The Ambulance Chaser

by Richard Beasley

  The downstairs bathroom, once a celery and peppered cream atrocity that had tilted on the precipice of boarding house, was now an Italian tiled bathing salon too luxurious for human use. The floors in the rest of the rooms – which had been covered, from deepest memory, in forest green and Ferrari red tartan – were now 100 per cent New Zealand wool beige, or newly laid parquetry. The back room was all glass and open space. Once it had been three rooms. One was called ‘the den’. The den was long gone. So was the eight-tonne Rank Arena Heather and I occasionally parked ourselves in front of, replaced by a wide-screen plasma thing that hung on the wall like one of Laura’s paintings.

  We took up our schedule from lunchtime until dinner, when the reinforcements arrived. Toffee and Kava first, Bill shortly after. They came through the back gate, via the night soil alley which ran down the back of the houses in the street, as similar alleys did around most of the park and North Randwick. I showed them around the house when they arrived, the outdoor camera set-up, the hidden camera in the downstairs living room, the monitors, the tape equipment. Toffee and Kava nodded knowingly as I showed them the position of every camera, how it worked, and mission control in the study. Maybe they had been involved in a similar operation before.

  ‘Nice set-up,’ Toffee said when I had finished, cracking open the first of the tins of Victoria Bitter he had brought with him. The aluminium skin quivered as he brought it up towards his lips. The can was vacuum dried in two gulps.

  Bill Doyle observed this, impressed but not intimidated. The look of a man who can also two-gulp a beer. Then eat the can. He swallowed his own beer easily, then looked at me. ‘Nice set-up for what?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I said.

  ‘What are the possibilities?’

  ‘I’ve told you the modus operandi of the other cases. An attack in the street or the park is possible, but unlikely, I think. My best guess is, if they come after us – after Jonathon – it will be by breaking in here.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then I don’t know.’

  ‘You have any theories? Any strategy?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘a staged suicide is not an option. They have to deal with me. Gas explosion? Gas leak? A fire? A car accident? Two trained funnel-webs? I don’t know. It has to be something that looks like an accident, or at least not like a murder. And, of course, nothing may happen.’

  Bill looked at one of the monitors. Camera 2 was showing no activity on the front porch. He belched. Formidable is the right word to describe it. Camera 2 thought so too. The picture flickered, disappeared into space, wobbled, then transmission was restored. Bill opened another tinnie that Jack had brought in from the kitchen. ‘Something better happen,’ he said, pointing at the glorious colour of the monitor, ‘given all this expense. Where’d the money come from?’

  I waved my hand past my face, like I was brushing away a fly. Don’t go there. Long story.

  Bill opened another beer. He savoured this one. Three gulps this time. ‘If something does happen,’ he then said, wiping his mouth, looking at me, ‘what do you do?’

  ‘We capture them,’ Jack said, ‘and interrogate.’ This had not been discussed between us. Just mutually assumed. Between Colonel Kurtz and Bankruptcy Man.

  ‘Interrogate them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They confess,’ I said. ‘On tape.’ A tad Aaron Spelling, I admit. This is the way I had played it out in my head, though. Bill simply shook his. And laughed. Almost laughed. A laugh strangled in a snort. ‘Get me another beer,’ he said to me, ‘then tell me what the fuck it is you’re going to do. From the beginning.’

  There was no beginning. That was the problem. We were defending, not attacking. We were waiting for them. They would start it. They would be the authors of the beginning.

  The five of us adjourned to the central dining room. No windows. We sat around the table. I remembered the table clearly from my childhood. A dark, rich, glistening mahogany, you could pluck your eyebrows by it. If that was your bag. It had been in Laura’s family since before she was born. With all four leaves in place it sat sixteen comfortably. We were made to swear an oath never to touch it. So, one day I put a mug of hot chocolate on it. It was the only time I ever saw Laura angry. Years later, she told me it was the main cause of angst in the divorce settlement. Bob Green wanted the table. He was willing to trade for it. There was even argument in the Family Court over whether it was a George III or a George IV. It was, in fact, a Georgian Regency. Which I think is, technically, a George III and a half. Whatever, I had learned my lesson with the hot chockie. Even cold tinnies of VB would not be touching this table on my watch. I found a tablecloth in a sideboard before any damage could be done.

  ‘So,’ Bill began again, ‘you catch them, and they confess. These murderers. Just like that.’

  ‘On tape,’ I corrected him. And yes, just like that. Some threats might be involved. Some encouragement. Toffee and Kava were big boys. They would know how to look mean. Their tattoos sure as hell did. And even if it took considerable encouragement, I was up for it. I had checked. The Geneva Convention does not apply to serial killers working for large insurance companies any more than it does in Iraqi prisons.

  ‘How fucking mad are you?’ Bill said sharply. ‘If any of this happens,’ he continued, ‘you think trained hit men are just going to confess everything, do you?’

  I nodded. ‘Why not? Don’t forget, they won’t know they’re being taped.’

  Bill shook his head. He looked at Jack. ‘You’re happy to be in on this, are you?’

  Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘You scared, Bill?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Piss off, Jack. What if they won’t talk?’ Bill asked. ‘What if they don’t know what you’d like them to know?’

  I had thought about that. The most likely scenario, as far as any could be described as likely. ‘Plan B,’ I said.

  ‘Plan B?’ I nodded.

  ‘You’re about to tell us what that is, I presume?’

  I was. I did. Plan C was debated too. It took most of Kava’s slab. Anyone who knows anything about plans knows that Plan B is always a riskier proposition than Plan A. It has the same goal as A, strives for the same outcome, searches for the same grail. Its motive is the same as A. Its method, however, is less subtle. Moral and ethical ambiguity raise their ill-defined heads. Corners are cut, rules bent, laws broken.

  Plan Cs are in an altogether different league. Even the strong, the resolute, the brave, the brilliant, and the indefatigable cannot withstand the crushing burden that Plan Cs command. They are not the province of Samoan builders, however large, however loyal, however illegal. They are not the domain of returned ex-servicemen, no matter how many combat missions, no matter how many medals of valour. Call me what you like, but no case can be made for gorgeous left-wing lesbians either.

  Plan Cs are superhero territory. Bankruptcy Man would be all alone on that one.

  Thirty-Six

  Any lawyer who has ever done any trial work knows that it mainly involves one thing. Waiting. Waiting for the judge to come on the bench. For your case to be called. For another judge to be found to hear it. There can be some long, fruitless waits for that. Not to mention unpleasant surprises when the wait’s over.

  And so it was that we waited in Lang Road, Centennial Park, in the grand residence of Laura Green. We waited, and waited. Saturday. Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Groundhog day. We followed the same routine. Walk. Breakfast. Walk. Lunch. Walk. Early dinner. After-dinner stroll. Argument over remote control between ABC or SBS and numerous reality shows on the commercial networks. Kerry O’Brien appears to be no more popular in Samoa than he is in RG Menzies House.

  Laura’s industrial-sized stainless-steel kitchen became the operations centre. Bill stayed in the house on Saturday and Sunday nights. With Toffee and Kava, this made dinner the major event of the day. In the same way that it is a major event on the USS Harry S Truman. Flocks of sheep were s
laughtered. Herds of cows butchered. An entire sty of pigs met their maker.

  The demolition of these leviathan feasts failed to curb the enthusiasm of the Samoans for their just-shy-of-midnight pizza. A Randwick Gourmet Special, family size, with garlic bread to go. Still, fighters perform best if well fed. And sustenance was needed for the long nights that stretched ahead of us. Even with four of us taking turns, watching the security cameras’ monitors in the late hours of the night was taxing. Only a senate debate is less fun. And the two shifts between 2 am and 6 were relentless.

  Bill dropped by on Monday and Tuesday nights, but didn’t sleep over. He suggested we pack the whole thing in, we were wasting our time. The initial excitement had worn off for Toffee and Kava, also. Once Monday came around I had started to cost them money.

  While Bill and the Samoans wanted out, Gabby still wanted in. She wanted a hands-on role. I reminded her again that the practising certificate that entitled her to play the role of lawyer to the poor was best protected by as little involvement as possible in a claim that was an outright fraud on an insurance company. She resigned herself to twice-daily reports from me. She also resigned herself to daily reports from Toffee, whom she usually called straight after she called me. In case I was holding something back. Toffee would grunt a few times, lose interest quickly, and pass her over to Kava. Kava spent more time than anyone else on the phone with Gabby, particularly for someone who could really only report the consumption of another sixty-three beers and a square mile of Randwick Gourmet Special.

  I hadn’t planned on telling Harry anything, just to protect him, but Gabby spoilt that by calling him and filling him in. He threatened to come around with Dr Duthy and a four-foot syringe, and have me committed.

  On Wednesday, Bill didn’t bother coming. He rang, spoke briefly to Jack, asked when we were closing down. Friday, was the answer. The seventh day. If nothing happened by then, it wasn’t going to. Jonathon was, after all, supposed to be leaving the country that day.

  On Wednesday I checked up on the other task force members. The plaintiffs in claims 04150 and 061247 in Perth and Brisbane were still safe, the investigators having nothing unusual to report. Locally, it was the same deal. No explosive conversations had been recorded using my long-range microphones that involved De Luca, Hardcastle or Jarrett about soon-to-be deceased plaintiffs or with money laundering mob bosses. The best they had been able to do was eavesdrop on Hardcastle and Fiona while they chatted over dinner at a window table at their favourite local restaurant in Rose Bay. There was nothing much to report, other than that Mrs Hardcastle had firmly suggested to her husband that the pool should be cleaned at least twice weekly rather than fortnightly.

  The routine had to be changed on Wednesday afternoon. No four-thirty walk, no after-dinner stroll. An electrical storm had worked its way up north from the South Coast, arriving just after four, and it rained off and on until about nine. Around six the lightning arrived, and I watched the spears and arcs of white light silently blast over the park from an upstairs balcony, framing it for a moment like a huge photograph, before returning the world to total blackness. The static electricity quickly rose through the house, and hairs on the back of my neck jumped upright like frightened soldiers. I kept thinking the same thing, over and over: Cape Fear. Cape Fear. Cape Fear.

  The house creaked, groaned and shuddered all over during the storm. It came alive. I heard noises from its far reaches. We had been invaded, broken into, security had been breached. I sent reconnaissance parties out. Negative alien activity was reported. Then, at one stage, I thought they had come in via the attic. To do this they would have needed a crane or a helicopter. I was, nevertheless, certain.

  I had heard the beginnings of this fantastic attack from the downstairs bathroom. It took me fifteen minutes to silently climb the stairs, crawl down the corridor, climb the next set of stairs that trailed off into darkness. At one stage I felt faint. I thought I would collapse. Electrical storms have unusual powers. Water breaks, the birthrate goes up. Something to do with a drop in air pressure. It’s possible I was unduly concerned with this. I felt light, though. Weak. Disturbed.

  When I finally completed my journey, I found the attic empty. Dusty, but empty. Then the rain ceased, and the house stopped creaking. The feeling of lightness didn’t leave me, though, even when I went upstairs to bed. I had the 4 am shift by the monitor, which meant I didn’t sleep until nearly three.

  ‘Get up.’ I didn’t recognise the voice. ‘Get up.’ I still didn’t know the voice. It was deep. Clogged. Guttural.

  ‘Chris, mate, get up.’ This voice I recognised. Toffee.

  The light was on in my room. I blinked, trying to adjust my eyes. I was sweating, but was not dreaming. There he was. Toffee. Tracksuit pants on, belly hanging over them, no top. ‘Chris, mate,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sorry. You have to get up.’

  Something had happened to Toffee’s head. It was still surrounded by a ball of black fuzz approximately the circumference of Jupiter, but there was something sticking out of it. Or sticking into it. I knew what it was. A gun. A very, very big gun.

  I know a bit about guns. Thanks to cable TV I have expertise that dates back to The Rockford Files and McMillan and Wife. There are Berettas, Smith & Wessons, Glocks, .22s, .38s, Colt .45s, 8mms, 9mms, 10mms, semi-automatics, Magnum 357s and Almond Magnums. If I was guessing, this particular gun was a Magnum 747 or a Magnum Airbus. The sort of gun which, if fired, leaves a Jackson Pollock on the wall. A serious fucking gun.

  This serious fucking gun was attached to a man who gave the immediate impression that he was a serious fucking man. Black hair combed back, thinning a little at the front. Potato head, stocky, jowly, five o’clock shadow, black eyes, black rings under them. Forty, maybe forty-five. At a guess, I would say he last smiled in 1994.

  ‘Get up,’ he said again. Just hearing his voice was like being slugged with a cement bag. He pushed the gun even further into Toffee’s head. It probably had a nine inch barrel, but his hand had already disappeared into the thick black mist.

  I got up.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he said.

  I did. Silently but for the pounding in my chest.

  ‘Out,’ he said, ‘downstairs.’

  I caught Toffee’s eyes as I walked past him at the door. Sorry, they said. I could see the red mark on the side of his face. He had fallen asleep on his monitor shift. Still, I was the one who should be apologising. A gun. I hadn’t thought of guns. I had imagined tyre levers, baseball bats, pickaxes, but not guns. I had borrowed Harry’s spear gun, which I intended to wield during the interrogation as a shock tactic, but it lay limply by the side of the far wall as I dressed.

  Jack Bartlett was sitting in his wheelchair at the foot of the stairs. His mouth had been taped with thick silver masking tape.

  ‘This guy’s ’sposed to be young. This is an old fucken git.’ This voice belonged to someone who had left school early, and spent Years 9 to 12 surfing off Curl Curl and Narrabeen beaches. Full of the sunlit innocence of a major pothead. He was early thirties, clean shaven except for a touch of designer stubble carefully distributed. Tall, he was built like a decathlete, metal chested and straight backed. He was a man who thought a lot about his hair. Gelled, blonde tipped, spikes arranged by a landscape architect. He was a snappy dresser too. Black flat-front pants, black crew-neck sweater, silver chain hanging over it, leather jacket, shiny black shoes. New. It was possible he had been the first gangster on Queer Eye. Who knows these days? The gun looked new too. New, and big. Another bloody metrosexual, I thought. A metrosexual goon.

  ‘Is this Jonathon Bartlett?’ Metro-Goon said to me. I nodded. ‘How fucken old is ’e? Where’s the respirator thing?’

  ‘He’s not well,’ I said, barely able to get out the words. ‘But his breathing’s better.’

  Metro-Goon shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. ‘What kind of drugs are you on, man?’ he said to Jack.

  ‘We haven’t got all night,’ C
ement Voice said. ‘Let’s go. Out the back. Not one fucking word.’ He motioned to Toffee. ‘You – push,’ he said, pointing at the wheelchair. Which was exactly the point in time that I realised there were only three of us at gunpoint. We were down one illegal immigrant.

  We were led through the back garden, Toffee pushing Jack up front, Cement Voice behind him, then me, Metro-Goon at the rear. I looked at my watch. Three forty. Dry silence outside, the air still and icy, the taste of cold minerals when you breathed in, pillows of fog when you breathed out. Even the bats were asleep.

  We went out the back gate and into the night soil alley. Deserted and quiet like a ghost road. Then the lane came to life. A sudden waft of the unmistakable, acrid, bitter effluvium of human waste. The night soil alley was back in business.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Cement Voice said. Then Metro-Goon bent over Jack. ‘This fuck’s shitted himself,’ he said. Which, given that Jack had a colostomy bag, was quite an achievement. He was obviously as scared as I was.

  ‘Push,’ Cement Voice said to Toffee again, waving his gun. ‘Hurry.’

  They walked us down to the end of the alley, then left towards Lang Road. When the storm had come hours earlier, it had been pitch black, but it was lighter now, the clouds gone and a half-moon glowing radiant white. Cement Voice walked ahead now to check for movement. He looked down the street, looked back at us, waved his gun again.