Port Vila Blues w-5

by Garry Disher

  ‘You know how they like to throw the lot at you, hope some of it sticks,’ Baker said.

  She looked up at him. ‘So, what are you saying, Terry? You’re denying all of it? Is that how we plead you, not guilty?’

  Baker rolled his shoulders around, searching for the right words. ‘I was aggravated, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Aggravated?’

  ‘Yeah. She come at me.’

  ‘She attacked you?’

  ‘Sort of, yeah.’

  ‘So it was self-defence?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Baker said.

  He watched Goldman pick through his file. Now and then she pursed her lips, made a clicking sound with her tongue, as if she didn’t like what she saw there.

  ‘Terry, according to your record, you have a drink problem, correct?’

  ‘I’ve been known to down the odd coldie. Why?’

  ‘And drugs.’

  ‘You know,’ Baker said, ‘recreational.’

  ‘According to a previous assessment, made just six months ago, you were on a downward spiral.’

  Downward spiral? Baker stared back at Goldman. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘It means your psychological and physical conditions were deteriorating, Terry. You were obliged to seek treatment at a clinic. According to the clinic, you dropped out after three visits.’

  ‘I wasn’t sick,’ Baker muttered.

  The lawyer clutched the edge of her desk with both hands, leaned toward him across the paperwork. ‘Terry, I’m looking for our line of defence, okay? It’s called mitigating circumstances. A history of drug and/or alcohol abuse can be taken into consideration, helping to account for your actions.’

  Baker bristled. ‘What do you mean, abuse? I’m fucking not an alky, not a junkie. Fucking watch it, lady.’

  Now she did call him ‘Mr Baker’. Temper up, the bitch spat at him: ‘Mr Baker, I’m appointed by the court to help people who cannot afford a lawyer and who do not wish to conduct their own defence. I’m not deciding guilt or innocence-that’s the court’s job. You’ve got to meet me halfway here. The police prosecutor is going to give you a very hard time. I’ve seen Sergeant Day in action many times. He’ll try to rattle your cage, get you worked up so you look bad in the eyes of the beak. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. So why don’t you help me work out a line of defence?’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Not suit myself. Not suit myself at all. I want you to meet me halfway here.’

  Baker frowned at her. ‘It’s a committal hearing, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘So? Are you saying you don’t want me to try to find grounds for a dismissal first?’

  Baker shrugged.

  Goldman pushed on. ‘And if I can’t find grounds for a dismissal, don’t you want a good defence mapped out for when trial time comes around?’

  ‘I can always shoot through.’

  Goldman regarded him coldly across her desk. ‘Do that and you won’t get bail next time you’re picked up.’

  ‘Maybe there won’t be a next time.’

  Goldman’s voice softened. ‘Terry, listen to me. Look at your history: in homes from the age of eleven, juvenile court at fourteen and again at fifteen and sixteen, six months suspended for possession, a community order for going equipped to burgle… At this rate you’ll be the next chicken in the yard at Long Bay, Bathurst or Goulburn.’

  Baker flushed. ‘People like you, think you’re so great.’ He wanted to explain what it had been like for him, but the words wouldn’t come, only pictures in his head and hot shame and anger choking in his throat. His father had started fiddling with him on his fifth birthday. Fiddled with his twin sister, too. When they were eleven the old man and the old woman had taken them to Penang, supposedly for a holiday, except they hadn’t stayed long and on the way back he and his sister had worn condoms packed with smack taped to their waists, little angels who wouldn’t arouse the suspicion of customs officers. There had been other trips after that, a lot of the smack finding its way up the old man’s arm-him and his mates-putting them in the mood for a bit of kid-fucking, the old man happy to oblige his mates, two kids already in the house. Baker felt a lot older and wiser than any Legal Aid bitch fresh out of law school, who couldn’t understand why he was wasting himself on dope and booze. If Baker had the words, he’d explain to Goldman that the world looked a lot better skewed than it did real, that the dope and booze blunted the pictures in his head. The seconds went by. He swallowed, caught his breath. He tapped his chest. ‘Think I couldn’t handle the yard? Piss it in, lady.’

  She gazed at him calmly. ‘You almost sound as if you welcome the prospect.’

  ‘Lady, when I go to prison it’s going to be for a fucking good reason, not some pissweak assault charge, theft, whatever.’

  They watched each other for a few moments. Some of the heat had leaked away now, as though Baker had stated his case and the duty lawyer hers and the result was a stalemate, maybe mutual regard.

  Goldman moved first. ‘Okay, Terry, we’ll do our best with what we’ve got. You’re on the slate for two o’clock. Don’t be late, don’t wander off. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another dozen people to counsel this morning.’

  Baker stood. The action was sudden, the chair crashing over behind him. That embarrassed him-he hadn’t meant it to happen and it must have seemed like aggression or disappointment. He righted the chair, all of his movements contained and careful, and saw only one way of retrieving the situation. He stuck out his hand. ‘Thanks. Much appreciated.’

  The duty lawyer was occupied with the papers on her desk and didn’t notice his hand. He made her notice it, leaning completely over the desk and wagging it at the level of her breasts. ‘Mrs Goldman? I just want to say thanks.’

  She blinked. ‘Ms, not Mrs.’ Then she shook with him, her hand small, dry and firm, and Baker suddenly felt that the day was on the mend.

  He walked down the corridor, past other duty lawyers in other offices, and came to the waiting room. Nowhere to sit. It was a place of writhing children, fat women striking out suddenly, junkies chewing their nails to the gristle, bewildered parents, young car thieves and break-and-enter merchants leaning like James Dean on the walls. Baker looked around in disgust. Behavioural problems, medical and physical disabilities, tears, ethnics in their best suits, not to mention the uniforms, cops and court officers.

  Too much for Baker. He checked his watch. Almost noon. Time for a few quick belts.

  The pub across the road had Castlemaine on tap. Baker had a schooner, a vodka chaser, a schooner, a vodka chaser. He patted his pockets. He’d had a Serepax prescription filled just the other day. He found the tablets in the same pocket as the car keys. He swallowed one, then threw back another vodka. Another beer would have been a big mistake: ‘Just nipping out for a leak, your worship.’ Baker sniggered, imagining the look on the beak’s face.

  The guy behind the bar gave him a wink on the way out. ‘Good luck, mate. Keep your head.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Baker muttered.

  Keep his head? What did the guy mean? Baker crossed the road. On the other side he put one foot after the other up the steps of the courthouse. In through the swinging doors and then a double-check of the computer printout on the notice board. There it was: Baker, Court 5, 2 p.m. He looked at his watch. Holy Christ, five past two.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Goldman hissed outside number five court. She reeled back. ‘Oh, Terry, you haven’t been drinking?’

  ‘Settles the nerves,’ he told her.

  ‘Well, come on. Victor De Lisle’s the beak today and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  It became apparent to Baker during the twenty minutes that followed that he might have made a miscalculation with his cocktail of beer, vodka and Serepax, especially on top of the downers he’d popped that morning. He was aware of the police prosecutor droning away: guy in a suit, solid build, a moustache like you see on nin
e out of ten coppers. Then Goldman had a go, and Baker heard her suggest to the beak that they settle his case now, save some strain on the court system. Baker yawned a lot. He beamed. He was required to stand through all of it and that was the hard part.

  Then the fog cleared a little and Baker felt the eyes of the magistrate fix on him. Baker twitched at the man, halfway between an open smile and a respectful nod.

  ‘Ms Goldman?’

  ‘Your worship?’

  ‘Is Mr Baker inebriated? Have you been drinking, Mr Baker?’

  ‘If the court pleases, Mr Baker is an alcoholic, a disease he is currently doing his best to overcome.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked, Ms Goldman. I asked whether or not he has taken upon himself to appear in my court in a state of intoxication. Mr Baker, perhaps you would care to honour us with an explanation one way or the other?’

  Baker frowned, picking his way through the heavy language. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You’re a bit of a loafer, eh, Mr Baker?’

  A cop at the back laughed out loud.

  De Lisle went on: ‘When’s the last time you did an honest day’s work, Baker? Maybe you’re not a loaf, maybe you’re a sponge. Soak up the welfare system, do you, Baker? Got some poor woman at home supporting you?’

  ‘Your worship, I really must protest-’

  ‘I’m not interested, Ms Goldman.’ De Lisle’s face twisted. ‘I see his type over and over again. Useless. A drain on the community. Repeat offenders too stupid to learn from their mistakes.’

  ‘Your worship, really-’

  ‘Not now, Ms Goldman.’

  Something was going on. Baker concentrated, hearing the sneer in De Lisle’s voice, registering the contempt. De Lisle? What kind of a wog name was that? He saw a short, pink, fattish kind of character, self-satisfaction written all over him. I’ll get you, pal, Baker thought. Calling me useless. Calling me stupid.

  Meanwhile De Lisle was all professional again. He overrode Goldman and began gabbling a legal summation in a recitative voice, to the effect that Baker did have a case to answer and was bailed on his own recognizance to appear in the District Court on a date to be fixed.

  Baker wasn’t interested in that. He barely listened. He was encouraging a picture in his head: De Lisle thrashing about in pain, begging, pleading with Baker to spare his worthless life.

  ****

  Twenty

  Wyatt slowed for a traffic bottleneck in Ringwood, the hills clarifying in the distance, and considered just how murky this deal with the Tiffany had become. If Liz Redding were simply a fence, he’d be wary out of habit, knowing that the only other factor to take into account was the ripoff factor: you can’t get rid of the goods yourself, fences can, so you’re forced to rely on them, knowing they’ll always rip you off a few per cent. But at least you also knew that neither you nor the fence wanted the law involved.

  But that kind of certainty didn’t exist when it came to someone who walked the murky ground between the insurance companies and lawless professionals like Wyatt. The insurance companies were ostensibly on the side of the law. The only thing in Wyatt’s favour here was their well-known reluctance to fork out the full value on any claim. They would rather fork out a few thousand dollars to get the Tiffany back intact, no questions asked, than pay the full replacement value-which didn’t mean they wouldn’t also work with the law if it suited them to do so.

  With that in mind, Wyatt did what he could to stack the odds in his favour. He hadn’t been carrying for months-too much metal, too many airport metal detectors, and Jardine’s burglaries hadn’t warranted a gun. But today he had Jardine’s unused, untraceable.32 automatic in the waistband at the small of his back. Not his preferred handgun, but it would do if the shooting were close and fast.

  Next was the handover place itself. If there’d been more time and if he were dealing with a buyer or a fence, then he’d have insisted on meeting in the safety-deposit vault of a bank. He’d have a safety-deposit box, the buyer would have a box. He’d have the Tiffany, the buyer would have scales, pincers, jeweller’s eyeglass and purchase cash. They’d complete the trade in complete privacy and neither would be tempted to pull a cross, not with so many guards, cameras, witnesses and steel doors around.

  But there wasn’t the time, and Liz Redding wasn’t a simple buyer or fence, so he’d suggested a Devonshire tea place near Emerald. It was taking him over an hour to get there, but the hills offered escape routes and boltholes. He could slip away on one of the back roads or hole up in a weekender cabin or even perch up a tree for a few hours. He’d be hard to track from the air and hard to follow in the dense ground cover.

  He thought through the getaway alternatives. If this were a trap he was walking into, he’d run and keep running, assuming he had the initiative to begin with. If not, then he was left with holing up in Emerald until the heat was off, or holing up a few kilometres away until it was safe to leave. He thought he knew how the cops would work it. They’d block the roads out first. If he didn’t show, they’d move the search closer to Emerald. Clearly the answer was, if he got away in the initial confusion he’d hide where he could watch the roadblocks. When they came down for the cops to narrow the circle, that was the time to run and keep running.

  Assuming the cafй itself wasn’t being staked out, the interior crowded with cops posing as customers, waiters, cashiers, cooks.

  Finally, Wyatt had worked on himself, doing what he always did before a hit. He’d eaten a modest breakfast, enough to give him energy but not slow him down. He had a train timetable in his pocket, and reserves of cash to buy his way out of trouble. And he was wearing a useful, quick-change disguise if he needed one: the jacket was reversible, there was a beret folded into an inside pocket, he wore sunglasses. Change all three factors and he might change his appearance sufficiently to get away unnoticed.

  The cafй offering Devonshire teas was on the northern edge of the town, separated from the first of the shops by a belt of gums, tree ferns and bracken. Wyatt parked the car in a bay outside a milkbar, went in, bought an icecream, came out again. He set off down the street, heading away from the cafй. He strolled for four blocks, not hurrying, taking tiny smears of the icecream into his mouth to make it last. Then he crossed the street and came back, pausing now and then at the window of a craft shop, a nursery, a display of New Age crystals and self-help books. The crystals and the books were incomprehensible to Wyatt.

  The sweep was smooth, methodical, made with the steady, quiet competence with which he stamped all his jobs. He didn’t let the tension of his situation work on his nerves. It helped that he didn’t see anything that he hadn’t expected to see. There were a few tourists like himself, a few local merchants, housewives doing the shopping, a couple of horticultural types in Land Rovers and here and there a stoned-looking sixties’ counter-culture throwback, probably from a hovel back in the hills somewhere. Wyatt preferred the pure, peeping bellbirds to any of them.

  By now he had a clear picture of the Devonshire tea place. It had a first floor balcony with umbrellas open to the sun, but he wasn’t about to tree himself there. He’d meet Liz Redding on the ground floor: plenty of doors to the open, and plenty of windows if it should come to a dive through the plate glass, his jacket over his face and arms for protection. Otherwise there seemed to be a basement, a rose arbour at the side, a couple of shadowed porches and alcoves of greenish, weathered boards. He’d stay clear of places like that, just as he stayed clear of any place where he might find his exits blocked in front of him and some final threat coming hard behind him.

  So, he was as safe as he could make himself. That left only the negotiation itself. Wyatt had no doubts about his strength there: he had the Tiffany, Liz Redding wanted it.

  What else did she want? He wanted her, but that didn’t mean he was going to act on it. Then he stopped thinking those things and watched a car pull into the small asphalted area in front of the cafй. Liz Redding was driving but it was not the car she’
d been driving the day he and Jardine had met her at the motel in Preston. No sticker of any kind in the rear window.

  She got out. Plenty of loose material hanging on her slim frame today: baggy pants, a billowing white T-shirt reaching to her knees. She swung the strap of a black purse over one shoulder and strode into the cafй. He went in after her, knowing that he wouldn’t feel any more or less safe five minutes from now.

  ****

  Twenty-one

  Baker trailed Ms Goldman back to her office, and the moment he pulled the ugly vinyl chair up to her desk he blurted it out: ‘You know what he bloody well called me? Stupid, useless, lazy.’

  She took some time to respond, his file spread open in front of her. He’d noticed that about her before. Getting her attention was like trying to turn a ship at sea, you had to allow plenty of room and time. Well, she was Legal Aid, the government was paying her, so he wasn’t going to get top priority. If he had plenty of dough, she’d be all over him. Finally she dragged her eyes away from the file, saying ‘Hmmm?’ absently, looking more or less past his right ear, not into his eyes.

  ‘Useless,’ Baker repeated. ‘He said I was stupid and lazy.’

  ‘I don’t recall that.’

  ‘That’s what he said. Shouldn’t be allowed. I mean, fair go, there’s a recession on.’ Baker waved his hand to indicate the masses huddled in the corridors and waiting rooms outside. ‘I bet fifty per cent of the poor bastards who come here haven’t got a job, so why have a go at me?’

  ‘I remember he asked if you were a loafer,’ the Goldman woman said, twinkling a little.

  ‘See? Like I said, he called me lazy.’

  ‘Oh, Terry, that’s just his little joke, a play on words. Your name is Baker, right? Bakers bake loaves, hence loafer.’

  Baker wasn’t about to let her mollify him. He felt obscurely ashamed and bitter. ‘What about calling me stupid and useless? Anyhow, what kind of name’s De Lisle? Wog name, not even Australian.’