Dragons at the Party

by Jon Cleary

  The demonstrators in the street let them through to their unmarked car. “If I’d known that was a police car,” said one of the demonstrators, a girl dressed for the occasion: old clothes that wouldn’t suffer when she was hauled along the ground to the paddy-wagon, “I’d have let your tyres down.”

  “Lie down and I’ll run over you,” said Malone, forgetting about law and order.

  They drove back over the Bridge and through the city to Redfern. It was an area on the edge of the uptown business section and had never been anything but working-class. It had always been rough and tough and it had succeeded in frightening off the gentrification that had overtaken other inner city areas. Malone had been born in nearby Erskineville, another tiny district that kept out the middle-class restorers and titivators with their Sydney “iron lace” railings and their bright yellow doors. Malone was sure that his father Con, who lived behind a plain brown door and a plain wooden fence, had single-handedly kept the middle class out of Erskineville.

  The advent of the Aborigines had been the final bar to any gentrification of Redfern. The radical chic would march in demonstrations for land rights and other compensations, but they preferred not to live amongst those they supported. Social conscience did not mean one had to have the right address; they had land rights of their own. The Aborigines had lived in Redfern for years; Malone could remember them as a kid, tolerated if not loved, a dark part of the community on which no one ever wanted to shine a light. Then twenty years ago Redfern had become a magnet for Aborigines drifting into the city, driven there by intolerance in the country towns and the desire to share in the then boom being whipped up by the whites, the invaders of two hundred years ago. With this return to the original battleground came the radicals, belligerent, vocal and anything but chic.

  Malone and Clements drove down a narrow street between terrace houses that looked as mean and suspicious as some of the people who stood lounging in the open front doors. This street was nowhere near as mean and desolate as some of the overseas slums Malone had seen on television: the South Bronx in New York, for instance. But the residents were just as suspicious of outsiders, especially cops.

  Though he and Clements were in plainclothes and their car was an ordinary unmarked Holden, Malone knew they had already been identified as police. The local elements might have lost their bush skills and couldn’t track a dingo in a sand-pit, but they could smell a copper at a hundred paces and probably round a corner.

  “I’ll stay in the car,” said Clements, “just in case.”

  Malone got out, feeling the heat hit him at once, crossed the pavement and knocked on the open door of one of the terrace houses. As he did so half a dozen Aborigines converged on the house, coming from several directions, unhurriedly but with purpose. They were all young men and all had the same sullen belligerence in their dark faces.

  “You wanting someone, mister?”

  “I’m looking for Jack Rimmer.”

  “I’m here,” said a voice from the dim hallway of the house and then Rimmer stepped out on to the narrow strip of veranda that separated the house from the pavement. “Oh, it’s you, Inspector.”

  “Can I have a word with you, Jack? Alone?”

  Rimmer took his time looking at Malone. He was a full-blood, his face dark as an old saddle, the cheeks smooth on the bones but with deep lines running down from his nose to his mouth. He was in his fifties, but his almost black eyes looked centuries old; he had lived a dozen lives, none of them truly happy. He was a government social worker and his work only increased his unhappiness with the world in which he had to live. Sometimes he dreamed of going back to the bush where he had been born, in the channel country of western Queensland, but he knew he would be lost there, too.

  Then he nodded and glanced at the six young men on the pavement, “It’s all right, boys. Inspector Malone ain’t the enemy.”

  He led Malone into the narrow house. It smelled of bodies and cooked food; it was his private home but it was also a doss-house for Aboriginal kids arriving from the bush. He led the way through into the kitchen, waved Malone to a chair beside the table in the middle of the room and put a kettle on the gas stove. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea. Jack, I’m looking for Dallas Pinjarri.”

  “He been up to something?” He had a soft, gravel-throated voice, as if someone had once tried to strangle him. Which, perhaps, they had.

  “Not as far as I know. I just want some information from him.”

  “You’ll never get anything outa him. He’s the tightest-mouthed bastard when it comes to talking to youse guys.”

  “Not always,” Malone grinned. “He once called me every name he could think of, in twenty-seven tribal dialects.”

  Rimmer grinned, gap-toothed. “That’d be him. He’s an angry young bastard. He could make something of himself, but he’s too busy being angry. Waddia you wanna know?”

  “Jack, did the militants ever have anything to do with a terrorist named Miguel Seville?”

  Rimmer had his back to Malone as he spooned tea into a broken-handled pot. “That the guy mentioned in the papers this morning?”

  Malone saw the Sunday papers lying on a battered couch against one wall, front pages up. Seville was more than mentioned: his name was a big headlined shout. “That’s the one. There’s a rumour he was out here a couple of years ago.”

  “He coulda been.” Rimmer turned round. “If he was, they didn’t bring him around here.”

  “Jack, I’m not looking to hang anything on you. I don’t care what happened a couple of years ago—if anything happened at all. I’m trying to prevent something happening today or tomorrow.”

  “Like what?”

  Malone hesitated. “Can I trust you?”

  “That’s your risk, Scobie, not mine.” The kettle whistled and he turned his back again.

  Malone stared at the thin bent back. He couldn’t blame Rimmer for trying to protect his own. Very far back in the past they had all belonged to a tribe, several tribes: never a nation, but at least they had been owners of this land, of the bush that had become Redfern, become Sydney, become Australia. This weekend was an anniversary for them, but not a celebration. This week all the tribe had to be protected, even the rebels.

  Malone said, “We think Seville’s going to have another crack at killing President Timori. We think he’s looking for another gun and he’s got to find someone who’ll supply it.”

  Rimmer poured the tea, brought two cups to the table and sat down opposite Malone. “Milk? Sugar? Timori deserves to be bumped off. Best thing could happen.”

  “Jack, I understand your sentiment. But passing judgement isn’t my job.”

  “Some of the kids outside would disagree with you.” But Rimmer smiled; then he sobered. “Dallas never carries a gun, he’s too smart for that.”

  “He could get hold of one.” Malone stirred sugar into his black tea. “Tell me where he is, Jack. I can keep him out of trouble if I can get to him in time. What’s Dallas got to gain if Timori is killed? Palucca’s not going to do anything about land rights for your mob. Tell me where I can find him.”

  Rimmer stirred his tea, milk with no sugar, looking at it as if the leaves might flow to the surface and tell him the future before he had drained the cup. “The stupid young buggers—they’ll never succeed, trying it their way. There are millions of you, less than half a million of us . . .” He looked up, his eyes full of pain. “If I put you on to him, will you promise you won’t take him in?”

  Malone again hesitated: policemen should never make promises. But he could not make Rimmer’s position untenable: he did too much good work for that. “I promise, Jack. All I want is to talk to him.”

  Rimmer stood up. “Stay here.”

  Malone sat and waited, poured himself a second cup of tea. He wondered how Clements was doing out in the sweat-bath of the car, suffering the aggressive stares of the young Aborigines. He looked around the kitchen, saw the crude posters but didn’t examine
them. Some of them were violent in their demands, but he doubted that Jack Rimmer believed in them.

  Rimmer was back in ten minutes with Dallas Pinjarri. The latter came into the kitchen, slumped down on a chair and shoved his legs out; the pose was so theatrically belligerent that Malone wanted to laugh. But he had experienced the same attitude from young white punks: rebels now got their image from TV just like politicians.

  “I wouldn’t of come if it hadn’t been for Jack.”

  “I’m grateful to him,” said Malone and nodded his thanks to Rimmer. “Relax, Dallas, this isn’t a bust. All I want is some information.”

  Dallas Pinjarri came of a generation whose mothers had named their children, black and white, after American movie stars or American cities. At one time, Malone had remarked, the entire forward packs of Sydney rugby league teams seemed to be made up of Garys, Waynes and Carys; one had to dig to the bottom of a ruck to find a Fred or Clarrie. But the next generation would be worse: Malone shuddered at the ghastly thought of Jons, Jasons and Justins running on to a football field. Dallas had done his best to restore the balance by changing his name from Smith to Pinjarri.

  “Have you had any contact with a man named Miguel Seville?”

  Pinjarri’s eyes flicked towards the newspapers on the couch, but his face remained set. “The guy in this morning’s papers? Why would I know anything about him?”

  “We know he came out to see your crowd two years ago.” It never hurt to sound positive.

  Pinjarri laughed, but Malone caught the uneasy note in it. “What good would he do us? We wouldn’t want him. Why d’you think he’d be contacting us now?”

  “Possibly to buy a gun from you.”

  Pinjarri straightened up, shook his head. “That’s it, you’re trying to fucking bust me. I’m not selling no gun—I dunno this guy from Adam . . .”

  “You could be in bigger trouble than just selling a gun, Dallas. You’ve read what this feller’s up to—”

  “You got no proof of that. It’s just like you bastards, laying something on him before you got any proof—you dunno he’s even in the country—”

  “How do you know we don’t?” Malone knew now that he had the Aborigine worried. “An accessory before the fact of assassination—that wouldn’t help the rest of your mob, would it?” He looked at Rimmer. “Talk some sense into him, Jack.”

  Rimmer, leaning against the kitchen sink, shrugged. “I been trying to do that for months. He never listens to me, do you, Dallas? Wake up, son. You’re gunna get your arse pushed in on this one if you play stupid.”

  But Pinjarri was stubborn. “I dunno the guy.”

  Malone sat a moment staring at the young Aborigine. Then he sighed and stood up. “Righto, Dallas. Just remember—when we do bust you for this, I tried to help you. Thanks, Jack. I think your job’s harder than mine.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with that, Inspector. Only the pay’s different.”

  Malone grinned. “I’m the right colour, Jack. Take care.”

  He looked once more at Pinjarri, hoping for a last-minute change of heart; but there was none. The young Aborigine was staring out the kitchen window at the tiny yard: he saw nothing, Malone was sure of that. His stubbornness, his total distrust of the police jacketed him in an attitude that would eventually bring him to disaster. For a moment Malone felt sorry for him, but it lasted only a moment: pity, they had told him years ago, should never be part of a policeman’s equipment. They had been wrong, of course, but he had learned to use it sparingly.

  He went out into the street, climbed into the car and felt the sweat start on him immediately. “Any trouble?”

  Clements looked out at the dark young men lounging against the veranda railings of Rimmer’s house. “Why do we bother with ‘em? Why don’t we just round ‘em all up and send ‘em back to the bush. They’d be happier there.”

  “Let’s go, Russ.” He didn’t want Clements’ remarks overheard. The big man’s heart probably wasn’t racist, just his tongue. It was the tongue, however, other people’s tongues, that caused half a policeman’s problems. He’d lost count of the number of murders that had begun with verbal abuse. “Maybe they don’t like the bush any more than you do.”

  Clements nodded, unconvinced. “You get anything out of Pinjarri?”

  “Nothing. But I’ll bet he’s had contact with Seville. I want him watched.”

  He looked sideways at the big man and Clements raised his thick eyebrows in shock. “Who, me? In this heat? Ah Christ, Scobie, let’s call up some young joker—”

  “You’re it, Russ—you’re younger than me. There’s no time to call in anyone else—I need a tail on him now. Pull up.” Clements pulled the car into the kerb. “Now’s your chance to prove you’re a better black tracker than any of the blacks.”

  “I can remember when you and I were mates, Inspector,” said Clements, getting out of the car.

  “It’s the rank, Sergeant. It’s always breaking up beautiful friendships. Good luck, Russ. Ring me at the office in an hour. I’ll have some young fellers to relieve you by then.”

  He watched Clements go back to the corner of the street, stand there a moment, then disappear. He slid over into the driver’s seat and drove the car back into the city. He felt the trail to Seville was warming up, though it would be Clements who would be feeling the heat the most. He turned on the air-conditioning and was surprised it was working. It was a good omen.

  II

  “You’ve made it just that much tougher for us to catch this man,” said Commissioner Leeds.

  “Tough titty, John,” said the Premier, “I had my reasons.”

  I’m sure you did, thought Leeds. Politicians, particularly ones like Hans Vanderberg, never did anything without a reason. The voters might never understand the reasons, but that did not matter. Though in this case the voters might understand: The Dutchman had never made any secret of his enmity for Phil Norval.

  “This country’s in a helluva state, John,” the Premier went on. “The celebrations don’t mean a thing. Anything that will get rid of that crowd in Canberra will be good for the country. I’m doing it for Australia,” he said and tried to look full of patriotism. But he was only a quarter-full of it and the emptiness showed.

  Leeds tried not to throw up. “It would be a feather in our cap, the State’s, if we managed to catch Seville. The rest of the world has been chasing him for ten years.”

  “That would be fine if you coppers were running for office. But you’re not. I’m the one who’s got an election this year. I got to get up to all the skulbuggery I can.” He looked at his political secretary and grinned evilly. “But Roger here tells me I’m a dead certain to get back in.”

  “Skulduggery, certainty,” Ladbroke whispered under his breath. He sometimes dreamed of going to Britain and working for a British Prime Minister: they always sounded so articulate and literate. But maybe they wouldn’t appreciate his skills in skulduggery, or skulbuggery, whatever you called it; and he knew he would miss the opportunities to practise it. He loved the bear-pit of this State’s politics. He said aloud, “They’re moving the Timoris out of Kirribilli House this afternoon.”

  “That’s news to me,” said Leeds.

  “Where’s he going?” said Vanderberg.

  “He’s moving over to Russell Hickbed’s place at Point Piper. They’ve had trouble finding a place for him, nothing’s on offer around the harbour.”

  “Hickbed, eh?” The Dutchman spun his chair round and looked out the window. He could see Point Piper from here, a finger of silvertail residences poking out from the south shore of the harbour. He imagined he could see Hickbed’s mansion, though he had only seen pictures of it; he had certainly never been invited to visit. It was within shooting distance, he would bring up the field guns tomorrow. “I wonder how much of a hand he’s got in the pie? I wouldn’t trust him if I could throw him far.”

  Ladbroke didn’t attempt to translate that. “We’ve got nothing definite, but he and M
adame Timori are supposed to be business partners.”

  “Are you going to pass on to us all the dirt you dig up?” said Leeds, and felt dirty asking such a thing.

  The Premier swung his chair round to face Leeds. “That’ll depend, John. You don’t want to get mixed up in anything political, do you? All you fellers have got to do is catch this Seville.”

  “You’ve practically ruined our chances of that.”

  “Then he may go home without taking another crack at Timori,” said Ladbroke, and Vanderberg nodded.

  “If he does, then we may be stuck with the Timoris for ever. You won’t like that, will you?”

  “If I can bring down Phil Norval, the Timoris won’t stay,” said The Dutchman. “I’ll see to that, my word I will.”

  “There’s one item Jack Phillips and Don Clary have dug up,” said Ladbroke and smiled as if he might next lick his lips: fat on gossip, he fed on it. “There was a donation of fifty thousand dollars to Phil Norval’s last campaign fund. The cheque came from a company called Da Gama Exploration. The principal shareholder is D.R. O’Reilly. Delvina Rose O’Reilly.”

  The Dutchman clapped his hands: he looked like an ugly schoolboy who had at last seen the school well ablaze. “Oh, I hope they don’t kill Timori! Not till I can bury Phil Norval in the manure heap!”

  III

  Precisely at eleven o’clock Seville phoned Dallas Pinjarri. He was not being Swiss, but himself, the Argentinian. He had learned from experience that punctuality was essential in the trade of terrorism. The bomb that went off too early or too late never did anyone any good.

  Pinjarri picked up the phone after it had rung only once; he must have been standing right by it. “That you, Mick?”