by Jon Cleary
“We’ve been telling you that for two hundred years,” said Binyan, grinning. “Get outa here. I wanna go home to the gunyah.”
“Have you seen his gunyah, Russ? Two-storeyed, out in Dulwich Hill, garage, pool in the backyard, Saturday night is Corroboree Night. They throw another goanna on the barbie, run another video of Madonna . . . Admit it, Clarrie, you like being civilized.”
“Our day’ll come,” said Binyan, pushing them towards the door. “Pick out your sacred site, so we’ll know where to bury you.”
10
I
THEY BURIED Vince Bassano, alias Terry Kornsey, the next day; or rather, he was cremated, at least part of him. Malone and Clements went to the cemetery on the southern outskirts of the city, to stand outside the crematorium and watch who came to pay their last respects. The morning was grey and cool, a good day for last rites. Malone, who had been to a few funerals, as mourner and spectator, had come to believe that all Australian burials or cremations should be held on autumn or winter days, in seasons that kept the colour sense to a minimum. He had been to funerals where bright dresses, some even sequinned, white safari suits and rainbow ties had suggested the mourners had only stopped off on their way to the spring racing carnival at Randwick. He was as old-fashioned as his mother Brigid when it came to burying the dead.
There was no one amongst the funeral crowd who looked like a Mafia hitman; nor were there any Asians. There were a few broken noses and cauliflower ears, but they belonged to old rugby league players, now fellow members of Mrs. Kornsey at the St George Leagues Club. If Terry Kornsey had been as quiet and reclusive as his wife had said, Malone wondered if the club members had come out of respect for her or her husband.
The crematorium was painted a bilious green. Its tall chimney looked like a clock-tower from which the clock-face had been removed, as if acknowledging that time no longer mattered to those going up in smoke through its core. Huge box-gums, trees older than most of the bones in the cemetery, faced the eastern front of the low building; a couple of Roman pines stood at one end of the line of box-gums, like immigrant mourners at a native funeral. It occurred to Malone that Roman pines seemed to be a feature of all the cemeteries he had attended and he wondered why. He made a resolution to find out the reason; but he knew, even as he thought of it, that he wouldn’t. Life was full of neglected explanations: no one knew that better than a cop.
As the crowd slowly filtered out of the service chapel, a man detached himself and came towards the two detectives. Malone was surprised to see it was Kenthurst, wrapped in a trenchcoat, hat-brim pulled down all round, looking like a five-hundred-dollar-a-day private eye, Philip Marlowe from Canberra’s anything-but-mean streets. “What are you doing here, Ron?”
“I’m here representing the US Marshals’ Service—unofficially, of course. I have to report Vince Bassano is no more, just a heap of ashes. You weren’t inside, were you? I kept wanting to laugh. A full-sized expensive coffin with half a leg and a foot in it, going into the oven. I don’t know whether any of the crowd in there knew what was inside it—”
“They couldn’t have used a child’s coffin.”
“No, I suppose not. The widow went up and touched the lid of the coffin, but no one else followed her. So I guess they all knew there wasn’t much of Vince Bassano there. It was macabre. Well, he’s officially dead now and the Marshals’ Service can write him off their books. You here looking for leads?”
Malone nodded. “And finding none . . . Oh, Mrs. Kornsey.”
She had come out of the chapel and stood surrounded by sympathizers. Then, as if to escape from them, she had abruptly pushed through them and come across to the detectives.
“Mrs. Kornsey, this is Sergeant Clements, my colleague. And this is Superintendent Kenthurst of the Federal Police.”
Her frown increased the sad look; she was older this morning, faded by grief. “Federal Police?”
“We don’t want to come back to the house, you’ll have relatives and friends there. I wonder if we could have just a few minutes with you now? There’s some explaining to do.”
A woman, her resemblance suggesting she might be a sister, came towards the group; but Mrs. Kornsey waved her away and, stumbling a little on the gravel path, till Clements took her arm, she walked with the three men away from the chapel towards a row of graves.
Malone said, “Superintendent Kenthurst is here on behalf of the United States Marshals’ Service.” Then he told her who her husband had been and why he had come to Australia: “He was Mafia, Mrs. Kornsey, and we think the Mafia finally caught up with him.”
She shook her head, as if to refuse to believe what they were telling her; behind her, her husband went up in smoke from the crematorium’s chimney. “But Terry was so—so gentle. He couldn’t have been a killer.”
“He wasn’t.” Kenthurst himself was gentle with her. “From what we got from Washington, he was on the money side. He was their book-keeper, not one of their soldiers.”
“Soldiers?”
They were standing amongst low headstones, most of them markers of those who had died in the Thirties. What had they died of? Malone wondered. Despair, broken hearts, those illnesses of the Depression? There had been no AIDS then, no OD-ing from drugs; there had, of course, been murder, an ancient disease. There were several well-known criminals buried in this cemetery, but none of them had ever had a murder charge proven against him, though Malone and Clements had once pressed such a charge against one of the crims. Malone further wondered if Kornsey would feel at home here.
Kenthurst did not try to explain the Mafia order-of-battle. “He had no criminal record of violence, Mrs. Kornsey.”
“What did you say his name was?” As if abruptly accepting that her late husband had been a stranger; or was fast turning into one.
“Bassano. Vincent Bassano.”
“Then that explains it.”
“Explains what?” said Malone.
The phone call. Yesterday. A man phoned, asked if I was Mrs. Bassano. I said no, I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then he said, „Sorry about Vincent,’ and hung up. I oughta called you, I suppose, but I haven’t been thinking too straight since you come the other day and told me—” She half-turned, gestured at the crematorium; Malone couldn’t tell whether her gaze was at ground-level or at the top of the chimney, where the smoke was dribbling away as a faint wisp. She looked back at the three detectives. “Will you catch them? The men who killed Terry?”
“We’re trying,” was all Malone could promise.
She turned to Kenthurst; she was gathering herself together. “You said something about the Americans, their Marshals’ Service or something. Will they tell me more about Terry if I write to them?”
“I doubt it, Mrs. Kornsey. They’re very restricted in what they can put out, even to family.” He glanced at Malone. “I think Inspector Malone will agree with me, it might be better if you just thought of your husband as Terry Kornsey, forget what he was before he met you.”
“Jesus, you think that’s gunna be easy? Anyway, thanks.”
She turned suddenly and walked away from them, towards the woman, her sister, waiting for her by the blue Honda. “She’ll write them,” said Clements.
“Of course. Women are masochists,” said Kenthurst.
Malone grinned. “When did anyone in Canberra ever guess right about women?”
“When did anyone anywhere ever guess right about them?” said Kenthurst. “What happens now?”
“We’re on our way to another funeral.”
II
Jack Aldwych, for reasons of propriety, and Cormac Casement, because he did not feel well enough, did not attend Robert Sweden’s funeral. Premier Bevan Bigelow did attend, working the crowd as if he were at a party fund-raising fête. A short square man with blond hair falling down over one eyebrow, he was known as Bev the Obvious, always with his eye on the larger target, too frequently the wrong one; had he been a polo player he would have hit the horse more often than
the ball. He was the perfect stopgap: thick-skinned, thinly gifted, empty of ideas. He was tolerated by his betters, Derek Sweden amongst them, while they fought amongst themselves to see who was best.
Most of the Cabinet came with the Premier. Police Commissioner John Leeds was there, along with five of the seven Assistant Commissioners. Opposition Leader Hans Vanderberg came, working the crowd with the same diligence as the Premier, even though practically all the mourners were conservative voters. But after the recent Federal election upset, who knew what a swinging voter looked like?
Rob Sweden was buried in a small cemetery in the eastern suburbs, where plots were as valuable as gold reefs. One was lowered into the ground as if being admitted to an exclusive club; Rob was accepted because of his dead mother, whose social connections were better than his father’s. It was an old-fashioned cemetery, none of your discreet lawn plots and small plaques; there were marble crosses galore, a concentration of crucifixes, and a chorus of stone angels stood waiting to be called heavenwards. Malone and Clements stood behind three of them, like recent arrivals at Heaven’s gate, and waited.
“This is a waste of time,” said Clements. “The killer isn’t gunna turn up.”
“You never know . . . The three sisters look great. Like they’re on their way to lunch. Luncheon.”
“At least they’re wearing black. But notice, no tears?”
“The only ones weeping are his father and those half a dozen girls who look as if they’re going to miss Rob giving them a good time. They’re all pretty, he knew how to choose them.”
“Who are the young guys?”
“Mates he worked with. Including the two who worked the scam with him. The tall skinny one looks as if he’s in shock.”
“He’s probably never seen a burial before. Look at The Dutchman, he hasn’t once looked at the grave. He’s sizing up the crowd. Uh-uh, we’ve been spotted. Here comes Jack Junior.”
He picked his way through the graves towards them, dressed in a lightweight topcoat, hat in hand, sprayed hair as steady in the breeze as a bicycle helmet. “My dad told me to keep an eye out for you, Inspector. He said you usually turned up for the funerals of murder victims.”
Old Jack would know: but you didn’t make a remark like that to his son. “Did he want to see me?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. He said he’d rather not come to Homicide—” Jack Junior smiled. “I gather he has bad memories of going there once or twice back in the old days. He’d like you to have lunch with him at the Golden Gate. A private room.”
Malone had begun to trust the old crim; but . . . “I’ll bring Sergeant Clements with me.”
For just an instant there was a look of pain in the younger man’s eyes. “He’s no longer what he used to be, Inspector—”
“I know that, Jack. But people still have a habit of being suspicious. What time does he want us?”
Jack Junior looked at his watch. “Now, if you could manage it. He’ll be at the restaurant.”
“Are you coming?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “I think I might. I’ll tell my wife—”
“Don’t bring her.”
Jack Junior was annoyed. “I hadn’t intended to. But what—?”
“I don’t know what your father is going to tell me. It’ll be the first time, I think, he’s ever given information to a cop. I don’t want your wife or anyone else thinking of him as a dog. Do you know what he’s going to tell me?”
“No. That’s why I want to be there.”
III
Jack Aldwych Senior walked down the front steps of the big house in Harbord; the white Mercedes with the hire car plates and the smoked windows stood in the driveway. The Aldwych house was the largest in the street, perhaps the largest in the small suburb; it had been built at the turn of the century by a circus family who presumably had wanted room in which to tumble around. Harbord in those days had been much less settled than now; today it was a jumble of modest houses and inexpensive flats spread over a hill that looked out to sea. In the past several Olympic swimmers had lived in the suburb, but their fame had never lasted as long as the notoriety of Harbord’s most prominent living citizen. The local elements did not exactly look up to him, except in a geographical sense, since his house was at the very top of the hill, but, now he was known to be retired, there was a tolerance of him that he would not have been accorded in his heyday. Perhaps it had something to do with being beside the sea: respectability, as if the salt air has eroded it, is less strong in Sydney’s seaside suburbs than elsewhere.
“Chinatown, James.”
The chauffeur’s name was Orlando, but he agreed with the old man’s opinion that it was not a name for a chauffeur. He was young, blond, had learned, at great effort, not to talk too much; and was fascinated by this old crim who rode behind him in the darkened car, always, it seemed, at peace with a world which he had screwed any way he could. “Nice day, Mr. Aldwych.”
“At my age, son, you wake up still breathing, every day’s a nice day.” He gave the young man a smile. “That’s bullshit wisdom. Take no notice of it, the world is full of it.”
The big gates were opened by Blackie Ovens, the general factotum, though he would have decked anyone who called him that, since it sounded dirty. He had once been one of Aldwych’s standover men, an artist with an iron bar, but he too had retired, content to live off the boss for what little he did around the place.
“Have a nice day, Jack. Give my regards to young Jack.” Aldwych tantalized him: “Blackie, I’m having lunch with a coupla cops.”
Ovens looked sick. “You’ve spoiled my day, Jack.” The car went down the steep street, past the houses with their windows shut against the wind coming up from the southwest. A postman came up the hill, stuffing bad news into the letterboxes; a youth on a skateboard, long hair streaming in the wind, went down the hill and careered dangerously round the corner and was gone. The Mercedes turned the corner into the street that led down to the main road. The grey Ford Fairlane was waiting for it, blocking the left-hand lane.
Two men jumped out of the Fairlane and came running back towards the Mercedes; at the same time a third man, who had been standing on the corner, appeared from behind the Mercedes. All three were wearing party masks, Groucho Marx triplets with guns. One man snatched open the driver’s door and jerked his gun at Orlando.
“Out, sport! Don’t try nothing funny or you’ve had it! Out!” There was nothing in the chauffeur’s contract with the hire car company that said he had to be a hero. He didn’t look back at Aldwych as he slid out of the car and, prodded in the back with the gun, walked quickly towards the Fairlane. He got into the back seat, the gunman following him, and at once the Fairlane took off, speeding away with a squeal of tyres.
In the meantime the other two gunmen had got into the Mercedes, one in behind the wheel and the other beside Aldwych in the back seat. Aldwych had sat without moving, his eyes flicking from one man to the other but his face otherwise showing no expression. He was too old for quick physical effort; his age, as much as self-control, kept him in his seat. Nothing was said as the man behind the wheel moved the Mercedes forward and the car went down towards the main road. If anyone in the houses had seen the incident, there was no outward sign; no one came rushing out of a front door, no curtain dropped back into place as someone left a window and went to phone the police. The ambush had taken no more than fifteen or twenty seconds, had been executed by men who appeared practised in this sort of thing. Aldwych, an old pro, had to admire the efficiency of it all.
The driver took off his mask and dropped it on the seat. Aldwych looked at the man beside him. “You gunna take yours off? You look bloody silly, I can’t take you seriously, if you’re gunna wear that.”
Without hesitation the man took off the mask: Groucho Marx was replaced by a smiling Japanese. “You are a cool customer, Mr. Aldwych. Are you going to remain cool and sensible?”
Aldwych nodded at the gun in the man’s lap. “I do
n’t have any choice, do I?”
“No, I should say not.” He was tall for a Japanese, just on six feet, slim but with a suggestion that there was muscle under the well-cut suit he wore. Aldwych had no way of guessing a Japanese’s age, but the man looked young, perhaps no more than thirty. He looked like a professional: a banker, a lawyer, a doctor; but he could also be a professional killer. He had the bland handsomeness that was almost a look of anonymity. “We want to talk to you, Mr. Aldwych, not kill you. Not unless we have to.”
The car had turned at the bottom of the hill and was moving north. An ambulance came up behind it, siren screaming, and the driver up front moved over and waved it on. The ambulance was followed immediately by a light van, tail-gating it and chopping off the Mercedes as it went to move back into the outside lane. The man behind the wheel blew his horn angrily, but all he got in answer was a finger from the van’s driver.
“Goddamned Australians!”
“Why don’t you shoot him?” advised Aldwych; then turned to the Japanese: “Do you have a name?”
“I do, but I don’t think you need to know it.”
“You’re a Jap, right?”
“Japanese.”
“Okay, Japanese. Yakuza?”
The Japanese looked down at his wrists. “Are you looking for tattoos? You need flesh and muscle to show off tattoos. It’s better, too, if you have no intelligence, but don’t quote me. Yakuza is a loose term, Mr. Aldwych, like Mafia. What did you call your organization when you were king?”
“Don’t piss in my pocket, son. How would you know what I used to be?” But he was flattered. “Okay, which outfit do you work for? Yamaguchi-gumi? Inagawa-kai?”
“You’re well informed.”
“I heard about the yakuza coming into Queensland a few years ago, when you ran the scam on the bent coppers and the SP bookies and the tax-dodgers, when you took „em for, what, two, three million in a coupla months? Something to do with red beans on the Tokyo futures market.”
The Japanese smiled. “It was very smart, but no, we had nothing to do with that. Our organization has a name, but I don’t think you need to know it, Mr. Aldwych.”
