Deadly Investment

by Andres Kabel

  The response was instantaneous. With one motion, Mick scooped up his chair like a paperback book and flung it sideways to crash against the wall, bringing down the sculpture with a thud. Peter leapt to his feet, wincing as his neck stabbed with pain.

  “You’re still hiding something from us,” Mick snarled. He looked about to leap over the table.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “What’s got you so scared you’re about to piss your pants?”

  Dancer shrank even further into his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyes looked like rabbits’ eyes in headlights. “Leave me alone.”

  At last Peter forced himself to act. Trembling, he placed a hand on Mick’s forearm. It felt like a taut bow. Mick looked at him, his face suddenly a mystery, teeth bared, fury etched in lines across his forehead.

  And then the storm passed as quickly as it began. Mick stood up straight and wiped his hands down his trousers.

  “Twenty-four hours,” he said, tossing a business card onto the table. “Call before then or we’ll take this to Homicide. Believe me, once we tell them how you’ve lied, they’ll be all over you like a rash. Any excuse, they’ll have you up on a murder charge. You want that?”

  Dancer gave a hoarse cry. “I’ve done nothing.”

  The havoc machine strode down the hall.

  As Peter stumbled after Mick, he caught a glimpse in a bedroom of a slim woman in a bathrobe, hand raised to her mouth in alarm. He knew Dancer had no children, and she was much too young to be his wife. Fresh loathing for the executive filled him. He rushed outside.

  “Call or you’re thrown to the cops,” Mick shouted just before he slammed the door with a crash.

  They stood in the pale sunshine. A faint breeze tickled Peter’s sweating face. He gazed down Kerferd Road to the two pubs overlooking Beaconsfield Parade and the pier. The sea was a blue-gray strip.

  “Mick?”

  His partner’s chest rose and fell. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  Peter didn’t know whether to be outraged or sarcastic. “What if he complains to the police? Or to Rollo?”

  “You saw him. Is he going to complain to anyone?”

  “What if he’s the killer? Aren’t we letting him loose?”

  “Killer?” Mick spat his words, “He’s scared, not guilty. Something’s got him shit-scared, though.”

  Peter listened for the Number 12 tram on Victoria Avenue, a block further down, but he could only hear seagulls cawing and the voices of cyclists on the bike path beside them.

  “Should have warned you,” Mick said.

  “You frightened the shit out of me.”

  Peter thought, Who is this guy? He’s as terrifying as those animals last night. Should I be scared of him, or just glad he’s on my side?

  But Mick was right; the threats had delivered data. He probed his bandaged finger. “I reckon Dancer could be the one. You heard him—”

  “Fuck him.” Mick was heading down the side street toward the Peugeot. Peter followed, his back groaning. Where to now?

  CHAPTER 24

  Only one place to go, so Tusk put his foot down, gunned the Peugeot through the autumn leaves blanketing St. Kilda Road. Wound his window all the way down, relished the pummel of air on heated skin. Focused on traction, on catching traffic lights. Time check—4:56. Thought: Move it, arsehole.

  “Where are we going?” Gentle slumped in the passenger seat, a scrawny rabbit.

  “Fitzroy.”

  Across the river, under the Flinders Street Station clock dome.

  “Why? What’s there?”

  “Scaffidi.”

  “But, big guy—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Enough of that big guy shit.

  A tape from the glove box. The classic chords of The Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sugar.” Sky clear, sun low. The stream of traffic swung right, alongside the railway line. At the edge of the city, Tusk turned left, headed north past the cream pillars of Parliament House.

  Clear as daylight, Dancer wasn’t the perp. Pity he’d lost his temper with the man, but at least someone had begun to speak truth. No, Tusk felt sure that super-cool Rollo was behind his brother’s death. And Scaffidi was the key.

  Past the hip cafes and designer shops of Brunswick Street. During his wild days, he lived in Fitzroy for a year, in a crowded terrace with threadbare carpets. Once one of Melbourne’s tawdriest suburbs, now the yuppies had arrived. Even the drug scene had begun to move out, south into the city.

  Moran Street was on the western fringe of Fitzroy. A pub, a restaurant, squeezed in between the peeling paint of terraces. Serpico Restaurant: square and unfriendly. Black glass frontage, a torn umbrella over metal chairs and a table, an alley down one side fading into gloom. Its sign was small and never lit at night, but Tusk knew a constant stream of people, mostly Italians but some Anglos, frequented the place.

  “Best Italian food in Melbourne,” Cap had told him once. “Only thing is, you need a gang frequent flyer card to get in.”

  Tusk parked down the street, next to an overflowing yellow garbage bin. Bitter metal in his mouth. No one around except a shrunken Italian woman wearing a shawl.

  “What happens now?” Boy Wonder’s mouth hung open. Tusk felt uncharitable. You wanted to be a private eye, he thought of saying, welcome to the real world.

  “This.” Tusk whipped out of the car, threw his sunglasses onto the car seat, no need for the gun in the glove box. Half ran to the restaurant.

  He pushed the dark wood of the door, stepped in. His hands felt ready. His whole body had been ready all day. Discreetly lit, tables, chairs. Thick fumes: cigarette smoke, coffee, pesto. A waiter leaning against the bar at the end. A handful of men seated at a table.

  Tusk saw Con Marcantonio seconds before the one-eared man, holding cards up before his face, noticed him.

  Tusk went for the scum, running down the center of the restaurant, thankful for a clear path. Marcantonio reared, cards flying, blonde ponytail swinging. Reached into his jacket pocket. Tusk launched himself and hit the man hard in the chest. They went down, a grunt from Marcantonio when his massive body slammed into the wooden floor. Chairs flew. A red band flared behind Tusk’s eyes.

  He rose, clutching fabric, startled eyes bulging before him. Marcantonio flailed, Tusk hit him in the nose, hard, heard a squelch. Blood flew. But a chance fist slammed Tusk’s chest with staggering force. He stumbled back.

  Marcantonio faced him, tiny eyes burning, meaty arms up, fists cocked. He was huge, chest and legs and shoulders bulging. Blood poured out of his button nose. Tusk glanced around. The others had fled. Only the waiter, shouting into a phone behind the bar.

  Marcantonio snarled. “You’re—”

  Tusk’s advantage was speed. A keening sound in his head, he attacked. Swung with his right fist, waited till Marcantonio blocked, felt the jar up his whole arm. Pivoted and slammed a foot into his opponent’s leg below the knee. A surprised grunt. The thug started to go down. Left fist hard into a cheek. Knee up under the jaw with a crack.

  Marcantonio crashed to the floor, yelping. Tusk put a knee on his chest and smashed down. Pain raced up his arm. His body electric, guitars soaring in his head.

  Someone screamed.

  Mad glory pulsed through him. He smashed down again. The body thrashed under him. Something landed across his back.

  “Mick!”

  He heard the reedy plea through cotton wool. His fist toiled: smash, smash. Ineffectual twigs around his neck. Aftershave.

  He shook his head, sweat flying. The world seeped back into place. He let the screeching stick figure, his partner and pal, drag him back. A monstrous beat pounded deep in his chest. He flexed his fingers, which roared with pain.

  “For God’s sake.” Gentle’s hair akimbo, like a scarecrow. “You’ve killed him.”

  As if in answer, Marcantonio groaned. His square face a swollen pumpkin. Blood everywhere. One eye invisible under a massive bruise. The other eye open and fixe
d on Tusk.

  “No more.” Marcantonio’s words blubbered from battered lips.

  No time to waste, Tusk thought. Sweat stung in his eyes. He winked at Gentle. Raised a fist high.

  “I’m going to finish it, you fuck.”

  The body under him twitched. Tusk’s mind was blank. What questions?

  “What’s Sergio Scaffidi got to do with the Keppels?” Gentle asked, bless his soul.

  “Ge’—” Marcantonio’s retort stopped by a fist into his chest, not hard.

  “I can’t control him.” Gentle again. “He’ll hit you again.”

  “Sister,” Marcantonio exhaled in a hiss. “Bella. Boss’s sister.”

  The connection!

  “Mercy.” Marcantonio’s eye flapped shut.

  “You’ve killed him,” Gentle said.

  Tusk grabbed Marcantonio’s wrist. “He’s fine.”

  Tusk stood, pain coursing through him, as if he’d been on the receiving end. Fuck me, he thought, it’s happened again. He felt like crying. Or one part of him did. Another part of him exulted.

  Tusk asked, “Is he the one?” They were all alone. Except for the body on the floor and some fallen chairs, it looked as if they’d never entered. “The one who beat you up?”

  His partner nodded, face as pale as Kantor’s corpse.

  “Just as well,” Tusk said. “Wouldn’t want to do that to a stranger.”

  Gentle shuddered.

  Tusk straightened, stretched his back. Breathed in and out, quelling his body. Leaned down, smeared his hand with Marcantonio’s blood, then wiped it across his own face and down his shirt.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Gentle asked.

  “Making it look like a full fight.”

  He picked up a chair, sent it flying onto tables, scattering cutlery, a shocking noise in the deathly quiet. Took another chair in one hand and walked over to the bar. Scythed bottles, glass flying. Over to a window, punched a jagged hole.

  Sirens out front. Gentle’s mouth open, like a bloody fish. Time to hurry. Tusk wrapped his handkerchief around his fingers, pulled out a gun from Marcantonio’s jacket, and let it clang on the floor. Tugged the stunned nerd by his jacket.

  Outside, the fresh air of the waiting, judging world greeted him. Tusk raised his head to the sun, low and pink-flecked. Breathed steadily. A crowd had gathered, mostly old, a few young punks. The waiter from the restaurant stood wringing his hands. Sirens howled close by. He shivered once. An off-the-wall song in his head, Iron Maiden’s wailing “Run To The Hills,” but he couldn’t do that, could he?

  If only he could transplant himself to Belgrave. To the smell of grass. The swoop of birds. Bully’s pounding tail. How to explain this to Dana?

  CHAPTER 25

  Peter Gentle threw up, a convulsive splattering onto the buckled footpath outside the restaurant. It was all too much. Numbed, he’d desultorily answered questions from a young policeman, had seen the waiter gesticulating at them, had watched Mick lie. Mick’s face in the restaurant came back to him, mouth agape in blind fury, veins popping in his forehead. If Peter hadn’t pulled him off the moaning hulk…

  He doubled over and retched, head pounding, vomit burning his mouth. Mick placed a hand on his head; he batted the hand away. He heard sirens, screeching tires, more voices.

  “Ivory,” said a loud, abrasive voice. “What the fuck you doing here?”

  Peter stood up, shivering and yawning. He took in the scene, a surreal hell from some TV cop show. The sun had sunk behind buildings, cool shadow lay over the street. Glass shards littered the footpath under the hole in the restaurant’s window. A tall man peered into the interior. Three cars blocked traffic, two of them with flashing lights. Two policemen held back a sea of staring, murmuring faces.

  The short man radiating energy in front of Mick looked Italian, his olive face pointed and sharp, his wavy, black hair perfectly parted on the left. He wore a dapper dark suit with a red patterned tie. Black eyes blazed.

  Mick extended a hand. “Sam.”

  Somehow the big man had managed to retrieve his sunglasses from the Peugeot, and his blood-smeared face was as unreadable as ever. But his broad back slumped, one arm of his leather jacket was nearly torn off, and his white shirt was smudged red.

  The short man ignored Mick’s outstretched hand, thrust his jaw at Peter.

  “You Gentle? Peter Gentle?” A precise Italian-accented bark.

  Peter nodded.

  “And who are you?” he surprised himself by asking.

  The little man took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one. His upper lip curled. “Detective Inspector Vinci, Homicide.”

  The man in charge of the Keppel case. Why was he here?

  Vinci stepped up to Mick, close enough to stick his head under Mick’s chin if he chose. “I get this name Gentle in connection with this homicide I’m working on. And then bugger me, his name’s on dispatch. A brawl. So I take a look. And guess who I find at the party?”

  Vinci’s machine gun words filled Peter with dread. Nothing, but nothing, to do with this case had panned out as expected.

  Mick met Vinci’s glare calmly. “You’re looking good, Sam.”

  An ambulance eased through the crowd. Two men in white raced into the restaurant. A tall plain-clothes policeman came over. He was in his fifties, on the edge of fat, and wore an ill-fitting cream suit with stains down one side and a floral tie from the ’70s. Peter took an instant dislike to his sun-burnished face, with its cold-fish eyes and blue-tinged nose.

  “Inspector,” the tall man said in a rasping voice, “there’s some guy inside, big feller, badly beaten up. Psycho Tusk strikes again, eh?”

  Peter glanced at Mick, but the planed face was looking over Vinci’s anger, at a plain-clothes policewoman. She was considerably younger than the others, short and mannish in physique. Black hair hung straight down off her head. She had full lips in a slim face. Her dark eyes stared back at Mick, then she busied herself with her notepad.

  Mick flicked a glance at Floral Tie. “Good to see you too, Larry.”

  Peter recognized the name from the case file. Larry Mixton.

  “Fuck you, psycho,” Mixton said.

  Vinci looked at Mixton with ill-disguised contempt. “Who’s the man inside?”

  Mixton shrugged. His stony brown eyes turned to Peter, and Peter quailed.

  “Con Marcantonio, a small-time thug.” Mick hawked reddish spit into the gutter. “We were questioning him. He attacked me.”

  “The fuck’s we?”

  “My partner and I. Private investigators.”

  “I want to see your license.”

  Mick folded arms across his chest. “Pending.”

  Vinci exhaled in disgust. “Ivory, you’re really asking for it.”

  Peter’s mind reeled from all that he’d experienced. The raw closeness of violence, the animal fear that swept him in waves—he refused to assimilate it all. Help, he thought, close to tears.

  “Who hired you?” Vinci demanded.

  Peter was puzzled. How did Vinci know his name but nothing about their client?

  “I can answer that,” he said. “Imogen Keppel.”

  “Fuck!” Vinci threw eyes up to the sky. “Unbelievable.” He jabbed a finger into Mick’s chest. “What’s Marcantonio got to do with it?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Vinci looked about to explode again. He turned to the policewoman.

  “Constable,” he said, “get them out of here before the press screws up my life even more. Back to HQ and question them. Hard. I want to know who the hell they think they are. You—” Rigid finger stabbing the air in front of Mick. “You’re in deep shit, mate.”

  Vinci rushed off, smoke trailing over his shoulder.

  The policewoman bustled them to the third car, an unmarked Ford. Peter heard shouting from the crowd, calls of “Inspector!”

  “Handcuffs, Dee?” Mick said. Peter couldn’t believe his eyes—the brute actually had a faint smil
e on.

  As she held the back door open and Mick slid in, Peter looked at the restaurant flickering in the strobe of police lights. The ambulance orderlies were emerging with a stretcher. The crowd surged, cameras flashed.

  Mick removed his jacket and draped it over his head as he slid into the back seat.

  “Dana watches the news,” he said, seeing Peter’s look.

  You should have thought of that before, Peter thought. His back pulsed as he eased into the car. The interior smelled of cigarette smoke and mouth freshener.

  “What do we tell them?” he hissed to Mick.

  “The truth, Gentle, the truth.” Mick seemed fully at ease. “These are the good guys, remember?”

  ***

  “You married, Dee?” Mick’s voice sounded light. Peter twisted uncomfortably in his seat and stared at his partner.

  “Not yet.”

  The policewoman was driving fast, down into the city. Peter saw her eyes in the rearview mirror, assessing him, then flicking to Mick.

  “Dee,” Mick said. “Meet Peter Gentle. Partner and mate. Gentle, meet Deirdre Lasker. We worked together, once upon a time.”

  “How long have you two been at this?” Deirdre asked.

  “Two days.”

  Deirdre shook her head, black hair swaying. “I’ve never seen Sam so riled.”

  “He’s always mad,” Mick said. “That’s just Sam.”

  By now the car stank of their sweat. And something worse. Peter sniffed his bandage and recoiled—he must have spewed on it. He felt sore and tired and dejected. The seat bit into his bruises, and his broken finger had begun to throb.

  “I don’t know, Mick,” Deirdre said. “This one matters for him.”

  “Promotion time, huh?”

  She grunted. Silence took over in the car. Peter tried to collect his thoughts. Did the police have grounds to charge them with anything? He had no idea. How long could they legally question him? Should he ring Bishop? But no, Bishop wasn’t their lawyer. What about his Dad?

  “How’s the case running, Dee?” Mick asked.

  They stopped at the Flinders Street lights in Swanston Street. Peter looked up at the rusty green dome of the station. Six o’clock. None of the people rushing across the intersection paid any attention to the men being taken to be locked away.