By the end of the day, both men had reached an understanding.
Antonio made sure that Cole left the farm laden with wine and boxes of oranges. As he walked to his car fresh-faced kids with peppermint smiles held Cole’s hand and Antonio opened the driver’s door for him, whispering, ‘Welcome to our family.’
Sporting his new Armani T-shirt Tommy ventured out into an otherwise fresh early evening to clear his head. He needed the exercise and the distraction. As he walked around the gardens he encountered a sight he had never seen before. Twice daily throughout Recoleta and its wealthy neighbouring suburbs, professional dog walkers would take their socialite charges for their morning and evening walks.
One dog handler, a girl he thought to be no more than twenty years of age and five foot tall, held a handful of diamond- and precious gem–encrusted leads. Each lead collared one of a small army of fourteen dogs ranging in size from the tiniest chihuahua to a rather portly labrador and many sizes and descriptions in between. Each pooch valiantly attempted to outdo the others as they pulled their handler along for the evening walk. The petite girl handler was unceremoniously tugged violently to the right as the group of dogs decided en masse to bound off and greet another group of dogs that had just appeared across the park, pulling her helplessly after them.
Tommy sat on a park bench until well past dusk, watching, until the novelty of his observations fell away. His thoughts pulled him back to New Zealand again and again. His head slumped down into his hands and a lump rose in his throat. Without the slightest hint of self-consciousness he broke down and sobbed, until there were no more. Wiping his cheeks dry as best he could with his pocket tissue, he straightened up and disappeared deeper into the lush gardens. He paced as fast as he could, for over an hour, around and around, till he tired himself out and walked off his heavy mood.
As darkness fell over the city, his appetite stirred, and he decided to see what all the fuss was about with the famed Argentinian steak houses. He admired the beautiful Italianate architecture along the way and settled for a lone table at a restaurant that oozed razor-sharp interior design. He was served the biggest T-bone steak he had ever seen, accompanied by a plate of relishes, chutneys and mustards, and he devoured it with a perfect medium-bodied Malbec.
The growing chill in the night air sent Tommy back to his hotel for nightcap. A stroll in the cocktail lounge had him face to face with a cluster of single female organisms, all sitting alone, all in search of the great invite to a $38 cocktail. Tommy smiled to himself as he thought back to Australia. Leigh would call such divas ‘sharp aunties’. Forty-something darlings, lip glossed, hair tousled and teased, and ready for action … or at least the company of a visiting overseas wallet in need of a special cocktail hour. Seeing the price list, Tommy opted for a Quilmes beer and a chat with the lovely bartender who was still on duty. Lola was only an hour away from the end of her shift, Tommy was quick to establish. She entertained him with her hotel gossip and they both predicted which divas would do well that night.
There were at least half-a-dozen Belgian chocolate wrappers strewn along the carpet, as well as a single champagne cork on the floor of Tommy’s room at 8 o’clock the next morning. A quiet knock and a room service waiter discreetly entered the suite, pushing a trolley gloriously laden with daintily prepared poached eggs with hollandaise sauce, honey-cured Virginia ham and tomatoes with tall glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice and Brazilian coffee for two. Lola hid her face under the sheets as the waiter secured Tommy’s scratch on the bill and left. But not before he smugly took in the staff uniform draped over the sofa.
Lola quietly peeped from the sheets, looked around the room and across at the trolley. She shook her long dark hair free of the night and continued languishing in a room well beyond her own lifestyle. She saw her uniform over the chair and slid under the sheet again. Tommy slid out of bed to stand naked in front of the breakfast offering, popping a few tomatoes in his mouth. Lola peeped again, as he speed-read the front section of the newspaper in less than a few seconds. Then he sprang back into bed, a smile on his face.
‘What time do you start work?’ he asked.
‘Not for a week. Things are slow in winter,’ she said coyly.
There were more tasty morsels tempting Tommy than were on the breakfast tray that morning. He pulled back the sheets to reveal the stunningly beautiful Lola, who wriggled slowly as she gave an early morning stretch. He dropped a cherry tomato into her yawning mouth, which she eagerly accepted, and he watched her chew the tomato. The perfect invitation, he thought, as he gently eased his body over the top of hers and kissed down the side of her glorious neck. Lola’s hands went exploring, finding Tommy at his most vulnerable. She held him softly, massaging ever so lightly as she parted her legs. Tommy’s tongue glided slowly across her shoulder, and under her chin, stopping long enough to savour her previous night’s scent. Then across her breast where he bit as gently as his urgent temptation would allow. Lola’s wriggling stopped; he had her undivided attention.
She arched her back forward, in an attempt to push her nipple further into Tommy’s mouth, further into the teasing zone. She enjoyed the delicious pleasure over and over, until the sensation ignited stronger triggers through her now glowing body. She grabbed both hands full of Tommy’s hair, tugging at each clump before giving his head a gentle nudge, to send a message to her new lover and guide his head across her stomach and towards her expectant thighs. Tommy understood perfectly; his tongue tracked across her belly, playing momentarily with the gold-plated ring in her navel, before his whiskered chin found Lola’s neat pubic hair. His eyes looked back at hers, which closed gently in anticipation.
She giggled nervously for a tiny second, more out of self-consciousness than anything else. Tommy’s chin nudged into her, press ing firmly onto her. And there he would stay, softly devouring his beauti ful new acquaintance. Teasing and playing with her as he savoured her captivating bouquet. When her ecstasy had almost reached a pinnacle, he lifted himself onto her. She wrapped her arms around him, kissing and nibbling at his well-defined shoulders as he gently entered her.
A taint had hung over the team since news broke of the murder in New Zealand. That was always the way, Sandra thought; cops more often than not took the pessimistic approach in times of scandal. They’d rather hear a bad luck yarn than a sugar-and-spice story of heroics or good deeds. Not that the change in attitude necessarily devastated Sandra, it was just that she had enjoyed many years working on a crew that had never been associated with corruption or stories of dodgy behaviour. Now, knives were being sharpened. Looks were caught mid-flight. Conversations would stop when she stepped into a busy tearoom. She was worried.
She started on her emails; a few needed urgent attention. A few more dropped into her box as she was scrolling through. One was from the Prosecution office wanting her to collect paperwork left over after a court case. She pinged off a quick response. This was followed by a group email from the Police Association, drumming up support from the membership for the forthcoming AGM. The next email she deleted on first read—she didn’t know a woman called Ingrid who had just gotten married.
The last email was from Jude to say that she was off to Sydney with her new crew, following up on some Lebanese targets importing firearms. She would be away for a few weeks, and asked Sandra to keep her in the loop if there were any developments or news on Cole. Sandra, knowing how emotional Jude had been when they last spoke, sent her back a sweet reply, telling her to be strong and that she’d stay in touch.
Time for a pot of Earl Grey tea, she reckoned. Something that she delighted in each afternoon shift, when the office would drop away to empty and she could enjoy a long cuppa and some peace and quiet. As she waited for the kettle to boil she made short work of the tin of biscuits lying open on the table-top.
Then it hit her. She sprinted back to her computer, reopening her deleted folder to find the Ingrid email. She clicked it open just as Spud walked into the office, s
porting the uniform team look of misery.
Sandra read over the strange email, beckoning Spud to her desk.
‘… please try to keep in touch, much love Ingrid,’ she read aloud.
Spud glanced at the screen without interest and stood silently.
‘It’s him!’ Sandra yelled, before realising she was doing so.
‘It’s him … Spud,’ she whispered, her eyes darting around an otherwise near-empty office.
‘Him, him, do you mean?’ Spud queried, taking much more interest now as Sandra nodded excessively.
They printed two copies of the email and studied it, word by word. Midway through their appraisal, Sandra lashed out at her mate.
‘I’m surprised you’re making such fuckin’ hard work of this, Spud. I don’t know anyone called Ingrid and I haven’t been to a wedding for three years. There isn’t any family strife I know of, and yet it’s addressed to me,’ she stated firmly.
‘It is odd.’
‘What’s the one thing Cole always says?’ asked Sandra.
‘What’s the bottom line. He always says that,’ replied Spud.
‘There’s his bottom line … “I had nothing to do with the family strife, please try and keep in touch”,’ she said, adding, ‘Spud, he’s saying he had nothing to do with the murder, the strife, and he wants us to reply.’
‘You’re right, dead right, good work,’ offered Spud, a smile now spreading across his face.
The two of them spent the remainder of their shift reading and re-reading every word of the email: Cole was okay. They put their heads together to draft a lifeline to Cole.
The corporate business centre’s young attendant was pleased to see that nice Australian man who had said such nice things to him. He showed Tommy to a computer and handed him a note pad. Once the pleasantries had been dispensed, and the young fellow disappeared back to his own doodling, Tommy logged into his Yahoo account. He was delighted to find a message in the inbox.
Ingrid darling,
I don’t know why you feel that you need to apologise. We have been friends for too long now to worry about silly wedding tiffs. I am more interested to hear all the gossip from the honeymoon. Don’t worry about the argument at the reception. I know who really started it all.
Lots of love,
Your friend, Sandy
Tommy was elated. Sandra knew the true circumstances behind Lynette and Cary’s fates. He would have to suffer these short snippets until he was safely tucked away, far enough from the ruthless thoroughness of the Calabrian punk, and Mack’s connections.
He logged out of the Yahoo account. He acquired an envelope and stamps from the young attendant and returned his attention to the computer screen again. Tommy scrawled on the envelope the address he had been seeking out.
T. Paul,
Poste Restante,
Hoofdpostkantoor,
Amsterdam Central Post Office,
Singel 250 1016AB,
Amsterdam, Nederland.
He then retrieved the Cole Goodwin passport, credit cards and identification papers from his pocket, and placed them neatly into the envelope, sealing it. He affixed enough stamps to the front of the envelope before turning off the computer. With his Bees-Knees slung over his shoulder, Tommy walked back to the front counter and showed the envelope to the attendant, who read the address.
‘Where do I post this, my friend?’ he asked politely.
‘It’s quicker at the post box out the front of the hotel, it will be cleared in an hour,’ the attendant stated, handing the envelope back to Tommy with a courteous smile.
Tommy thanked him as he walked out of the business centre. ‘See you, my friend. I’m off home.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Paul,’ he replied cheerily.
Tommy strolled downstairs, past reception and headed for the main exit. He quietly slipped out the front door and posted the envelope, pleased with his productive start to the day. He thought he would travel up the Americas and then across to Amsterdam to pick up his envelope, in case he needed it, before hiding out somewhere in Europe.
To carry a second set of identity papers would be foolish, especially when travelling through the United States. He would figure out the rest while he was on the road. He was no further than one hundred metres from the entrance of the hotel, heading towards the park, when he heard the sound of a motorcycle from behind. As it drew up beside him, his heart sank. The engine of the Chinese-made Tercel 175cc four-stroke engine idled as the passenger, wearing a tiny backpack, lifted her helmet, shaking a glorious dark mane of hair free. She smiled broadly.
‘Do you want a lift?’ Lola asked.
‘I’m going to Australia. I told you,’ replied Tommy.
‘I know you’re not, Tomas,’ she said. ‘You’re going anywhere but.’
‘Am I?’ he stated with a curious smile on his face. He stared at the beautiful woman he had spent a perfect eleven hours with last night.
Lola pulled out a tabloid newspaper from inside her jacket and opened it to a small article accompanied by a cropped version of the fish photo showing Cole’s face. She proceeded to translate the story as she read. Then she looked at him square in the eye, ‘You’re escaping from something, Tomas. Or is it Cole?’
Tommy/Cole stood frozen on the footpath.
‘That wasn’t in this morning’s newspaper,’ he said.
‘We have ten newspapers in Buenos Aires, Tomas. The hotel uses the business broadsheet and international papers. This is the scandal paper,’ she informed him.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Be good to you. Like you were good to me.’ Her smile held as she dropped her eyes to the footpath.
‘How do I get out of this country?’ he asked.
‘Jump on,’ Lola said with a delicious smile, ‘we have a long ride. You can tell me your problems along the way.’
The pretty motorcyclist and her passenger headed off into the traffic on the undersized Tercel.
1st June
The desert town of Griffith basked the winter sun. The old Godfather walked between the rows of oranges, stopping every now and then to glance at the foliage and the ripening fruit. Walking towards him from the opposite direction was Massimo, who pulled a piece of fruit from the tree and crushed it in one hand to check the juice quality. He had been summoned by the old Godfather more than an hour ago, and he sensed the old man was somewhat anxious.
‘Have you been with your girls again, Massimo?’
A smile ran across the younger man’s face, but was quickly removed.
‘I’ve been busy,’ he replied.
‘You have.’
‘New Zealand was not good,’ Massimo quipped.
‘You have scared the detective to Argentina, the Commissario tells me,’ said the old Godfather, handing him a torn-out section of a newspaper, with a photograph of the ‘new’-look Cole Goodwin. ‘Keep this with you, in case.’
‘Shall I go after him?’ Massimo offered.
‘No. The water is too hot. You must go back to Calabria. You must help us with our next shipment.’
‘In artichoke tins again?’
‘Yes. You must prepare it for the boat.’
‘I will miss Australia,’ said Massimo.
‘You will miss the girls, Massimo,’ the old man said, as he looked Massimo up and down, secretly wishing he was thirty-five again. ‘Say your goodbyes to the Juliets, you leave soon.’
And with that the old Godfather turned and walked back through the orchard, taking far more interest in his fruit than his Calabrian cousin’s nephew.
The young Alvear Palace Hotel attendant was in a lounge chair, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, wearing a five o’clock shadow, a plain white singlet and shorts. He sipped from a Coca-Cola can and continued reading his newspaper. While he was required to read the global newspapers and main national paper each day at work, it was his neighbourhood newspaper that he looked forward to. The football scores and gossip.
H
is mother walked into the loungeroom of their crowded high-rise public tenement and placed a meal in front of him. Then she went into the kitchen again. There were four other mouths to feed, all younger, all noisy. The attendant peered over the top of his newspaper at the plate of pan-fried liver with onions and mashed potato. He went back to his paper and Coca-Cola.
Once he had finished checking the scores of his team, disappointed at another loss for the season, he flicked the newspaper further to the front. On page ten he looked enviously at a photograph of Penelope Cruz and her new beau. She wore a long evening dress that was split down the middle and he imagined the shape of her breasts. He turned his paper ninety degrees to the right to further study the picture. He read on, glancing at the story of the New Zealand murder, initially not taking any notice of the grainy photograph of the wanted man. He was about to turn to the next page when he casually took another look, before bringing the photo closer to his nose.
That was the nice man from Australia, he thought.
Seven hundred kilometres north of Buenos Aires lay the dishevelled concrete and plywood township of Paso de los Libres; a place famous for breeding magnificent Argentinian horses and far too many Aberdeen Angus cattle for the restaurants around Recoleta. The exhausted Chinese motorcycle was glad to find the end of its day as it pulled into the guest house by the side of the road, close on midnight. Tommy slowly removed his arms from Lola’s waist. With just as much difficulty, he lifted his bright shiny new helmet from his head. Dropping his shoulder bag to the ground he manoeuvred his stiffened bowed legs comically in an attempt to straighten his very twisted torso.
Lola moved her younger body with considerably more ease. She led him through a rickety flywire screen door into a near-empty room that acted as a reception for the guest house. She signalled for Tommy to stay where he was. He offered no argument, preferring the comfort of an old easy chair in the corner of the blue lime-washed room. Lola walked further into the building, to the owner’s quarters. The sound of her native tongue could be heard as she happily greeted someone Tommy could not see. Before long three gorgeous yet grubby little kids came running from the room giggling in excitement. They pulled up quickly when they first noticed Tommy and their smiles fell from their faces. Then, as if rehearsed, each of them turned around at the same time and ran back into the room, yelling a chorus of ‘Gringo, gringo’, before breaking into fits of laughter.
On the Run Page 9
