For a second I allowed myself to be slightly starstruck. These were two of the most famous – or infamous – people in Australia right now, and I was with them. Not only that, they’d sought me out, and not the other way around.
But why?
There was so much we could talk about: Bones Zolton’s camp, the storm at sea, the heist of the gold. And there were a few questions I wouldn’t mind asking them, either. Like had they set me up from the very beginning, because they knew their father had only the slimmest chance of bringing up the treasure?
Knowledge is currency – the shop was open, and it was their time to spend.
‘So what’s going on?’ I said.
Otto looked at his sister. Zoe looked at her brother. There was a whole lot of wordless conversation going on, DNA conversing with DNA, none of which I was privy to.
Finally it was Otto who decided to go the verbal route. ‘The treasure is cursed!’ he said.
‘What treasure isn’t?’ I said flippantly, thinking of all those bad, and not so bad, movies I’d seen where the treasure always had the last say.
‘No, it seriously is,’ said Zoe.
From the very first time I’d met Zoe, I’d pegged her as a pretty rational sort of human being – the-treasure-is-cursed didn’t seem like her type of gig at all.
But there was something in both their eyes that told me that maybe I shouldn’t be so flippant.
And when Otto said, ‘It killed my dad’ I definitely knew I should take them more seriously.
It was a question that had been bothering me for a while, ever since Skip had told me that Bones jumped overboard before the Hispaniola had pulled into the wharf at Reverie Island.
‘So Bones is dead?’ I said.
Otto nodded.
‘Dead dead?’ I said, because Bones had been dead before.
‘Dead dead,’ said Zoe.
‘And it’s touch and go with Mum,’ said Otto.
‘Sorry, your mum?’
‘She had a car accident, rolled it five times.’
‘She’s in Brisbane, in intensive care,’ added Zoe.
Now I was getting to understand the the-treasure-is-cursed thing.
‘So we need your help,’ said Otto.
My help!
These were perhaps the two richest teenagers in Australia and they needed my help?
That was ludicrous, for a start. But there was something else: why should I help them? I was pretty sure they’d played me like a ten-dollar Casio keyboard.
‘Why me?’
‘You’re about the only person we trust,’ said Zoe.
‘Plus, you’re probably the most devious person we know,’ said Otto.
‘He means cleverest,’ said Zoe.
If he meant cleverest, then why didn’t he say it, Zoe Zolton-Bander?
Again, there was a whole lot of silence.
Finally, Otto cleared his throat and said, ‘We want to give Yamashita’s Gold back to the owners. The treasure has brought our family nothing but misery.’
‘And that’s why it needs to go back to who it belongs to,’ added Zoe.
The problem was, Yamashita’s Gold had been looted sixty or seventy years ago by the Japanese forces who occupied the Philippines during the Second World War. How could you possibly give it back to the original owners, to all the people who’d had their valuables stolen? For a start, most of them would be dead.
It didn’t make sense.
‘So how in the hell do you intend to do that?’ I asked.
Again brother looked at sister, sister looked at brother, a whole lot of wordless communication.
‘That’s why we came to see you,’ said Zoe.
I didn’t trust them, but I immediately sensed that there was something to be made from this.
I decided to string them along.
‘Well, E Lee Marx did mention this person,’ I said. ‘His name wa– I mean, is Roxas.’
That much was true, but what I’d neglected to mention was that according to E Lee Marx, this person had been killed on the orders of the president of the Philippines, Marcos.
‘And you could contact this Roxas person?’ asked Zoe.
‘I don’t see why not,’ I said.
And that’s when they came at us, the pack of Warnies.
TUESDAY
A PACK OF WARNIES
It happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, it took me quite a while to understand what was actually going on, to ask myself a few basic questions. Like, why were these Warnies attacking us? What in the hell did these Warnies want? And why were these Warnies Warnies?
I did have one thing in my favour as far as sorting this out went: I’d been kidnapped by a couple of Warnies during the repayment of the third instalment.
In fact, one of these Warnies had applied a mild, though still terrifying, electric shock to my testicular area – not something you’re likely to forget in a hurry.
I subsequently found out who one of those particular Warnies was: Cameron Jamison, resident of Reverie Island, boyhood friend of Bones Zolton and one of the major players in the obviously ongoing saga that was the search for Yamashita’s Gold.
I didn’t think any of these Warnies was actually Cameron Jamison – this wasn’t his type of work – but I’m pretty sure they were his employees. If my reasoning was sound, then it was probably also a fair guess that at least two of these Warnies were Mattners, Reverie Island’s resident meatheads.
It was pretty obvious who the Warnies were after: Otto.
But the Zolt hadn’t evaded capture for more than three years for nothing; he had long arms, long legs and some pretty nifty moves.
A Warnie moved in on him.
A Warnie copped a roundhouse kick to the head.
Another Warnie moved in.
This Warnie had his legs chopped out from under him.
Otto was outnumbered, though, and I knew that eventually they’d overpower him.
The thing about pepper spray, it’s more for self-defence than it is a primary attack weapon.
I couldn’t imagine a line of soldiers advancing into battle, each holding a can of pepper spray.
But it was all I had, so I had to make do.
I’m pretty sure the Warnies had donned Warnie masks as a disguise rather than to protect them against any capsicum-based spray, but they did make my job a bit difficult.
I approached the first Warnie, the one who’d adopted more of a backup role.
‘Excuse me!’ I said, and sprayed him through one of the mask’s eyeholes.
He screamed and de-Warnied himself, ripping off the mask.
I was right: this was one of the Mattners. Now that he was down, I gave him another dose in the other eye.
More screaming from the Mattner.
One down, three to go.
Another Warnie had Zoe in a regulation hammerlock, bending her arm up hard behind her back. There was nothing gentle about it, either.
‘That hurts!’ Zoe was screaming. ‘That hurts!’
I utilised the same technique, giving an eyehole a generous squirt.
This Warnie responded in pretty much the same way, screaming extravagantly. But unlike the other Warnie, this Warnie released the hammerlock and came at me, his arms thrashing wildly. Fortunately the spray had caused him to lose accuracy, and none of his many punches connected. I waited until he was open, got my hand through his guard, and gave his good eye a decent spray.
More screaming, and he dropped to the ground, writhing around like something you’d find in the primordial ooze.
If Hanley had still been my friend, I would’ve told him what an excellent product this was.
Two down, two to go.
Both the remaining Warnies had been so intent on capturing the very-hard-to-capture Otto that they hadn’t noticed what had transpired in the background. I had the advantage of surprise.
I approached the bigger of the Warnies.
‘Hey, you!’ I yelled, hoping that he would turn so tha
t I would have an eyehole to aim at.
He did exactly this. I aimed, I squirted, and somehow I missed, the spray hitting this Warnie in the nose and dribbling over his mouth with its shiny plastic teeth.
Then the Warnie’s arm shot out and knocked the pepper spray clean out of my hand. It clattered to the ground. Rolling, rolling, rolling, it was headed for the edge and a plunge into the water.
I threw myself on the ground and just managed to lay a hand on the can before it disappeared. But now I had a problem. The Warnie was towering over me, droplets of the wasted pepper spray coming off his chin.
There was no way I could reach his eyes from where I was.
But there was somewhere I could reach.
Somewhere also known to be particularly sensitive.
I pushed myself off the floor, jammed the nozzle of the spray can against the Warnie’s groin, pressed down hard, and kept pressing hard until there was no spray left.
The Warnie didn’t immediately react, and I thought I’d blown it.
But then he clutched at his groin, now soaked wet, and collapsed to the floor.
He didn’t say anything, but even with the Warnie mask on I could see his eyes, see what they were saying: How could you, a male, do that to one of your own?
Short memory, fellow male.
Three down, one to go.
Otto was tiring now, and the last Warnie was getting the better of him.
I was thinking just how to approach this, when Zoe came out of the darkness, jumped on the Warnie’s back and wrapped her arms around his eyes so that he couldn’t see.
Otto then moved in and pummelled the Warnie in the guts with a series of vicious rabbit punches.
He dropped to the ground, winded.
None to go.
We were just moving in for a group hug when a voice came from behind: ‘Nice work, kids.’
I looked around, and Cameron Jamison was there. And of course he was holding a gun and of course it was pointed at Otto.
‘So, Otto, I guess you know what comes next?’ said Cameron Jamison. ‘It’s not the first time we’ve done this.’
I could see that Otto’s eyes were darting everywhere, looking for an escape route. But when the gun’s aim shifted from him to Zoe he knew there wasn’t one.
‘He got away last time, remember?’ I said.
Bang!
The gun went off. And a bullet whistled past my nose.
Jesus!
‘So you think I have a credibility issue, young Silvagni?’ he said.
‘No, sir,’ I said, my heart beating like a mouse’s heart.
‘Let’s go then,’ said Cameron.
I’m not sure exactly what happened next, because my eyes were mostly on Otto – I wanted to be sure he didn’t make any dumb moves.
That was a real gun with real bullets that Cameron Jamison had there.
But here were footsteps, and sounds, and Cameron Jamison’s gun was on the ground, and Cameron Jamison was writhing around clutching at his eyes.
And PJ was standing there, holding her can of pepper spray.
Behind her was Brandon.
‘The Zolt?’ she asked, looking at Otto. ‘Are you really the Zolt?’
Otto looked over at me.
I nodded.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ he said.
‘I’m your biggest fan,’ said PJ, a starstruck note to her voice. ‘A real big fan.’
Somebody’s phone went off, a high-pitched drone sound, and Zoe’s hand immediately reached into her pocket.
‘Cops are coming,’ she said. ‘Somebody must’ve reported a gun going off.’
We all took off, PJ and Brandon further into the tunnel, Zoe and Zolt into the bush, and I made for the track that PJ and I had taken that time, the one that led to the Preacher’s car.
I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t broken any law.
But imagine trying to explain that to the police: So these four Warnies came at us, okay …
As I finally made my way back home I thought further about the Zolton-Banders. What game, exactly, were they playing? It didn’t take me long, however, to decide that it didn’t matter, because they could play it alone. Getting involved with those nutcases wasn’t going to help me repay The Debt. Far from it.
TUESDAY
QUITTING SCHOOL
If my fifteen-year-old son rocked up and said, ‘I’m quitting school.’ I’m not sure I’d laugh at him, like my mum did, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t quite believe him. And if I was the older sister of that kid I would probably say something along the lines of ‘What a loser’ too. And if I was the little brother of that kid I would also probably say something like, ‘Oh, how terribly dreary.’ Actually, I take that back – I would never, ever say something like, ‘Oh, how terribly dreary.’
‘I’m serious about this,’ I said to Mom as she prepared the vegetables for dinner.
‘Darling, you can’t just quit school.’
‘Why, because you’ve spent so much money on my education?’ I said. ‘Or because quitting school will decrease my options in life?’
‘No, because you’re too young,’ said Mom, smiling at me. ‘You’d be breaking the law.’
‘I thought I could leave at fifteen.’
‘Once up a time, maybe. But not now.’
Mom would know, too, because as part of her charity work she was always dealing with juveniles, delinquent or otherwise.
She turned back to her peeling and I couldn’t blame her – I had nothing more to say.
When my phone beeped, it was a pretty welcome diversion, because both my siblings were snickering at me. Maybe technically they weren’t making snickering noises, but I knew that inside they were snickering like anything.
The message was from Imogen: can we talk sure! when? I replied.
now?? came the reply.
after dinner was my answer.
ok was hers.
After dinner actually took much longer than I’d anticipated, because Dad arrived home unexpectedly.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he said, and he was definitely wearing his bad-news face.
He had everybody’s attention.
‘Mr Taverniti, the old man, he passed away today.’
Mom, Miranda and Toby all said the correct things.
‘Oh, what a shame.’
‘He was such a nice man.’
‘He made the best gnocchi.’
I don’t think anybody was particularly devastated, though. Old people die. It’s mostly what they do.
But I couldn’t help thinking about two conversations: the first, the one I’d had with him that night in the alley, the conversation that was still sitting on my iPhone, untranslated. And the second, the conversation I’d overheard – okay, eavesdropped – between Dad and Rocco Taverniti.
Surely they hadn’t been talking about old man Taverniti. No person would ever discuss having their father ‘seen to’. I must’ve got it wrong. As simple as that.
‘The funeral’s next week,’ said Dad. ‘Every wog, wop and dago on the Coast will be there.’
Soup was pretty sombre, but during the main course the mood totally changed. Dad seemed to be on a high, cracking jokes left, right and centre, making fun of everything and everybody, especially himself. I loved my dad when he was like this, we all did – he was such fun to be around.
It reminded me of when we were little kids and he’d spin us around in whizzies, or he’d play zombies in the pool – ‘I’m going to eat your brain!’ And when he was like this, Mom lightened up too.
‘I’m going to give one of those planes a test spin on the weekend,’ he said. ‘Anybody want to come along?’
We all did, of course.
When Dad was in a mood like this, we’d go to the end of the world with him.
So when I eventually started walking to Imogen’s house it was much later then I’d envisaged.
I was about halfway there, when something occurred to me: the last
time I’d been to Imogen’s room, I’d pretty much been humiliated by he-of-the-protozoan-brain, Tristan.
Why had that been? Because I hadn’t been prepared. Well, even if Tristan wasn’t going to be there, and I didn’t think he was, I wasn’t going unprepared this time.
I rushed back to my room, and downloaded a file onto a flashdrive.
Now I was prepared.
When I knocked, Mrs Havilland’s voice came from behind the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Dominic Silvagni,’ I said, though I wasn’t quite sure why I felt the need to give her my full name. She had once changed my nappies, after all, wiped my bum and all that.
‘Just a minute.’
I could hear her unlocking the locks – there seemed to be even more than when I was last here. Eventually the door swung open and she was standing there.
The last time I’d see her it had been at Reverie Island, just before I’d been whisked away to look for Yamashita’s Gold. She’d been ‘much better’ then, though I hadn’t thought she’d really looked ‘much better’. But I guess even the fact that she’d managed to get away from the house had been a major breakthrough. But now she definitely didn’t look ‘much better’. If anything she looked ‘much, much worse’.
‘Oh, Dom,’ she said, and the fumes of alcohol reached out like tentacles. ‘Look how big and handsome you are.’
I’m not sure what was so sad about me becoming so big and handsome, but she started sobbing. I didn’t really know what to do except put my arms tentatively around her and say, ‘There, there.’ I wondered if Imogen was right, if finding out what happened to her husband was the key to beating Mrs Havilland’s sickness.
Could it be that simple?
I guessed there was only one way to find out.
Mrs Havilland stepped back, flicking at her tears with her fingers. She seemed embarrassed by what had just happened. I didn’t know what to do and wished Imogen would come and rescue me.
‘You know you look just like your dad?’ she said.
I didn’t think I looked much like my dad at all, nobody did, but I wasn’t going to say that.
‘That’s what everybody says,’ I said, and then something occurred to me. ‘What was my dad like back then?’
Take a Life Page 6
