White Dog (Jack Irish Thriller 4)

by Peter Temple

  ‘At the 1600, Cobalt Heaven and Coadestone neck and neck,’ said the caller, ‘Earth Summit wants to have a go now, he’s gone up to them, the jockey’s having a bit of a time with him. Sum of Things is moving up on the outside, he’s four deep and Cold Callista’s coming with him.’

  There wasn’t much Danny could do. He had two rows of horses in front of him, two outside him and a horse on his heels. I didn’t like this much. The front-runners were no-hopers. When they wilted, they’d shunt Legion backwards.

  ‘At the 1400 chute, getting some pace on now, Earth Summit’s the leader, no one wants to go with him, Sum of Things getting a wriggle on, Benison’s pushing his nose through on the rails, Coadestone’s rider doesn’t like his possie, Bold Voter and Lost Legion side by side, Cold Callista’s outside the favourite and a gap’s opened to the rest of the field.’

  It stayed like this. The horse wasn’t going to win from there. I was watching Danny. He didn’t think so either, looking around.

  ‘Lost Legion’s drifting back in the field,’ said the caller, ‘this plunge is a fizzer all right, Bold Voter’s forcing his way through the ranks, 1200 to go.’

  I could see Lorna Halsey. Her hands were steepled in front of her face, index fingers against her lips. This wasn’t her fault, it was Danny’s, he placed the horse badly after the jump, the old hands pinned him.

  ‘Lost Legion goes to the outside now, he’s fifteen lengths off the pace, 900 to go, Bold Voter’s through but Sum of Things turns on the power, moves to the front, shifts across, he’s a length clear …’

  This thing was over, all the time and effort and money wasted.

  My mobile rang. I’d forgotten to switch it off.

  ‘Jack?’

  I had Danny’s face full on. He was asking Legion for the impossible.

  ‘Well, Lost Legion’s not giving this away,’ said the caller, ‘DiPiero’s gone for broke, don’t know …’

  ‘Jack?’

  Barry Tregear, tobacco-rusted voice.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘One minute.’

  Lost Legion was at full stretch, running like a three-year-old sprinter. Danny hadn’t touched him with the whip.

  ‘Lost Legion’s passed Cold Callista like she’s stopped, Olley on Bold Voter looks back, goes for the whip now, this is a remarkable run, Lost Legion gets to him, he’s got Sum of Things to go, a length clear at the 150.’

  The boy was on the horse’s neck, they were flying.

  ‘Lost Legion and Sum of Things, can’t separate them, fifty to go. Lost Legion, he’s found more, he’s in front, Lost Legion by a long neck, most incredible performance I’ve seen in a long day, this is a substantial plunge come off in the most spectacular way imaginable …’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘They call me Happy Jack,’ I said.

  ‘Could be Happier Jack today,’ he said. ‘Your mate’s taken an exit pass.’

  ‘Which mate would that be?’ I said. ‘I’ve got a few of them out there.’

  ‘Mate number one. Stedman got it in the weights room, there’s sixteen-odd cunts didn’t see a thing.’

  I was also unseeing, looking at nothing, and then I came back to the world and saw an open sky, pale, blown free of dirt for the moment.

  ‘He pissed on me.’ I could not have said the words to anyone else on earth. ‘He king hit me and then he pissed on me.’

  A brief silence.

  ‘Listen, son,’ Barry said. ‘You brood about it when they piss on you before they king hit you.’

  The world righted itself. Lorna Halsey and her daughter were embracing. I caught sight of Harry, putting his binoculars away. He gave me a single nod, face blank.

  In the car, me driving, Cam doing sums in the back, Harry said, ‘Nice outin. Always sweet to stick it up Robbie Strickland too.’ He looked out of the window, chewing on a dozen Smarties. ‘Know what I reckon?’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said.

  ‘This bloke’ll run further.’ He eyed me. ‘The Queen Eliz, Jack, the Saab. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Exciting. But will it be sweeter than this day?’

  ‘Never see this kind of sugar again,’ said Cam. ‘Six for dinner, Jack?’

  ‘Six,’ I said.

  ‘We might pop a can of the Bolly first,’ said Harry.

  ‘Good timing,’ said Drew. ‘My informant says the seven o’clock news.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake don’t ding this car,’ I said. ‘Promise me.’

  ‘Relax. I’m not a denter, I’m a write-off man, I don’t fuck around.’

  Drew driving Linda’s Alfa, the airport turnoff ahead, a slalom of deranged tradies, heartsick salesmen, tight-lipped women racing home to try to be mothers. For no good reason, he pulled out of the lane. I heard rubber pigsqueal behind us.

  ‘So how long is this excursion?’ he said.

  ‘Open-ended,’ I said. ‘I don’t just dent foreign travel, I’m a write-off man.’

  ‘What, she loves you?’

  ‘She’s been sacked, she’s cashed-up, she wants intelligence, wit, repartee, finely honed love-making techniques.’

  ‘And your role?’

  ‘Interview the candidates. I’ve got an instinct for human resources. Don’t drive up this poor bastard’s arse, please.’

  ‘Speed lane, I’m reminding him. Put the radio on.’

  I found the button, it took three punches to find the right station. News headlines, then: ‘In a shock development today at the commission into the building industry, it was alleged that a notebook belonging to murdered Melbourne developer Michael Franklin revealed cash payments to contractors on a massive scale. Counsel assisting the inquiry, Kevin Carstairs QC, said huge sums of drug money were laundered through a company called Barras Holdings, linked with millionaire developer Anthony Haig. Mr Carstairs said drug money used to pay wages and other expenses was converted into property through complicated finance arrangements. Construction giant MassiBild was deeply involved, Mr Carstairs alleged.’

  ‘Goodbye Saint Charlie,’ said Drew.

  ‘Barras,’ I said. ‘Hirer of the penthouse at the River Plaza. He gave Napoleon his big break.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Comte de Barras. He put Napoleon in charge of defending the French Convention. I never gave it a thought.’

  Drew gave me the look. ‘I’m surprised,’ he said. ‘First thing I thought of. Closer to ground level, the word is that Bernie Paech is giving up Haig in return for considerations. And Londregan’s trying to do a deal on a lesser, shaft the much-missed Stedman, now tragically unable to defend himself.’

  International departures. Drew parked, kissing the kerb, I winced. I got out and opened the back door to get the bag.

  ‘Not much luggage,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be living off the land, making my own clothing from reindeer hide.’

  ‘I suppose I should say I’m sorry I got you into all this terrible shit.’

  ‘Why would you suppose that?’

  He looked at me, the long face, the long nose. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off,’ he said, ‘and leave me to total this car?’

  I went without a backward glance.

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