by Gordon Reid
‘I envy you.’
‘Yeah, well, you will be caught one day,’ he said.
‘No, I won’t. It’s quite easy, when you know how.’
‘Know what?’
‘We’ll set a bait.’
‘What kind of bait?’
‘Human bait.’
‘Human?’
‘Caselli will hear that Cosco has fingered him. So what does he do? He kills Cosco, or tries to. That’s when we grab him.’
‘How is he going to hear?’
‘We’ll tell him.’
Becker was going to ask: How are you going to do that? But he did not. The Feds probably had a mole planted close to Caselli.
‘What about Cosco? Why would he co-operate?’
‘He has to. If he doesn’t, we’ll give the papers a copy of Angelina’s statement.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Neat, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve got people watching him?’
‘Cosco? Yeah, a lot of them.’
Becker did not like the sound of it.
‘What if this guy, Caselli, is innocent?’
‘No-one in the Mafia is innocent.’
The kingfisher swooped. It grabbed something with its beak, a wriggling thing, some sort of lizard, too slow and too innocent. Too late to complain to Mother Nature.
They watched for a while. Then Chook said: ‘Hey, we have a surprise for you.’
‘A surprise?’
‘Someone you know.’
‘Who is it?’
‘It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?’
Chapter 20
He sat on a seat in the sun in Memorial Park, listening to ducks quacking on the lagoon. Dreamily awake, or half awake, floating in a sort of half-way world, where you are mildly and sensuously aware there is a world around you. People passing and looking and nudging each other, one saying or whispering: Doesn’t he look good, sound asleep in the July sun? And the other saying or whispering: ‘I’m going to get a snap of him.’ He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t care who was snapping him. He was thinking in a warm sort of doze. Thinking with some sense of relief, he’d got rid of the mad little bitch at last.
At daybreak, which was not until a few minutes before seven, they’d refused to get out of bed, determined not to move without a fabulous incentive—such as a mountain bike each or at least a pony to ride and new shoes. Doc Martens, if they had them in Wagga. And complaining it was much too cold to get up yet. Robyn had reported frost upon the paddocks.
So she, in her own tolerant way, had to nudge and edge them out with the threat of no breakfast if they didn’t make the effort. Had got them to get some clothes on. New clothes she bought for them at Grace Brothers the day before, without which they would not have had a stitch. Except of course, the smelly and rumpled and in places, spotty and torn gear, in which they had arrived two days ago.
After all the excuses in the world, Adeline dug her heels in unless there was an irresistible incentive. Such as a four-star motel, to which they might retreat and loaf and laze and jump in the pool, which was sure to be closed for the winter. But that would not deter the girls, who would whinge and cry and bemoan, until the pool was opened.
Becker had brought them to town, got them registered at a reasonable-looking four-star place on Sturt Highway, just not far from Baylis, given them one-hundred dollars to get something for lunch. And had departed, leaving at the reception desk a credit of one-thousand dollars to cover a few days’ accommodation until he could, somehow, send them to back to Sydney. Against which, he knew, they would fight, kicking and screaming. He feared he was stuck with them. Possibly for ever. He was exhausted.
‘G’day, mate’ someone said, ‘how are you going now?’
And sat beside him.
It was the ‘now’ that alerted him. The implication that the speaker knew him from somewhere. And a hint that he was going to touch him for a loan. Which of course would never be repaid.
Becker opened his eyes. He was not wearing sunglasses and had to squint against the July sun.
‘Thought it was you,’ the newcomer said.
Becker blinked, sat up, tried to get the figure into focus. A long and listless figure of possibly fifty years dressed in what appeared to be cast-off clothes. His shoes were old and cracked but clean. Becker unwound and sat up. He’d been waiting for Robyn.
‘Ah? Sorry, I was half-asleep.’
‘Good in the sun, eh? Good in winter. Good place to sit and think, eh?’
‘Yeah, well, I—’ He looked around. No sign of Robyn. ‘I’m waiting for someone, then off back home—’
‘Don’t remember me, do you?’
Becker looked closer, his eyes having adjusted. The figure looked familiar.
But too well-dressed and too well-spoken to be—what was his name? In Canberra, sitting on the seat in Garema Place? A deadbeat who used to turn up from nowhere. Try to touch him for a dollar, two dollars, in fact.
‘Buster?’
‘Yeah, mate. They said you might be down here.’
‘They?’
‘Friends of yours.’
‘What friends?’
‘This bloke that reckons he’s a sheila and says he can prove it. And this lady with the blond hair over one eye, as if she’s trying to be like some girl used to be in the old black and whites.’
‘Laura Langley?’
‘No, no, Veronica somebody. Jesus, my memory’s still shot. But it’s comin’ back.’
‘What are you doing here in Wagga?’
‘What am I doing? I was born here.’
‘In Wagga?’
‘Yeah.’
So, this was the surprise Chook had mentioned? This was the someone he’d once known? Buster Keaton himself. One-time schoolteacher and long-time wreck, kicked out for doing something at some school out in the bush, possibly to a young girl. It had not been clear. But caught and dismissed, never to return to teaching and never to make a go of anything else. Disgraced, no-one wanting to see him again. A man like that, touching up girls or the like.
He shuddered. He had two girls of his own, plus Wendy, not a bad kid at all, not brightly gifted but making a go of it. First-year high school here in Wagga Wagga. A steady plodder, as quiet as a mouse. Never gave anyone any trouble. Did her homework with almost religious fervour. And helping her grandmother in the house. Staying with Bob and Muriel now. A responsible sort of girl. The bus trip in and out too much even for an indefatigable girl like her. And a waste of homework time.
‘I thought you were dead,’ Becker said.
‘Ah, yeah, pretty close to dead. They fixed me up pretty good. Stuffed me full of vitamins, too. Good tucker every day.’
‘You were run over, by some creeps one night.’
‘Yeah, I was.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘Yeah, deliberately. They were gonna come back and make a meal of me, but this cop’s car came up, two ladies in it. One gettin’ out and shouting, Stop! Had this bloomin’ revolver out. Could see her wavin’ it in the lights from her own car. Silhouetted, you know, like on the pictures.’
‘But they got away? The people trying to kill you?’
‘Yeah, but these young ladies came back, called in on their phones and got an ambulance real quick. And raced me off to Canberra.’
‘Hospital?’
‘Yeah, I was in for six or seven weeks.’
‘And now?’
‘Are yeah, well enough. They cut it off, what was left of it.’ He lifted his left leg. ‘Enough of a stump left though to attach an orthopaedic.’
‘Limb?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about the other leg?’
‘Broke it too, but not so bad. Managed to patch it up. The docs worked on me for week
s. Feelin’ good now. Bit of pain now and then, but they gave me pills. Celebrex and Osteo, they call ’em. Still have physio now and then, when it gets real bad.’ He paused, then corrected himself. ‘Really bad.’
Becker was impressed. Buster was a different man. Or, to put it another way, the same man, but more like the man he was years ago. When he was starting out, an educated man. Like Becker himself, trying to make something of himself. Had tried and failed.
‘Is the left leg heavy? To walk, I mean?’
‘Ah, it’s not so bad. Clunks a bit, though. Thought I might’ve waked you when I came up.’
Becker glanced around. Still no sign of Robyn. Buster had changed, he realised. A lot healthier, his speech better and he was clean shaven.
‘They were after that card?’ Becker said. ‘Those who hit you?’
‘Yeah, but I’d given it to you, hadn’t I?’
‘You got twenty dollars out of me.’ Becker yawned a little. He hadn’t slept too well last night, the television going full-blast once again. ‘So what’s the deal with Chook and Laura?’
‘Who?’
‘Stacey, the tall blond?’
‘Lake,’ Buster said. ‘That’s the one, Veronica Lake.’
‘The actress?’ He recalled the name, the face. Yes, Laura did look like Veronica Lake. He’d seen her in a movie with Alan Ladd not long ago in Canberra. It was a very old movie, but he couldn’t recall its name. ‘No, no, let’s concentrate for a minute. Where did you meet up with Stacey?’
‘Ah, she saw me in the street.’
‘She remembered you from Canberra?’
‘Yeah, she used to come and see me in hospital, day after day, trying to get some information out of me. Thought she was a man at first. Bendin’ over me in bed, a six-shooter on her hip.’
‘I see.’
Yes, he could see. Buster had been a witness to murder, and his memory was improving. If they ever caught the fat man, Buster would be very useful.
On the other hand, if they did not catch the fat man, Buster would be dead.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Me? Ah, at the Salvos.’
‘How are you managing? What are you living on?’
‘Ah, well, they gave me a pension, permanently disabled. And gave me a card, lets me travel anywhere. Only twenty dollars to get to Wagga. So I thought I’d come back and see the old town again.’
‘How long since you were last here?’
‘Must be more’n twenty years.’
‘Must have changed a lot?’
‘Ah, yeah. Started off teachin’ here. Then they sent me out in the bush.’
‘Out west?’
‘Yeah. Can’t think of the name of the place. Had a lot of silos.’
‘A wheat town?’
‘Yeah. Real small place, at the end of a line. Nothing ever happening, except during the harvest.’
‘Wybilonga?’
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
Becker was looking around. He had an uneasy feeling. He could smell cigarette smoke. It was distinctive, rich, aromatic, strong. He thought of Alfredo in the cemetery back in Canberra. He’d been smoking a Sobranie. But it was not quite like that. It was heavier, more like smouldering camel dung. More like the stuff the fat man at the next table outside the bookshop in Canberra had been smoking—heavy, stifling, repugnant. When he’d been talking to Evelyn. Talking about her husband and what he was doing at the bank. A big bank. He’d been sure that the fat man at the next table had been listening. A big bank.
Becker looked back. Behind them, two men were talking. It sounded like Italian, but he could have been wrong. One had his back to them. Talking fast and noisily, not caring who overheard. And smoking a cigarette. He’d put it to his mouth, suck hard and blow hard. At the same time drop his hand in some sort of rhetorical gesture, up and down. Up and down.
The breeze was coming from that direction.
The other man was looking over his shoulder, looking at Becker and Buster. It could have been quite innocent, but he was holding a camera. He was listening to the fast talker, or not listening. It was hard to tell. The fast talker was a fat man with a grey moustache. No doubt there was nothing to it. Anyone could look dangerous. But Becker was worried.
‘Look, Buster, you’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Eh?’
Becker nudged him. ‘Come on, let’s go!’
‘Eh?’
‘Come on, get up!’
‘Hullo,’ someone said.
Robyn was standing by them. Becker had not seen her approaching.
‘Oh, hi, Rob, I was chatting to my friend here.’
‘Oh?’
She moved around the better to see. Hugging her bag and something from Grace Brothers. And peering, her smile slowly fading.
‘Oh,’ she said again.
‘Just in time, Rob. Come on, mate.’
‘Harry, what is it?’
‘He’s a bloke I knew in Canberra.’
Robyn was peering closer and closer, astonished.
‘Mr Keaton? Is that you?’
Chapter 21
He walked both of them, almost stiff-armed, to the Nissan, parked down the road past the lagoon, and pushed them into it. Robyn was alarmed, not so much by his action but by the presence of Buster. But, firmly believing that her husband knows what he is doing, especially an ex-policeman, she had immediately complied. Had got in up front with Becker after he’d pushed Buster into the back. Not having paused for a moment to ask her why she’d asked: ‘Mr Keaton? Is that you?’ He’d swung the Nissan around and gone back up Baylis street to the Highway and swung right, then pulled over and said to her: ‘You drive.’ And she’d said: ‘Harry, what is it?’
‘Take him home. Get him out of here.’
‘But why, dear? Please tell me what is the matter!’
He’d leaned closer, kissed her quickly. ‘Go, I’ll see you later.’
‘You want me to come back for you?’
‘No, no, I’ll be right. Go on, Robbie!’
She went, hoping by the grace of God that Mr Keaton did not recognise her.
Becker walked back to the office in Thompson Street. When he reached it, he was angry. He paused outside a door marked: Private. Then plunged in without knocking. Laura Langley was sitting at a desk, staring at a computer. Chook was leaning in the way only Chook could lean—against a filing cabinet with both arms and legs crossed. Neither was surprised to see him.
‘What the hell?’ he said.
‘What the hell, what?’ Laura said. She looked too perplexed to be startled. Chook did not stir. In a corner sat Dave, by a phone. In fact, his hand was resting on it, as if reluctant to let go. Or, he had to make a call he did not want to make.
‘Buster’s here in town.’
‘Yes, we know.’
‘Why is he here?’
‘He was born here. He wanted to see the old town.’
‘You should have kept him out of this area. It’s dangerous for him.’
Laura glanced at the other two. ‘Someone in Canberra thought it would be a good idea.’
‘Why?’
She did not answer. Chook smirked. ‘Some dickhead in an Armani suit,’ she said.
Laura was about to chastise her, but Becker got in first.
‘Did you know the fat man is here?’
That really startled her. ‘What fat man?’
‘The one who killed Torrence. And later tried to kill Buster.’
‘Are you sure? How do you know?’
‘I saw him, in Memorial Park. He was there with another guy, who was looking at me. And Buster. Buster saw him kill Torrence.’
Laura sighed, pushed back her hair. She really did look like Veronica Lake. At last he recalled the name of the film: This
Gun for Hire. About a man hired to do a job. He does the job, but finds afterward that he has been paid off in marked bills. Now he is the target.
‘Did you get a good look at him? This fat man?’
‘No, but—’
‘How do you know it’s the same man?’
‘Well, I don’t, I suppose.’
‘Dave, hand me that dossier. On Caselli.’
She snapped fingers at him. He did so. She flipped it open, extracted a print. ‘Is that the man you saw? In the park?’
It was a fat man, no doubt about it. But not the one Chook had already shown him. This was taken at a distance, and the man was walking by. And quickly too, not looking at the camera this time. Becker had not seen the man in the memorial park full face and he’d not seen the man at the table in Canberra full face. The moustache looked the same, what he could see of it. Laura showed him others, yet he couldn’t be sure. Becker felt stupid. He must have made a mistake. It could have been anybody. Perhaps an excitable local Italian shopkeeper or grower or driver for the big wineries, anyone really. Talking to an unexcitable photographer he knew. Becker calmed down. He felt ashamed. He’d overreacted, jumped to conclusions. Yet the old apprehension he’d known in Canberra—that he could be hit at any moment—had not left him. That the job Whitford had begun in Sydney four years ago would be finished one day. Any day, he could be whacked. Killed. Rubbed out.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘The one you saw today could have been any fat man. On the other hand,’ she said, ‘you may be right.’
‘Yeah?’
‘We’ve heard that someone is in the area. No description given, but a man important to the local Mafia. A man to be feared, a man who solves problems for a price. Apparently he is very expensive—at least one-hundred-thousand dollars a hit.’
‘A description?’
‘No name, no description. Where’s Buster now?’
‘I sent him home with Robyn.’
‘To hide him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’d better bring him back, Harry. We’ll show him these photos of Caselli. That might help, depending upon whether he recognises the guy or not. If he does, we’ll move him out of town. Put him into protective custody.’