by Garry Disher
Finn was a busy man. ‘Mr Lake, what exactly is the problem?’
‘I own a bookshop, rare books, two others sell antiques, another runs a print gallery. It’s that sort of area,’ he said apologetically.
Finn nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, we understand the hotel on the corner has applied to extend its licence and build a beer garden and a bigger car park. We’re open on the weekends. That’s when we do most of our business. We don’t want yahoos coming and going. Police breathalysers. People urinating and throwing bottles.’
Finn laced his fingers together and began to recite. ‘The Planning and Environment Act stipulates that anyone has the right to object to building development. You may appeal on social and economic grounds against council decisions to award planning permits. If a developer gets a building surveyor to give the go-ahead under the Building Control Act, you may then take the matter to the civil court.’
Wyatt shifted in his seat. ‘Is it… does it cost a lot?’
Finn swung idly in his chair. ‘Court costs can be high, certainly.’ Then he leaned forward and said, ‘It needn’t get that far.’
Wyatt looked alert.
‘Appeals to council decisions are heard by the Administrative Appeals Tribunal,’ Finn said. ‘Many small objectors use it. It’s not like the normal court system, where if you lose you have to fork out.’
The word ‘lose’ seemed to worry Wyatt. There was silence in the room. After a while Finn said, ‘How’s business?’
‘Business?’ Wyatt said.
‘You know what I mean. High interest rates, limited cash flow-small businesses are failing left, right and centre. Am I right?’
Wyatt was embarrassed.
‘There are ways,’ Finn went on, ‘where you can have cash in hand even if development does go ahead.’
Got you, Wyatt thought.
Finn fiddled with his watch, a chunky, complicated metal and plastic affair decorating his wrist. Wyatt bet that he wore a gold chain, Reeboks and tight jeans on the weekends and drank coffee at sidewalk cafe tables.
‘Once an objection has been lodged,’ Finn continued, ‘developers are very vulnerable. It can take eight months before a case is heard by the Tribunal. Meanwhile costs escalate- interest rates, landholding costs, etcetera, etcetera. You can imagine the mindset of someone in that predicament.’
Mindset. Jesus. Wyatt kept his face polite, expectant, naive.
It seemed to irritate Finn. ‘Mr Lake, I’ll spell it out. In return for withdrawing the objection, developers have been known to pay tens of thousands of dollars, or compromise, or offer work in kind. Perhaps you need a new shop front?’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
Eagerness flickered on Wyatt’s face. But he played responsible again and said, ‘Is that legal?’
‘Depends how you look at it. A persistent prosecutor might do something with it, but why bother? In the long run it will be easier to tighten up the legislation. Wise people are acting now.’
Wyatt was anxious. There was a lot to take in. ‘I’ll have to talk to the others,’ he said.
Finn stood up and looked at his watch. ‘Why don’t you all come in? Say, sometime next week. Bring all relevant documents with you so we can map out a plan of action. I tell you what-if we do decide to go ahead, I won’t bill you for today’s consultation. How does that sound?’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Wyatt said, standing and shaking Finn’s hand.
‘See Amber on your way out. She’ll fix you up with an appointment.’
Wyatt left the room. Finn was already working on something else, scribbling on a pad, frowning. Anna Reid’s door was still closed. Wyatt could hear her murmuring to a client. He made his way to the reception desk. Here Amber watched him get into a tangle buttoning up his coat.
Finally she couldn’t help herself. ‘No offence,’ she said, ‘but there’s a bit of dirt on your cheek.’
‘God, is there?’ Wyatt said. He went out, rubbing at it.
In Toorak Road he telephoned Hobba. ‘So far so good.’
‘You checked it out?’
‘Finn’s bent. Now we’ll check the woman. My room, eight o’clock-but tell Pedersen seven-thirty.’
****
Eight
Monday, and Sugarfoot Younger still felt bad. He got up late, taking his time, hitting the street late, just before lunch. The traffic was heavy, the Customline hemmed in by mugs in suits in the company Holden. On Victoria Street he leaned on the horn for effect, then searched the dial for some decent music. If it wasn’t easy-listening crap it was new-wave crap. Eventually he found something to match his mood, Roy Orbison singing ‘Only the Lonely’, the Big O’s voice cutting in and out because it was coming from fucking Geelong.
Matched his mood because even with having the weekend off he felt depressed. His body ached. He kept trying to get a mental grip on Wyatt, put him into some kind of perspective so he wasn’t a threat, but the picture kept slipping away.
In Elizabeth Street he stopped at a speed shop and bought twin air horns for the Customline. Got some looks-blokes admiring the restoration job he’d had done, the glossy chrome and duco and the white-wall tyres. The personalised plates: CUSTOM.
He wasn’t going to bust a gut getting to Bargain City. For old time’s sake he cruised past the Vic Market, throttling back, letting the Customline mutter past the donut trailers, the stalls where on market day you had overweight men and women in track suits, and foul-mouthed sorts scuffing along in moccasins, and ethnic guys with blow-waved hair, handkerchiefs stuffed down the front of their stretch jeans.
The thing about your ethnic is, he doesn’t trust banks. Just one of the many possibilities Sugarfoot intended to explore when he finally broke with Ivan and went freelance.
He stopped to let a garbage truck back out of the fruit and vegetable section. He had lifted his first wallet at the Vic Market, felt up an ethnic chick in a jeans stall while her old man was serving a customer, scored his first line of coke from some Asian kid, who’d told him there was a Melbourne Triad and what to expect from it if he didn’t keep his mouth shut.
But that was back in his small-time period, working with mugs who only had a limited range-like they’d do burglary but they wouldn’t do arson, kind of thing; not to mention this one guy who couldn’t control himself and always had to have a crap at the scene. Sugarfoot wound his way through to Footscray Road, saying aloud, ‘You’re a long way past all that, Sugar.’
There’d also been his Pentridge period, but that had been due to monumental bad luck. Everything had been going along sweet-six dole cheques, a bit of bag-man work, a bit of distributing, day manager of an escort agency. And then it all collapsed in a heap. He’d run up a couple of debts, bugger-all really, but the heavy boys came round and said he could either drive for them, just the once, settle his debt, or end up another statistic of the Portsea rip.
‘Crass stupidity,’ the trial judge said. No way known. He’d been set up, or someone had tipped the Feds off. Eighteen months in Pentridge.
He learned how slowly time can pass. He’d been expecting gang rapes in the showers, vicious guards just a gun and a uniform away from prison themselves, ‘invitations’ to be bum-buddies with some guy with AIDS. But the real punishment was time and tedium: up at the same time every morning, back to the cell at the same time every night; the meagre time allotted for showering, shaving, eating, exercising; the long hours at some sweatshop sort of job; the same juvenile crap on television every evening, chosen by the lifers and the long-sentence boys whose brains had turned to prison porridge. What really got to him was the simple lack of natural light and natural darkness-wherever he went they had an electric light on, bright during the day so the guards wouldn’t miss anything, dim at night but leaking into his cell, his brain, nevertheless. Sugarfoot had wondered how he would survive the eighteen months, was thankful they hadn’t given him longer, and knew he was never going back.
He came to Williamstown Road. T
he lights were against him but the dickheads were trundling across the intersection like they were out for a Sunday drive, so he leaned on the horn, turned left in front of them, and opened up along Williamstown Road.
He parked at the back of Bargain City and walked through to the showroom. Leanne, who helped in the mornings, was trying to talk some dickhead into buying a vacuum cleaner. ‘The cord goes in here,’ she was saying. Sugarfoot stood next to her until she looked up.
‘Ivan in?’ he said.
‘He’s at an auction. Be back by lunchtime.’
Beautiful. Time to do some Wyatt groundwork. But just as Sugarfoot turned to walk away, Leanne said, ‘He wants you to move those rolls of carpet out the back. He says they’re starting to pong.’
Things like this could break the camel’s back. Forcing himself to stay cool, Sugarfoot said, ‘No worries. By the way, you got the key?’
‘The key?’
‘Yeah, the cupboard.’
She turned to the customer and pointed to a box on the floor. ‘It comes with all the attachments,’ she said. Turning again to Sugarfoot, she said, ‘The key’s in my top drawer.’
‘Ta.’
‘But don’t forget he wants you to move those carpets.’
‘No worries.’
The customer said, ‘You sure it works all right?’
‘Like new,’ Leanne said. ‘Our technician tests everything before it’s put in the shop.’
Fucking technician. Ivan with a rag and a screwdriver. Sugarfoot went into Leanne’s tiny glassed office, found her keys, and walked through to the storeroom at the rear of the shop.
Ivan kept ‘SOLD’ and ‘SALE’ stickers, price tags, receipts, invoice books and files locked in a grey steel cabinet. Anything else he needed to know he carried in his head. Sugarfoot was hoping that addresses and phone numbers were not in this category.
Among the files and records he found a small box of filing cards labelled ‘contractors’. The cards listed names, contact information and brief comments. The card with Wyatt’s name on it simply said ‘messages via Rossiter’ and ‘works with Hobba’. Hobba’s card carried an address in Flemington and the words ‘works with Pedersen’. Pedersen’s card carried an address in Brunswick and the words ‘works with Hobba’.
There was also a card for Rossiter. Sugarfoot wrote down addresses for Rossiter, Hobba and Pedersen, locked the cabinet and returned the keys to Leanne’s desk. She was counting out change to the customer, who stood frowning in doubt at the vacuum cleaner coiled in a carton at his feet.
She looked up at Sugarfoot as if surprised to see him there. ‘Don’t forget you have to do the carpets.’
‘It’ll have to wait,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘I have to go out.’
‘But Ivan’ll go mental.’
‘Too bad,’ Sugarfoot said. Jesus Christ she pissed him off sometimes.
He turned his back on her and picked his way through the scungy tables and armchairs, liking the way his cuban heels snapped on the old floorboards. Behind him, the customer was saying, ‘Thirty days’ warranty isn’t much.’
And in front of him Ivan was just coming in. ‘You done those carpets?’
‘My ribs hurt,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘Could be cracked.’
Ivan was going to walk past him, busy man with his finger on the pulse, but then he stopped, showing concern. ‘The carpets can wait. Did you do like I said, take it easy over the weekend?’
Sugarfoot shrugged.
Ivan said, back to business again, ‘Stick around. You might be doing a job with Bauer later’
Bauer. Now that was big time.
****
Nine
Andreis Bauer spent the morning reporting to the Sydney outfit and by three o’clock he was in the arrivals hall at Melbourne Airport again. He could see his luggage revolving on the Ansett carousel but he walked by it, stopped at the public telephone next to the Men’s, and called Ivan Younger. He faced away from the wall. Guard your back, the first rule in this game. He listened to the ringing tone and looked bleakly out at the hall. He was slight and wiry. He had bloodless lips and pale skin that seemed to be stretched over a frame of sharp bones. He scowled at a blow-waved Greek loading luggage onto a trolley.
Ivan Younger came onto the line, saying, ‘Bargain City,’ in that high voice of his.
Bauer said, ‘That shift supervisor at Calamity Jane’s-what is her name?’
‘The one skimming the profits? Ellie.’
‘What time does she come on duty?’
‘She does four to midnight,’ Younger said. ‘Listen, what did Sydney say? Are they pissed off?’
‘They are not happy,’ Bauer said. ‘They say you don’t run a tight ship, your profits are down.’
‘Come on,’ Younger said, aggrieved. ‘What about those slags Ken Sala runs for me, Cher and Simone? You can’t say that’s not profitable.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Bauer said. ‘If you are careless enough to let one of your staff skim off our profits, you are careless enough to let everyone do it.’
‘Says them,’ Ivan said. ‘Come on, Bauer, it won’t happen again. I’ll waste the bitch.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Bauer said. ‘I will talk to her this afternoon.’
There was a pause while Younger absorbed this. Bauer watched the swinging door to the Men’s. There had been times when he’d used toilet cubicles for his hits. The mark was most vulnerable then, his trousers around his ankles. The cleanest way was a silenced.22 fired just above the hairline, but a guy had once reared up at him and he’d been forced to punch the guy, knocking his nasal bone back into his brain.
Ivan Younger was talking again. ‘You’re the boss. But like I said before, if you could take Sugar along with you, he’d learn something, so we wouldn’t have to hassle you in future.’
Bauer shrugged at a passing clergyman. ‘So long as he keeps out of the way. Tell him my place, four o’clock.’
He hung up and collected his overnight bag and got into a Silver Top. The driver was Asian. That didn’t surprise him, you found them everywhere. ‘St Kilda,’ he said.
On the Tullamarine Freeway he watched the scenery, the satellite industries that cluster around airports everywhere, the miles of tiled roofs stretching to the city skyline, the gloomy clouds caught at the tops of the high city buildings. He asked, as if he were visiting the place, ‘Where’s the action in Melbourne?’ He called it research. He minded several Melbourne operations now, and whenever he was in a taxi he liked to ask background questions, taxi drivers being well-known for having a finger on the pulse.
‘Depends,’ the driver said, ‘but you’re starting at the right place. Most people try St Kilda first.’
Not much accent. Probably been sponging here for years. ‘Depends on what?’ Bauer said.
‘You want a girl? Little boys? A game? A club? Things to put in your body?’
Smart-arse. ‘What about all of the above?’ Bauer said. ‘I hear you people are good at things like that.’
‘My people,’ the taxi driver said. ‘Who would they be?’
‘Don’t get smart,’ Bauer said.
‘Look, I don’t have to take you anywhere,’ the taxi driver said. He slowed the taxi and edged into the emergency stopping lane on the approach to the Bell Street exit. ‘This all right? No charge.’
The driver was small, skinny, the kind with a mop of black hair flopping over black-rimmed glasses. Nothing to him, Bauer thought, but maybe he fancies himself in unarmed combat. He rested his arm along the back of the seat and let his hand drop to the driver’s neck. He felt for the pressure points with his fingers and began to squeeze. With his other hand he steered the taxi as it began to slow. The driver’s eyes rolled back. His body began to droop.
By now they were almost stationary. The driver’s foot was no longer on the accelerator. Bauer released his hold and, still steering, slapped the driver’s cheek and whistled piercingly in his ear. When the taxi was motionless he moved the gear lever i
nto Park.
He opened the window. The air was very cold. The driver recovered, shaking his head. ‘You bastard,’ he said.
‘You feel a little dizzy,’ Bauer said, ‘but the sensations are coming back to your fingers, correct? You can see and hear and breathe again.’ He reached forward and turned off the taxi radio. ‘You will not call your base about this. Now, let us begin again. Where is the action in Melbourne. I want the names of places. Think carefully, now.’
‘I don’t know,’ the driver said. ‘I am part-time only’
Bauer shook his head in disgust. ‘You’re a student? I suppose the government is supporting you? I suppose you will stay on when your visa expires? You make me sick.’ He sat back and pointed ahead. ‘Go. St Kilda.’
He appeared to go to sleep. The driver eased back into traffic and drove across the city. Where Fitzroy Street meets the Esplanade in St Kilda, Bauer said, ‘I will walk now.’
He paid the fare and an extra twenty dollars, saying, ‘You won’t be following this up. You’ll take the money and keep quiet.’ He reached into the back seat for his bag, got out, and stood waiting on the footpath.
The driver sat, the engine idling. Then he opened his door, stood half in and half out of the taxi, and called shrilly to Bauer, at roof level, ‘Your sister sleeps with black men.’
He jerked back into the driver’s seat and sped away in the direction of Luna Park.
Bauer shrugged. ‘Haven’t got a sister.’
He drew the strap of his bag over one shoulder and walked back along Fitzroy Street. Palm trees, lawns and buildings on the other side of the street, Italian bistros, ice-cream parlours, adult bookshops and local residents on this side. Junkies and drunks blinking in the wintry sun.
He turned into a side street and began the climb to his walled-in house. He didn’t like living in St Kilda, but he had no choice. The Sydney outfit wanted him close to their Melbourne interests, their clubs and other front operations, their pushers and pinball parlours. Not that he had to do much, just make sure people like Ivan Younger didn’t have their fingers in the till, put the frights on if someone played up, fly to Sydney with the weekly take.
