by Sue Williams
‘You just cut off the heads and pop them quick into the bin,’ I said. ‘Why would you need to look into their eyes? You’re not asking them out on a date.’
Really, if I faced facts, it was more than possible Brad wasn’t going to make it as a top takeaway monopolist. Not that my monopoly was doing all that well these days, in any case. No, the survival of the Rusty Bore Takeaway was entirely dependent on low overheads.
Of course it was all different back when Piero and I set up our place nearly thirty years ago. Back then we still had rain and the full attention of the attendees of the annual show. Rusty Bore—Original home of the Mallee Farm Days, proclaims the weathered yellow sign at the entrance to the town. It’s pretty sad our only claim to fame is what we used to have. We lost the Farm Days to Hustle back in ’91.
I passed the row of three steel silos shimmering in the heat and took the turn onto the highway, heading south. The sun was already a hot glare in a polished blue sky.
They were good little eaters, those Farm Days visitors. They came from all over the country to look at the agricultural machinery on offer. It’s hungry work, people used to tell me, looking eagerly at our lunchtime specials board. I could understand. I’d have been starving too after a morning of climbing around tillage and seeding machinery, nodding my head thoughtfully as I considered belt grain conveyors, chaser bins and land rollers. Even the Federal National Party member for the Mallee used to come in for a feed.
What would I say if I got the chance to update that welcome sign? Home to a row of wheat silos and derelict railway sidings might be fair but it doesn’t have the upbeat tone I’d be looking for. We’ve got the Murray Matlock Dryland Tank Museum up the road, of course, with its array of old header parts, remains of a blacksmith’s shop and an extensive bottle collection. They’ve even got a website. Although I don’t think it gets a lot of hits.
Acres of greying wheat stubble drifted on by. A little dust devil whirled over the paddocks beyond.
A clammy twenty minutes later I was in Hustle, parking outside the squat apricot-brick building of the Garden of the Gods Extended Care Nursing Home. I struggled out of the car and crunched my way across the gravel car park.
Sophia was coming out the front door. ‘Ah, Cassie, my little bambina.’
I’m not Sophia’s bambina but she’s Piero’s mother and I don’t argue with Sophia. Never, not even now Piero’s dead. At ninety, Sophia still dresses with more flamboyance than anyone I’ve ever met. She describes herself as a geriatric starlet. A couple of art galleries have put on shows of her clothes.
Today she was wearing an emerald green shirt, huge flared pants and a chunky gold necklace. Ronnie, her second husband, is in the room next to Ernie’s.
‘Poor Ronnie,’ she sighed. ‘He move back ten more years, now he thinks we’re in 1973. He keep asking when we gonna go see Mr Whitlam. I tell him next week, all set for lunch in Canberra. How’s he, your Mr Jefferson?’
‘I’ve got great news for Ernie.’ I told her about Clarence and the rent. ‘Writer bloke. Fella handed over five grand.’
‘You joking. What is he like, this rich man?’
‘Young fella. Dark hair, bit oily looking.’
She looked thoughtful. ‘Not that young man the other man he’s lookin’ for?’
I stood still. ‘What other man?’
‘I don’t remember now who tell me. Perhaps Vern. He knows many things.’
That shop of Vern’s is just an elaborate device for sucking news out of the veins of anyone passing by.
‘A man, he was askin’ in the Sheep Dip roadhouse. Not very friendly, Vern say. He have a gun.’
My skin chilled. ‘Gun?’
‘Yes. Underneath his jacket, Vern say. And there was something about his eye, it was, you know, really off.’ She gestured vaguely at her own eyes, bright unexpected blue behind huge flying-saucer glasses.
‘Looking for the young fella, why?’
She leaned forward, lowered her voice. ‘Mildura Mafia, most probably.’
‘The fella looking say that?’
‘Omertà, Cassie.’ She nodded significantly. ‘These men do not break their code of silence. Don’t you watch the movies, cara?’
Suddenly, Ernie’s five grand felt very heavy in my handbag.
‘But I must not keep you,’ said Sophia. ‘Is new-stock morning in the Op Shop. I’m lookin’ for some nice thing to wear to Laura’s deb.’ She bustled off to her car.
Clarence was a normal customer, just slightly injured and carrying a lot of cash. Course he was. What was it he’d said? Keep it to yourself…where I am.
No way I was giving Ernie Mafia money. I turned around and strode back to my car.
‘Dean?’ I spoke into the mobile. ‘Got someone you better check on, pronto. Bloke by the name of Clarence Brown. Possible Mafia type. Says he’s a writer from Melbourne.’
‘Really.’ Dean’s voice didn’t have quite the sense of urgency I was looking for.
I explained about Clarence’s blood, his mysterious book, the mean bloke at Sheep Dip looking for him. ‘We don’t want a gangster battle breaking out in Rusty Bore.’
‘Gangsters. Right. Mum, why are you so sure he’s a criminal?’
‘I’m not sure, that’s the point. That’s why you need to check up on him.’
He sighed. ‘This is the fourth time in the last two years you’ve asked me to check up on someone. And on each occasion they turned out to be completely normal law-abiding people. One of them was the mayor of Randall.’
‘No one more devious than a politician, everybody knows that.’
‘Look,’ his voice softened. ‘I’ll try my best to get over tonight for a cuppa. I know you’re lonely. But I can’t go looking into people’s personal details, not unless there’s an actual crime I’m investigating. Reasonable grounds for suspicion, at least.’
‘I’ve just explained all that. I’ve definitely got reasonable grounds.’
‘Mum. I’ve got to have the reasonable grounds, not you.’ He hung up.
Great, thanks Dean. I spent a moment drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Time for a change of plan.
In fact it was obvious. Clarence could have his five grand back. I started the car. Yes; I’d tell him the place was double-booked. Big rush on Christmas tourists. I took the turn onto the highway, wound down my window to get some breeze.
I swerved, dodging a rabbit on the road. It was embarrassing I’d taken that money in the first place. I hadn’t even asked for references. How bloody hopeless was that? Ernie didn’t need Mafia fellas stamping around the home.
But would Clarence be the type of bloke to just accept his eviction without an argument? Did he have a gun? I shivered, despite the heat. No one would hear a shot at Ernie’s place. Nothing around but miles of mallee scrub. Maybe I should have brought along my star picket. The car shook as a truck carrying irrigation pipes thundered past.
There was a car parked by the roadside ahead. Silver Mercedes, no rust, no dust. A girl was walking around the car holding out a mobile. Looking for a signal. She had honey blonde hair and wore a floaty apricot dress. She’d be lost, headed for one of the fancy river towns up by the Murray. Or broken down. There was nothing for her here, not unless she was in the market for a silo.
I pulled over, struggled out over the handbrake and strolled across to the Mercedes. ‘Need some help?’
She was young, anywhere from thirteen to eighteen. Her face had that perilous blend of innocence and over-confidence, a girl her parents would never stop worrying about. For the first time I was glad I’d only had sons.
‘Yes. I must have like mixed up the directions,’ she said, a too-bright smile.
Something about her nagged at my memory.
‘I told you not to rely on that stupid GPS.’ There was a woman in the driver’s seat. Map spread out over the steering wheel, its edges crumpled in her white-knuckled hands. Lines chiselled around her eyes and mouth, age spots on her hands. She
was wearing a gold knit dress. ‘Where you headed?’
‘We’re fine, thank you.’ The woman’s voice was glacial. ‘Get back in the car, Aurora.’
‘Just a second. She might have seen him.’ The girl fiddled in her apricot-coloured handbag, exact match with her dress. She held out a photo. Her wooden bracelet, sculpted into waves, clunked against her bag.
‘Oh, for God’s sake. This…person won’t know anything. Get back in the car.’
I took the photo. Two people. The girl standing in front of me, and Clarence. I’d seen the same photo in his wallet. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen him. Friend of yours?’
Aurora stiffened. ‘He’s my brother.’
This girl had a brother with Mafia connections? Did she know it? Jesus, wasn’t it a family thing? What about her?
‘We need to find him. Nanna’s really worried. About what he’s going to do. It’s kind of urgent,’ said Aurora.
‘Urgent how? If he’s just writing a book?’
The woman flung the crumpled map aside and shoved the car door open. She stepped out, a tiny woman, an angry sunbird in gold heels. ‘Book? What’s your involvement in this? Are you hiding Clarence? How dare you.’
‘Why would I be hiding him?’
She compressed her lips, then looked at the girl. ‘I should have sent Ravi. I simply don’t have time to deal with this, with people of this…ilk.’
‘Now you listen here. Clarence is, as far as I am aware, staying in Mr Ernie Jefferson’s shack, which is fifty kilometres that way.’ I pointed one firm finger to the north. ‘And as the agent for that property, I require him to leave the premises immediately. Leave the district, in fact. We don’t tolerate criminal types around here.’
‘Criminal types?’ The woman’s voice had gone up an octave.
‘Nanna.’ Aurora gripped the older woman’s arm.
The sunbird sucked in a breath.
I fossicked in my handbag, found Clarence’s wad of money and held it out. ‘Here. Take his stupid money. We don’t want your kind around here. Now on your way.’
She frowned, pushed the money back, then put her hand into her bag. A bag easily big enough to hold a gun. I swallowed.
The hand came back out and she held out something small. ‘My card. Mona Hocking-Lee. Look, we seem to have got off to rather a poor start…’
I took it. Managing Director, Balance Neutral. No mention of the Mildura Mafia. But then they probably wouldn’t put Cosa Nostra Enterprises (North-West Division) on their cards. An address in Muddy Soak.
‘What’s Balance Neutral?’ Some kind of neutralising business? Hit-women maybe?
‘I run a group of environmental organisations. Carbon offsets. Bird protection charities. But I’m not here on business. I’m here to talk some sense into my grandson. Before he does something stupid.’ She glanced at Aurora.
‘What kind of stupid? I’m not letting Ernie’s shack out to the Mafia. I don’t care whether they’re tree-huggers or not.’
‘Mafia?’ Mona’s voice was tight. She ran a hand across her forehead. ‘Aurora, you didn’t say anything about Mafia. You little idiot.’ She got into the driver’s seat. ‘Get in the car. Quickly.’
Aurora folded her arms. ‘I don’t see why I’m getting the blame. I did the right thing, told you about his phone call. I’m not responsible for his like completely immature behaviour.’
Mona snapped me a look. ‘What exactly did he tell you about the book?’
‘Not a lot,’ I said. ‘It’ll be a bestseller. That’s it. How an accounting textbook could be a bestseller beats me, but what would I know?’
She sat up straight like a piano teacher, handbag in a death-grip on her lap. ‘Accounting textbook? Is that what he said?’
‘Well, no, not exactly.’
‘No way it’s some textbook, Nanna. He said we’d all be sorry.’
‘Sorry for what?’ I said.
Mona held up a hand. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. We’re wasting time here. I really must talk to Clarence. This property, it’s north of here? Get in the damn car, Aurora.’ Aurora scurried around the Mercedes and got in the passenger side.
‘Thank you, Mrs…’ Mona said, starting the car. She reached to close the driver’s door.
I grabbed the door, held it open. ‘Tuplin. Cass Tuplin. Of the Rusty Bore Takeaway. Best Street, Rusty Bore. Not so fast, though. You should contact the police if you’re worried. In fact, my son…’
‘No, no; no need to involve the police.’ Her face had a hunted expression.
‘Right, well, I’ll come with you. I need to evict your grandson.’
‘Ah, we really mustn’t detain you, Mrs Tuplin. This is a family matter and I’m sure it won’t take long.’ Mona’s tone was firm. ‘I’ll return your keys later today, I promise.’
‘Hang on, what about this five grand? I don’t want to carry all this around.’
‘Yes, yes, we’ll sort it out then.’ She batted me away with a hand. ‘I’m sure I can trust you with it.’
She stomped on the accelerator. The car jerked forward, ripping the door out of my hand, and she slammed it shut. The Mercedes tore off in a cloud of dust.
Mona didn’t come into the shop that afternoon. She didn’t pop around that evening, or even phone. I spent Saturday night fretting about that woman and Clarence and his five grand. In my distraction I burned Edna Rawson’s snapper and chips.
‘Acrylamide, Cass—carcinogens.’ Edna waved her walking stick at the fryer. ‘Millions of the bastards everywhere.’ I stared at the blackened snapper in my basket. I never burn an order.
A bad night’s sleep, tossing around, worrying about the money, the Mafia, the whole rental debacle. At dawn I decided I’d had enough. I rolled out of bed, got dressed and picked up my handbag. Check. I stood in the doorway of my bedroom, uncertain for a tick, then grabbed the sawn-off star picket from beside my bed. I headed out to my car.
The horizon was turning pale lemon as I took the turn onto the highway, past the row of silos, black silhouettes against the sky.
I’d make a quick call in to Ernie’s shack to return the rent. A polite request for them to be on their way, and life would go back to normal.
But what if they got violent? Come on, I whispered, Mona drives a Mercedes. And she’s a grandmother. Hardly likely to get violent. I wound down the window and sucked in a deep lungful of dawn air.
I swerved for an early-morning kangaroo. The clouds were turning pale pink, blood-red wisps near the horizon. The twisted multi-trunks of the mallee gums were visible now, like long, pale necks above nests of fallen bark and leaves.
I passed the turning for Perry Lake. The gate was open. Shit, I really should put a padlock on that gate. I slowed the car and pulled over. Perry Lake’s part of Ernie’s place, a kilometre of so south of the shack. The lake was mined for salt once. It was long abandoned by the time my sister Helen and I used to come here, a wonderland of dereliction for a kid. Now it’s become a spot for four-wheel-drives, trail bikes and joy riders, a free camping spot for cash-strapped grey nomads and a general dumping ground. I don’t mind the campers, it’s all the crap—the broken bottles, discarded tyres, cars and rusting fridges—that bothers me. I’d told Clarence to keep the bloody gate shut.
I turned onto the sandy track towards the lake, the track twisting through the spinifex and clumps of scrappy native pines. I should get Brad in here with his environmental whatsits, they could clean up the place, maybe turn it into a national park, like that Pink Lakes park over to the west. Perry Lake was just as good as that damn place. We’ve got miles of pink water; a long shore of pink sand with a rim of blinding, salty white. Visitors could marvel at the colour of the water and learn about the algae that cause it. Kids could play beach cricket while Dad burned their sausages on the barbie.
The lake smelled salty and faintly rotting, like the sea. There were fresh tyre marks in the sand. Muffled noises came from somewhere near the lake. Then a dull popping sound. A firecracker? A gun shot?
Maybe I should call Dean. I tapped the steering wheel. No, not after yesterday. It’d just be trespassers, and they were my problem, not his. And I had my star picket on the back seat.
I drove around the piles of decaying cars and fridges and the dumped sheets of rusted corrugated iron. A gust of wind buffeted the car. Brown clouds were building in the sky, more dust on its way. The lake appeared, clouds reflected in its pink–brown surface. The pink sand was crimson in the morning light. I scanned the perimeter of the lake. No strange cars in sight. But there was something over there. Yes, by the edge of the lake, a shape. A shape that didn’t look right.
I stopped the car. Swiftly performing the exit manoeuvre over the handbrake to the passenger side, I leapt out and grabbed my star picket. I crunched my way across the sand, avoiding the squishy mauve clumps of glasswort, to the edge of the lake. The wind tugged at my dress. Grains of sand blew against my legs.
The shape beside the water was a woman. Her white fingers were curled up like claws. She was wearing a gold knit dress. There was a hole in her forehead, fringed with blood. More blood had pooled onto the sand.
Something had taken her eyes. I turned away, leaned over my star picket and threw up.
‘Dean. Quick,’ I said into my phone. ‘There’s a dead woman.’ The reception wasn’t real flash. Dean’s voice came back a series of meaningless syllables, unconnected ‘aps’ and ‘ets’. Still, he’d be speeding down the highway in a jiff, siren on full whack, strong jaw jutting out, like the cops in the midday movie.
The wind gusted, hot, hard breaths against my face. A posse of hungry-looking ravens stood near the woman.
‘At Perry Lake,’ I bellowed. More jumbled noises from the other end. I walked around, trying for better reception. I tried not to step in the uneven footprints around the body.
‘A dead woman. It’s that Clarence’s grandmother, Mona Hocking-Lee. I told you that fella was trouble. You hear me, Dean? It’s your mother.’
