by Martin Roth
Chapter Twenty-Two
La Rue was bustling with customers. We had to be careful.
Pastor Thomas had listened carefully to my story and said he would give me twenty-four hours before he would feel obliged to go to the police to tell them my whereabouts. It was a strong hint: please get out of my church as soon as possible. I had spent a nervous day at Melissa’s house with her and Briony, and then Rohan had joined us in the early evening.
Briony had agreed to smuggle us inside, to look for documents, plans or anything else that might uncover the plot. She was inside now, having ordered Rohan and me to wait by the rubbish containers in the tiny alley around the back.
“Probably shouldn’t be doing this,” said Rohan.
“Scared?”
“Breaking into a brothel? No, mate. Done much scarier things than that. But I have to be careful. Journalists have ethics. Hard to believe, isn’t it? And one of these days I might even find out what they are.”
“It’s me that people want to kill, and that the police are after. That’s why Briony’s sneaking us in through the back way. No-one cares about you.”
“Thanks, mate. Good to have friends.”
“Why don’t you just walk in the front door?”
“Excellent advice. I could go and hang out in the main bar. They’ve got a big screen TV in there. Probably showing the footy right as we speak.”
“You know the place well.”
Rohan tapped a forefinger on his nose.
A metal door before us creaked open. Briony pushed her head out and looked around. “This way, fellows. Follow the blonde.”
“Story of my life,” muttered Rohan.
She took us down a long service corridor. It was dark and dank, with rows of black pipes running just under the ceiling, and smelled like a home for lost dogs: a far cry from the manufactured glamour of Melbourne’s classiest brothel, presumably just on the other side of the wall. “Our lucky night,” she said. “It’s party time.”
“Party time for whom?” Even being smuggled into a brothel, Rohan remained fastidious about pronouns.
“A bunch of the Indonesians. They’re there now.”
Rohan looked dubious. “I don’t think that’s good news. Is it? It won’t matter if they bump into me, but what about if they see Johnny here?”
“They won’t see us. But apparently they’ve just had some sort of meeting. There could be papers lying around.”
She led us through another door, and into a large laundry, housing half-a-dozen industrial washing machines, and a line of dryers, like a laundromat. Most of the machines were churning around, making a racket like a parade of motor mowers. “The busiest part of La Rue,” shouted Briony, taking my hand and pulling me behind her. Rohan followed.
More doors and some stairs, and then we were walking down a passageway with plush green carpet. I recognized the corridor I had strolled along on my two earlier visits to meet Briony. “Shh,” she cautioned. “This is the dangerous part.”
As if on cue a man’s cry erupted from a nearby room, followed by a woman’s giggles and then some scuffling noises. Suddenly a door opened and a balding, red-faced man lurched into the corridor, a pink towel wrapped around an ample belly. An enormous Japanese-style dragon tattoo adorned his upper body. Rohan and I squashed ourselves into a doorway and tried to blend into the architecture. The man spotted Briony, and made a lunge for her.
“Hey it’s Briony,” he cried. “Come and join the party.”
She dipped her legs in a curtsey motion and made a flirty smile. “Next time, lover. Bye.”
A petite Oriental woman with black hair to her waist and wearing a bright purple kimono appeared in the doorway and pulled at the man’s arm. “Come on, big boy. Back inside.” As she closed the door behind him she flashed a raised-eyebrows grin at Briony and shrugged her shoulders.
“Just down here,” whispered Briony to us, rounding a corner. “This door.”
A sign on the front read, “Administration. Staff only.”
Briony pulled a ring of keys from her jeans pocket.
“How did you get those?” I asked in amazement. “I thought we’d have to break in.”
“They’re at reception. I’ve been around this place long enough to know where they keep things.”
She unlocked the door and ushered us into a tiny, dark room. Half-a-dozen leather-upholstered chairs were lined up against a window, in front of a large console of switches and levers. On the other side of the window was a room filled with ornate furniture. A group of men and women there were having a party.
“Goodness me,” exclaimed Rohan in a theatrical whisper. “If I’m not badly mistaken – and believe me, I often am – this is a two-way mirror.”
“These are the Indonesian men I was talking about,” said Briony, bolting the door. “They’re with some of our girls. We can see them, but they don’t know it.”
I counted four men. “That’s all of them?”
“There’s a couple more. I’ll bet you the others have gone off to private rooms with the girls.”
“Is this great, or is this great?” exclaimed Rohan. He grabbed a chair. “Front-row seats. I sure hope it’s really a mirror.”
“Not many people know about this room,” said Briony, sitting next to Rohan. “Only a few special customers get invited here. Even most of the girls don’t know.”
I stayed standing behind the chairs, and peered at the scene on the other side of the glass. The four men were lounging in plush green sofas, like sultans in a harem. Each man was dark-skinned, with black hair. Each was holding a glass of liquor. Each was accompanied by a good-looking girl. Each looked as if he were capable of joyfully punching out the lights of anyone who interfered with his pleasures.
Several low tables in the room were laden with bottles of beer and cognac, plates of hors d’oeuvres, a large bowl of fried rice and another of fruit. And plenty of ashtrays.
“Could do with a bit of sound,” said Rohan. “This glass is so thick it’s like watching a silent movie.”
“There’s a sound system but I don’t know how it works,” said Briony. “You’ll have to play around with all those levers yourself. Or else I could do you some sexy sound effects.”
“Now there’s a thought.”
I was staring at the men. The youngest of the four was nearest to the glass, and I was pretty sure he was one of the men I had used my wrench against. He was tall and skinny, and probably aged about thirty. He was wearing tan trousers with a sharp crease in them, and a pale orange shirt with the top three buttons undone. He was seated with a short blonde woman, slightly plump, dressed in what appeared to be innumerable layers of filmy negligee. A thin leer played across the man’s face as he talked and ran his fingers roughly through the woman’s hair. It was clear that he was hurting her. Her tight smile indicated displeasure.
“Hey Johnny,” said Briony suddenly, pointing. “Look. Over there. Coming through that door. That’s him. Right? Alberto. The pig. Your old rival.”
I tensed. A man was coming through a doorway at the far end of the room, obscured by a girl in front of him.
My initial reaction was that Briony was mistaken. I had only ever seen Alberto in military fatigues, often including dark glasses. But this man – stocky, with broad shoulders and powerful arms – was dressed for a picnic excursion, with cream slacks and a bright Hawaiian shirt.
But, as he drew nearer, a slow chill spread through me and I realized that, yes, this was Alberto. He had a cigarette in his mouth and seemed to be walking straight towards me.
It was surreal, like a dream, standing in this darkened room, watching the man who tortured me and murdered my wife, saunter slowly and silently through the room, hand-in-hand with a gorgeous, dusky girl in a pink mini-skirt.
I pulled away one of the seats and pressed myself closer to the glass.
“The rapist?” asked Rohan.
“Yes.” I was feeling a powerful crosscurrent of emotions. This
is the man I had once sworn to kill. At one time I would happily have died myself if I knew that I could take him with me. Now he was standing by one of the tables, smiling as the girl poured him a cognac. I tried to stay calm, but I could feel my anger and outrage surging.
Rohan was speaking as he took notes. “Classic Latin thug. Just needs a cigar. Look at that face, all pockmarked, like bullet holes in a concrete wall. And that swagger. And the smirking way he talks to the girl.”
“Two of my best friends have been killed,” I said. “Grant and Papa Guzman. And Matt. By him, or by one of those other thugs. We have to take him out. We have to get him. All of them.” The glass in front of my face was getting steamy. I was panting.
Rohan ignored me. “That girl with him - what do you reckon? Hawaiian? Filipina? She is one dynamite young lady. Part Western, part Asian, still a teenager. Boy, would I be happy to have her on my arm. Better still, on my bed.”
And that did it. Suddenly I had a vision of my mother, the gorgeous young mixed-blood mestizo, working in a place like this, servicing men like Alberto.
I buried my face in my hands. I couldn’t watch any more. I was losing control. I wanted to smash my head against the glass. I wanted to get Alberto. But something inside seemed to be restraining me. Was it the pastor talking about forgiveness? I was in torment.
“Hey, Johnny, it’s okay,” said Rohan, now standing next to me and placing a hand on my shoulder. Briony was standing too.
I was choking. “We can’t let him go,” I stuttered. I moved to the door of the small room, away from the window.
“We’ve got him,” said Rohan. “He’s not leaving Melbourne. Johnny, listen to me. Listen hard. I’ve already told my police mates what we learned at your Timorese restaurant. They know about Alberto. They know he’s here in Melbourne. I’m going to go and talk to them again, right now, to tell them everything we’ve learned from Briony and what we’ve seen here tonight. My guess is that we’re going to see the police in action.”
“They’ve got to get Alberto,” I said. “I don’t care if thy arrest me, kick me out of the country. They’ve got to get Alberto.”
“They won’t arrest you,” said Briony.
“I’m afraid they might,” said Rohan. “But we’ll sort it out. Briony, my pet, you said there might be documents lying around.”
“In the meeting room. That’s where all the Indonesians were, before this party.”
“Have a quick look in there. Then take Johnny back to your place. Give the man a stiff drink and whatever else seems appropriate. He needs someone to help him relax. You could be just the right person.”
* * *
