Dead and Kicking

by McGeachin, Geoffrey

  ‘So you do have a price?’

  I nodded. ‘And it’s a bargain. You go away and they go away. Resign from public life, book a long cruise, start a charitable foundation, try to set a world caviar-eating record, I really don’t care. Just fuck off out of politics and never come back, and the picture never sees the light of day.’

  He was looking at me again with those dead eyes.

  ‘I’m surprised you are willing to settle for just that, Murdoch. I would have thought a little man like you might want to be known as someone who brought down a potential candidate for vice-president of the United States. What exactly have you got against me, Murdoch? I don’t understand. We’ve never even met.’

  I was looking at a bloke who was after the second most powerful position in the world, and he didn’t get it.

  ‘Putting aside the fact that you’ve been trying to kill me and a number of my friends,’ I said, ‘did you actually look at any of the pictures on the walls out there? People tell me I’m cynical, but my job lets me get up close and personal with what happens when the wrong people start calling the shots – people like you. So let’s just call it a surgical preemptive strike on behalf of all those with the potential to be written off as collateral damage.’ I put my glass down on the table. ‘Let’s say I’ll be content to think of you sitting on a yacht somewhere contemplating what could have been, and the wisdom of fucking with people you really shouldn’t fuck with.’

  ‘That makes us sound a little bit alike, doesn’t it?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not in the slightest. And the way I can tell is that if I was anything like you, right now you’d be dead.’

  ‘I still have some very powerful friends you know, Murdoch.’

  ‘Bully for you, Mr Ambassador. Sadly, I don’t. But I do have a number of very reliable acquaintances who have instructions about what to do should anything unfortunate happen to me, Peter Cartwright and his son, or Jack Stark and his mate VT, and you can be connected to it in any way, shape or form. And believe me, that picture will go public and then you’ll be able to count your powerful friends on the fingers of no hands. So go take a long boat ride and enjoy your retirement.’

  Crockett poured another whisky. ‘Okay. Suppose I were to do what you suggest. Can I trust you, Murdoch?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said, ‘not for one bloody second. So I guess that makes us even.’

  FORTY-TWO

  When I got back to the party I was feeling pretty chipper, and my mood got even better when I found there were still some snacks left. I spotted Gudrun in the middle of the hubbub chatting to a photographer visiting from the UK. The bloke was putting in some serious spadework in the charm department so I felt I was actually doing the poor bugger a favour by interrupting.

  ‘Hey, Goods,’ I yelled. ‘Try and grab the Yank Ambassador before he leaves. You might want to ask him if he still plans on throwing his hat in the ring for the vice-president’s job.’

  ‘I owe you, Alby,’ she said.

  ‘Always, babe,’ I said, and then we split in different directions.

  ‘Believe me, mate, you never had a chance,’ I called over my shoulder to the unhappy-looking Pommy lensman.

  Kellie appeared out of the crowd carrying a tray of spring rolls and she seemed to be looking for me.

  ‘Excellent timing,’ I said, helping myself to a couple.

  ‘Mr Murdoch,’ Kellie said in a low voice, ‘there’s someone in the kitchen who wants to speak to you. He says it’s urgent.’

  She led me out to the large kitchen, where two men were waiting. One of them was another of those bodyguard types who seemed to be cluttering up the evening and the other was Peter Tranh.

  ‘You ought to try one of these cha gio, mate,’ I said.

  Peter Tranh didn’t look like a bloke interested in finger food. Peter Tranh looked like a bloke with something to get off his chest.

  ‘Mr Murdoch,’ Tranh said, ‘I’m here to make a confession.’

  ‘You and your old man don’t need to worry about Crockett any more. That’s all been taken care of.’

  ‘This is good news, and I know my father will be very grateful, but it’s not why I’ve tracked you down. This is about Project PB, the barrana.’

  ‘I’ll bite,’ I said, ‘because I know those damned fish do.’

  ‘As you may know, until recently I was a regular visitor to the Manchu Palace Casino’s VIP rooms. On several occasions I spoke with Playford Peng on general subjects and sometimes about my research with fish. I mentioned the piranha project and the ensuing difficulties, which seemed to pique his interest. Soon after this, I began to lose heavily at the tables but Playford was more than happy to advance credit.’

  As shocking as the concept of a casino running rigged tables was, it was easy to see how the Manchu Palace could afford to hand out ten grand in chips to valued customers.

  ‘When my losses finally reached a level way beyond my ability to repay, Playford suggested that I could eliminate the debt by producing a special batch of fish to his specifications. I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking straight, and I was concerned about the shame I might bring on my father, so I gave him what he wanted.’

  It was like a car crash you can see coming. Suddenly everything went into slow motion and I knew the spring roll I was holding wasn’t going to get eaten. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to keep down the ones I’d already swallowed.

  ‘Peng wanted a batch of fish that weren’t sterile, didn’t he?’

  Peter Tranh nodded. ‘Playford Peng now has breeding stock of these dangerous creatures. These particular fish are very enthusiastic at mating time.’

  I couldn’t fault them on that score, but you just knew the barrana wouldn’t be practising safe sex. In fact, there was nothing safe at all about these bloody fish.

  ‘And if they should escape from captivity,’ I asked, ‘say, into our local rivers and perhaps the ocean?’

  Peter Tranh looked down at his shoes. ‘I’m afraid that would not be a very good thing, Mr Murdoch. That would not be a very good thing at all.’

  I was looking around for a bin to dump my spring roll when Kellie came up to me with her silver tray.

  ‘You really need to try these fish balls with lemon and dill mayonnaise, Mr Murdoch,’ she said. ‘They’re straight from the oven and, believe me, they’re pretty damned delicious.’

  I shook my head. ‘Thanks but no thanks, Kellie,’ I said. ‘I’ve just discovered there are some other fish balls I need to take care of ASAP.’

  FORTY-THREE

  In my game, I bump into people I know all the time at airports, which can either lead to us having a couple of drinks in the nearest bar or me hiding behind a handy magazine rack until they buzz off. This time, the magazine racks were tantalisingly just out of reach.

  ‘Hello, Mr Murdoch, fancy meeting you here.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s a depressingly small world isn’t it, Lothar.’

  Lothar looked like he was waiting for someone, and thankfully it wasn’t me. Last time we’d crossed paths he was hanging out with an ex-con white-collar crim named Priday, born again in prison as pastor to the upwardly mobile. Lothar’s job had been to supply guns and muscle, and the relationship hadn’t worked out.

  ‘Mr Murdoch, I’d like to say something. I’m sorry about what I done in Sydney and I’m a changed man.’

  He did seem different. He was still skinny and seedy-looking, with bad teeth and lank hair, but he now had a tan. The effect was a bit like a first attempt at make-up by an undertaker’s apprentice, but at least he was wearing a clean white shirt, neatly pressed chinos and deck shoes.

  ‘Mr Murdoch, I was ensnared by the testicles of organised crime at a young age and now I’ve finally broken free.’

  ‘Lothar’ and ‘organised’ were two words I’d never put together in one sentence. ‘Crime’ was a different story. If he was here in Darwin it would be because Sydney was currently too hot for him. He’d probably supplied some hea
vy dudes with illegal items which weren’t exactly as described per the agreement. Besides trading in girls and guns, Lothar sometimes sold counterfeit Viagra that couldn’t raise an erection in Long Bay Jail.

  ‘I think you might mean tentacles, Lothar,’ I said. ‘The things on an octopus.’

  ‘Tentacles? Really? Bugger, that means I’ll have to redo all the menus.’

  I stared at him and he took a card from his trouser pocket.

  Forceps or rubber gloves not being available, I had no option but to take the card with my bare hand, holding it gingerly by one corner. It appeared that Lothar L. Ludovik was now the general manager of Bluey’s Backyard BBQ Restaurant, where steak and seafood were a speciality and incredible franchising opportunities were apparently now available. The fine print on the card said the owners, Bluey Operating Systems NL, were a subsidiary of Fischer Aquaculture Industries.

  ‘There’s actually no Bluey, Mr Murdoch,’ Lothar said, ‘that’s what we in the biz call a marketing strategy. Darwin’s the first branch, but in five years we plan to be open all over the place.’

  ‘Bringing char-grilled marinated octopus testicles to the world is a lofty ambition, Lothar, and it takes balls.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Mr Murdoch, but I can’t take all the credit. Here comes the real brains behind the operation.’

  I’d seen Fischer sitting in first class on the flight up from Sydney and I’d spotted him approaching us out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘Mr Murdoch,’ Lothar said, ‘this is Mr Detlef Fischer of Bluey Operating Systems. Mr Fischer is my CEO.’

  Lothar and Fischer were a match made in heaven, if heaven was having a very off day.

  ‘We’ve already met,’ I said.

  Fischer was carrying one of those expensive Italian leather overnight bags so popular with the disgustingly rich and the wives of airline baggage handlers. He put his bag down and smiled that million-watt smile again as I shook his hand. The handshake gave me a perfect excuse to drop Lothar’s business card.

  ‘I see you’re going in for vertical integration with the fish farming, Detlef – hatch ’em, grow ’em, grill’em, sell ’em.’

  ‘It’s the way of the future,’ Fischer said. ‘You should stop by the restaurant while you’re in Darwin, Mr Murdoch, as my guest. Trust me, our seafood is truly excellent and Lothar will take good care of you.’

  ‘Lothar here has tried to take care of me on a number of occasions,’ I said, ‘and it always ends in tears.’

  Lothar smiled uncomfortably and looked down at his feet.

  Fischer put one hand on his shoulder. ‘Now that seems rather unfair, Mr Murdoch. Mr Ludovik has turned over a new leaf. He has become a vital part of our management team.’

  ‘Do you actually know what CEO stands for, Lothar?’ I asked.

  He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times.

  ‘Wanna take a crack at spelling it? No? Thought not.’

  I looked at Fischer and shook my head. ‘Good luck with your plans for world restaurant domination.’

  We all left by the same exit, heading towards the car park. I found my dinky Corolla rental and spotted Lothar stuffing Fischer’s gear into a bright red fully restored two-door 1970s Alfa Romeo Montreal. Bastard.

  I’d just turned the key in the ignition when everything went red and a heavy throbbing filled my ears. The shiny red Alfa was parked right across the front of my car.

  Fischer wound down his window. ‘Why don’t you let me drive you into town, Mr Murdoch. Lothar can drop the rental at your hotel.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ I said. Alfa had built less than four thousand of these babies so the offer of a ride in one was too good to pass up. Plus, the trip would give me a chance to find out exactly how much Detlef knew about his new fishy friends, and with any luck discover the location of the fish farm. The Northern Territory is twice the size of Texas and I didn’t have time to go wandering around with a fishing rod and a bucket of bait, hoping to stumble over a pond full of feral fish.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The Montreal’s interior was leather, the steering wheel was on the wrong side and Fischer laughed when I reached over my right shoulder for the seatbelt.

  ‘No seatbelts in this baby, Mr Murdoch. No airbags, no pissy unleaded petrol. Just a race-tuned 2.6-litre V8. Cost me sixty grand to get her back into this condition. I’ve always kept her in Darwin because we had no highway speed limits, until recently. Stupid bastards.’

  The ‘stupid bastards’ were the politicians who had decided to scrap the progressive ‘go as fast as you like, get as drunk as you like and kill yourselves in record numbers’ policy so precious to freedom-loving Territorians. Now they were limited to 130 kph on four major highways and 110 kph on the rest of the open roads. All they had to do now was persuade the locals that a red traffic light actually meant STOP and democracy was all done and dusted up north.

  The Montreal’s engine started with a low rumble I could feel right down to my socks. Fischer hit the gas and I got that classic V8 rear wheel-drive kick in the pants as we surged forward.

  ‘Nice,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve done okay for a boy who started off peeling potatoes in his old man’s chip shop at fifteen.’

  Now that wasn’t what I’d read in the dossier Jimmy Yip had given me in Hong Kong. Rather than this heart-warming rags to riches tale, it’d been more a riches to riches story. One of those ‘I started with nothing but a measly twenty million dollar inheritance and with hard work managed to turn it into some serious money’.

  For a German, Fischer drove like an Italian. He kept his seat way back, arms outstretched, hands never straying far from the lower half of the steering wheel.

  The Montreal’s interior was cutting edge in the seventies but it now looked kind of quaint. Still oozed classic Italian design, though. There was a parcel shelf in front of me, and because I’m the inquisitive type I leaned forward and popped open the concealed glove compartment beneath it. A quick glance told me that Fischer might drive Italian, but held true to his German ancestry in the optional extras department. The pistol was a Walther P22 semi-automatic. Ten rounds of .22 ammo in a compact package.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘just like a real gun, only smaller.’

  Fischer leaned across and closed the glove compartment. ‘I’ve got a licence. Just keep it for a bit of target practice when I get bored and to wave at dickheads who annoy me.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ I said.

  Lead is lead and ten rounds of dinky .22 long-rifle ammo at close range will put a serious crimp in your life expectancy – just ask any Mafia hit man.

  ‘So what made you decide to expand from importing and wholesaling into the fish-farming business?’ I asked.

  ‘The whole thing was Playford’s idea. He was willing to take a back seat and bankroll it and give me all the glory, so I thought why not? Jezebel seemed to think it was a great idea – I met her through Peng – and he reckoned the product couldn’t miss if we used her profile for marketing.’

  ‘Peng got you and Jezebel involved?’

  He nodded. ‘Playford dragged me along to a charity dinner in Melbourne a while back and introduced us. We got on like a house on fire.’

  Fuelled no doubt by the warm glow of a fifty-grand charitable donation and that romantic dinner for two in her penthouse apartment.

  ‘That was good of him,’ I said.

  ‘He was just returning a favour. He owes me big-time.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Playford and I went to school together at Fairbrothers.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Playford looked up to me at school, still does. I was his protector.’

  ‘Protecting him from what?’

  ‘There are a lot of racist people at a place like Fairbrothers, and a porky little Chink can have a hard time even if his old man is richer than God. Old Peng used to send me money from Honkers. He wanted me to hang out with Playford, make sure he wasn�
�t lonely. Not much of a socialiser our Playford, even back then. You know I tried to get the bastard his first root when he turned fifteen, but I’m pretty sure he’s a bit light on in the tackle department. Never cracked it with any of the chicks I lined up for him. And let me tell you, I had to call in quite a few favours. Playford’s no prize, even with all that money.’

  ‘And people say romance is dead.’

  ‘Jezebel was right – you really are a cynical bastard, Murdoch.’

  I actually preferred to think of myself as post-cynical but in a hard, cruel world full of nasty pricks it wasn’t all that easy.

  ‘So how’s your fish-farming caper working out so far? I wouldn’t mind taking a look at your facilities. Maybe do a WorldPix photo story on the project. We could syndicate it worldwide – great publicity.’

  Fischer shook his head. ‘Sorry, strictly off limits I’m afraid. Quarantine regulations and all that crap. Playford insists on keeping the location secret until we are sure the first batch has fully acclimatised. We don’t want anything leaking out until we’re ready to hit the market.’

  ‘No problems so far?’

  ‘Nothing to speak of. We had a few initial glitches, but everything seems fine now. Playford flew some of his people in to keep things under control. The trick apparently is a regular feeding schedule. These babies can get a bit boisterous, shall we say, around mealtimes. Funny thing is, I always thought sterilising animals tended to make them a bit less rambunctious.’

  It was starting to look like Fischer was totally clueless about the whole operation.

  ‘Have any problems with them turning on each other?’ I asked. ‘I’ve heard that can happen when vicious predators hang out together.’

  Fischer smiled. ‘If you are referring to my partnership with Playford, I shouldn’t worry too much. Porky little bastard knows exactly how much I did for him at school and, as I said, he looks up to me, sort of like an older brother.’

  I guessed the staff at Fairbrothers paid as much attention to teaching their students about irony as they did ethics. And I wondered if Fischer knew what had happened to Playford’s last older brother.