by Zane Lovitt
Then came Willie Somers.
It began with a smash-and-grab at a mini-mall on Swanston Street, the ordinary kind you see on Crime Stoppers. At two in the morning the thieves drove a stolen Subaru through the front glass wall, filled the car full of sports gear, shoes, clothes, backed it out and drove north.
A cleaner across the road saw it happen. He stood on the balcony of a Flaming Galah Steak House restaurant, puffed on a cigarette as he watched the thieves below, and when he finished he rang triple zero and told them he’d heard one of the kids laugh and call another kid ‘Willie’.
When Willie Somers, the owner of the stolen Subaru, turned out to bear a certain resemblance to one of the thieves on the CCTV recording, they brought him in to meet Constable Neil Bighuty.
Surveillance tapes are worthless on their own. Businesses and security agencies are eternally reluctant to shell out for a camera system that can provide actual evidence. Usually the store records over the same tape again and again, which means officers have to analyse fuzzy black and white images so distorted that not even the culprit’s own mother could give a positive ID. They knew they didn’t have enough on Somers, not for a conviction, but they also knew they had the whole thing figured out: uptown kids get bored of tennis and computer games, want to try something edgy and dangerous like a robbery. They don’t know how to steal a car, so they report one of their own stolen and send it through a plate glass window because, hey, it’s insured. And what do the police know about investigating stuff?
Big used to brag that he could get anyone to confess to anything, usually by way of intimidation and doom-saying. That’s the approach he took with Willie Somers; the goal was to sweat out of Willie the names of the other guys on the tape. But Willie wasn’t talking. Even with Bighuty standing over him and pulling faces, Willie just snarled and stroked his straight blond hair. The officers observing noticed that Willie looked pale, but that’s just what people looked like with Neil Bighuty interrogating them, so at first they didn’t care. After a while the kid said he wasn’t feeling well and asked to go outside for some air. Big escorted him, and the rest of the investigators took lunch.
In the courtyard behind the police station, where the officers usually hold their Christmas party and give their retirement speeches, Willie and Big were all alone. Willie told Big he was thirsty and Big offered him a drink from the garden hose. They were out there not for ten minutes, according to the rest of the station, before Big ran back inside, ashen-faced, carrying Willie like a groom carrying his bride across the threshold. Only faster.
Willie had suffered a heart aneurysm, which is basically a stroke, which happens to people with weak hearts, which Willie had, which he hadn’t mentioned when they brought him in. All the medical examiner could say was that he had probably suffered palpitations during the interrogation, had therefore appeared pale and dazed to everyone observing. This also explained why he drank more than two litres of water in the courtyard, which is how much they found in his stomach. And it also explained why he was dead. There were no bruises or marks on him, and Big told the press he’d interrogated the boy using textbook procedures. He told the press he’d just been unlucky. Then someone said that Willie had been more unlucky. Then Big got fired.
‘Willie Somers was a cocky little shit who played with fire,’ Dennis phoned me that afternoon. ‘But they won’t say that on the TV. No, they just say, Look at this white kid the cops killed.’
It’s not just Big. As long as I’ve known him, Dennis has had a weakness for police thugs. He sees them the way the rest of us see endangered gorillas: dumb and lethal and in need of our protection. Dennis didn’t hate Willie, he just hated what was happening to Big.
‘And I tell you what else, the little prick did it,’ he said, like that mattered anymore. ‘Everybody knows that’s him on that tape. But without a confession we couldn’t take it to court. Everybody knows that, too. The press know this is the kind of fluke accident that only makes people hate the police, and they know sacking Big is just more public relations for the commissioner. But they don’t give a shit.’
Dennis was having trouble finding cops to come out that night with Big. No one wanted to get tagged by the police brutality brush, so when I got there Dennis and Big were already plastered and it was clearly going to be just the three of us. Big looked up at me, smiled like I’d just delivered a fantastic eulogy at his mother’s funeral, then he told me a joke about a hooker with dysentery.
What I remember most about that night is Big not talking about it. Not about the smash-and-grab or Willie Somers or his own bad luck. The closest he came was when we wound up on St Kilda pier with Dennis asleep on the beach behind us. Dennis’s clothes were all torn up from a fight with a pimp at Omar’s Lounge. After that he’d guided us to the beach with the promise of something spectacular. He wouldn’t say what, and now he no longer could because he’d passed out. There on the pier, Big and I passed a bottle of pear-flavoured vodka back and forth, which was all that Big could swipe from the bar while everyone was watching Dennis and the pimp.
It was dark without the streetlights to help me see. It took a few moments, but I eventually figured out that Big was weeping, not making much noise, not saying anything to me, not caring I was there. His body shuddered and the tears fell silently down into the black water beneath us. Then he took from his wallet the photograph of Sotiria and tore it up ceremoniously.
He tossed the pieces into the lapping water and sobbed until he fell asleep.
It was a little dramatic, like it was something he’d seen someone do on TV. But that doesn’t change that he meant it.
I watched the sunrise alone. I guess that’s what Dennis took us out there for. It’s the kind of thing he’d have done for Big, like it symbolised something. But I’m not sure.
The elevator opens out into a hallway lined with antique lamps. The lamps give out almost no light and portraits of sad people hang on the walls, silent and tasteful. At room 1504, I try the handle.
Locked.
Plan B is to move further down the hall to 1503. I knock.
The doors at the Pioneer have no peepholes, but they do have chains. This one opens as far as the chain will allow and a wide, bubbly face looks out.
‘Hi. My name’s John Dorn. I’m head of security for Miss Hannah Delaney. Did you know Miss Delaney was a guest here in the hotel?’
Her hair’s an expensive caramel blonde and she wears so much make-up it’s like she’s in disguise. I show her my private investigator licence and she blinks at it.
‘Yes. I saw her downstairs.’ She rolls her eyes, giggles. ‘I mean, I only thought I did. But I suppose I really did.’
She’s beaming and I lower my voice, confidential.
‘I’m sorry to ask you this, but I’m staying in the room next to yours, and I’ve locked myself out, and it wouldn’t be such a big deal, except that it’s the third time I’ve done it today, and I’m just too embarrassed to go back to Miss Delaney and have her sign out another passkey for me. Now, I think I can get there from your balcony. Would you mind if I gave it a try?’
She giggles again and unchains the door, pulls it open. She’s wearing a paisley dress that covers a large, rounded body.
‘Come on then. But you’re not allowed to look at the mess. I’m still unpacking, you know.’
She giggles and I giggle back as I step into a big room with a big bed and a big suitcase open on top of it. There isn’t any mess. You’d have to work pretty hard to make a mess out of this kind of luxury.
Inside the suitcase is more paisley, some magazines and a couple of bottles of wine. The labels are old and papery and in French, but I don’t make her for an expert. She’s travelling alone, but by the way the tissue paper neatly divides everything in her suitcase, you can tell she doesn’t travel often. I’d guess she’s recently divorced from someone who knows wine. And she’s taking a trip. Celebrating.
I say, ‘Thank you so much. I feel like such a klutz.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s not a problem at all.’ She closes the door and follows me into the room. ‘But you have to tell me what it’s like working for a superstar like Hannah Delaney.’
Her eyes open expectantly wide.
I say, ‘I get my hair cut at a really good place.’
Her mouth drops open and she grabs my wrist dramatically. ‘Givaani?’
‘That’s right.’
She says, ‘Oh,’ and squints at my hair, trying to see the art in it. I point across the room. ‘This is the balcony?’
‘Yes. Go ahead.’
When I open the door the wind reminds me that I’m fifteen storeys up. Afternoon is slowly turning the world orange and the shadows of the railing are long, thick. Between this railing and the one on Mush’s balcony is a gap one metre wide and one thousand metres deep.
I look down into that gap, see the ants that are security officers with their mirrors on broomsticks. I try to pinpoint where I’d land if I fell.
The woman, she comes out and stands next to me, holding her dress down against the wind. She frowns at Mush’s balcony, the one she thinks is mine.
‘How…?’ That’s all she says for it to be clear what we’re both thinking. Either I hire a helicopter and a reliable pilot, or I jump.
‘I’ll have to jump,’ I say.
‘No. You can’t.’
‘It’s not that far,’ I say. ‘I leap further than this every day at security training.’
Then she nods, understanding. Then something occurs to her. ‘Wait,’ she says, and darts back into her suite. She returns instantly with a Pioneer Hotel postcard.
‘I don’t usually do this sort of thing, but do you think you might ask Hannah for her autograph? She’s getting married in a few days, and this could be the last autograph she gives with her maiden name. I imagine it might be wonderfully valuable one day.’
She hands me the postcard. ‘You’ll have to ask her to date it as well.’
‘Love to,’ I say, and stuff the postcard inside my jacket. I give myself as much run-up as there’s room for. It’s a metre up over the first railing, a metre across the gap, then a metre back down onto the safety of Mush’s balcony. Like jumping over a school desk.
I push off. I’m running.
But then she yelps, a cry like I’ve trodden on her toe. There’s enough panic in it to make me panic and I abort the jump a split second before it happens. My knees give way, I trip into the railing, grip onto it and hang there, drop onto the tiles.
I get up and walk back to my starting point.
She’s blushing. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just…This is like something from a Hannah Delaney movie.’
I start running again. This time when she cries out, I ignore it.
I’m airborne.
With both my feet off the ground, and with the ground hundreds of feet away, time slows down and it’s like I’m jumping between planets. Suspended here, a number of things go through my mind, but most of all I realise that I’m doing this, putting my life at risk, because of Neil Bighuty. Some guy boasts about how much money he makes and my response is to leap off a building. Maybe if I’d recognised this five seconds earlier, I wouldn’t have jumped. I would have gone downstairs, bought another drink and told Big that this is his problem.
I hit the ground on Mush’s balcony. It’s an awkward landing because of my fear of not making it and my ankle twists beneath my weight, the knuckle dragged across the tiles as momentum carries me into the outdoor furniture set that scatters when I push my hand through it and it all ends with me curled in a protective ball beneath a plastic chair.
A voice says, ‘Are you okay?’
I don’t want to answer, don’t want to stand up. But I do both. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.’
The sun is setting and making her glow. The wind is pulling back her blonde hair like the fingers of some invisible Givaani stylist. For the first time, she looks beautiful.
‘Thanks for your help,’ I say, pushing at the door to Mush’s room. Thank God it opens.
‘That’s no trouble,’ she waves. ‘Tell Miss Delaney I love her films.’
‘I will tell her that.’ I wave back, then limp inside.
It’s luxurious and minimal despite the busy floral wallpaper. It’s the mirror image of the room next door, only instead of an open suitcase on the bed, there’s an ancient Arnold point-three-eight automatic.
I hop past the bed to the minibar and crack open the largest bottle of the group, then slump against the fridge, recovering.
For anything other than a point blank killing, an old gun like the Arnold would be useless. It’s only accurate up to about a foot. But it’s small and powerful and just what you’d want if you were planning to walk up and shoot someone dead in a hotel corridor. Either Mush is more proficient at this than I gave him credit for, or he’s had help. Someone who knows guns.
The liquor hits and my head swims faster. I put the bottle in my pocket and take out a handkerchief, wipe the beads from my forehead and pick up the gun. It’s fully loaded and the serial number has been filed off.
My phone rings. ‘Yeah?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I just got into Mush’s room.’
‘How?’
‘I shimmied down the chimney.’
‘Bullshit you did.’
‘And guess what. There was a loaded thirty-eight waiting for me on the bed.’
‘No shit?’
‘No shit.’
Big is less impressed than I’d hoped. ‘Listen, that guy you were waiting for, the one in the photo…I forgot his name. He’s here. He’s at reception.’
‘Benedict’s here?’
‘Yeah. He’s dressed down, got a few days’ growth and sunglasses and a hat, but it’s definitely your guy. He’s checking into a room.’
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘I’m still on the couch, chatting nonchalantly to an old friend on my mobile telephone.’
‘Okay. Well…it’s been a pleasure. You get your boys onto Mush, I’ll come down and meet Benedict.’
‘Wait…’ There’s silence. I can hear the low roar of the lobby around him, soft and vibrant. ‘Mush is getting up. He’s paying his bill at the bar. I think I’m about to introduce myself.’
‘Well, you better hurry if you want to—’
Now there’s an even louder roar, in my head.
I say, ‘Wait a moment.’
I say, ‘Benedict just walked in, and Mush is paying his tab?’
‘Yeah. He’s in a hurry too.’
‘Did Mush see Benedict?’
‘Couldn’t miss him. He walked right across the lobby.’
I was so sure Benedict wouldn’t come to the Pioneer.
I say, ‘Mush isn’t here for Hannah Delaney.’
There must be a line around the block for revenge on Billy Benedict. And all of them are harmless-looking small-time investors who’d have to drink themselves stupid before going through with it.
‘He’s here for Benedict.’
There’s doubt in the silence from Big. ‘How did Mush know he was coming here if you didn’t know?’
‘That’ll be my first question too. What’s he doing now?’
‘Wait…’ Another silence. I listen. Everything else in Mush’s room is so quiet.
‘He’s headed for reception. He’s headed straight for Benedict. I’m going to intercept.’
‘No. Don’t hold him up. Don’t let him see you. He’s not armed.’
‘But you said he’s here for Benedict…’
‘He’ll come back up for his gun first. Tell me what’s happening.’
‘He’s at reception now…He’s standing next to Benedict… Benedict has seen him…Is he supposed to recognise him?’
‘Maybe not.’
‘Well, he hasn’t. Mush is right next to him, reading a brochure on the desk.’
‘Benedict’s still checking in?’
‘Yeah, the girl’s just given
him a passkey.’
‘Is he getting the room number? Is Mush listening in for the room number?’
Another silence. Big says, ‘I think that’s right.’
‘I need you to do me one more favour. I need you to get that room number for me.’
‘Okay. And as soon as Benedict leaves, I detain Mush, right?’
‘No. Let him be.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re outside of your job description now, Neil. But thanks for your help—’
‘Fuck you. This is the most fun I’ve had since I left the force. Benedict is headed for the elevators…Mush is hanging back at the desk, watching.’
I scan Mush’s room, looking for something small, made of metal.
I say, ‘Did they search Benedict at the door?’
‘Affirmative. They didn’t find anything.’
‘What’s his luggage?’
‘Just a gym bag. Not heavy. He’s getting in the elevator… Mush is watching…The girl at the desk is asking Mush if he needs anything…’ Big guffaws, forces himself to keep his voice down. ‘He freaked out, just walked away from her.’ I hear rustling. Big is crossing the lobby, fast and quiet. ‘Benedict’s gone…Mush is headed for the elevators now…He’s waiting for one.’
Inside the fridge I find an ice bucket. Inside the ice bucket I find a small metal ice scoop.
Big holds the phone away from his mouth. ‘The man you just checked in, what room’s he in?’
The girl squeaks back, ‘Four-twelve.’
‘What name?’ Big asks.
‘The reservation was under Bernardo, Aaron.’ She says.
Big speaks into the phone. ‘Room 412, under the name Aaron Bernardo. Mush is still waiting for the elevator.’
‘I have to go. If you’re offering help, I could use it.’
‘I’m too juiced to stop now.’
