Roll With It

by Nick Place

  Laver had two major concerns. The first was that the sky was loaded with rain-threatening clouds and he couldn’t bear to wear the luminous green police raincoat that made his ridiculous bike-cop uniform even more humiliating. The second was that, in a rare scheduling mishap, he was paired with Standish, now sneering at the protestors as though they’d personally affronted him. No coffees and laughter with Cecy today but that was okay. Enduring Standish was more in line with Laver’s mood. He was feeling extra snaky after being snubbed by a cop from the drug squad when he’d gone to the supermarket after playing pool with Flipper yesterday. His Siberian status was obviously still in place, but not many cops were actually rude enough to follow through with it away from the office. Of course, the ghosts of Wesley Coleman and a dead pigeon had circled Laver’s bedroom for the majority of the night. Marcia again was nowhere and their crisis meeting loomed. True sleep had only come about half an hour before the alarm sounded, which was always the way. And now he was watching the world’s feeblest protestors and wondering if he would be concerned or entertained if his fascist partner shot one of them, which wasn’t entirely off the cards.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Standish now, looking past the protestors.

  Laver peered in that direction and saw a man and woman in uniform, also on bikes. But not cops. Laver recognised the markings of ambulance officers on their lycra shirts.

  He turned to Standish in surprise. ‘Cycling ambos? Really? How long have they had those?’

  ‘They’re a fucking joke,’ Standish sniffed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ambos on bikes? Are you kidding?’

  ‘As opposed to police pedalling after criminals?’

  Standish glared at him. ‘Oh, excuse us, Mr Major Crime.’

  Laver couldn’t help but notice he didn’t get a lot of respect as a senior cop from guys like Standish.

  The ambos cycled over and nodded hello. Laver nodded back while Standish stared at them with undisguised scorn.

  ‘G’day,’ said Laver. ‘Tony Laver. Nice to meet you. How much equipment can you guys carry on those things?’

  ‘Enough,’ said the ambo guy, who introduced himself as Shaun. ‘We can handle the preliminaries of a heart attack, o.d., epileptic fit, stuff like that.’

  ‘At a rally like this, the biggest danger is exposure to bad poetry,’ said the ambo chick, name-tagged Sally.

  ‘Not exactly the hundred thousand that marched against Kennett, is it,’ Laver commented.

  Sally frowned. ‘Against who?’

  Laver realised for the first time that she was young.

  ‘Jeff Kennett. Former Premier. Pre-Bracks. Never mind.’

  Standish leaned over his handlebars and said very deliberately, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but would you two frauds move away and maybe stand near the St John’s volunteers where you belong so we can get on with policing?’

  Shaun gave Laver a look. Laver caught it.

  ‘I’m not sure you’re giving these two the respect they deserve, partner,’ Laver said.

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ Standish asked, genuinely shocked.

  ‘Why are there “sides”? We’re all in the business of helping the public, aren’t we? These guys help people who faint. Only this morning, you helped that nice tourist from China find the Eureka Tower.’

  ‘Fuck you, Laver.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Sally. ‘Are you bike cops always like this?’

  ‘Only Standish,’ said Laver. ‘But you have to understand, he’s the best of the best.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Shaun.

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s the bomb.’ Laver nodded towards where the grass of Birrarung Marr became very steep, leading down from the Exhibition Street extension to the river. ‘A rookie bike cop like me, I can barely ride along Swanston Street. But Standish here, he could ride straight down that steep hill, no sweat, in full kit.’

  ‘So could I,’ said Shaun. ‘Easy.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Standish.

  ‘I fucking could. Look, the hill’s only about sixty degrees. I could do it without dropping a Band-Aid.’

  ‘That’s crap,’ Standish snorted.

  ‘So you’re saying it can’t be done? I guess not, for a cop like yourself.’

  Standish glared. ‘I could do it blindfolded. You pussies with your kit bags full of toiletries wouldn’t have a prayer.’

  ‘Geez mate, big talk,’ said Laver. ‘I don’t know if I could manage it. Are you sure you should be putting us up on this riding pedestal?’

  ‘You saying I couldn’t do it?’ said Standish.

  Laver gave it some thought. ‘Yeah, I think maybe I am. Shaun, do you think he could?’

  ‘No fucking way. I’ll put a fifty on it.’

  Eyes burning with scorn, Standish strapped on his helmet. ‘Watch and learn, wannabes.’

  He rode his bike hard up the gentler slope leading to the top of the sharp hill. Laver, Sally and Shaun watched.

  ‘I suspect the term you’re looking for is “Cock With Ears”,’ Laver said into the silence.

  ‘You got that right. You have to work with this knob?’ Shaun said.

  ‘Not often, thankfully.’

  ‘You look familiar,’ Sally said. ‘Do I know you? Have you been on the tellie or something?’

  ‘Nope,’ Laver said flatly.

  Standish was at the top of the hill, about to ride.

  Sally was already pointing her iPhone camera.

  Laver arrived back at Mobile Public Interaction Squad HQ, threw his helmet on his desk, then wandered over to the water fountain. Slattery watched him every step of the way.

  Finally the boss said, ‘Precautionary scans.’

  ‘They don’t think he’ll be in overnight,’ Laver said.

  ‘Concussion.’

  ‘And abrasions. Poor guy.’

  ‘Standish doesn’t often fall off his bike, Senior Constable Laver.’

  ‘Lesson for us all, Slatts. Lucky there were a couple of ambos on hand, really.’

  Slattery continued to give him the stare but Laver couldn’t care less. Cecy had also been watching, the beginning of a smile on her face, and said, ‘Do I even want to know?’

  ‘Nope,’ Laver said, trying not to grin.

  He picked up the phone and dialled Flipper’s work number. The phone at the other end had that strange metallic ring that he only ever heard at the St Kilda Road police headquarters. Laver felt a pang of homesickness.

  ‘Dolfin.’

  ‘Flip? It’s Rocket.’

  ‘Sorry, bad line. I can’t hear you, whoever you are.’

  ‘Flipper, stop arsing about. Did you find out anything?’

  ‘Nope, sorry … basically static. Is that you, Detective Laver? If it is, I’m not allowed to converse with you, especially about police matters.’

  ‘Flipper. What the fuck? You think your phone is tapped? You’re getting paranoid on me now?’

  ‘Gotta go. If that’s you, Mum, I’ll call tonight after work.’

  ‘Flipper!’

  ‘Love you.’

  Flipper was gone. Laver cursed quietly but vigorously, then picked up the phone and dialled a new number. And not the obvious mobile number. Instead, Dolfin’s little-known second mobile.

  Dolfin’s voice said, almost whispering: ‘Oh, Rocket, for fuck’s sake. Fuck off.’

  ‘Eloquent. I won’t keep you a second.’

  ‘What part of “I can’t talk now” are you having trouble with, dickhead?’

  ‘Yes or no? Did you chase up that name for me? Cig? I think it’s Cig.’

  ‘Mate, that’s about nineteenth on my list of priorities right now.’

  ‘Flipper! You said you would.’

  ‘Said I’d try, not would. Siberia is in full force, orders of some pollie called Strickland. Over and out.’

  ‘Strickland? He’s the one who started Siberia? Why Strickland?’

  ‘No clue. Sorry. Bye.’

  Dolfin hung
up, leaving Laver with an ear full of nothing. Strickland. The out-of-Perth wannabe politician with the bad moustache. Screwing up his life by pulling strings from Parliament House in Spring Street. Life got stranger. And worse.

  Laver cursed, with even more feeling. He could feel Cecy watching him, no smile now.

  He dialled again. Listened to the metallic ring.

  ‘Reference library,’ said a female voice. ‘This is Carla speaking. How can I help you?’

  ‘Carla, this is Detective Senior Sergeant Laver. I’m chasing a record check on a suspect.’

  ‘Just one moment, Detective. I’m just clearing another search off the computer. Now, what’s the suspect’s name or names?’

  ‘I’ve only got a few details. The first name is believed to be Cig, Charlie India Golf, but I don’t know his last name. I’ve got a solid description.’

  Laver heard buttons being tapped and then there was a silence at the other end of the phone.

  Laver said: ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Senior Constable, I’m afraid I’m not authorised to conduct any searches on your behalf while you are suspended from the Major Crime Squad.’

  Laver felt a hot flush creeping up his neck. ‘Did it say that? On the computer?’

  ‘I can’t comment any more to you, officer, until you are reinstated. I’m sorry.’

  ‘But Carla, this is just a routine check—’

  ‘Good day, Constable Laver.’

  ‘Carla, it’s a mistake. Check with Assistant Commissioner Broadbent.’

  The phone was dead. Again.

  ***

  It looked like Wildie hadn’t moved for the entire afternoon. Stig had completed his run, had a shower, headed out to do some shopping, come back and had two beers and three cigarettes before finally telling Wildie what he’d seen in Heidelberg. The Wild Man didn’t even take his eyes off the screen, Xbox controller jerking in his fingers as he mowed down untold numbers of virtual soldiers. But he’d listened and now asked Stig, ‘So when you were with this Louie chick back then, you never mentioned Jenssen or the Groc-o-Mart? Or the bloke who runs the supermarket?’

  ‘I told you, I didn’t,’ Stig rolling a joint now. Needing one. ‘I didn’t even know Jenssen’s name. I was way down the food chain then. I only went to the Groc-o-Mart a couple of times, to get the gear or drop the cash. They didn’t encourage us to hang out there. It was in and out, fast.’

  ‘But you know what the manager looks like.’

  ‘Yeah, he was the one I dealt with. He’s a bit older but the same bloke.’

  ‘But Louie wouldn’t know him?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Wildie, I just said—’

  ‘Yeah, but what you didn’t say is why she’d be hanging out with a bloke who works there. You don’t think that’s strange?’

  ‘It’s bloody strange, but I honestly can’t see the connection.’

  Wildie couldn’t help but look at Stig: tight-faced, bags under red eyes, drawing hard on a joint. Wildie’s character was promptly blown away on-screen. ‘Are you fucking kidding? You don’t think maybe you’re the connection?’

  ‘But the kid didn’t know who I was when we met in the café.’

  ‘We thought he was scared, right? Maybe he was just surprised.’

  ‘No, he was scared shitless. And clueless. There’s a difference between that and surprised.’

  Wildie looked at his on-screen avatar, in full khakis, huge and with a giant orange mohawk. Personally designed by Wildie, who was quite pleased with the mohawk. He hit the button to restart the stage but then hit pause. ‘Stig, your ex-girlfriend is hanging out with a guy who works for the Melbourne end of Jenssen’s operation. At the exact moment we may or may not be deceased and a large shipment of Jenssen’s property is missing and potentially for sale somewhere in Australia. And where better than your old home town? Mate, join the fucking dots.’

  Stig shook his head, took a drag on the joint. ‘I hear what you’re saying but it doesn’t smell right. That kid is not a player in this.’

  ‘Easy to find out,’ Wildie said, back to clicking buttons, mohawked soldier running through virtual sand to a computerised Middle Eastern town.

  ‘Not yet, mate. Let me think about this a bit first.’

  ‘Yeah, because your thinking has been brilliant so far.’

  ‘Mate, you’re not helping.’ Stig getting pissed off.

  Wildie unflappable as explosions began to light up the television screen. ‘And you haven’t sold anything yet.’

  ***

  Jake was heading out to meet Lou at Bar Open, which he assumed was a bar, on Brunswick Street. Heart pounding, he donned his trusty ‘Sound Relief’ T-shirt and baggy beret and told his mother he might not be home until late. He was going to an environmental meeting.

  ‘What about your dinner?’ she asked, couch-bound in front of Home and Away.

  ‘I’m trying to save the world, Mum.’

  ‘Even Gandhi needed to eat.’

  ‘If you say so, Mum.’ He got out of there, nursing the Mazda through Kew Junction, over the hill with the great view of the city and down into Collingwood. The road became Johnston Street and a traffic jam at about the same time and Jake edged along, listening to a public radio station, PBS, that Lou had mentioned at one point. He’d found it was a bit of a lottery as to what the station would be playing at any particular time, and right now it was in hillbilly mode. Jake inched across Hoddle Street, wondering what he was more scared about: doing the sticker plan behind Barry’s back, or those guys Lou knew turning up again.

  Lost in his thoughts, Jake crossed Smith Street and headed towards Brunswick Street. He never once noticed the silver Honda that had followed him all the way.

  The Vegie Bar was packed with the full assortment of Fitzroy wildlife. Laver and Marcia had a drink in the courtyard, waiting for a couple of seats to free up in the restaurant. It was actually a nice courtyard, peaceful after the chaos of the dining hall and with a decent list of wine and spirits. Knowing Marcia’s eyes were on him, Laver dodged the whisky and ordered a light beer.

  She had white wine and talked about her work, about this funny new guy who had recently moved down from Brisbane, about how much she was enjoying running at the moment – was even thinking of training up for a half-marathon with some of the crew from her office – and about some of the better stuff she’d seen on Facebook lately.

  Marcia never once asking about the shooting inquiry, Laver’s new job or why he looked so tired.

  In the end, a waiter in a kilt and singlet came to get them and they agreed to two stools in the window, overlooking the street. It actually wasn’t bad, with their backs to the human bedlam that filled every corner of the restaurant.

  Marcia was no longer even trying to keep the one-way conversation going, as Laver waited for any kind of question to come his way. But no, instead she checked her iPhone and tapped texts as their wines arrived, Marcia silent, right up until the burrito and gado gado arrived.

  ‘So Marcia,’ he finally said, ‘I’m aware that there have been times my job has appeared to have priority over us.’ Marcia snorted into her wine – not exactly the response he’d been hoping for.

  He tried to find another way in. ‘I’m going through a really hard time at the moment, and it’s made me realise how important you are to me, and how much I need you.’

  Her phone beeped with a text, but Marcia had the decency to ignore it.

  ‘We’ve been together a while but I feel that, right now, we’re not really together. I’m wondering what we can do to change that, to be, you know, more to one another.’

  He was sounding like a bad movie. Marcia folded her arms.

  ‘I’m seeing this whole thing, moving to a mountain bike, being out of Major Crime, as a chance to assess my priorities and for us to look at how we can take things to the next level where, you know, my job isn’t such a roadblock, where we can truly consider the word “family”.’

  Marcia’s phone c
hirped again and this time she said, ‘Sorry, I’ll just answer this quickly.’

  Which almost made Laver put the phone through the fucking window, but he held himself – just.

  Instead, jaw clenched and trying to breathe, he distracted himself by watching the tide of people passing outside the window. Across the road, couples were eating ice-cream on the stools outside Trampoline. Marcia was smiling slightly as she tapped the screen on her phone. Laver, breathing slowly, concentrated again on the view. Hey, wow, the second-hand bookshop looked like somewhere he should visit next time he rode through there, killing another work day.

  He found himself wondering about the speech he’d just given. Was it even true? Laver hearing the words come out of his mouth about family taking priority and wondering: was he only telling Marcia what she wanted to hear because he didn’t want to lose her? Or was he really ready to step back from Major Crime? From serious, time-consuming police work? He didn’t want to lose her. But was he prepared to ride a bike around for the rest of his career? Or leave the force altogether?

  He kept watching the street and a guy in a full-length leather coat, with a big black cowboy hat and a long beard and moustache, caught his eye. He was handing out flyers, giving one to a kid in a T-shirt and a colourful floppy beret that didn’t suit him at all. Laver thought he’d seen a hat like that before, and then realised with a jolt that he was looking at the kid from the Soul Food Café.

  Barely registering that fact before seeing a balding man in a suit, slightly overweight and looking entirely out of place on Brunswick Street, never taking his eyes off the kid ten metres in front of him. Both headed south towards the city, the kid oblivious that he was being followed.

  Laver found himself sliding off his stool, only barely aware of Marcia’s voice, behind his back, saying: ‘Honey? Tony? Where are you …? What the hell?’

  Laver thinking, as he moved to the door, ‘So now you look up from your phone.’