by T. J. Beach
“Which one are you?” Hollins asked.
“Martin. Call me Hooker. Everyone does because —”
“You won’t be doing any karate, Martin.”
“I got a brown belt.”
“Well done. Then I’m sure your sensei taught you that karate is a peaceful art used only in self-defence.”
“Yeah, but if someone attacks Austin—”
“You get in the way, but you keep your hands to yourself.”
Seven mulish, disappointed faces stared back at Hollins.
“You do not raise your hand to anyone because that’s assault.”
Glenn stirred beside him. Did he disagree?
“That’s right, isn’t it, Glenn? The campaign does not want any of its staff or volunteers charged with assault. Does it?”
“Well …” Glenn waggled a finger.
Hollins went on before the campaign manager said something stupid. “No weapons. If I see anyone with a gun, a knife, sticks, even bloody nail clippers, I’ll hand you in to the cops. Do you understand me?”
“Hang on, Gary. These men have given up their time to protect Austin.”
“Good point. Why aren’t you at work? Have any of you got jobs?”
“Turn it up,” Bozza said. “I’ve taken holidays. Lynny works night shift, don’t you, mate?”
Hollins stared Bozza down.
A short guy with the over-developed chest of a gym-junkie rolled his eyes. “Is that our training, then?”
“Yes,” Hollins said. “That’s it. If you joined up thinking you’d be pushing people around or practicing your martial arts skills, think again.” He turned to Glenn. “I need to talk to Austin.”
A hand landed on his shoulder. Fired up, Hollins reacted without thinking. His elbow slammed into the stomach behind him, and he followed up with a forearm to the throat. He caught himself a millimetre from crushing Bozza’s Adam’s apple against his spine.
The kid stumbled backwards, clutching at his neck. “Shit.”
Hollins closed his eyes, trembling from head to foot. He blinked back to the present to find a bunch of sturdy young men a step further away from him than they’d been seconds before, eyes wide, wary, respectful. Oh, God, the last thing he needed was a bunch of acolytes warning their mates not to cross Gary Hollins.
Glenn’s jaw dropped. “Err, Gary. I don’t think it helps—”
“Yeah. I know.” He jabbed his finger at the volunteers. “You lot stay here. I’ll be back in two minutes.” He brushed past Glenn to the candidate’s closed office door. He knocked and pushed in — bugger waiting. He wanted this sorted.
Austin waved, his phone to his ear. “Yes, Tony, it’s a shock — a disappointment. I’m not judging. Everyone is entitled to have their say, but vandalism is completely unnecessary.” He listened, nodding. “That’s right. It won’t stop our campaign for a moment. We’re redoubling our efforts. The people of Bell’s Landing have rallied around us. I knew they would. It’s a great town. You should visit … Okay, thank you. Thanks to your listeners. Vote Australian People’s Party.” He paused a moment. “Okay, yeah. Any time, thanks for calling.” He swiped to hang up. “Sorry. Media duty. Everything okay?”
“No. This amateur shit is a bad idea.” Hollins jerked a thumb over his shoulder to Glenn and the others. “It will get out of control. Glenn’s promised them unarmed combat. They’re looking for a rumble. They’ll start fights. You do not want … a … a … goon squad.”
Austin grinned. “Goon squad? I quite like that. They seem like good kids to me. They want to help.” He called around Hollins. “Glenn?”
The campaign manager leaned into the office. “I mentioned Gary’s credentials, that’s all.”
Austin nodded, turned to Hollins. “Is that a problem?”
“It is if you want me to teach them how to kill people with their bare hands.”
“Can you?” Austin asked.
Glenn nodded over his shoulder and blew out a breath. “After what Gary just did out there, I’d believe it.”
“I don’t want you teaching anyone deadly skills,” Austin explained. “I’m just interested to know if you could.”
“No, I cannot.” Because his conscience would not allow him, let alone the risk of the wrong people taking notice.
“Fine.” Austin grinned boyishly. “Give the Goon Squad a break. No rough stuff. I totally agree, but some extra crowd control would come in handy, wouldn’t it? Bright young people in Vote Gould tee-shirts will help me. Our demographic is slanted the other way. What do you say?”
Hollins groaned. How did he let himself get into these situations?
Debbie pondered Harry Vicker’s bombshell as she sped to Vasse Primary School.
Austin Gould could be Keith Tupaea’s father. TV priest meets his love child. That would make the front page of New Idea, probably even The West Australian with the election and all. She had to tread very carefully, but she owed it to Wendy to follow up all the leads. According to their former boss, only the would-be South-West Agricultural Region Legislative Council Member and one other salesman from Wendy’s era were in Bell’s Landing.
She used the hands-free function to dial Hollins. “Gary? Where will you be in half an hour?”
“Good afternoon to you, too. I’ll be at home. The candidate’s resting up for a couple of hours.”
“See you there, then. We need to talk.”
Jennifer and Lachlan were in their usual spot, under the tree, sitting on their backpacks.
Debbie had her choice of parking because the school pick-up rush had passed — one advantage of being a little late.
Jennifer bounced up. “Hi, Mum. We did Noongar words with Mrs Ugle today.”
“That’s nice. Get in your car seat. We’re going to see Gary.”
“Can we play on the park swings?”
“If there’s time.”
Lachlan dragged his bag as if it weighed fifty kilos.
Debbie crouched. “How are you? Did you have a good day?”
He shrugged and leaned on the car.
“What’s that on your back?” Debbie asked.
He pulled at his shirt to look.
A smear of dried mud and grass stains spread from his collar to the leg of his shorts.
“What happened? Did someone push you?” Debbie asked.
He shrugged again. “I don’t know.”
“Jennifer, did you see anything?”
“No,” Jennifer replied. “Did you do sport today, Lachy?”
Lachlan nodded, intent on the door handle.
He looked so sad. Defeated. Six-year-olds should not look beaten. Especially not a son of hers. Like hell he got the stains in PE class.
Lachlan wouldn’t stay defeated for long if Debbie had anything to do with it.
The Summer Dayz sign gave Debbie a thought. Backpackers and low rent motels weren’t the only cheap accommodation in Bell’s Landing. Keith could be staying in a caravan park.
Instead of signalling to the office for Tommy or Sylvie to raise the boom, she pulled into the visitors bay and grabbed her bag. “Stay in the car, kids. I won’t be a moment.”
Sylvie looked up from her computer as Debbie came through the sliding door. “Sorry, Luv, didn’t see you there. You should toot or something. I’ll get the gate.”
“Not yet, thanks. I wanted to show you this.” Debbie pulled out one of her last remaining missing posters. “Has this guy booked in?”
“Don’t think so. I reckon I’d remember a bloke who looked like him. Let me have a closer look.”
The door slid open again, and Jennifer sauntered in.
Debbie glared. “Do you listen to anything I say?”
“I’m going to walk to Gary’s cabin,” Jennifer said. “I’m going to get my djen boodja koorliny.” She beamed at Sylvie.
“You’re going to do what?” Debbie asked.
“Get my feet on the ground moving. That’s Noongar, isn’t it, Sylvie?”
The park manag
er laughed. “You bet, chook.”
“You’re a Noongar, aren’t you?”
“Manners, Jenny!”
Sylvie only chuckled. “All us Western Australian black fellers are Noongars. My people are the Wadandi Noongars.” She pointed at the ground. “This is Wadandi boodja.”
Sylvie pivoted to Debbie. “No, I haven’t seen him.” She handed back the printout.
“Could you keep the poster? Maybe put it up on your board?”
“No worries. Good idea.”
“That’s Devon,” Jennifer said.
“Who’s Devon?” Debbie asked.
Jennifer reached for the missing person poster. “Him. Why have you got a picture of Devon? He’s not missing. He’s Gary’s friend.”
“Darling, what are you talking about?” Debbie asked. “This man’s called Keith.”
Jennifer shook her head. “At the pub. On Saturday. I went to sit with Gary, remember? He was talking to Devon and another man. I don’t remember the other man’s name.”
“Are you sure?”
Jennifer nodded. “That’s Devon.”
CHAPTER NINE
“WHO’S THIS?” DEBBIE marched into Hollins’ cabin brandishing a sheet of paper with a photo of a dark-skinned young guy.
Jenny pushed in behind her, dragging Lachlan.
“No idea,” Hollins said. “Is this a quiz? I guess it’s the bloke you’re looking for since it’s got the word ‘missing’ under the picture and your phone number.”
“It’s Devon!” Jennifer said. “Look, Gary, it’s Devon. From the pub.”
Hollins took the poster for a closer examination. The guy did look familiar. “I think you’re right. The … guy at the Esplanade.” He stopped himself just in time from saying ‘gay guy’ in front of the children. “Bugger me.”
“That’s a—”
Hollins cut off Jennifer with a raised hand. He dropped the photo onto his dining table, pulled out his wallet and gave her a five-dollar note. “I know. Swear jar.”
The note disappeared into the pocket of Jennifer’s shorts before he could blink an eye.
“That’s too much,” Debbie said.
“Take it. I’ll earn it. Devon’s your missing person?”
“See, Mum. I told you.”
Debbie patted her on the back. “Yes, you did. Well done.”
“Can we play on the swings?” Jennifer asked Hollins.
He shrugged at Debbie.
“All right. Look after Lachlan. I want to talk to Gary.”
The two children ran off, letting the screen door slam behind them.
Debbie pulled back a chair and joined Hollins at the dining table. “How did you meet Keith Tupaea?”
“He was in the beer garden at the Espy. I went over and introduced myself.”
“And he called himself Devon?”
“He did.”
Debbie chewed her lip for a second. “Why’s he using a false name?”
“Could be a gay thing,” Hollins said. “Devon pretty obviously bats for the other side. Don’t some gay guys like to leave their given name in the closet or something?”
“Bloody hell. That’s so homophobic.”
“Sorry. Maybe he hates being called Keith. I know a couple of Keiths who use their middle name.”
“What made you think he’s gay? Did he have a brand on his forehead?”
Hollins squirmed. He didn’t like being labelled a bigot. “No. For one thing, the reason I went over to talk to him was that some drunk hooligans were heckling Devon with gay slurs. Then there was the fact that a guy came to meet him.”
“A male? Like the guys who yelled at Keith? The morons who called him names were mixing with male companions, so they were gay too?”
“Why not? Lager louts in denial about their sexuality. Look, I got a vibe. Devon pinged my gay-dar. Whatever. Sorry I spoke. Never mind that, this is a lead.”
“Keith being gay?”
“The pub. The guy your missing person met. We can make enquiries at the Espy. Perhaps the friend is a regular.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure he even gave it. Jenny and I left when he arrived.”
“Can you get down to the Esplanade, check around, see if you recognise him? See if any of the barmen know him?”
“I could give it a try.”
“Sorry to put you to such hardship. I know how you hate sinking pints at the Esplanade.”
“Austin Gould’s the larger problem. There’s a night campaign meeting. I might not be able to get away before closing time. That’s why you called around? To talk about Keith who calls himself Devon?”
“Actually, no. Wait until you see this.” Debbie pulled up a picture on her phone and showed it to Hollins.
A framed team photo at a car yard. Hollins shrugged. “Those haircuts don’t get better with age. Is that my ute in the background? What am I looking at?”
“The salesmen. Second from the right.”
“That’s a prince among mullets.”
“That’s Austin Gould.”
Hollins took the phone from her and zoomed in. The face blurred out. “Are you sure? Where did you get this?”
“From the guy at the back with the moustache. See the girl in the front — the pretty one? That’s our client, Keith’s mum.”
“She put you on to the car yard owner?”
Debbie nodded. “Keith took a copy of this photo from his mum’s album in Auckland.”
“You’ll have to show this to Austin. He’ll love it. He’ll probably want to use it in the campaign to boost his Bell’s Landing street cred.”
Debbie took her phone back. “I’ll show him, don’t you worry, but I don’t think he’ll be thrilled, and I don’t think he’ll want to share it. Keith’s here looking for his father, and his dad might well be one of the salesmen.”
“Which one? Austin? His mum’d remember if the dad was Austin Gould, wouldn’t she?”
Debbie slipped the phone back into her bag and crossed her arms. “He went by the name Joe Singleton in those days.”
“Do you think he’s gay?” Hollins asked.
“What?”
“Could that be why Austin changed his name? Keith-Devon. Joe-Austin. It’s a gay thing.”
“That’s not funny.”
He shrugged. No one laughed at his jokes.
“It seems that any one of several could be Keith’s father.”
“Oh.” The thought that these confident young men had taken advantage of the pretty young girl disturbed Hollins.
“Don’t give me that look!” Debbie said.
“What look?”
“The ‘what a slut’ look. Gay-baiting, slut-shaming. You’re having a bad day.”
“No, I didn’t —”
“Think. No. You didn’t think.”
Hollins had been going to say that he’d been shocked and a little disgusted by the men, but when Debbie got into an angry rant, he kept his mouth shut. Anything he said would only make it worse.
“The men exploited her,” Debbie went on. “The old guy, Harry Vickers, told me. The salesmen took their turns with the car wash girl.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Damn right it is! It’s disgusting.”
“So, Austin Gould …?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to ask Wendy.”
“Her son, Keith, is looking for his father, you said?”
“Yes, and he borrowed this photo from the family album, so he’ll almost certainly try to find the men in it. I want Austin to know that Wendy is looking for Keith, in case he turns up at campaign headquarters.”
“And Austin Gould may or may not be the lucky winner in the baby lottery.” He took one last look at the picture and handed the phone back. “It doesn’t actually matter, does it?”
“I’m not following you.”
“We don’t care if Devon — sorry, Keith — finds his dad. We — you, Wendy — only want to find Keith and m
ake sure he’s okay.”
“I get you. We don’t have to out anyone as his dad to find the son, but it’s going to come up in conversation, isn’t it? ‘Wow, Debbie, this kid’s going to visit me? That’s interesting. Why?’”
“True. It’s going to be quite a discussion. I can see that.”
“Which is why I wanted to talk it through with you first.”
“I’m saying don’t freak out over the dad aspect. Don’t stomp in there shouting, ‘you fathered a bastard, you bastard’.”
“Obviously not.” She glanced away.
Had she considered that strategy? Hollins wouldn’t put it past Debbie. When she felt someone had been misused — Wendy, Lachlan — she turned into a demon.
“What do you think? Shall we go in together?” Hollins asked. He would like to be present in case Debbie went postal. It wouldn’t take much from Austin to set her off.
“I’ve got a quote to set up motion-activated cameras outside the campaign headquarters. I thought delivering that would be a good way to get in the door,” she said.
“It’ll work.”
Sylvie had stuffed the kids’ pockets with handouts from her lolly jar. Thankfully, Debbie’d made it to the playground before they scarfed the whole lot and went sugar-wild ready to run amok at the Vote Gould headquarters.
They went to APP headquarters in separate cars because Hollins had an evening APP function to attend with Austin.
He waited by his rusty blue ute while the kids extracted themselves from their car seats, and they went in together. Hollins had promised to keep an eye on Jennifer and Lachlan while she talked to Austin. She’d have another word with Gary about the need to update to a more professionally acceptable ride the moment they had time.
She’d never admit it to Gary, but the prospect of close interaction with a handsome screen star had thrilled her. A delicate conversation which might raise the possibility of unacknowledged offspring derailing the Gould campaign wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined when they got the contract, and now she suspected he might in his past have exploited a vulnerable teenage girl.
Glenn Braithwaite hurried to cut them off. “Ah, Gary, you’re here at last. Mrs Haring, can I help you?” He pursed his lips at Lachlan and Jennifer.
