Deadly Investment

by Andres Kabel

  His mobile rang, its chirrup barely audible.

  “Peter Gentle.”

  Above the clamor of the crowd, he could just distinguish music.

  “Straw?” he said.

  Ghostly music, then the line went dead. Almost immediately the phone rang again.

  “Straw?”

  “No, it’s me. Marcia Brindle. I’m sorry we quarreled today.”

  The maniac behind Peter erupted into incoherent cries.

  “Hold on.” Peter raced up the aisle to the top step, where the din lessened. “Is that better?”

  “I just remembered something,” Marcia said. “You asked if I saw any strangers that day. Well, I don’t know why it didn’t come to me before, you said scruffy and that took me down the wrong path, but I did see one man, after I left Kantor’s office that last time and went out for a smoko. He was walking down the third floor corridor. Wore a casual jacket.”

  Peter’s mind snapped into focus. “Can you describe him?”

  “No, it was just a glimpse, and I was preoccupied.”

  How useless. “Well, thanks Marcia. Are you okay?”

  “Fine. You really don’t need to worry about me. One thing…”

  Peter looked down to where Mick was watching him. “Yes?”

  “The man. He had red hair.”

  Jesus! Would the data for this case ever be settled? Peter ran down and scrambled across the knees of Mandy and Dana to shout into Mick’s ear.

  “Friedman! He was still in the building at six o’clock.”

  The siren blared and the crowd leapt and screamed for the last time. The final score: Melbourne 134, Essendon 113.

  “The bastard,” Mick said, tightness around his mouth, after Peter’s recap. “Okay, let’s send the women off and deal with this Jones character. We need to hurry. Then we’ll ring Friedman.”

  Peter watched the sloped back of the red-faced man disappear toward an exit, and wished him a horrific traffic accident. He saw Dana kiss Mick. A second siren. Children poured onto the field to kick footballs with their fathers. A chugging anthem, no doubt the Melbourne club song, crackled in the air.

  “Sorry we have to leave,” he said to Mandy.

  Mandy smiled. “Don’t worry, I can see you’re working.”

  “Was it that obvious?” He was close enough to count the freckles on her cheeks under those liquid brown eyes.

  “I had a lovely time, Peter, thanks for inviting me. It was such a thrill to be at the MCG. You know, I’ve been in the big smoke for nearly two years and have never been here. And Dana’s lovely. She’s giving me a lift home.”

  Great, no wheels for us, Peter thought, but he felt relief that at least the experience hadn’t been distasteful for her.

  “When will I see you again?” he surprised himself by asking. Mick tugged at his elbow.

  “Ring me.” Her face looked so serious that he couldn’t decipher a bloody thing, and then found himself pulled down the steps.

  “Shake a leg,” Mick said. “Jones played piss-poorly today. You sure it’s important to see him?”

  “No one will tell me what Straw is really like,” Peter said. “It’s like there’s a wall around her.”

  “Okay, you call the shots with this one.”

  He followed Mick down into the concrete exterior circle. A man vomited loudly against the fence.

  Peter rang Imogen and updated her on the Friedman discovery. Her response was sullen.

  Halfway around the stadium, Peter spotted Bishop’s garish hair. The lawyer, in a double-breasted suit, paced in front of an entrance manned by security guards.

  “Where have you been?” Bishop said. “We have a narrow window of opportunity here.”

  Peter smiled. Connections, he thought, that’s what drives the world. When he’d rung Bishop with his progress report in the morning, the lawyer had rubbished Peter’s plan to try to see Magnus Jones at the match, then said he had done some legal work for the MCG.

  “You offered,” Peter said.

  Bishop introduced them to Dan, a middle-aged man wearing an Essendon Football Club jacket.

  “Have to dash,” Bishop said. “You guys think life is tough, I’ve got a week’s worth of work to finish by tomorrow.”

  The flaming hair vanished. Dan led them through the security guards and left them alone in a small room.

  “I nearly called him Augustus,” Mick said. “Didn’t dare.”

  Peter chuckled.

  A man hobbled in, dressed in a tracksuit and trainers with shoelaces undone, a towel draped over his shoulders. His nuggetty body seemed folded over with fatigue. Dried mud streaked his blonde hair and clean-cut features. Peter could see pouches under the narrow eyes that sized them up.

  “What the fuck you want?” Magnus Jones said.

  “Peter Gentle, Private Detective,” Peter said, extending a hand, which the footballer ignored. “We’re investigating the murder of Kantor Keppel. Straw Keppel’s father.”

  Jones sat down gingerly. Compared to the sleek strength of Mick, he looked thuggish. “Holy shit.” He cackled. “Straw Keppel. I haven’t had one thought about her for years.”

  The room now reeked of sweat and mud.

  “What happened in 1988, Mr. Jones?” Peter said.

  “You really want to know? She strung me along with that whammo body of hers, then bang, a day before the wedding, her parents rang, said she’d pulled the plug. Amazing, eh? She still a looker?”

  Peter pictured Straw’s bloated figure, smelled her perfume again. “She’s a recluse now. Have you spoken to her recently?”

  “Nah, not once since that day. Her parents never let me near her.”

  “Tell me about her. Was she ever angry or violent?”

  “Who’d have thought anyone would come talk to me about her?” Jones shook his head. “You know, I should have read the signs. She was a weird bitch. Screwed like a cat in heat, but I could never have a proper chat with her, you know? Moody. Liked to run the show. But violent? I never saw that.”

  “What was her relationship with her father?”

  “What do you reckon, only daughter, he spoiled her rotten.”

  “Did she ever talk about her dead brother?”

  “We just pashed and rooted. I’d heard her kid brother died years ago, but she never mentioned it.”

  Peter glanced at Mick, who nodded. This had been a waste of time.

  “Thanks for your help,” Peter said.

  Jones shouted after them. “Tell the cunt I’m glad her father got killed.”

  CHAPTER 34

  This case, Tusk thought. Baffling as any he’d come across in the Force. Baffling because of its open-endedness. Every fresh piece of information implicated someone new. A bloody avalanche of suspects.

  “Isn’t the atmosphere great?” Gentle said.

  It had been touch and go getting Gentle past the bouncer at the front door. Sauce stains on the geek’s shirt. Hair so tangled it should’ve had twigs poking out of it.

  The Mingus Club was small, tucked away in an alley off Flinders Lane next to a posh Japanese restaurant. Seated close to a hundred patrons, spread across a carpeted floor in front of a small stage. Circular metal tables, round chairs with uncomfortable backs. Murky, with recessed lights on the walls. A bar with expensive drinks, “Tips Bring Sexy Karma” written on its blackboard wine list. Intimate acoustics, though the place was nearly full. To one side of them, a fat businessman smoking a cigar, trying to impress a tough-looking brunette. To the other side, two men with short hair talking animatedly.

  “Prefer pubs myself,” Tusk said.

  “Can’t you feel the vibe? I started to listen to jazz a year ago.” Gentle was on his third glass of wine. “Did I tell you I’m learning jazz piano?”

  Smoke swirled up Tusk’s nostrils. “No, and I wish you bloody well hadn’t.”

  After the football, they hadn’t been able to raise Friedman. Not that it mattered, they were booked to see him tomorrow. With time to spa
re, they’d headed to—where else?—Draconi’s. Gentle had been in a talkative mood. Luckily one of the members of his club—Alex, son of Russian stock—joined them. He and Gentle had crapped on about the Internet while Tusk listened.

  Four men came onto the stage, waved to the audience, and launched into a fast, swinging number. Loping double bass plucked with rigid fingers, soft poncy drumming, weird flowing guitar, rhythmic piano. The murmur of voices around them died for an instant, then started up again.

  Gentle leaned back with hands behind his head. “Doesn’t that swing?”

  “Muzak for old peoples’ homes,” Tusk said.

  Gentle shook his head and laughed. Tusk sipped wine. Time check—10 PM on the dot. Dana would be watching a film on television.

  “Check your mobile,” Tusk said. “Any more threats?”

  Bandaged finger sticking up in the air, Gentle listened to his mobile. “Nothing. Do you think he’s gone away?”

  “Maybe,” Tusk lied. No, Bertoli was around somewhere, he could just feel it. And when he got hold of him… His shoulder muscles bunched up and he rolled them to ease out the tension. Control, he thought, that’s what I need, just basic bloody control.

  He spotted Willy Keppel, smoking at a table on the other side of the room, talking to someone. Willy looked as if he hadn’t cleaned himself up at all before work. Threadbare jeans, blue long-sleeved shirt. Hair wilder than Gentle’s.

  Light glinted off Willy’s glasses. He was staring at Tusk. The wreck stubbed out his cigarette, spoke hurriedly to his companion—something familiar about the scrawny figure with brown hair—and rushed off.

  The quartet finished to polite applause. Even before they left the stage, the wail of a saxophone seared the air. Willy sat on a stool onstage. He’d taken off his glasses, his eyes dots of black. In the glare of the small spotlight his face was greasy and red.

  “My God.” Gentle downed more wine. “He’d make a fortune as a busker in Bourke Street Mall. He looks so pitiful.”

  “Brother to Rollo, can you spot it?”

  “No way. But he sure can play.”

  Tusk found himself agreeing. Cheeks puffed, the derelict blew like a man under a spell. Smooth tones glided and soared, then honked and stabbed, charging every which way. Occasionally the liquid notes would swoop high and become a frantic, bleating mess, then he’d bring the saxophone down and burble around a simple melody. Willy’s eyes were closed, sweat poured down his inflamed cheeks. All chatter had stopped. Wherever the bastard was going, he was taking the audience along.

  The applause grew louder after each song, and Willy acknowledged it with dreamy shakes of his head. His shirt darkened with sweat. He grew even more possessed, rising off his stool and walking up and down the stage. A flurry of notes, a brief stop, then he was on his knees, wailing like a police siren. Sudden silence, darkness on the stage.

  Clapping and cat whistles erupted.

  “Come on,” Gentle said. “They never do encores here.”

  They crossed the room and ducked under a low doorway behind the stage. A narrow corridor, dark and deserted. Tusk clicked into alertness. Pushed Gentle back and advanced first. Found a door, twisted it open.

  A tiny room, piled with junk at the back. A broken table, stacked chairs, a sagging piano. A swivel chair in front of a mirror. A fluorescent light tube across the top of the mirror, winking on and off. A single globe dangling from the ceiling.

  Willy had put on a leather jacket. He was packing away his saxophone into a case teetering on the stool.

  “What the hell?” Sweat dripped off Willy’s beard and his chest still heaved. His eyes burned with life. Sax is his savior, Tusk thought, that’s what keeps him from falling off the deep end.

  “Questions, Willy, questions.” Tusk walked up close. Shadows oozed over the walls, bringing memories—running down corridors, footsteps on sticky carpets.

  “You again. Sylvester fuckin’ Stallone.” Willy slammed down the lid of his case, scooped it up, and went to pass, his hot body pushing up against Tusk. Tusk held his ground easily, took in the familiar smell of putrid clothes, sweat, and booze. Felt Gentle’s hand clutch him.

  “Easy, big guy,” Gentle said.

  “Are you my mother?” Tusk grabbed Willy, all bones and no weight, under his armpits and lifted him, kicking, up onto the stool. He put his face up to Willy’s. The black eyes were frenzied.

  “Screw you,” Willy said.

  Tusk had an idea. He wrenched the case out of Willy’s hand and tore open the lid. Picked up the body of the saxophone and raised it high.

  “May I?” he said.

  Willy raised his hands and shook his head. “No. Please.”

  Tusk dropped the sax into the case. “You’ve been screwing your brother’s wife.”

  “Rollo’s just a husband in name,” Willy said. “Bella never loved him. She’s tried to leave him a hundred times. She loved me, then he took her away from me. Bastard.”

  “When?”

  Willy stood up and leaned against the mirror. A crack ran diagonally down it and Tusk saw two Willys, one whole, the other fissured. Hard to tell which looked worse.

  “It was ’82. My first record contract.” The youngest Keppel’s shoulders sagged. “You know nuthin’ about me. My life went crazy early.”

  Tusk glanced at Gentle. His partner was watching Willy intently, but his gaze kept flicking back to Tusk. He’s watching me, Tusk thought, he thinks I’m going to lose it again.

  “I spent ten years in hell,” Willy said, voice barely above a mumble. “Nearly died from an overdose. Married once, lasted two months. Slept under the Yarra bridges. Then a record contract. A good jazz group too, you heard of the Dusters? Bella came to me after a gig. She was wild. Man, she was wild. We were happy.”

  “What happened?” Tusk asked.

  “Couple years later, she met Rollo, dunno how. Next thing is, she’s married, doesn’t want to see me. The bottom dropped out for me. I went to the States. Running away, I guess.”

  Willy licked his lips. “She was long gone from my life when I came back here. Long gone. And on my second gig, I look out while blowing, and there she is. Even better looking. We’re in love.”

  Willy straightened up, his face defying their disbelief.

  “What do you mean, in love?” Tusk said.

  “Christ.” Lick. Lick. “You think ’cos Rollo’s rich enough to have a dwarf pick up his snot after him that he’ll get the girl? I’m twice the man he is.”

  Tusk thought of Bella, her breasts and legs and lips, and wondered what on earth she could see in this toe rag. But he knew it wasn’t that simple. In his own dark years, when he had his stint as a Willy in this world, when he was bloody repulsive, that was the time he pulled the ladies more than ever.

  “Where do you two screw?” he said.

  Willy snickered. “My place. That shock you, Rocky?”

  “So she made you face up to Rollo.”

  Willy stopped licking. “What the hell?”

  “We know about it, Willy. Bella told us, so it’s cool. Bella let you in and pointed you to Rollo’s office. You said you hadn’t met him in years.”

  “So I lied.” Willy looked confused. Out with the tongue.

  “What did it feel like, seeing your brother for the first time in, what, fifteen years?”

  Willy looked at them both, then seemed to come to a decision. “Bella told you?”

  “It’s cool, Willy.”

  “Well, let me tell you, it felt sweet. Nervous, like, but sweet. He’s treated me like shit all my life, and I walk right in and say to him, ‘Brother, you took my girl, I’m takin’ her back.’”

  An evocative scene, Tusk had to admit. “How did he take it?”

  “Rollo’s ice, man. I’ve got to hand it to him, I expected a scene, but he just looked at me, like we’d only talked a day ago. ‘Hello, Willy,’ he says with that molasses voice. ‘What do you want?’ I feel nervous, so I says, ‘Bella and me been fuckin’ f
or two years, and we’re in love, and she’s coming with me.’”

  Willy laughed, a nasty, harsh sound.

  “Choice, Willy, choice,” Tusk said.

  “Rollo’s got this mask, you know, you can never tell what he’s thinking. But a musician can see better, we’re watchers. And for a moment, the look on his face… priceless, just priceless. Anyway, I just walk out and he follows, no jacket or nothing. In the elevator he looks at me, just like I remember when he was the big brother, and says, ‘Get out of my life, Willy.’ Just like that.”

  “A threat?”

  “I guess. I just laugh. I feel real slick. Hey, I still do. When I think what that fucker’s done… So I tell him to stick it. ‘You want money, Willy?’ he says. ‘How much?’ And I laugh again. We’re on the street and he gives me the meanest look. ‘You’re pathetic, Willy,’ he says. ‘Give up and go away. You’ll lose. You always do.’ So I spit on him.”

  “You spat on him?”

  “Yeah. And then I walk away.”

  “Anyone else around?”

  “Not a soul.”

  Gentle spoke for the first time. “Did you see anyone else in the building?”

  “No. Was real quiet.”

  “What did you do afterwards?”

  “I had me a drink before work. Felt stoked, I can tell you.”

  “Have you talked to Rollo since?” Gentle asked.

  “No way.”

  Tusk looked at Willy, up against the mirror, a double image of black eyes and tongue dabbing lips. There had to be more than that. Tusk felt a surge of disgust at all the Keppels.

  “You’re lying,” he said.

  Willy licked his lips. The air sat charged and still.

  “Come on.” Gentle, his hand yet again on Tusk’s arm.

  “Here.” Tusk threw down his business card. “Ring. Too many people are getting killed, you don’t want to be in line for that.”