by Peter Corris
Dennis Tate swooped past the marker, shot a quick glance and saw the yellow of the envelope amongst the grass. He pedalled hard, enjoying the speed and the feeling of power it gave him to push the bike along. A few more laps to make sure everything was clear. He had the track to himself and he thought it would probably stay that way because it looked like rain. No fun riding fast in the rain and fast was the only way to do it. He leaned into a turn, pumping hard, bum up off the seat, bent forward over the handlebars. On the next time round he caught a movement. Just a flash. Where?
He slowed a little to give himself slightly better vision and more reaction time. His eyes probed the sides of the track as he went past the marker again. Behind that fucking tree! What was it? A puff of warm breath in the cold air? Something. Something moving where everything should be still. On the next circuit Tate looked up earlier and he was sure. He caught a glimpse of a face, quickly pulled back. What the fuck was going on? Once past the trees he was out of the watcher's sight for ten metres. He slowed, jumped the bike from the track and bucketed over some rough ground and into thick grass. He stopped, let the bike down quietly and freed his backpack. The silenced .22 was in his hand as he crept back towards the big tree.
Belfante panicked when the rider didn't reappear. Where the hell was he? He eased forward to get a better look. Risked sticking his head further around the trunk. The track was empty. He pulled out the pistol, more for reassurance than as a threat. He was really sweating now. The metal was slippery in his hand. He crouched. I shouldn't be here, he thought. This isn't for me. He thought he heard something moving behind him and he turned . . .
Tate was less than twenty metres away, moving silently, using the light cover afforded by some slender poplars. The man in the dark clothes turned and Tate recognised him. He saw the gun and didn't hesitate. He raised the .22, steadied it and shot twice at the thick body. The popping sound was no louder than a snapping twig. Vance Belfante grunted and straightened. He lurched forward, the gun still in his hand. Then he was falling but the gun turned up towards Tate who had kept moving. From a range of ten metres, Tate shot Belfante between the eyes. A plume of dark blood spurted into the grass.
Tate stepped over the crumpled body. The ejected shells had flown high and to the right as he'd anticipated. He saw two of them immediately and snatched them up. He couldn't locate the third. He ran forward to the bicycle track, pulled the envelope from the grass and stuffed it inside the waistband of his track pants. He came back, bent and picked up the pistol Belfante had dropped. Then he moved quickly through the trees back to his bike. The two guns and the envelope went into the backpack. He wheeled the bike to the track, mounted and sprinted off towards a road leading out of the park.
17
News of the discovery of Vance Belfante's body in Centennial Park reached Dunlop shortly after nine a.m. He absorbed the scanty details quickly—ID confirmed by the photograph on the driver's licence; shot three times at close range with a low-calibre weapon; unarmed; carrying a quantity of cocaine.
He telephoned the Little Lloyd Street house and spoke to Waterford.
'Sounds like a drug deal gone wrong,' Waterford said.
'Maybe. Is Ava up yet?'
'Are you kidding? She's got her own clock. The day starts around eleven a.m. and ends about two a.m. You should know.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'She never stops talking about your holiday up north.'
Dunlop ignored this. 'How will she take the news d'you reckon?'
'Hard to say. She's got something on her mind. Something's worrying her while she's sober. She tries not to let that condition last too long.'
'Is she cracking up? Changing her story?'
'No. She wants to go through with what we're doing. She's very keen on it, actually. Looking forward to going out today.'
'To the doctor at one-thirty. Okay. You and Ann decide how and when to give her the news. Phone me if it buggers up any of our plans.'
No call came and Dunlop, wearing a hat and dark glasses, was a passenger in a fake taxi that travelled behind the VW Golf being driven by Ann Torrielli. The driver was an expert. On the run to Double Bay he moved around the roads, dropped back, speeded up, passed the VW and, apparently out-manoeuvred by the traffic, allowed it to pass him.
'Nothing,' he said as he turned into Ocean Avenue.
'You're sure?'
'He's better'n me if he's there.'
Ava's doctor's rooms were above Cross Street in a three-storey building. Dunlop left the 'taxi' at the Bay Street corner and watched Ann park. Ava got out and, even at a distance of sixty metres, Dunlop could see the change in her. The dark blue dress hung slightly loosely and she moved differently with less body weight to transport. Her hair was ash blonde, not the previous platinum outrage, and she had abandoned the extravagant earrings. There was nothing furtive or watchful in her stance as she waited for Ann to lock the car. She flashed the younger woman a smile and they strolled along the footpath towards a set of heavy glass doors. Ann was considerably shorter, Dunlop noted, and then made the correction—Ava wore high heels. Ann was in slacks, a long-tailed shirt to conceal her gun, and flats.
Dunlop followed them on the other side of the street, taking care not to be reflected when Ann swung the glass door out. He was concealed behind a pillar when she swept the scene with a searching look before following Ava through the door. Dunlop gave them several minutes, then he entered the building and did a rapid check of entrances and exists, fire stairs and elevators. Satisfied, he crossed the street and went into a coffee bar. He bought a cappuccino and took a seat which gave him a view of the entrance. Ava had been on time for her appointment but with doctors that didn't mean anything. He could be in for a long wait.
Dunlop drank two cups of coffee and ate a croissant. He sifted through the elements of the case as he ate and drank. Ava hadn't looked to be prostrated with grief by the death of her husband. Well, why would she be, seeing that the bastard had put out a contract on her? He wondered if she'd get herself up in black for the funeral. Funeral. There was a thought. An exposure opportunity. Dunlop considered it as he stirred the dregs in the bottom of the cup. Too dangerous, but maybe Roy could do his impersonation. He'd enjoy getting into something black and slinky and the veil would be a help.
The waitress approached him warily. 'Will there be anything else, sir?'
After the Strathfield massacre, Dunlop had noticed, people were edgy about single men drinking multiple cups of coffee. He smiled and stood. 'No, thanks. Good coffee.'
The waitress looked relieved, returned the smile and handed him the bill, for almost twice what he was used to paying in Marrickville. Dunlop left the coffee bar. He wondered what had kept Ava at the doctor's for so long. And somehow he didn't believe that Vance Belfante's death had anything to do with drugs.
Tate had been trained to regard anger as a waste of energy, a delay in the process of putting things right. The rain that had threatened held off and he was able to keep up a good speed on the ride back to Randwick. He concentrated on the hills and the traffic, contending with the motorists for space on the roads and riding hard to make up for the abbreviated work-out. Tate had lost count of the number of men he had killed as a soldier and civilian. Body counts meant nothing to him and certainly the death of one more man at his hands was insignificant—unless it posed some kind of a threat.
He checked his blood sugar, which was perfect, dead centre in the middle of the normal range. After showering he ate the remainder of his breakfast. When exercising early, it was his practice to eat half of the meal before the work-out and half after. It seemed to produce good results. He made coffee and cleaned and reloaded his pistol. Then he examined the Ruger. Good gun. Cleaned with the wrong kind of oil by an amateur, he decided, but it would have done the job just the same. Small hole going in and a fucking big one coming out. Full load of high quality ammunition, everything in perfect working order. A professional's weapon. He laid it aside and
slit open the envelope.
When he saw the wads of cut and folded newspaper he forgot his training and lost control. He shouted, upset his coffee mug and ripped the envelope and its useless contents to shreds. He swept the debris and the dripping mug to the floor and pounded his fist on the table until the jarring began to hurt his elbow and shoulder. He was breathing hard, sweating and grinding his teeth. He opened his mouth to yell abuse and then, as abruptly as it had left him, the self-control returned. The last thing he needed was his neighbours at the door, questions being asked, strange noises being remembered later. He turned on the radio and cleaned up the mess.
He was calm again, dressed and shaved with fresh coffee in front of him when he heard the news broadcast announcing the discovery of the body in the park. Police are treating the death as a case of murder, the news reader said.
Tate grunted as he snapped the radio off, 'Pig's arse. Fucking self-defence is what it was.'
He sipped his coffee and tried to work out what Reuben's motive might be, other than to screw him out of his fee. The lawyer must have told Belfante where and when to wait. No-one else knew the time or place. Why? Reuben couldn't have imagined that the fat slob would have been any match for him, could he? Of course, Belfante could have got lucky but it was a bet with very long odds. So Reuben must have set Belfante up. Again, why? Whatever the reason, Tate took grave exception to it all. Failing to pay his fee was one thing, conning a free execution out of him was another. The appropriate action was clear in Tate's mind, no question about it. After I've extracted every last living dollar he's got, Tate thought, Reuben is a dead man.
Grant Reuben didn't regard himself as either a coward or a hero. Brain-power, he believed, was his long suit and that was what he was exercising now. Vance Belfante was ripe for the plucking, had already been plucked in fact, and couldn't be allowed to find out. Besides, he was out of control. Reuben had the bruised face to remind him of the fact. He wasn't surprised to hear about Geoff Caulfield's bashing. Tate was a threat, linking him to the attack on Ava Belfante, exposing him to serious criminal charges and, possibly, physical danger if he failed to accommodate the hit man in some way. Reuben had studied constitutional law in his university course. Not one of his favourite subjects, no money in it, but he had remembered one phrase in particular—'checks and balances'.
He listened to the news broadcast on a transistor radio balanced on top of a pile of legal papers. He nodded and switched the radio off. 'Checks and balances,' he said. 'That'll be Vance.'
George Frost turned away from the window. 'Which leaves the other bloke.'
'Which is your cue, George. Checks and balances.'
Frost's lean, bitter face creased in puzzlement. 'What the fuck are you talking about?'
'Doesn't matter. It's all working out the way I told you it would.'
Twenty-four hours after meeting Belfante at Long Bay, Reuben had performed the same office for Frost on his release from the prison hospital. He had driven him to the Hilton Hotel where he had made a reservation for Frost for a week. The two men had sat in the room eating an expensive lunch and drinking quality wines as Reuben made his pitch. In essence, it was to turn half of Belfante's assets over to Frost in return for Frost's protection against the contract killer.
'It's worth what?' Frost asked.
'Now, badly managed, under-financed, maybe seven hundred thousand. Properly looked after, a million easy. Yielding ten per cent legally, more under the counter, depending on how you want to play it.'
'Sounds good.'
'It is. It's your big chance, George. Your chance to get a real slice of the good life. Have you got anything better going?'
Frost shook his head. He didn't like the lawyer and didn't trust him, but the deal had a sound ring to it. He had a strong fancy to see his name on some title deeds, to file income tax returns and sleep soundly at night under a roof he owned. 'Why me?'
Reuben shrugged. 'You've got the nerve. I'm giving you the motivation.'
'How do I know you'll come through?'
'I've drawn up some papers—fixing you up with a corporation, property transfers, funds lodged in accounts, blah, blah. A signature from me and it's all set. And I sign when he's dead.'
'This bloke you don't even know the name of?'
'Right. He'll be coming for me. He doesn't know about you, but you know about him.'
Frost had agreed to the terms then and he had to admit that Reuben's plan appeared to be working. Anyway, what choice did he have? He was finished with Vance Belfante and what opportunities were there for a forty-year-old two-time loser? He was nervous, sure, but how good could this guy be? He'd made a mess of the job on Ava, and Reuben had set him up nicely to give Vance the business.
'Getting cold feet, George?'
Frost sat in one of the leather chairs and looked around the room. Nice. Pictures on the walls. Maybe he'd have an office like this when he was running his corporation. He gazed at the lawyer. Little prick, with his flash suits and poncy hair-do. 'Ava's Vance's widow. She inherits. How about that?'
Reuben smiled. 'She'll find there's bugger-all to inherit. Debts mostly. I told you. I've been moving things around while Vance was inside. He gave me his power of attorney.'
Frost laughed. 'Did he? The dumb bastard.'
'You're not going to be dumb, are you, George?'
Frost said, 'I'm going to need some money, a car. Might have to hire a couple of people.'
Reuben waved the hand with the signet ring. He touched his hair knot. 'Whatever you want.'
'And I'll need a couple of guns, Grant.'
18
Dunlop adjusted the volume level so that he could hear Ann Torrielli's voice over the traffic hum. She said, 'You have to see her, Luke. She insists.'
'It's not wise.'
'She's worried about something. She won't talk to me or Roy.'
'Is it to do with Belfante's death?'
'I don't know.'
Dunlop was in his car several hours after following Ann and Ava back to Paddington from Double Bay. He'd spent some of the time on the phone to Burton in Canberra, some briefing members of the backup team on their assignments for the evening and some considering how to tackle Reuben. He was tired, debating whether to go home or get a quick meal in Darlinghurst, but the urgency in Ann's voice couldn't be ignored. 'Okay,' he said. 'You and Roy take off about eight, right?'
'Right. You should see Roy. Wow!'
'Terrific. Tell Ava I'll be there at ten past. And Ann, be careful tonight.'
'We've both got guns in our handbags and bulletproof bras.'
The plan called for Ann and Roy-as-Ava to go on a pub crawl with a member of the backup team tailing them and communicating by radio with the base. Another backup man, also in radio contact, was already in the second house. Dunlop alerted him of his impending visit and sat back in his car to wait, his stomach growling and his mind troubled.
At eight-ten he opened the back door of the tiny house and stepped into the kitchen. 'Ava?'
'In here.'
He went into the living room and found her sitting in front of the television with the sound turned off. He dropped his jacket on a chair. She stood up and walked towards him. Many things about the scene struck Dunlop as odd. There was no smell of tobacco smoke or, if there was, it had been concealed by an air freshener spray. Ava wasn't smoking or drinking, which was extraordinary for that time in the evening. She was stone cold sober, smelling of roses. She pecked him on the cheek. 'Good to see you, Luke.'
Dunlop smiled. 'I saw you today but I hope you didn't see me.'
'Ann told me about that. You win. We didn't see you. I'm about to have my first drink of the day. You want one?'
'It'll be mine, too. Sure. Why the big change?'
Ava shrugged as she went into the kitchen. She was wearing loose white trousers and a blue silk shirt. She bent easily to open the small fridge and took out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The shirt rode up as she straightened and Dunlop
saw that the elasticised top of the trousers had been turned over to keep them up around her reduced waistline. She carried the bottle and glasses into the living room, removed the foil and wire and popped the cork.
'I wish I had a dollar for every time I've done that.'
'Takes me ten minutes,' Dunlop said.
Ava poured and handed him a glass. 'Cheers.'
They drank. Ava brushed back a strand of hair. Her nails were pink. The bruising had gone from her face which was thinner than before with the strong, handsome features better defined. Dunlop drank his champagne quickly and poured another glass. They were standing close together in the small room. Barefooted, she was nearly half a head shorter than him. She emptied her glass and held it out. He filled it. She steadied his hand as he poured.
'Come upstairs. I want to show you something. Bring the champers.'
Dunlop followed her up the narrow staircase. The bum roll Ann had mentioned fascinated him. He wanted to reach out and feel the moving muscles and flesh. They went into the back bedroom. Dunlop noticed with approval that the curtains were drawn and the windows closed.
'What?' he said.
Ava unbuttoned her shirt. Her breasts swelled, the nipples big and pale, stiffening as the fabric moved across them. 'Please,' she said. 'Just once. Please, Luke.'
Dunlop put the bottle and glass on the floor and moved forward. He slid his arms around her and she pressed hard against him. They kissed. Her mouth was warm and the champagne was sharp on her breath. He put his hands inside the trousers and eased them down. She opened his shirt and licked his chest. She had a light dressing taped to her ribs and a bandage on her arm.
'Ava . . . I'll hurt you. I don't . . .'
'Ssh, it's all right. I promise.'
She backed away to the bed. He pulled off his clothes and they sank down together, lying sideways, touching and kissing. She mothered him, pressing her nipples to his mouth and eyes. He opened her legs, probing softly. She stroked him until he was hard, then she cocked her leg up, guided him into her, grasped his hips and began to move.
