by Gordon Reid
‘Buster saw those guys at night.’
‘Under a street light, I believe?’
‘Yeah, but he did not clearly see the faces. He can only describe them as the fat man, the skinny man and the short guy. Just shapes, not much more.’
‘The Mafia is not to know that.’
‘You think they’re gonna kill Buster?’
‘Not necessarily Buster.’
‘Then who?’
She did not answer. In fact, she changed the subject. Quite abruptly, Becker thought.
‘We’ve had a message. About half an hour ago.’
‘What message?’
‘Tell him, Dave.’
Her sidekick picked up some notes on his desk. ‘At approximately 12 hours 16 minutes today, I took a call—’
‘Spare us the details, Dave. Just the facts, please.’
‘Angelo Cosco is dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘No doubt about it. Shot many times. They’re still counting the number of holes.’
‘Cosco, the father?’
‘Check.’
‘Where? When?’
‘At his house, apparently,’ Laura said. ‘There was a lot of gunfire. Even though his house is at least one-hundred yards from the nearest neighbour, people heard it. Screaming too. They called the Griffith cops, who went in and—You finish it, Dave.’
‘They went in and saw it,’ Dave said.
‘Saw what?’
‘A bloodbath,’ Laura said.
‘Right,’ Dave said. ‘So the first guy in said, ‘What the hell? Who did this?’ A young guy was sitting in a corner, not actually sitting, but squatting on his heels and crying. One hand to his head—’ Dave looked around. ‘The other holding a Tanfolio16 pistol.’ He paused again, glancing at Becker. ‘You familiar with the Tanfoglio, Harry?’ he said. Becker was too surprised to reply. ‘Holds sixteen rounds.’
‘Sixteen?’
‘Check. It seems the kid—I’m quoting Sergeant Jackson here in Wagga. You know the son, Harry?’
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘Sergeant Jackson had a call from the police in Griffith. The kid emptied the whole magazine into his father. Must have followed him from room to room. Afterward, he must have kneeled down and nursed the old man, most likely his head. As a consequence, the boy was covered with blood. It was everywhere, the sergeant said. He’d been out there to see for himself. It was like a horror movie, he said.’
Dave, who never spoke much, loved an audience.
‘Get on with it, Dave, so we can all go and have a stiff drink.’
Dave cleared his throat. ‘It would appear, the contact in Griffith said, he’d nursed his father’s head or took him in his arms, kissing him. It was all over his own face and hands and chest and even on his legs. And saying over and over, I’m sorry! Or something like that in Italian. The sergeant—the sergeant in Griffith, that is—knew a few words, although he wasn’t Italian himself. He said the boy was saying, Forgive me, Papà, forgive me! I don’t know why I did it! Or something like that. Then he started crying, and I quote again here: ‘Papà! Papà! Please come back, Papà!’ Or words to that effect. End of notes.’
Becker knew why he’d done it. It was Silvano. The son who’d been forced to kill his big sister with hydrochloric acid, on instructions. To save the family’s honour. And to make a man of him—a hard man, who’d do whatever he was told to do.
‘Jesus, the poor bastard!’
‘Which one, Harry?’
‘All of them, I suppose. What a way to live.’
Laura stood up. ‘So, Harry, we now have no Signore Cosco to lead us, step by step, to the don.’
‘The don?
‘The big man in Melbourne, the one who ordered the hit on Evelyn.’
‘You think he knew?’
‘Cosco? He was the real capo in Griffith, by all accounts. Not that doddering old dodo we saw at the Capriano. If anyone around these parts knew, Cosco had to be the one.’ She picked up her bag. ‘I need a stiff drink. Anyone else?’
They walked up Baylis Street to the Hovell and ordered Jack Daniels all around. She insisted on paying. They were sitting at a table by a window when the girl came over with the drinks on a tray. Respectful and eager to please, and excited too, glancing almost shyly at Chook.
‘How are you, pretty one?’ Chook said.
She blushed, not spilling a drop.
‘Oh, gosh, I was hoping you’d come in today, sir.’
‘Were you?’
‘Oh, yes, I was—I was hoping to speak to you.’
‘What about, honey?’
‘Oh, I don’t know whether you would be allowed—’ She glanced nervously at the others, then at the barman, who was eyeing her. As long as she kept the boozers drinking, a quick chat with a customer was not forbidden.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Deloraine.’
‘I recall.’
‘From Sir Walter Scott, The Lay of the Last Minstrel.’
‘You want to talk about Sir Walter Scott?’
‘Oh, no, you see—’ She glanced around quickly, almost furtively. ‘I’m at Charles Sturt.’
‘What the hell is that?’
‘The university.’
‘You have a university, right here in Wagga Wagga?’ Chook was playing dumb. She knew all about Charles Sturt. They were watching some kids out there peddling dope in the toilets. And the Library too, under the desk. Dave Hanson was doing something out there, part-time. He would sit at a desk wearing large horn-rimmed glasses and thumbing his way through Keynes and trying to look like a nerd. And gradually going blind. Not because of Keynes, but because of the glasses. They were of the wrong focal length.
‘Yes and I’m doing journalism. We have to do an assignment. As if we are on the job already, and reporting and—’
‘You want to interview me?’
‘Oh, could I?’
‘About my manly figure? People are always asking about that. Asking me if I’m a bloke dressed up as a girl.’
‘Really?’
‘Whereas I’m a girl dressed up as a bloke.’
‘You’re a girl?’
‘I was last time I looked.’
‘Oh, gosh, I thought you were very strong for a girl.’
‘You want to feel my biceps?’
‘What?’ She jumped, laughing. ‘Are you a policeman?’
‘A policeman? What would make you think that?’
‘You showed him a pass.’
‘Oh, that was to show I work for the Commonwealth.’
‘For the government? Here in Wagga? And what do you do?’
‘I work with Laura here, at Centrelink.’
‘But, what do you do?’
‘I’m a sort of collector.’
‘A collector?’
‘A debt collector. I call on people, who like to cheat the taxpayers.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘The sort who claim pensions they’re not entitled to. Or claim more children than they have. Or, claim to be a dozen other people. So that they can get a dozen pensions. And have a good time. Pacific cruises, a Mercedes in the garage, popping down to Melbourne for the Cup, that sort of thing. I call on them, shake them up a bit.’
‘Oh, my gosh. Do you carry a gun?’
‘You’ve noticed? Sadly, yes. You never know who you might meet. Our staff have been sworn at, punched and spat on, reduced to tears and, in a few cases, threatened with castration. As a result, the department now provides an armed escort. Twice I’ve knocked and someone with a double-barrelled shotgun has opened the door.’
‘Oh, you must be very brave.’
‘Another time, the door opened and a couple of doberman pinschers flew out at me. In no ti
me one had me by a leg and the other by the throat.’
‘My goodness, what did you do?’
‘Shot the lady, who’d opened the door.’
‘You did? Oh, my gosh!’
‘That was the only way I could get them off me.’
‘Oh, they rushed to help her instead?’
‘No, they started eating her.’
‘Good heavens, what did you do?’
‘Ran for my life.’
‘Oh, my gosh!’
‘She was the meanest old bitch, wouldn’t even buy dogfood.’
‘Oh, my gosh!’
‘You’re not one of these girls who say, Oh, my God! all the time?’
‘Oh, no, Mummy told me to say Gosh.’
‘So, Deloraine, you still want to interview me?’
‘Oh, yes, please!’
‘I’ll have to ask my boss first.’
The other three were nearly pissing themselves. Chook looked at Laura, who nodded.
‘Okay, honey, what time do you knock off?’
‘At one, but I have I have a lecture at two. And I’m there until five.’
‘I tell you what, Deloraine, why don’t we meet this evening somewhere nice and cosy? How about cocktails for two?’
‘Oh, we have a cocktail bar right here!’
‘You do?’
‘Upstairs!’
‘What time could you make it?’
‘Today? Oh—’
‘By six?’
‘Yes, after I rushed home and changed into something—’
‘Slinky?’
‘Slinky?’
‘Short and slinky. Otherwise all the cats in the place would be asking, Who’s this kid in the school uniform?’
‘Uniform? Oh, I would never do that!’
‘You have gorgeous legs, you know.’
‘Have I? Oh, thank you.’
‘Cocktails at six, then?’
‘Yes. Oh, what’s your name, please?’
‘Anastacia.’
‘Anastacia? That’s a lovely name for a girl.’
‘So is Deloraine.’
‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’
She made to go, but Laura called her back.
‘Honey, your boss is looking daggers at you.’
‘Oh, gosh.’
‘You’d better go back with a big order.’
‘Oh, yes, what will you have?’
‘Four Jacks again, please.’
‘Jack Daniels? Oh, thank you, thank you!’
They watched her skip away.
‘Oh,’ said Laura, ‘to be young and beautiful again.’
‘Just once would be enough,’ Chook said.
Walking out later, Laura said: ‘What the hell do we do now?’
No-one had any ideas. They might never find Evelyn’s killer—and Polly’s. It later turned out that the guy, Caselli from the Gulf of Tarantino, was relatively clean. There had been a misunderstanding. He was an honest businessman. Maybe he had to grease a few palms now and then to fix a deal. But that happens the world over.
So, why had Angelo Cosco named Caselli? Perhaps he wanted to steer the police away from the real killer. Or he might have wanted to get rid of Caselli. Maybe Caselli was a Carabinieri agent, checking up on a few people in Australia. After all, he’d been seen riding around in an embassy car. A simple fish merchant would not normally get such treatment.
And who was the fat man Becker had seen in the gardens? Perhaps some vociferous greengrocer trying to help a tourist. No-one had seen the real fat man, except Buster. But Buster’s memory, as bad as it was, was coming back, slowly but surely. After all, he had remembered Veronica Lake, and that was a long time ago.
Chapter 22
He had forgotten all about Robyn. Or, to put it another way, he’d had it in mind that he’d sent her home expeditiously with Buster, whom she’d called Mr Keaton. And had been fully conscious in an unconscious way he should have got off earlier and attended to what seemed to be some sort of fear of the man. But Buster seemed to be a harmless old codger, not all that old, perhaps down and out and next to unsaveable when he’d known him in Canberra, popping up now and then, bludging for a handout. He’d been a harmless sort of deadbeat, who, miraculously, had had a lucky day or night, being knocked down by two Mafia thugs, after picking up something dropped at a murder scene. Namely, a credit card with a name on it, Italian. But the cops had come along in the nick of time, two lady cops, in fact. Who’d jumped out and tried to catch the critters, who’d raced off, not wanting to be identified. One of whom, it now turned out, had been Chook. The other had been Polly.
Becker grabbed a taxi and got back to Nil Desperandum, where he found Robyn not anxious or frightened, but sitting with Buster on the west side verandah, trying to catch a bit of sun, lovely for July.
They were chatting and enjoying a late lunch, thrown together. Having given up waiting for him. Veal and mushroom pie, fresh but not just out of the oven. She’d baked it two days ago and set it aside in case anyone should unexpectedly drop in. Handing him the salad bowl, he’d tried to take a serve, but had dropped, so she’d had to do it for him. Like a good carer of the aged and infirmed. Which he was, although, if you thought about it, being only fifteen years older than she, he must have been little more than fifty, Robyn now being thirty-six and seven months gone. He looked a lot older than that, at least sixty, a bad sixty, worn out despite his attenuated recovery.
‘Sorry, Rob, I had to stay and sort something out.’
She looked up and smiled. ‘No worries at all, Harry. We are having a good time, weren’t we? He was telling me about his early days out this way. Do you know, dear, he was at Wybilonga?’
‘Got any more of that pie?’
She got up slowly and awkwardly. It hurt, but she did not mind. Insisted on carrying on as normal. She’d had an easy pregnancy so far. They said that having had two already made it easy. As easy as shelling peas, one of her friends had said. Nothing to worry about. It being a matter of pride for her, that she could carry on. Being a farm girl helped too, she thought, or liked to believe. They were tough, took the bad with the good. Never complained. God did not like complainers. Her mother had said that. Which is why Muriel was a stoic. Yes, everything was sweet. Even seeing this man again after all these years was strangely sweet. It was like seeing a snake and screaming your head off, then seeing the same sort of snake twenty years later and not feeling anything at all. Just curiosity. And wondering why on earth what all the fuss had been about.
‘I kept a big slice for you, dear. I’ll pop it in the microwave again.’
She went to the kitchen door. ‘You want a beer with it?’
‘How about you, Mr Keaton?’
‘What’s that? A beer? You havin’ a beer, mate?’
‘I’ve just had two whiskeys, but you have one.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, go ahead.’
‘Better not, tend to nod off.’
Becker himself was feeling a bit woozy. It was not the whiskey, but the sudden panic in the park. He’d jumped to conclusions. There was no reason why the fat man should be in Wagga. On the other hand, the real fat man, wherever he was, had a good reason to get rid of Buster. Two men had shot Vincent Torrence, who’d become a problem, demanding money for a job he’d not done. He’d wanted five-thousand dollars, but they’d given him five dollars and then had shot him, Bang! Bang! And Buster had seen all this, from behind a bush in Commonwealth Park, late at night.
Robyn came out with the hot pie. And a pot of cold beer.
‘There you are, dear. There’s chutney too,’ she added. Standing with hand on hips and watching Becker. Bursting to tell him something. But knowing she’d be sick in the telling, if she did.
‘Would you like coffee, Harry?�
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‘Yeah, sure,’ he replied, munching.
‘And you, Mr Keaton?’
‘What’s that, love?’
‘Coffee or tea?’
‘Tea if you’ve got it, yeah tea.’
‘Strong or weak?’
‘As it comes out of the pot.’
‘Out of a bag these days, I’m afraid.’
She went off again, heels hard on the boards.
While both men sat there, looking cross at the clouds and the fields stretching away to and beyond Wagga to the distant hills beyond, where and whence good things came, the Western Slopes. Water, for instance, and tourists and people trying to get back to the beautiful countryside of Australia. Hoping to relive what they had never really known, but had heard of or seen in pictures, real moving pictures of the old farms and broken stables and sheep runs and the sheds, the golden fleece being peeled off the backs of discontented sheep. And the agonies. The district only now recovering from the drought of the early nineties. Things were looking good.
‘Beautiful spot here,’ Buster said.
‘Beautiful,’ Becker said, polishing off the pie and nutty salad with avocado and radishes, also from Robyn’s garden.
At which she was often to be seen on hands and knees, working with trowel or hand fork, digging and working in the mulch and manure and chemical fertiliser in her rough and dirty gloves, a bandana around her hair and brushing with the back of a hand or glove, as the case may have been, flies away from her face, this being sheep country too, although not so many.
The big spreads having gone, long ago. And looking up and smiling and saying with a flush, not always the flush of exertion, of which there was a few indeed, her shoulders and elbows hurt. Her hands too, in the rough and ready gloves. But looking up and saying, ‘Hullo, darling, did you have a good day at school?’
When Becker had finished his coffee, he realised Buster had not drunk his tea.
He was asleep in the easy chair, cane backing. Not deeply, he was not snoring, but his chest was heaving a little, and his head had lolloped, as if it were against or in the breast of a tender someone or something. He was not so old-looking now, freshly shaved by himself with the Braun electric the Social Services people in Canberra had given him and which he’d packed with some pride in his overnight, riding along as free as the breeze with Chook at the wheel.