Foley didn’t reply, let the boy feel sorry for himself. He was a staunch kid, had a clearly fractured wrist, swollen and blue, that he’d splinted himself with knives and a sock, and his ribs were bruised too, maybe broken. But there were tears, rolling out of his eyes like silver.
‘Where’s he bein’ held, you reckon? Reckon I could bust ’im out? We got two guns.’
He meant it too, and Foley had to force back an admiring laugh. Just like he’d been at the same age. ‘Nah, kid, that’s what they want. This is a … provocation … means that they’re calling you out.’
‘Should I hand myself in?’
‘Yeah, you should. But tell me why you busted out. I did my juvie time at Longmore; wasn’t so bad.’
Foley listened to the boy’s story, raised his eyebrows. The set-up made sense. Workable from the screws’ point of view, but just ridiculous enough for them to deny it, should it ever go wrong, paint the bloke caught as a liar.
Target criminal families, just like Tracker’s. One crim inside the walls of Freo Prison, the crim’s family on the outer, forced to smuggle for the Purple Circle of screws that ran the jail black market. Better a crim’s family take the risk of getting caught than one of the screws. And if they wanted to punish a crim, they just had to bust the family member. Good for keeping control.
‘And you refused to get your dad involved? Mate, you’ve got a lot to learn. You’d be owned by the screws, sure, but there’d be favours granted. That screw system in the prison – you got to work with it. Ain’t nobody gonna help you if you’re on the out. People outside can’t protect you. Can’t protect yourself.’
‘You’re saying I shoulda –’
‘Your dad would’ve understood. He’s made hard choices before. Knows how things work.’
The tears had dried up. ‘Just didn’t wanna get him in trouble again. I remember as a kid …’
‘Son, your dad … I know him like a brother. He’s a survivor because he doesn’t just look after number one. Can’t be like that in prison, or in life. He’s cunning and strategic, but most of all he’s loyal. Son, don’t you know? Most fathers are like that. They’re happy to put themselves in harm’s way, if it’s for their people. Helping you help the screws would’ve been an opportunity for him to show that.’
‘Your father or mine?’
‘My father was a dog. Looked after number one. Why he ended up dying alone. Good fucken riddance.’
‘I thought you were gonna tell me to run. But I’ll do it – hand myself in. Show that I can make the sacrifice too, for him.’
‘Good one. But hold yer horses. You’ve got to do it right. Your dad just bashed a copper. Chances are you hand yourself in, they’ll lock both of you up. And he’ll be taking his medicine tonight, either way – they’ll be knockin’ him from pillar to post as we speak.’
The kid’s eyes flooded, but didn’t spill. ‘Fucken what then?’
‘Money talks, son, your dad walks. You got to pay that sergeant you shamed, on top of returning the gun. And you got to pay those screws, make it right with them, before you hand yourself in. Otherwise, they’re gonna make an example of you. The aggravation you caused by escaping – bad look for them. They’ll neck you in your cell. I’ve seen it – they’ll do it. You got to … establish the trust again. Money’s what they want – money’s the only way.’
The boy nodded, wiped his eyes, gritted his jaw. ‘I can help you rob a bank. I can be driver. Only give me enough for a bribe.’
Des Foley shook his head. ‘No chance. I love your father like a brother, but I fear him too. He’d never forgive me. Besides, I work alone. Always.’
Foley reached for the leather satchel beside his pillow, worked at the buckle, tipped the lot onto his sleeping bag. He’d already hidden the diamonds in a rotted stump beneath the house. He picked up the passports and bank books and files and put them in the bag. He counted the money that remained. Four thousand, three hundred dollars in mixed Australian currency, two thousand more in US fifties. The Yank money was worthless to the kid – Foley replaced it in the satchel. He pared away thirteen hundred for his mother, took the paper bands off the remaining notes, gave two thousand bucks to the kid. ‘That should be enough to make the sergeant happy. You have someone you can trust, to find out where he lives, drop the gun and this money off at his house?’
Blake Tracker shook his head, staring at the cash. ‘Nope.’
‘Well obviously I can’t bloody do it myself. What about your father? He have any mates, uncles or aunts do the job for us? Think. Gotta be someone reliable. This is no ring the doorbell and run routine. It’s got to get to the sergeant in person.’
Blake Tracker looked beaten, the exhaustion breaking over him. Foley shrugged. ‘Ok, we need another stake for the screws anyway. You’ll need a whole lot more than that. If we can get money to them, might be smart to hand yourself in to the sergeant. He’ll beat three colours of shit out of you, but he’ll keep the money, be able to claim that he retrieved the gun in the line of duty. Make him look good. What’s wrong?’
Blake remembered the look on the detective’s face, those years ago, just the two of them in the swamp. What he hadn’t told the judge, or even his father. He hadn’t knocked the copper out and then stolen the gun. The D had already drawn, was going to shoot Blake for sure. The sound of a woman calling her dog had interrupted him. Blake rushed him then, got in a lucky elbow, the gun fell his way. ‘That guy’s gonna kill me. Irish Pete, this screw at the home … he heard things. Only thing stopped it happenin’ already in Longmore is the fucker didn’t have the money to pay. But he kept askin’, how much? How much to neck the Abo kid?’
‘Smart you didn’t tell your father. He’d hunt him down.’
‘I know it. What are we gonna do? I gotta get my pops out.’
‘That ain’t gonna happen, son. He’s in for a time. They won’t take him before the judge until his bruises heal. You best sleep. Thinkin’ this tired leads to crazy moves. Sleep, and then we’ll talk. I got an idea.’
Foley thought of Mostel’s belongings in the satchel, the key to the safety deposit box in Harrowgate Bank. He had to get past thousands of coppers on the prowl. Some freelance killers. The Junkyard Dogs would want revenge for their mate. A fucking shitstorm. And the story of Foley’s homecoming would hit the papers and TV today. The city banks would go into overnight lockdown, hire extra security, like always. His poor ma: the coppers and the papers would be all over her again.
30.
The return of Australia’s most wanted, Des Foley, to the city had blown the soon-to-be-hanged Clifford and Welsh, their miserable pallid faces and hangdog postures, right off the front page. Replaced by the last known photograph of Foley, a mugshot released by Victorian police, the man looking bemused and optimistic, headed into a ten-year stretch at Jika Jika, the prison within the prison at Pentridge. He’d swallowed draino to get to the hospital, done a bunk from a third-floor window, his guts still burning.
Swann remembered Foley from when he started out in his chosen trade – did a couple of armed robs of local bank branches, two armouredcar heists, but soon outgrew the capacity of the city to support a crim with his smarts and ambition.
Swann finished his coffee, poured himself some more, glanced at his watch. Just gone six. The dawn chorus of magpies and honeyeaters was fading in the early sunlight, a sullen heat spreading into the house. He lit his first for the day, turned the page, expecting to see Clifford and Welsh. Instead, two images: one of the protest site at the Old Swan Brewery; the other of the premier and Sam Mostel, the latter with a pen in his hand, bent over a contract. The deal done. The Brewery sold to Mostel for an unnamed figure. His plans for the site, commercial in focus – a hotel, capitalising on the river views. Both Mostel and the premier looked pleased with themselves – the premier announcing that the funds secured would go to a development corporation, state owned and run, to facilitate further projects.
On the page opposite was a smaller pi
ece about the bikie who’d been shot, ‘Piggy’ Taylor, owner of a bike shop that specialised in custom rides. Condition stable, after an operation to remove most of his stomach. Claimed to have been going for a walk in Kings Park when someone shot him from behind a tree. Didn’t see who it was. The journalist raising the spectre of a possible bikie war, links to Riley’s speech beneath the Barracks Arch last week, the talk of interstate patch-overs.
Marion padded into the kitchen, scratched his head, leant down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Good news?’
Swann grunted, kissed her waiting mouth, taste of mint. ‘Good news for a cartoonist. Any word from Janey?’
‘All’s well. She called late last night. Sounded drunk but happy. Said she’d got Stormie to eat some tinned asparagus soup and toast soldiers. She watered down his wine; the best she could manage to get some nonalcoholic liquids into him. He’s a bit flirty, but nothing she can’t handle.’
‘Any sign of her ex at the shelter?’
‘Nothing. That’s two days now, he hasn’t been pestering the other girls, or the shelter.’
‘Hopefully that rumour worked. Hopefully the prick’s broken down somewhere on the Nullarbor, drinking his radiator water.’ Swann looked at his watch. ‘Shit.’ He ditched the paper in the bin, Des Foley’s face peering out of a mess of cauliflower scraps.
*
Parliament wasn’t sitting until the afternoon, and the absence of ministerial staffers and hangers-on gave the building a forlorn air, like the morning after a party. The premier’s office was empty. Swann was followed to the office by a security guard, who looked like Lurch from the Addams Family, and who watched him go about his work. Swann went first to the telephone, which pinged immediately. The thing was still bugged. The security guard watched while Swann dismantled the cover and checked – it was the same bug. Swann wasn’t about to remove it without checking with Heenan, but while he was replacing the cover he dropped the small Phillips head screwdriver into the deep carpet at his feet. He knelt to pick it up, saw the canvas tote bag stowed beneath the bureau. Pretending to check something beneath the desk, Swann opened the neck of the bag. It was stuffed with cash. There had to be one hundred grand there, easy. The bag itself carried no markers or labels. It wasn’t a Conlan bag. Swann closed the neck and stood and finished his work, just in time to see Heenan huffing up the hall. Lurch stood aside and buttoned his jacket, gave a little bow.
‘All good?’ Heenan asked, looking deliberately at the phone. Swann caught the false chipper tone and the partially filled bag under Heenan’s arm and shrugged. ‘Sure. All good.’
‘Kyle, leave us alone now,’ Heenan said to Lurch, who nodded and left. ‘That thing only records incoming calls, correct?’
‘Correct.’
Heenan looked ready to collapse, his eyes bugged out and his forehead sweating. ‘You know anything about stamps, Frank?’
Swann shook his head. ‘Know I don’t like the taste. Why?’
‘Art? What about art? Or Persian fucking carpets? Vintage cars? The fucking reproduction rights to The Beatles fucking backlist?’
Swann let Heenan rant on. A meeting he’d just been to. Possible state investments in collectibles with long-term yields. Calls fielded from all over the world. Shysters and hustlers lining up to flog stuff. Swann stood away from the bureau while Heenan knelt and put more cash in the canvas bag, his voice wheedling and cynical in turn. He struggled to his feet and reached into the top drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jameson, cracked the cap of the new bottle and took a slug.
‘Thought the premier quit the grog?’
‘This is for me. I fucking need it. You ready?’
Swann blanked Heenan, who groaned. ‘Didn’t I tell you? In lieu of the weekend barbie that you’re so reluctant to attend, we’re both expected this morning on some bastard’s launch, to celebrate the Brewery sale. We’ll go in your car. I’m already too pissed to drive. Yeah, I know. You’ve got better things to do, you and me both. And you’ve got questions. Answers I don’t have, but we can talk in the car.’
Swann latched the clasp on his Gladstone, put out a hand to steady Heenan, who buckled. ‘Blood pressure. Goes up and down like a fucking barometer.’
*
Swann heard the first thwack of a bubbly cork from the yacht club car-park, followed by a cheer. Heenan winced, attempted to close his jacket, couldn’t get the buttons round his gut, looked even more miserable. The morning sun lay upon the blue pan of the river and radiated in silver sheets across the white sands of Crawley Bay. The yachts of the rich and famous bobbed in their pens. The Royal Perth was the city’s most exclusive, the grass freshly mown and the fences high, the clubrooms enfolded in dark glass. Swann followed Heenan as he navigated the concrete jetties towards the farthest mooring. Heenan waddled, and hitched his pants, and ran his hands through thinning hair, resembling a giant marine mammal thrown up by the river, at a disadvantage on the land. Beneath Swann’s feet, hundreds of brown and white jellyfish floated in the still water; gobbleguts darted and trumpeter flashed among the pylons. Heenan had quieted on the drive over, had dozed off in the peaceful roads of Kings Park. In answer to Swann’s question, he’d admitted that the bug was commissioned according to the premier’s wishes – the recorder was in one of the bureau drawers. As to why, the answer was obvious – the premier’s honeymoon period was coming to an end – there was pressure about the Brewery protest, pressure about Des Foley on the loose, discontent among the backbenchers about the new policy direction. There was pressure from some of his closest ministers, wanting to go freelance on brokering potentially lucrative deals. Lobbyists were going apeshit – demanding in-kind support for their support during the election. Information was a bankable commodity that appreciated with interest. Yes, the black book in the top drawer was a dirt file. For the time being, the MPs were calling the premier direct, as he wished, but that wouldn’t last. Soon their calls would be among themselves, a supportive ear for their bitching and moaning. Many of them, the premier knew, were owned by some of the more aggressive lobbyists, and were under pressure to get results. If the premier needed to remind them of their arse-licking, compromised selves, the tapes would be there.
Heenan gave Swann a look that suggested he’d said too much, and then wouldn’t be drawn on who had planted the bug. Most other PIs in the city shouldn’t be trusted, Swann reminded him – ex-cops shunted out for being too obviously dirty, or volatile or violent, which was saying something. Heenan waved that away. Don’t worry about it, Frank.
A young man dressed as an admiral in full whites and cap, golden epaulettes and gold-braid jacket piped them aboard. Heenan first, dropping down onto the back deck of the hundred-foot launch with a groan, Swann swinging behind. Twenty or so men sucking on beers and champagne in flute glasses. Swann clocked the Conlan brothers, Larry and Maitland, Feedledee and Feedledum, in full boatie regalia – polo shirts, white shorts and deck shoes, sunburnt legs – slouched against a rail with matching cigars, Swan Export cans in their mitts; Mostel the bookkeeper-turned-developer in earnest conversation with a man Swann didn’t recognise; Coleman the building magnate chatting to Mattock the union heavy; Engle the High Court judge and Peter Spratt, the attorney general; and then the premier. He turned, saw Swann, little flicker in his eye and glance to Heenan before shaking Swann’s hand, giving him the big welcome. Swann understood – there was never any invite from the premier, who wasn’t happy to see him. The whistle blew and giggles followed at Swann’s back, a broad murmur of appreciation from the men on deck. He turned, watched three sets of long legs and brown arms and white teeth and big hair, hookers in bright summer dresses climb down from the dock – girls from Dot Coulter’s stable. The engine throbbed beneath them, another murmur of half-pissed anticipation and plenty of manly arms reaching out to steady the women lurching on high heels.
Swann took a rail beside Heenan, lit a cigarette. ‘What are you up to, mate?’
Heenan’s answer was drowned out in the roar
of the inboards as the launch surged across the silent water, a mere five hundred metres round the bay along Riverside Drive, engines cut and coasting towards a mooring off the Old Brewery, toasts all round to Mostel, who grinned at the attention. On shore the hundreds of protestors must have heard the toasts. Heenan left Swann to shepherd the premier inside the wood-panelled cabin, in case there were cameras among the protestors, who began to jeer at the sight of the launch.
‘Beer, Sir?’
Swann turned to the tray of drinks proffered by one of the women, summer dress shrugged off and now wearing a bikini. ‘Cathy, isn’t it?’ he asked. Then watched over her shoulder as Heenan passed a stuffed envelope to Stormie Farrell’s brother, reinvented as party bagman.
‘Mr Swann? I didn’t recognise you behind the sunnies. How’s Marion?’
‘She’s good, Cathy. I’ll tell her you asked. She’ll like that. I’ll let you go, there’s thirsty men around. But perhaps we can chat another time.’
Cathy heard steps at her back and smiled false. ‘Sure, I’ll just check. I think we’ve only got white. But I’ll check.’
A cordon sanitaire had opened up around Swann, backs turned to him as the outsider. Into the empty space Heenan staggered, sat his arse on the railing and crossed his arms, also an outsider. ‘Every party like a business meeting, every business meeting like a party; that’s the West Australian way.’
Swann didn’t bother with a response, let the silence swell. Finally, Heenan uncrossed his arms, crossed them again. ‘Come on, Frank. You work for me, right? I want you at my back. He’s thinking of getting rid of me, I can tell. Just watch my back.’
As he said this, Heenan’s eyes were glued to Cathy’s arse. A look on his face. Not the usual hunger of an undesirable man. Something else. Swann wondered, before remembering the old man Mostel was chatting to, the Supreme Court judge that’d thrown the Dragic case out of court, hard to recognise without his powdered wig and gowns. His Honour Justice Roberts.
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