by Peter Temple
We looked at each other for a while. She was back there, in Walkley, age seventeen.
‘And after the holidays, did you see Marco again?’
‘No. It was just those weeks, two weeks, I was in love, teenage love. Janice and I were the class smarties, readers, suddenly Robbie arrives, then his friend, this half-Italian boy, so exotic, they were both so clever and you could talk to them about books and poetry. Very un-Aussie, two boys who weren’t petrolheads.’
‘Half-Italian?’
‘He said his mother wasn’t Italian.’ She looked out of the window. ‘I think his mother left his father, went off to be a hippy, in Nimbin, somewhere like that. His father brought him up. That’s all I know about him.’
‘Did you know where he came from in Sydney?’
‘No. Janice would have known. You know about Janice?’
‘Yes. You heard nothing more about Marco?’
‘No. I ended up at ag college in Orange. Pressure from my father. Not much talk about books and poetry there, I can tell you.’
‘Robbie went overseas in 1996. Did you know that?’
She shook her head. ‘That day in the street, that was it.’
I finished my tea. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a great help, saved me from wasting more time.’
She walked to the Studebaker with me. ‘This is weird, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Was Marco an addict?’ she asked.
‘The dead man had needle marks.’
‘I’d like to know how it turns out,’ she said.
‘Me too. I’ll let you know.’
‘This come out of the blue,’ said Harry Strang. ‘People I done some transactin with, ’87, ’88, thereabouts. She’s got the full licence, smart lady. He’s a bit of a dill. Often that way, mind. Anyway, we had a bit of luck. Here’s the turn now, memory serves.’
We were in open country, sere, rocky outcrops, going down a deeply rutted track.
Cam was driving the big BMW. ‘Nice around here,’ he said. ‘No sheep.’
He’d rung me on the mobile on my way back from Colac. I found the pair waiting for me outside the boot factory. I hadn’t asked any questions, just fallen asleep before we reached the tollway.
‘When did this happen?’ I said.
‘Awake are you, Jack?’ said Harry. ‘Admire a man can kip anywhere. Sign of a clear conscience.’
‘Sign of someone who wants to escape life,’ I said. ‘When?’
‘After the night racin at the Valley last week,’ said Harry. ‘Jean’s very upset. Said we’d come out and have a word.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Got through to me, possibly not a personal problem we’re havin. Get my meanin?’
‘This it?’ said Cam.
A sign on the fence said: Kingara. David & Jean Hale. We crossed a cattle grid and drove down a lane of young poplars. There were horses in the paddocks on either side. Straight ahead was a bluestone-faced house, long and low with a slate-tiled roof, behind a struggling privet hedge. We parked next to a Holden ute with a history.
‘Stretch the legs,’ said Harry. ‘Meet the lady. Can’t hurt you blokes to meet normal people.’
‘I dunno,’ Cam said. ‘Might find you like normal, ruin your whole life.’
As we sat there, a tall woman, slim, thirties, early forties, strong features, long blonde hair pulled back, ears showing, came around the corner of the hedge. She was wearing horse gear: checked shirt, Drizabone vest, jeans, gumboots. At the same moment, a wheaten labrador with the faintly puzzled but amiable look of its kind came through a hole in the hedge, tail wagging.
‘Normal,’ Cam said. ‘I suppose I could like it, somebody shows me how.’
We got out, cold after the car.
‘Come with a crowd,’ Harry said to the woman. He went over. They shook hands. She put her left hand on his shoulder, leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Thanks for comin,’ she said, voice a little blurred. ‘After ten years, you still took the trouble…’
Harry put up a hand. ‘No trouble.’
He introduced us. We shook hands and I resented the fact that her hand seemed to linger in Cam’s longer than it did in mine. She had light-blue eyes, a little puffy: she’d been crying. I’d seen my own eyes like that in many a mirror, some of them spattered with substances whose composition or origin one did not wish to guess at.
‘I’ve got scones in the oven,’ she said. ‘Haven’t made scones for yonks. You used to like scones, Harry. Still?’
Harry dry-washed his hands. ‘Still,’ he said. ‘Always. Good memory. Lead the way.’
On the verandah, Jean paused to take off her gumboots, quick, supple movements, rubber boots off, feet into worn, receptive shoes. We went through a sitting room with a stone fireplace into a big kitchen, smell of baking, cast-iron stove, sash windows in the north wall, painted cabinets and a big pine table, eight chairs. The view was of an old orchard, much older than the house, in need of heavy pruning.
‘Live in here,’ said Jean. ‘Warm. You don’t mind the kitchen?’
‘That’s where you eat scones, kitchen,’ said Harry.
The scones were steaming, pale yellow inside. Butter lay on the rough surface for a second, liquefied, sank. Quince jelly, lemon marmalade and Vegemite. I started with the Vegemite, two scones, moved on to the quince jelly, two scones, pretended I’d had enough, consented to eat one with marmalade. Two, three.
Harry and Jean talked horses. Winter sun slanted in from the north-west. We drank tea out of white mugs, tea made in a pot. ‘Sorry, no coffee,’ Jean said. ‘Can’t afford proper coffee these days, can’t drink the instant stuff.’ She looked at Harry. ‘Thought we’d be able to afford a new ute after last week, never mind coffee.’
Harry didn’t say anything, ate his sixth scone, all with quince jelly. Cam was on his fourth. Jean offered him another one.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t stop now, spoiled for life. Come out here and pitch a tent.’
‘So,’ Harry said, last morsel swallowed with tea. ‘What happened?’
She pushed hair off her forehead. Her nails were cut short. ‘We lucked onto this horse, Lucan’s Thunder. Owners wanted a new trainer. Complete amateurs, the owners. I thought, same old story, it’s always the trainer’s fault. But it was. Dave knows him a bit, says he’s an arsehole. Piss artist. Dougal Mackenzie? He’s had one or two in town?’
‘The name rings,’ said Harry.
‘Christ knows what Mackenzie’d been doing with this horse. I’d say very little and then badly. I put in a bit of time with him, got the diet right, you could see early on he was a rung up from the usual.’
‘New South form, that right?’ Harry retained form the way teachers used to remember pupils.
Jean nodded. ‘Griffith, around there. Won two from seven, picnics really, then these owners bought him and gave him to Mackenzie and he was a dud from then on. Six starts, six–zero.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, when we started gettin some really good times from him, we thought we had a chance for a bit of a collect.’
‘Owners inside?’ said Harry.
‘Yes. We said we’d talk to you, they didn’t want to know, didn’t want to share it around. Got a bit greedy, I spose.’ She looked down, put a hand to her forehead. ‘Wouldn’t have happened if we’d gone to you.’
We looked at each other. Harry nodded to Cam.
‘Doesn’t follow, that,’ said Cam. ‘We got turned over a while back.’
‘You?’ She looked at Harry.
He nodded.
‘Hurt the commissioner bad,’ said Cam. ‘How’d they do you?’
‘Dave’s mate put this bunch together. Sandy Corning, he’s a local, a really nice bloke, straight as they come. Got these blokes he knows. Did okay to start but then the owners buggered it, the mates, the aunts, nannas, the lot, all shoving money at the books. So in the end, the collect was only about sixty grand after commission.’
‘W
here?’ said Harry.
Jean drank tea. ‘Near the course. The Strand, near Mount Alexander, know that part?’
We all nodded.
‘Dave didn’t want Sandy to carry the money home, they were going to meet on The Strand. Dave was there first. He talked to Sandy on the mobile, Sandy was in the carpark, collectin…’
‘Not clever,’ said Cam.
‘No, well, the whole thing’s not clever. This car blocks Sandy near The Strand, the other one’s behind him, his door’s locked, the animal smashes the window with a sledgehammer, one of those little ones, y’know?’
We waited.
‘Sandy’s got the money in this bag, it’s a kid’s schoolbag. He just offers it to the bloke. No, they pull him out…’
She sniffed, found a tissue, wiped her nose. ‘Anyway, the bastards bashed him.’
‘How bad?’ said Harry.
Jean looked at the table. ‘This woman from across the road hadn’t come out, she’s a nurse, he’d a died there. Rib punctured his lung, jaw broken, nose broken.’
She looked at us. ‘He was offerin them the bag.’
We sat in silence.
‘Cops say what?’ Harry asked.
Jean looked at the table again, shrugged. ‘Nothin. Lookin for them.’
More silence.
‘You can say anythin,’ Harry said.
She sighed. ‘Dave’s on the piss before lunch, smokin again. Eight years off em, back to sixty a day. Doesn’t sleep. I’m scared. We’ve had it now, goin down the tubes here for three, four years. More. Bloody owners. First they love the trainer, then the trainer’s ratshit, horse’s better than the trainer…’
‘What about the horse?’ said Cam.
‘Took him off us. The next day. The one bastard rings up, says they’ve decided they want him with a more experienced trainer. Jesus, I could’ve…’
She caught herself, put a hand on top of Harry’s, rubbed it. ‘Last luck we had was with you. Thought that was the start of big things.’
Harry put a hand on hers, briefly, a hand sandwich.
Jean got up, galvanised, brisk. ‘Shit, you don’t want to hear this. More tea? I can make fresh.’
We shook our heads.
She made the gesture of helplessness. ‘Well, that’s all.’
Silence. The labrador came into view in the orchard, stately walk, tree to tree, the honorary colonel inspecting the regiment. One tree offended him and he peed on it.
Harry looked at his Piaget, a slim instrument that cost as much as a good used car, put his palms together. ‘Bit of urgency creepin in,’ he said, getting up.
We all stood up.
I said, ‘See you outside in a minute.’
They left and I turned to Jean.
‘The blokes Sandy recruited. Locals?’
‘From the pub in town. The Railway.’
‘Jean,’ I said, ‘I need the names and addresses of everyone – owners, owners’ relatives, Sandy’s blokes, everyone this thing touched, don’t leave anyone out. Have you got a fax?’
She nodded. I gave her my card.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Today,’ she said. ‘Tonight.’
We went outside. Jean hugged Harry, kissed him on the cheek, shook hands with us, some moisture in her eyes.
On the way back to the city, on the tollway, after the brief rolling bumps of the cattle grid, the trip up the hard, lined track, on the made road, the freeway, Harry said, head back on the leather rest, ‘This would not be a personal problem, am I right?’
‘Could be personal,’ Cam said. ‘Could be local, could be global.’
‘Put on Willy,’ said Harry. ‘Haven’t had any Willy for a while.’
‘This Sandy,’ I said. ‘He put the team together. In a pub.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ said Cam.
Long before they dropped me it was night, Friday night, dripping.
I drove the Youth Club to the Prince after the game, very little said on the way. Very little needed to be said. A supporter near us had screamed most of it at the coach at three-quarter time, two sentences:
Lookitthescoreboardyafuckenmongrel. Seewhatya fuckendonetous.
Us. Done to us. The coach wasn’t one of us. Coaches were transients and carpetbaggers. And only a few players in any era in any club ever became one of us. The supporters were us. They were the investors. Gave the club their hearts, dreams, they expected a return. Every game was an annual general meeting.
‘That Docklands stadium,’ said Eric Tanner. ‘That’s not a proper footy ground.’
‘Like playin in a circus tent,’ said Wilbur. ‘It’s not right.’
I prepared to reverse park. It was going to be tight.
‘Loadin zone,’ said Wilbur Ong. ‘No can do.’
‘No can do?’ said Eric Tanner. ‘No can do? It’s bloody Satdee, no bloody loadin goin on.’
‘Not the point,’ said Wilbur, calmly. ‘Loadin zone.’
I went in, put a back wheel on the pavement. I didn’t care. ‘Well,’ said Wilbur. ‘A lawyer, Jack, expect to find a bit of respect for the law in a lawyer.’
‘Last place you’d find it,’ I said. ‘Look elsewhere. It’s a loading zone. Am I unloading you lot on the Prince or not?’
Wilbur sniffed, faith in the law’s majesty undiminished. We departed the vehicle, burst into the Prince in a low-key way.
It was a low-technology evening. In residence, six silent people and a dog. The cybermeisters were hanging out elsewhere this evening, perhaps at The Green Hill in South Melbourne, sipping a Green Hill pinot noir, flipping through the Green Hill cookbook.
Stan came over, very much the happy hangman today. ‘My,’ he said, ‘you boys really know how to pick a team. Yes, I take my hat off to you. These Sainters, they could be the Roys come back in another jumper…’
‘This place still serve beer?’ said Eric Tanner. ‘Mind you, there’s some says you haven’t bin able to get a beer here since Morrie retired. Not what you’d normally call a beer.’
‘Touchy today. Beer comin up.’
When we had our beers in front of us, had a sip, wiped off our moustaches, Norm O’Neill, next to me, said quietly, not a register I knew he commanded, ‘Well, made up me mind, Jack.’ He looked to his left, at the others. ‘Speakin for me, that’s all.’
I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t any defence to mount for the Saints. This was execution day.
‘Yes,’ said Norm. ‘Reckon I’m stickin with the team. Can’t give up on a side that’s so bad. Be inhuman, like leavin a hurt dog in the street.’
Wilbur nodded. ‘The boys’ll come good,’ he said. ‘Sack the coach, that’ll be a start.’
‘Things wouldn’t a bin so bad today,’ said Eric, ‘if that bloody ump hadn’t found a free for the bastards every time they get a hard look.’
I looked into my beer. It had happened. The graft had taken. The donor hearts hadn’t rejected the recipient.
‘Hero, that Harvey,’ I said.
‘And Burkie,’ said Norm.
‘What about that Thompson boy?’ said Eric. ‘Kid’s all heart.’
And so it went. The years fell away: we might have been talking about Fitzroy. I signalled for another round. Stan took his time. When he arrived with the first two, he said, ‘Gets worse from here too, don’t it. Next week, your girls play the mighty Roys.’
Norm put a hand under his cardigan and produced a fixture card, studied it through his thick, smudged lenses. ‘Says here,’ he said, ‘next week St Kilda plays Brisbane.’
‘After Brisbane, there’s another word,’ said Stan. ‘Lions. L-I-O-N-S. Brisbane Lions.’
Norm folded the card and put it away. ‘Don’t say that on my card. And it never bloody will. Only Lions left are right here.’ He waved around the room at the photographs. ‘And you, Stanley, you’re a disgrace to the memory of these great men.’
He looked at me, looked at Eric and Wilbur. ‘Am I right? Am I right?’
‘You’
re right,’ said Wilbur.
‘Damn right,’ said Eric.
‘Beyond right,’ I said.
A chastened Stan brought the other beers and slunk off. We resumed our discussion of the virtues of individual Saints. Then I drove home and set about making Saturday night bearable. Ten minutes into this, the phone rang. Wootton.
‘Just checking the out-stations,’ he said, full of gin, jovial Saturday-evening Wootton, back from his golf club, stuffed with nuts and little sandwiches and bonhomie. ‘Anything to report, old sausage?’
‘The out-stations? I think you’ve got a wrong number. Wrong century too.’
‘If you have,’ he said, ‘the client will be at the same spot on the dial tomorrow morning, 9.30 a.m. Precisely.’
The judge was in a zippered white cotton garment that slotted in somewhere between a NASA spacesuit and Colonel Gaddafi’s overalls. He ordered orange juice and a toasted wholewheat muffin with honey.
‘Breakfast,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way to tennis. You don’t want to eat too much before tennis.’
‘Fatal,’ I said.
We were back at the window table at Zanouff’s in Kensington, the less-hungover weekend breakfast crowd beginning to straggle in.
The juice arrived. Colin Loder drank half the glass at a swig.
‘The dead man’s name is Marco Lucia,’ I said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
It was too early for this kind of rubbish, even from a judge. I said, ‘You didn’t hear me?’
He gave me a surprised look, weighed up the matter. ‘I don’t know the name, Jack. An expression of surprise.’
I’d rung D.J. Olivier after Wootton’s call the night before.
D.J. was part of the seven-day-week world, Saturday night was just another night. A woman rang back at 10.30 p.m., found me deep in melancholy and self-loathing.
‘The subject,’ she said in a private-school voice, ‘has no criminal record. Passport issued March 1996, left the country in April that year, returned January 1998. Name mentioned in reports of a criminal case in July 1999. An article in the Brisbane Courier Mail in September ’99 refers to someone who may be the subject.’
