by JR Carroll
‘I won’t.’
‘You will. There is no instance in recorded history of someone giving up habits as serious as yours on his own.’
He laughed. ‘So far, so good,’ he said.
‘As far as the money thing is concerned, I don’t care about it. It’s not important. Back then, you were the one with all the money, and I was the one going along for the ride. Now it’s my turn. I’m just reversing the roles, that’s all. You don’t have any say in it.’
‘You leave me nowhere to go.’
‘That’s right.’
More silence.
‘Do we have a deal?’ she said.
He looked at her, and she held his eyes. There was so much to say. He wondered if her version of those years, both the good and bad, would be anywhere near the same as his. He wondered if she was still the woman he knew. Perhaps these questions would be answered in time.
‘Deal,’ he said, and extended his hand. Her grip was warm and strong, stronger than his.
When he got home there were two men in suits standing at the door. One of them was holding a clipboard. He thought about turning around and walking away, but they had seen him by then, and anyway whatever it was he wanted it dealt with: he was in that frame of mind now.
‘Can I help you?’ he said, climbing the stairs.
‘Do you live here, sir?’ one of them said.
‘I do.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Longmore, and this is Detective Gross. We’re from the homicide squad.’ Longmore showed his badge. ‘And you are?’
‘Robert Curlewis. Homicide, you say.’
‘That’s right. Can we come in?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Better if we talk inside.’
He unlocked the door and led the way in. The two detectives took in the scene with their hands in their pockets, a look of mild bemusement on their faces.
‘Wild party?’ Gross said.
‘No. Some thugs broke in and attacked me and wrecked the place.’
They were studying Robert closely, searching his face for signs of a recent beating.
‘Did you report it to the police?’ Longmore said.
‘I – I haven’t got around to it. I’ve had a lot on my mind.’
‘I see,’ Longmore said. ‘I would advise you to report it as soon as possible. Otherwise the agent might think you were responsible.’
‘I know, I know. I will. Today. I just haven’t felt up to it.’
A pause, the three of them still standing, then Longmore said, ‘Mr Curlewis, we are investigating the recent murder of a man named Danny Gold. Does that name ring a bell with you?’
‘Danny Gold. I don’t know. Not really. Please, sit down.’ He indicated the couch.
They cast their eyes over it, and Longmore said, ‘We’ll be fine, thanks. This won’t take long. Danny Gold was attacked by three men and stabbed to death in Chinatown. About a week ago now. It was in the papers and on TV.’ He looked at the smashed box.
‘I remember. What’s it got to do with me?’
‘Do you know someone called Florence Buzza?’
‘Slightly,’ he said. ‘She was a casual acquaintance. Why?’
‘Florence Buzza pawned a Raymond Weil watch, a very expensive Swiss make. That watch belonged to Danny Gold. It was removed from him at the murder scene, along with his wallet and a substantial amount of cash he was carrying.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Robert said. He had decided to play it straight, answer their questions as honestly as possible but without giving anything away. He knew these men were experts. If he tried to weave a tissue of lies he would be found out. If he stuck to one major lie he might be all right – if he could hold his ground, and not break.
Longmore said, ‘She gave this address to the pawnbroker.’
‘I see.’
‘Does she live here?’
‘No. Florence stayed here for a short time while she was between places. Then she moved on.’
‘When was that?’
‘What – when she moved on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Several days ago. I’m not sure. I lose track easily.’
‘How long did she stay here for?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – two weeks maybe. Not much more than that.’
Detective Gross was writing everything down on his clipboard. Robert felt that the interview was going along all right so far.
‘While she was here,’ Longmore said, ‘did you notice a gold watch in her possession?’
‘No.’
‘Or a black leather wallet, or an unusually large amount of cash?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Mr Curlewis, she had the watch. She tried to pawn it. That is not in dispute. We asked all jewellers and second-hand dealers to register the name and address of whoever tried to sell a gold Raymond Weil. That person is Florence Buzza. What I am wondering is how she came by it. And, if she was living here, what you know about it.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Robert said. ‘I never saw the watch. I didn’t know it existed. I wasn’t Florence’s keeper.’
A nasty thought came to him: what if they broke Florence, and she named him as an accomplice?
‘Do you know where she lives now?’ So they haven’t got her yet.
‘No, I don’t. No idea.’
‘Does an address in Abbotsford mean anything?’
‘I think she lived there once upon a time.’
The two detectives got up. Longmore said, ‘That just about covers it for the time being, Mr Curlewis. We may need to question you again, as information comes to hand. But in the meantime, if you think of something you’ve perhaps overlooked, give us a ring.’ He gave Robert his card. When they were outside the door, Longmore said, ‘I’d report that breakin without delay, Mr Curlewis. Save yourself a lot of grief.’
‘I will. Thanks.’
He shut the door and leaned against it. Christ, someone’s turning the heat up. Is that you, God?
26
As it happened he fell asleep that afternoon, a few minutes after the detectives had left. He had intended to lie on the bed for a minute to have a think, but then felt inexpressibly tired and closed his eyes. There were vivid dreams that seemed to be set in exotic locations, but no nightmares of his usual stripe. He seemed to be riding on the roof of a car through some structure that looked like the Brandenburg Gate when he became aware of an insistent rapping at the door. He was groggily thinking he’d ignore it, but the knocking would not stop, and then he heard the jangling of keys. He sat up straight, then got to his feet too fast, making himself instantly dizzy. By the time he had steadied, he heard the door shut: someone was in the flat. He knew who it was.
‘Mr Ambrose,’ he said, appearing in the lounge room, tucking in his pants. ‘I was asleep.’
Max Ambrose, the managing agent, was about sixty, an old-fashioned man who looked and behaved more like a headmaster than a real estate man. His firm specialised in rental accommodation, and Ambrose was in the habit of letting himself into premises whenever he pleased, using the bunch of keys he always carried. He was a miserly, parsimonious individual with no sense of humour, no give in him at all: and he always wore the same brown suit. All he wanted from life was to collect rent and he had a reputation for never repaying bond money.
‘Robert,’ he said wearily, surveying the place. ‘Well, you’ve certainly made your mark here.’
‘I can explain it, Mr Ambrose. It isn’t how it might seem.’
‘How it might seem? It’s hardly the point, is it. The point is, the owners don’t have to put up with this. Do you have any idea how long the list is for rental properties?’
Robert didn’t say anything. Clearly his fate had been decided.
‘I’m giving you four weeks notice,’ Ambrose said. ‘That takes you up to the next rent period. Don’t expect your bond back. You’re lucky to be getting off this lightly.’ He moved towards the door. ‘Fou
r weeks, Robert,’ he said. ‘Anything that’s left here after that time will be taken to the tip. And if you’re still here we’ll get the police in and have you charged with criminal damage.’
Robert still hadn’t said anything. He was standing in the middle of the room, arms folded: a meek felon receiving his sentence. Not quite satisfied, Ambrose said, ‘You people don’t deserve a roof over your head. You live like animals. The Vietnamese are more civilised.’
He slammed the door and left. Robert waited a few seconds, then opened the door again.
‘Mr Ambrose,’ he called. The agent had reached the foot of the stairs. ‘I just wanted to say thank you for everything. Thank you for kicking me out. You are quite right. There is no place for scum like me on this earth. Even the street is too good. I am less than flea dirt. I am not fit to lick the soles of your very fine shoes, sir. I salute you.’
Puzzled, Ambrose did not reply, but moved off in a brisk, businesslike manner down the driveway, his bunch of keys jangling, shaking his head.
When he arrived at the container terminal at Appleton Dock three days later, Robert had no idea what to expect. Through the cyclone gates there was an office that looked like a portable classroom, trucks and semi-trailers parked here and there, men hanging around in hard-hats – and stacks upon stacks of containers. He approached a sliding window at the office. The window was shut, so he tapped on it. In about three minutes a man in a singlet and shorts, weighing about the same as one of the containers, shuffled towards him with a sour look on his face.
‘What’s the problem, champ,’ he said, flinging back the window so hard it should have cracked.
‘I’m here to collect a consignment,’ Robert said, presenting him with the paperwork Victor had given him. ‘Artwork from South America.’
‘Artwork from South America,’ the man said, making it sound about on a par with elephant shit from Bechuwanaland. ‘Artwork from South America.’ So what the fuck are you gonna do with that?
‘There should be a driver here somewhere,’ Robert said, looking around for a green-and-red truck from S. R. Kellaway’s, a major haulage firm. The man ignored that as he studied the documents.
‘All right,’ he said, as if admitting defeat. ‘Let’s see if we can track down this … artwork. Laurie! You’re in charge!’
It didn’t take long to find the container – not nearly as long as it did for the driver to show up. Two men jumped out of the cabin of a medium-sized moving van, right where Robert and the fat man stood next to the container. Another depot worker was busy unlocking it, which took him some time and plenty of swearing as the last of the heavy, rusted bolts refused to budge. Someone eventually gave him a hammer, and he banged away, still swearing, until it shifted. Then he swung the door open.
Robert had a look inside: it was dark, and all he could distinguish were crates and high wooden frames that looked as though they contained paintings. Stepping inside he selected one of the crates, which bore a numbered label stating what was in it. This information he matched against the manifest in his hand: it tallied, so he dragged the crate out onto the ground. According to the manifest, there were thirty-nine items: it was going to take a while. He was checking the second crate when not one, but two, customs agents appeared.
‘Are you picking these up?’ one of the agents said to Robert.
‘That’s right.’
‘We’ll need to inspect them.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll get ’em out, you inspect ’em, then the blokes can load up.’
‘It might not be as simple as that,’ the agent said. He was already pulling apart the first crate, expertly using a short crowbar. Robert turned from the crate he was trying to extricate to see quite a number of men – some in suits, some in jeans, with short haircuts and earrings, others wearing a uniform – gathering around. The ones in uniform, he noticed, were Federal police. One of the suits said: ‘Good morning. You got some ID there, mate?’
‘Sure have,’ Robert said. He wasn’t worried about a thing – just mildly curious. He took out his licence, which hadn’t been used in a while, and gave it to the man. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘We’re drug squad,’ the man said, studying the licence. Then he grinned at Robert. ‘And we want to see what goodies you have here, in your Aladdin’s cave.’ He dropped the licence into his pocket. ‘You don’t mind if I hang onto this for a while, do you, Mr Curlewis? While we conduct our business?’
‘Not at all,’ Robert said. ‘You got a name? ID?’
‘Inspector Carl Wiener,’ he said, producing his badge. ‘Now if you step aside we’ll get to work. May as well take the weight off your feet, Mr Curlewis. Might be some little time.’
Wiener had been right about that, but at the end of a long day had to concede – in bad grace – that everything was above board. There was nothing in those crates except artwork. Wiener behaved like a man who knew he’d been cheated, but couldn’t see how the scam had been pulled off. The driver and his mate had left early in the piece, then returned, and Robert had helped them load up and then ridden with them to the self-storage unit in West Melbourne, where the consignment was to be temporarily warehoused. He too was wondering what Victor and his mysterious business associate were up to, but was never in any doubt that he himself was in the clear. He simply did not believe that Victor would drop him in it. It was nothing more than an act of blind faith. Now the job had been done, whatever it was, and it was not for Robert to sift through it for answers. He didn’t even know the questions, but he did know this: Victor Wineglass had always been mixed up with dubious types. He knew his way around, he could charm his way into any kind of circle, and if he was running an operation you could bet it would be a good one.
It was getting dark by the time he got back to Richmond. Feeling hungry he stopped for some Vietnamese takeaway, and began reading through a Herald Sun. He was feeling tired and aching everywhere from the lack of heroin, but on page three there was an item that made him sit up straight, eyes wide open.
Woman Held After Fatal Shootings
Police were last night interviewing a young woman following a shooting incident at a house in Abbotsford in which two men were killed and a third seriously wounded.
Detective Sergeant Len Dawes, of the homicide squad, said the woman, Florence Buzza, aged 22, had apparently gone to the house in Campbell Street at around 10.30 p.m. Neighbours said a violent altercation had ensued soon after the three men arrived at the house at about midnight, immediately after which a volley of shots was fired.
Killed were Larry Wolper, 26, and Warwick Thompson, 27. The third man, Richard Lambert, 31, who was shot in the chest, was taken to St Barnabus’s Hospital, where he is reported to be in a serious but stable condition.
Detective Sergeant Dawes said he expected charges would be laid ‘in the very near future’. He also revealed the woman in custody was being sought by police in connection with the unsolved recent stabbing murder of a man in Chinatown. ‘She is the missing jigsaw piece in this matter as far as we’re concerned. It’s just a tragedy she had to come to light in this way,’ he said.
Robert went home, ate the food without much appetite and then prowled around the flat, restless and worried. It looked as if he would be getting another visit from Longmore soon. Assuming that happened, he now had to work out his strategy: deny everything? Plead no knowledge of whatever they got out of Florence? Throw himself at their feet? He had seen and handled the watch. What if his fingerprints were on it? He knew where it came from. He had advised her where to sell it. Knowing what he had known, he had failed to notify the police. In protecting Florence he had certainly made himself an accessory after the fact of murder. He knew he was doing that at the time, but it seemed such a long age ago, and things were different then. He decided he would try to tough it out. If he finished up going to the big house, stiff luck. At least they couldn’t hit him with a fine – but there were no fines in murder cases.
He spent a long night thinking thi
ngs over and trying to deal with the pain as his body screamed for heroin. He drank a lot of water, took a bath, read, shivered, sweated, went to bed, got up, took a walk, went back to bed and so on. By 5 a.m. when the birds started up, he fell asleep and didn’t wake until nearly noon. He didn’t feel too bad, but the aching in his muscles and the constant cramps had left him feeling drained and physically spent.
After a shower and shave he got dressed, checked his finances and went out for breakfast. He also wanted to get a paper and see if there were any developments. While he was drinking his cappuccino and leafing through the Herald Sun the woman brought him the grilled ham and cheese croissant he had ordered: it smelled delicious. Eating it and reading the paper, he had trouble accepting the fact that Florence had really done these things – yet there it was, in black and white. The black man, Richie Lambert, was still not out of danger. What if he gave evidence, and implicated Robert? Relatives of the victims were outraged and the anti-gun lobby had strong words to say about the availability of handguns. Police were still questioning Florence and her legal aid solicitor wasn’t giving away much, except to say that his client had made certain admissions. So it would be a guilty plea, a quick trial and into the slammer for Florence Buzza. And maybe Robert too.
After his breakfast Robert went for a long walk, partly for the exercise and partly to fill in time. If you were not drinking and taking drugs, one of the major problems was working out how to occupy yourself all day and night. He was fast becoming aware of how many hours there were to last through – and yet there was nothing to aim at the next day except more of the same: endless hours of spinning out time, trying to stay off the stuff. It was a fucking battlefield, a war of attrition in which the last shot was never fired.
When he got home it was mid-afternoon. He read the print off the paper, then dug around and found a book to read: A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole. He had actually read it years ago, but couldn’t remember one thing about it except the ironic fact that the author, unable to find a publisher, committed suicide, after which his mother succeeded in placing the manuscript. All kinds of people are stupid for all kinds of reasons. Robert had contemplated killing himself hundreds of times, but for failing to get a book published? It seemed a bizarre notion. It was like a child throwing a tantrum for not being allowed to go to a party.
