ he said again.

  ‘Do it,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t make me have to hit you.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Go over to her and apologise.’

  ‘What?’ He was trying to claw her fingers away from his throat.

  She whispered in an ear, ‘Move, arsehole!’

  He moved like a bloke with a broken neck.

  ‘Ah, Christ,’ he said.

  ‘This way.’

  The girl was still standing defensively, order book and pencil in one hand and the other hand still behind her behind. She was the pretty girl who’d served Becker and Chook on her first day at the Hovell. She backed off, alarmed.

  ‘I don’t hear anything,’ Chook said.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘Ah, Christ, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.’

  ‘Apologise or I’m gonna march you into the nearest cop shop and have you charged with sexual assault.’

  ‘Ah, Christ,’ he said again.

  ‘We’re waiting. Everyone’s waiting.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘What’s your name, honey?’ Chook said.

  ‘Deloraine,’ she said.

  ‘Deloraine?’

  Chook shook him. ‘Say it again, I’m sorry, Deloraine.’

  ‘Del—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Deloraine!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Deloraine.’

  ‘That okay with you, honey?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ she whispered, and withdrew.

  Chook put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Come over here, mate.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To meet my friends.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To have a little chat. What’s your name?’

  He wasn’t going to give it, so Becker said, ‘Ray, it’s Ray. He’s living next door to me with old Bert Henscke.’

  ‘That your name, Henschke?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘German name, is it?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  He wasn’t going to give that either. So Becker said, ‘Says he’s a shearer.’

  ‘A shearer, eh? How long does the shearing season last?’

  ‘Ah, about—’

  ‘Three months? At the most?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When does it start?’

  ‘Ah, I dunno. In August, September.’

  ‘It’d be finished now, wouldn’t it? In April?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘You’ve got to finish by October at the latest, haven’t you? Cause the sheep start to shed their wool for summer, don’t they?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So what’ve you been doing since October? For a crust?’

  ‘Ah, a bit of work, here and there.’

  ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Ah, I dunno.’

  ‘You don’t know? You know this lady here?’ She was pointing at Laura Langley.

  ‘Nah, never seen her b’fore.’

  ‘Works for Social Security. She’s an inspector. You on the dole, Ray?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes.’

  ‘Laura has the power to cancel your dole.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘She goes after people who claim they can’t get a job, but they have a lot of dough. Money they can’t explain. Know what I’m talking about?’

  He was too scared to answer.<
br />
  ‘What’s Bert living on?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘A bloke who lives on a big parcel of good farming land out there without producing an ear of corn or a pound of wool must have other means, eh?’

  She shook him.

  ‘You’re not mixed up in anything, are you, Ray?’

  ‘What d’y’ mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean—stuff you smoke.’

  ‘Ah, I wouldn’t touch that.’

  ‘Yeah? You stink of it. Your clothes stink of it.’

  ‘Ah, shit.’

  ‘I’ve got a hunch you’re not too smart, Ray. I mean, any bloke, who gropes a girl before a dozen witnesses, isn’t too bright, is he?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘Perhaps we might have a little chat sometime?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You know what about, your means of support.’

  ‘You a cop?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Ah, shit.’

  ‘Laura does the thinkin’, I do the shootin’.’

  ‘Ah, shit.’

  ‘Ah, Christ, I ain’t done nothin’.’

  Becker was amused. They all were. Chook was an expert. You threaten to slam someone in the clink, then you pat him or her on the shoulder and have a heart to heart in full daylight, the whole world to see. It was an old trick, but it worked. That’s what they had done to Angelo Cosco on a large scale. Make him an offer. Either you talk or your mug goes on the front page of the local rag. But, if you do talk, you’re dead. So far, Angelo had not made a decision. He was still thinking. They’d given him three days. This was the last day.