He went down the hallway and in darkened lounge room found Granny and two paramedics. One was rubbing her knobbly bare feet, the other packing up a portable oxygen machine. They’d all been drinking tea with Arrowroot biscuits.
“Did Stephen send you?” Granny said.
When he nodded, she said. “The cake tin Maisy wants is in on the kitchen bench through there. Tell her she can keep it as long as she likes.” She winked at him. She actually winked. Whatever was going on here, one foot in the grave Granny was enjoying it.
He took the cake tin, bagged it and went out the way he came, the paramedics taking their time to follow.
So that was Station Street. Probably not a linchpin of the operation, but at least they knew now. Before he rounded the corner to the limo he opened the lid of the tin. Usually the packages were sealed and he had to estimate with weight alone. The tin was a novelty. It was tight packed with hundred dollar notes. Hard to estimate how much money was in there, but at least enough to live comfortably on for a long time if you kept your head down.
But now Fetch was late. He was making a habit of it. It would be quicker to let Driver take him to the next address before he pissed her off. She had the engine running when she saw him come around the corner.
“We’re late.” She’d been studying the list with its precision instructions. “Is the route that’s written down important? I think I can take us a quicker way.” If it wasn’t so senselessly dangerous to keep her around he’d be enjoying her efficiency.
The route was the least important thing. It was there so Fetch didn’t have to make any decisions and so what he did was auditable. Auditable in a way that meant other gang members spot checked the route like mystery shoppers. Waiting by the side of the road to see him arrive and depart at different addresses. He was lucky yesterday hadn’t been an audit day. Or maybe it had. Maybe that’s why Wacker had been off. But late was late for whatever reason, so it probably didn’t matter whether he got caught out by an auditor or the contact complained. What really mattered was whether he was spotted at the accident site and caught in his lie. He didn’t think so, he’d been careful, but it was worth factoring into the equation.
Driver took her alternative route and got him to the next address on time without mishap. He’d have kissed her again for that tiny victory of control over the random elements that were his life. He wondered what she’d be like to kiss. Quiet and capable like she presented, or was that simply her professional veneer? He wondered what she’d do if he climbed in the front seat and asked her to take her hat off so he could see her whole face. If he leaned over, palmed her cheek and kissed her.
He almost laughed out loud, turned it into a cough. She’d pull a face, she’d probably slap him a good one. He no longer had the kind of face a woman wanted to kiss. He’d forgotten he wasn’t clean-skinned. He’d scratch her to bits with the beard, and smother her with all the hair.
He did the pick-up without mishap and turned his attention to cutting her free. He’d never get to see her hair, touch her face or feel her lips on his, and that was a very good thing, because that she did not need. Before he tapped on her window, his phone vibrated in his back pocket.
A text from Stud. A dark-skinned girl dressed in this season’s python. He got in the car. “Driver, we need to take a detour.” This needed to be done quickly. No time now to send her away.
She nodded, gave him best-in-class professional courtesy and turned the car in the other direction. Stud was at the park first. Leaning against a No Dogs Off Leash sign, in his gang taskforce uniform of torn up leather jacket and filthy looking jeans with the knees slashed out of them. With his tatty cap pulled down over his face and he looked more like a crook than a copper. He waited with his long legs in heavy combat boots crossed at the ankles and arms folded over a thick chest that’d seen him through being beaten, tortured and shot while in the army, before he was shot again wearing a police uniform. They didn’t come much tougher than Stud, or much sharper.
Fetch got out of the Statesman and followed Stud into the park. “Nice python,” he said, by way of greeting.
“Bet you say that to all the boys.”
“Does Mrs Studdley know you’re such a tease?”
“Mrs Studdley wants me to take early retirement next year. She thinks I’m getting too old for this gang crime taskforce leadership crap.”
“She just wants to see your fat arse back in a suit and tie.”
“I wish. She wants to see my fat arse in boardies on a cruise ship.”
Fetch laughed. “Could be worse.”
Stud nodded. “Could be.” No laugh. He cut to the chase. “There’s a possibility you’ve been made.”
Fuck that. “Jesus! How strong a possibility?” Fuck no. That couldn’t happen.
“We’re trying to work that out now. What went down yesterday? Anything you want to tell me?”
Stud didn’t have to be so nice about asking for a report, or such a bastard about taking his time getting to the main event. “I got delayed. Ran late on the drops. Broke protocol, took the bike. You know the rest.”
“But I don’t know why you were delayed. Why you took the risk of upsetting Wacker.”
“The usual.” He grinned, knowing it would get a rise out of Stud.
“A fucking woman. You’ve got to be shitting me?” Rise achieved.
“A girl, not a woman. Sixteen. In the wrong place at the wrong time. I needed to get her out of there. And before you say it I know. She was not the job. I never thought I’d get rear-ended, it was all supposed to sort out in the wash.”
Stud grunted. “Fucking control freak with a hero complex. I should shut you down for that combo alone.”
He could, so it was a good time to shut the fuck up.
Stud jerked his head towards the hire car. “And this driver?”
“Yeah, another mistake. I’ll cut her free now.”
“Her?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Just you don’t see too many female limo drivers outside of Bond films.”
Enough with the broader agenda. Only one thing mattered now. “Are you pulling me out?” It was a ‘be careful what you ask for’ question.
“Do you want to come out?”
Now there was a thought. Deck of a cruise ship, warm summer breeze, all you can eat, type of thought. He could see himself in a lounge chair, beer in one hand and limo chauffer in a blue bikini and a big straw hat, quietly and efficiently at his side.
“Not yet. Not until you think it’s too hot.” Was it too hot? Wacker’s response last night rattled him. “Who do you think made me?”
“Pizza delivery guy.”
“No fucking way. I mean look at me.”
“You opened the door to a pizza delivery guy last Friday night, right?”
“Yeah. Bald guy, skinny dude. Middle Eastern. Pizza Hut cap. Five foot, fifty kilos ringing wet. Didn’t look me in the face.”
“Didn’t have to, says he knew your voice. Kamal Attaturk. You arrested him for trafficking nearly three years ago. Right when you started trying to break into the Red Pariahs. So you’d already started growing your hair, given up your razor.”
“Last time I chat about the weather with a pizza delivery dude.” He wiped his hand over his face, forgetting the abrasion and scoring it sharply. “Ah, fuck! It was a two minute exchange in the dark through a half open door. He’s punting?”
“We’re trying to convince him of that. But the damage might be done. That’s how we picked him up. He’s been mouthing off around the Cross and Darlinghurst that Blacks have a cop in their house. We got a tip-off.”
“Fucking slimy worm.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to slot this new piece of information into his thinking. “Wacker was odd with me last night. I got a free kick on yesterday’s screw up. That shouldn’t have happened. That’s why I was worried.”
Stud shook his head. “Okay. That’s it then, two plus two, you’re out.”<
br />
“But what if I’m not made? Fetch as a cop, who’s going to believe that? It’s more than two years work. We can ride this out.”
“That’s what they all say, mate, when it goes like this. You’re not Operation Colour Wheel all by yourself. We can make a mass of arrests on your information. When you’re out, you’re out.”
“But we don’t have what we need on the identity theft. It has to be a contact outside the club and I’ve got nothing. And there’s an important meeting coming up. In Perth. End of the month. All the colours: Black, Red, Blue, Green. It’s supposed to be about turf and distribution efficiencies. It’s the first face to face of all the chapter leaders for over two years. There’s so much tension between Wack and Leonard, now he’s Red VP. I’m guessing it’s more. We need this. We need me in.”
It took Stud half a nanosecond to say, “You’re still out.”
There was no arguing with it. He nodded. Disappointment, regret, what was that feeling like a stone sitting in his gut? He’d been thinking about normal and normal was about to come and bite him. Normal was going to mean months of paperwork, riding a desk. Normal was going to bore the shit out of him, then send him home at night with a desire to punch out walls and pull down star systems.
“Normal.”
Stud clapped him across the shoulders. “What’d you say, mate?”
“I think I’ve just worked out how you feel about the cruise ship idea.”
Stud laughed. “Welcome back to the real world.”
They spent a few more minutes working out the logistics of extracting him. There’d be a knock at the door late tonight. Federal police. Fetch would be arrested for a crime he’d committed in Tasmania. There’d be records made up and he’d disappear safely into the system.
It was a decent plan as these things went. It meant he had to keep up Fetch’s appearances though until then. Which meant he was very fucking late for the last three pick-ups. Since he was being officially disappeared in less than eight hours, it was reasonable to keep using Driver and her car. The risk was well mitigated by the fact he wouldn’t be around anymore.
She had an alternative route for the next pick-ups mapped out. Yeah, kissing her might not be enough. She gave him a homemade ham and pickle sandwich, an apple and a bottle of chilled water. God, he might be in love.
Pick-up three went without incident and they were only ten minutes late. No auditor. Pick-up four was in Walton Street. An address Fetch knew well; a contact he disliked immensely. Milo Newberry was a fat, lazy, bigoted loudmouth. The kind of man whose own mother gave up on loving him before he hit puberty. The kind of man who wouldn’t last long in prison. That last thought was the one Fetch held on to whenever he had to be at Walton Street. It made the five minute visit bearable.
Last time he’d been here, he’d had to witness a scene that’d left him shaking with rage. Milo’s missus, a scrawny scrap of a woman with faded blonde hair and weepy eyes, had let him in and had put him in their tired kitchen while she went to get Milo from wherever the slimy bastard was lurking. Fetch had watched her go to the demountable shed in the yard. He’d watched as Milo appeared and heard his raised voice. He had to grip the kitchen bench to stop from doing something he shouldn’t when Milo struck his wife. Once, twice. She doubled over and went down on her knees. He turned his head away. It was a domestic dispute. Not his business. Not his job.
This time there was no answer to his knock. If the missus wasn’t home and Milo was out back, he might not hear. Fetch pushed a flat palm on the door and it swung open. He peered down the dark hallway. No sound. No movement, except dust motes. He called out. Nothing. Driver had made up the lost time, he was bang on, someone should be here. He called out again as he stomped down the hall.
In the untidy kitchen there was a chair knocked over. There was a spray of shiny wet blood on the door of the yellowed fridge. His vigilance went into hyper-drive. There was the sound of a bike outside. An auditor. He moved through the kitchen and into the family room. The missus was on the lino floor in a pool of dark blood. She stared at him in accusation like only the newly dead could do. This wasn’t Milo’s work. It took a certain kind of man to cut a woman’s throat. Milo was an evil bastard, but not a killer. Fetch bent down to touch her, she was still warm. Someone else had been here recently. Outside, the bike purred, waiting. He moved through the room to the backyard. He had to find Milo. He had to get out of here. Milo was tied to the clothesline. A vertical pig on a spit. Throat slashed, baking in the winter sun, marinating in his own blood. Pegged to the line above his head was the empty sealed packet.
This was a deliberate hit. Very little to do with Milo, and everything to do with a strike against the Black Pariahs. He moved back into the house, went to the front bedroom and peered carefully out at the street through dusty venetians. He needed to sight the auditor. If he was wearing Black Pariah colours, Fetch could call on his help. If he was someone Fetch knew—even better.
He could see the hire car parked at the kerb. Driver was looking towards the house. She’d been expecting him back sooner. He couldn’t see the bike. He changed positions. There it was. An unfamiliar fat-boy, and the rider was wearing red patches. Not someone he knew from the old days.
This was a set-up, and he’d been positioned to take the fall. Was that why Wacker let him off last night, so he was in play today?
He went for his phone. Dialled the number he could only use when something went wrong. Outside the bike went quiet and Driver got out of the car and leaned against the bonnet.
“I’ve had an accident.”
This time no funny lines from Stud. “Come in now.”
“No. It’s a hit. And the driver is compromised.”
“We’ll take care of her.”
He scoffed. “You’ll take her home and forget about her.”
“She’s not important to this.”
“She’s outside now being eyeballed by whoever it is the Reds sent to confirm my role in knocking off Milo Newberry and his wife, and stealing the cash. She’s compromised and I did that to her.”
“I’m telling you this is over now. Come in and bring her with you, if you want.”
“If I come in, whatever this—set-up is about, we screw up. This is the start of something big. Fetch would run scared. That’s what I want to do now.”
“You want to stay under?”
“Under, but in the wind. If we need to we can reactivate me. If not, I’m out like you said.”
“But cut the woman free.”
He grunted. Let Stud think he agreed with that.
“Where will you go?”
“I think a trip to Perth might be nice this time of year.”
“We’ll talk about it. But after Perth, whatever happens, you’re coming in.”
After Perth more of whatever this was would’ve played out, they’d have as much as information possible to start making and sticking arrests. It’d be over and she’d be safe. “I’d be delighted.”
“You do know kidnapping is an offense.” So Stud wasn’t buying.
“Who said anything about snatching her?”
“So what, you’re going to sweep her off her feet?”
“No, I’m going to appeal to her commercial sensibilities.”
“Her what?”
“Her greed. She needs the cash. It’s the only reason she’s toting me around.”
Stud moaned. “Christ. I don’t want the details. Just bring me the receipts.”
7: Get Out
You could feel spring in the air. Caitlyn leaned against the bonnet of the Statesman and turned her face to the sun. Mr Pariah was a long time in this house. Mr Pariah was definitely some kind of bad guy. He didn’t live at 32 MacIntosh Street. She hadn’t needed to see him limp around the corner to know that. The game was pretty much up when she saw the dad at thirty-two hustle his two kids into their Honda and drive away.
She probably should’ve driven off then. Gone back home and found something productive to
do, like reading up on the best steps to take when your ex-fiancé is a tax cheat, or phone number blocking. The only problem with that was after Justin’s call she didn’t feel safe at the flat anymore. Driving for Mr Criminal Element was a promised pay-off which meant if she had to move again, she was at least cashed up to do it.
Then there were those blue eyes. God, they were blue. Paul Newman blue. Black Irish blue, like in the photos of Dad before he got sick. And they did twinkle, though that sounded ridiculous. It was a storybook word. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe it was because they were surrounded by all that dark hair. Maybe it was because she was scared and lonely, and the owner of those eyes had been nice to her. He’d seen her. Despite her deliberate attempt to blend in with the job, he’d looked at her as if he wanted to work her out. That was unexpected in any man. In a man like him, undoubtedly used to wild women and song—it was astonishing.
So here she was, feeling nervous for no good reason that he was still in the house. He was definitely up to no good, what did it matter how long it took him? That list he’d given her this morning, there was nothing random about it. It was specific and detailed, from the driving route he was obviously supposed to take to the timing of each appointment. And the way that bag never left his side. Yesterday the bag had gotten lighter as they’d made the stops. Yesterday he was making deliveries. Today, the bag got fuller, heavier. He was picking up today. You didn’t need to be a genius to speculate it was money. Funny money.
She snuck a look at the man on the bike. This guy pulled up after her bikie had gone in the house. She’d expected him to go inside as well, but he stayed out here. He’d kept the bike’s engine on, breaking up the quiet of the afternoon for a good five minutes. When he finally shut it down he looked annoyed. He kept checking his watch. She ignored him, till he spoke.
“You waitin’ on Fetch?” he called.
Was that her bikie’s name? “I’m waiting on a client. He shouldn’t be long.”
He got off the bike and walked over. “Long hair,” he said, indicating his own shoulders. “He got anything in the car?” He cupped his hand against his eyes and peered in the back window. She’d have moved to stop him but he was enormous, bigger than her bikie, and he wasn’t small.
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