Flanagan looked over his left shoulder and then his right. Roosveldt hung back with the panting dog, but RJ was close enough to be a problem. Flanagan scratched the side of his nose and stalled while he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one he’d rolled during the much earlier drive with Peter, not making any offers, and then he crammed the pack away. Between his money roll, the mobile phone and the cigarettes, his dark jeans were getting full.
“Allyson’s a family friend,” he said and exhaled smoke, straight-faced but careful not to let it go in Carlo’s face. “I understand she’s been keeping your company and now she’s run away. Her parents are concerned.”
“And that’s where you come in?” Carlo asked, squinting, twisting his arm to scratch the back of his head and looking around for all the world unchanged since he was the little ADHD kid at the back of the class, twenty years too early for Ritalin.
“That’s right. I want to see her, have a word. I’d appreciate it if you blokes left her alone.” He glanced and nodded towards RJ. “As I explained, I don’t know what she’s told you, but I know she used a false name. The girl’s only sixteen, a promising student, silly as any young thing with a head full of shit. Her parents want her at home.”
Carlo sniffed.
“That’s not what she tells me,” he said.
Flanagan ran his teeth along his gums, glanced at the cigarette and took another drag.
“She tells me her old man gave her an ultimatum to stop going out or fuck off for good,” Franco said.
“Well, I dunno about that,” Flanagan shrugged. “They want her back.”
“And they sent you.”
“No,” Flanagan answered. “I offered.”
“And who are you, Flanagan? That’s an Irish name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Eyeties and the Irish, they kinda go a long way back,” Carlo said.
“You think so? My granddad came here in the fifties. My dad was already born, though he never remembered the old country.”
As if charmed by Flanagan’s admission, Charlie Blanco nodded.
“My old man came here and worked on the roads, couldn’t speak a fucken word. He used to beat us if we spoke Italian at home, the moment we were at school. Imagine that, eh? A whole year or two, me and me sisters sittin’ ‘round the dinner table sayin’ fuck-all because we only knew a few words. Fucken prick.”
“I gather he learned too,” Flanagan said.
“Na, we just stopped talkin’ to the cunt.”
Carlo finished his story with another uproarious laugh and stepped forward, putting his hand on Flanagan’s shoulder and guiding him the long way around the van until they were up near the back doors.
“Did you blokes set up?”
Flanagan blanched to see the two bikers had their bandanas drawn to beneath their eyes, one of them completely anonymous with his sunglasses in place. The patches said they were Woden’s Wolves, a white supremacist mob originally from the US. Despite their shaved heads, they resembled the Vikings they so much admired. Their arms were ascrawl with tattoos of vines and animals and dodgy-looking blokes with historically inaccurate weapons and helms. The symbol on the back of the vests was a simplified head, bearded and one-eyed, with a winged helmet on top like Harley Davidson flanges.
He recognised the rattle of ammunition before even turning to look into the back of the van. They had a mini-workshop as well as a gunsmithy going in the huge open space of the back, an arsenal of pistols, shotguns and automatic weapons sufficient to terrify any police who might randomly pull them over. The biker without glasses stepped forward and picked up a dense, plasticated-looking rifle Flanagan recognised as a Steyr, as used by the Australian army and rejected by the SAS. He was slightly disturbed to see the Australian flag sticker on the weapon’s high-density plastic butt.
Carlo was trying hard to remain conversational despite looking almost aroused by the weapons, beside himself with the desire to shoot something.
“You ever seen one of these before?” Carlo asked as he turned back, the weapon cradled in his arms, the biker passing a fat magazine full of brass-jacketed rounds.
Flanagan knew the score and also knew when it came to pissing contests it was never good to play along. Yet he took the weapon from Carlo’s arms and held out his hand for another clip as he expertly turned the rifle over and changed the setting from single shot to fully automatic.
“Yeah,” he said, tapping the mag on the shaft before slamming it home in the slot behind the grip. Then he turned it over again, hand on the grip and finger away from the trigger, as he hefted it up and put the awkward-looking barrel sight to his eye, pointing the muzzle away from the immediate crowd.
“Nice,” he said. “I used these in Timor. They handle the humidity better than the old SLRs.”
After checking the safety was still on, he thrust the gun back toward Carlo, who took the thing looking flustered, a dangerous weapon prepped and loaded and just waiting for stupidity if he so chose.
“Ah, right. You know your shit, do you?”
“I know some shit,” Flanagan nodded.
“What were you doing in Timor?” the biker without sunnies asked.
Flanagan turned slowly, looking at the bloke with his slightly protruding belly and reddish beard creeping up from under the bandanna to almost tickle his eyes.
“We don’t want to know each other, do we?”
The biker grunted. “I guess not.”
Flanagan jutted his chin. “I could do with a crate of 5.56 if you’re selling,” he lied.
The bikers said nothing, too conscious of Franco huffing with the loaded Steyr and walking away from the back of the van.
“Let’s test drive these cunts,” he barked, expecting his entourage to follow.
Trained by long association, RJ instantly followed. Flanagan waited a moment and eyed the remaining Wolves, finally cracking a smile.
“Let’s hope he’s talking ‘bout the guns, eh?”
The second biker sniggered and pulled his vest back to show a black automatic snug as a bug in his sweaty black t-shirted armpit.
*
THE RIFLE BUCKED like a nervous dog’s leg as Franco reduced another rusting drum to metal slag, brackish blue water gushing from its sides.
“Aren’t you worried about what might be in these drums?” Flanagan asked.
“It’s not like I live here, mate,” Carlo replied. He pulled the clip from the Steyr and replaced it with another one RJ handed over. “We came out before when I was buying something for a friend. One of the drums just fucken lit up, didn’t it, Mike?”
“Yeah, sure it did,” RJ hummed behind them.
“So do we get to play?”
Roosveldt had tied up the dog and stood behind them practically dancing from foot to foot. Like an indulgent uncle, Carlo only chuckled, lifting the Steyr by its sight like it was a handle and passing it across to Flanagan, taking him by surprise.
“I was gonna have a look at those shotguns, too,” Carlo replied. “I’d like to see one of those fuckers when we’re out with the ‘roos.”
Flanagan gave the rifle a practiced once-over before lifting it into his armpit and sighting the next 44-gallon drum along. Then he lowered the weapon unfired and turned.
“When are we gonna talk about Allyson?”
His drawl was devolving back into pure meathead. Tennyson wouldn’t be impressed.
Carlo had wandered about five metres away, and when he looked back, it was as plain to him as everyone else that he and Roosveldt and RJ had allowed themselves to fall into a huddle leaving Flanagan with a loaded assault rifle. He could reduce all three of them to pulsating red jelly in about two seconds flat. Tough guy demeanour notwithstanding, Carlo licked his lips and plucked at his crotch.
“I’m still thinkin’ about it. What’re you gonna do, waste us all?”
Flanagan clucked, though the temptation was there, something akin to the urge to fly that came from walking around high rise
building sites without safety rails.
“Don’t be daft.”
He turned and abruptly peppered the barrel with rifle rounds. The retorts weren’t as loud as some weapons and the shouts from Carlo and the others when the barrel erupted in flames soon drowned out the echoes.
“That’s what I’m fucken talkin’ about!” the small man roared.
Flanagan dropped the rifle to his side, the thirty-round clip half full. Carlo and Peter drifted back to the van leaving RJ a statue, arms crossed like Chesty Bonds, eyes on him resolute.
“Here, if it makes you so nervous,” Flanagan said and proffered the gun.
Again, the surprise interpretation took the big man off-guard and he was holding the gun before he’d made any choice. Flanagan walked off a ways and dusted his hands like it was possible to shake them of cordite. He rolled another cigarette and turned, appraising Carlo’s minder from behind as he pored over the weapon for the safety switch. When he found it, he lifted the rifle like it was a toy and fired once, twice, three times at the next barrel along before hitting it. Flanagan lit up, inhaling smoke, and Roosveldt and Franco came back with a gun apiece, the dog walker with a big Desert Eagle and Carlo with the pistol-grip shotgun he’d seen before.
Carlo glanced aside, as if making sure he had Flanagan’s attention, and then he whistled. Roosveldt stopped what he was doing and turned around.
“Boss?”
“Get Henry.”
Flanagan felt an emptiness lurch in his stomach the same moment Carlo smiled. The small man looked down at the shotgun for a moment, running his finger around the ejection slit for the cartridges. It only took a moment for Roosveldt to bring over the trembling dog.
“He’s always pissing me off, Henry.”
Flanagan said nothing as Carlo crouched, the length of the shotgun across his lap, and smoothed back the dog’s ears. Then he stood. He pumped the slide and smiled.
“Just like in the movies,” he said. “Now, make like a ‘roo, Henry.”
Roosveldt backed away and Flanagan sensed RJ moving up behind him, not quite yet close enough to be a threat. Franco kicked the dog and it squealed, no strength in its back legs, as if it could smell its doom on the march. Carlo kicked the animal again and it padded off a short way and looked back, a split second before a noise that disappeared half its head.
The sleek cadaver flipped over in the dusty sand, a splash of blood like a spill from a juicer lashing the ground as the dog kicked its feet. Carlo pumped the shotgun again and aimed down, firing into Henry’s chest with graphic results. The dog rolled over to a stop. Then, with the weapon cradled against his hip, the gunman pulled a pair of shotgun shells from his pants pocket and refilled the depleted chamber.
“That’s awesome,” he said with a quiet grin.
Carlo turned and yelled back toward the van, more animated. “That’s awesome! I’ll take two of these cunts! Ammo as well!”
Then he looked across at Flanagan. There was a vacancy in his smile.
“Give RJ your number. I’ll call. I want a word with Allyson first.”
Flanagan nodded, all the weaponry cutting short any argument he might make. Roosveldt opened up on the barrels with the heavy pistol, not hitting much, but clearly enjoying himself with his lunatic whoops.
The keys to the Alfa Romeo were still in the car. RJ returned the Steyr to the bikers and the second one whispered Flanagan across.
“Our number,” he said, and passed him a slip of paper.
Flanagan glanced at the ten digit string and nodded, tucking it away and saluting at the same time.
“Much obliged.”
He nodded to the masked men and fell into step with RJ, moving back towards the white car. The big man moved unerringly to the driver’s side and ducked in. Flanagan walked around, thinking briefly about the dog, and did the same.
“Where can I drop you?”
For what little difference it would make, Flanagan didn’t want the astute minder to spot his car and take down the plates. Roosveldt hadn’t even seen the Fairmont disgracing his lawn.
“Fremantle,” Flanagan said. “Just in Fremantle, thanks.”
*
THEY WERE DRIVING. Flanagan didn’t think RJ was ever going to speak again. Yet somewhere in the middle of Beeliar, brick-and-tile homes flying by the speeding Alfa so fast they were just a bore-water brown blur, RJ opened his mouth and closed it again with an audible snap.
“What’s on your mind, Mike?”
After a lengthy rumination the big man asked, “You’re on the level about this girl?”
“Absolutely.”
“How are you a family friend?”
“Her brother-in-law. A lawyer, I should add. We’re old mates.”
“Do you really not know who Charlie Franco is?”
“I was briefed by another friend. A cop, in fact.” Flanagan shrugged without meaning to emphasise it. “Mike, I don’t give a shit about who your boss is. I’ve been in rougher places than Coogee, I can tell you.”
He relented with a pause and eyed the driver coolly, throwing him a bone.
“I imagine the same could be said for you.”
“I did six years in Fremantle Prison before they closed it,” the big man said. He chewed over his hesitation a moment before going on.
“I was here travelling. Thought I’d found paradise. Then I glassed some fucken uni student in a pub and they caught me before I’d sobered up. Told ‘em my name was John Walker. It didn’t seem to impress.”
“You’re English, though?”
“Welsh,” RJ shrugged. “Or I was.”
Flanagan nodded and rolled down the window as he lit a cigarette.
“I’ll speak to Carlo about the girl,” RJ said.
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I’m not even sure he’s laid a hand on her.”
Flanagan gave him a look and the big man stooped his shoulders, still driving.
“I’m serious. You never know with those girls whether they’re Carlo’s or if they’re with Brett. They’re too close. They share everything.”
“Who’s Brett?” Flanagan asked.
RJ watched him a moment and said, “Brett Hopkins.”
“The footballer?”
“The very same.”
“Jesus.”
The guy was a household name: a premiership player and the son of a minor State MP. Flanagan wasn’t that interested, but there were plenty of times in Thailand he’d sat back with a beer and watched the Australia Network. It made him re-factor the whole thing in his head, though Lord had said something about footballers and nightclubs. It made him wonder what he’d missed.
“Now tell me who you work for,” RJ grinned quietly.
Flanagan exhaled smoke carefully out the window.
“I’d be your worst nightmare, Mike. I’m a free agent. Nothing to live for, nothing to lose. You better believe it.”
“I’m not sure you do,” the other man said. “You don’t sound so sure.”
“Let’s hope we don’t find out, then.”
ELEVEN
FLANAGAN STOOD WITH his fist wrapped around the collar of his leather coat as RJ gunned it from the traffic lights.
Both the pub and the silent café were powerful draws, but his sister’s unit was close by and it was only a minute before he persuaded her gate open and approached the door. Nuala answered mid-way through the second round of knocks.
“It’s you,” she said.
“Close your eyes, I’ve got a present for you,” he grinned.
It was an old game and Nuala smiled in surprise, flashing white teeth and brushing back her shiny dark bobbed hair. She gave a groan and shook like she needed to pee, and just before she gave up on waiting, Flanagan pulled a cigarette from his pocket and held it under her nose.
“Ah, God,” she said with a sudden unconscious lilt. “I haven’t had one of these for years.”
“Bullshit,” Flanagan said as he pushed his way inside. “You dykes
are always smoking cigarettes. When you’re not up to other things.”
The interior was deathly quiet. When he turned and raised an eyebrow, Nuala shook her head.
“Karen’s not here.”
She said the name with the accent, lengthening the a. Flanagan remembered suddenly she’d had a thing for Germany even back in high school, perhaps only partly a result of her language class. He seemed to remember a penchant for burlesque as well, or at least that was how he’d explained her stripteases for him and his friends when they were just boys.
“Come out the back and hand me your lighter. This is for old times’ sake.”
Flanagan followed through the narrow townhouse, the kitchen all in brown tiles, the floor so clean it was almost a safety hazard.
“‘Old times’ sake’? You sound like you’re going somewhere.”
Nuala paused to put on the kettle and stopped, looking at him.
“Did you not hear a thing I said? I’m moving to Berlin.”
“When?”
“The end of the month. I have the tickets already.”
“Don’t you have a job?” he asked.
“It’s my last week. In Berlin, I’m going to paint.”
Flanagan chewed his cud for a few moments. “Have you told mum?”
“Have you?”
He laughed, uncomfortable. “Not likely.”
“I called her last night,” Nuala said. “You didn’t go, did you?”
“Oh, I went,” Flanagan sort of laughed. “I went. I couldn’t go through with it. I don’t know, it seems too weird.”
He met her eyes and quickly looked away. She was the family’s only brown-eyed girl, a thousand rotations of the Van Morrison song inevitable in an Irish clan however reduced by emigration and the Diaspora they were.
“Things have changed so much while I was away. You said she thought I was dead. Well, dad is dead. She left him . . . you said it was before she knew about the cancer.”
He shook his head roughly and swallowed, eyes looking for the exit. Nuala came forward, clucking like a mother hen and lifting her arms and Flanagan spun away from the counter and helped himself to the lock on the glass door, moving quickly into the brick courtyard full of hanging pots.
Hard Light- Infamous Page 8
