On the Run

by Colin McLaren

  Five minutes later Lola and Tommy were ensconced in their near bare room, having shared the briefest of showers from a hot water system that had barely enough for a baby’s bath. They walked from the shower, each with a less than luxurious small towel wrapped around their waist. Tommy combed his wet hair back and checked his bleary eyelids. As he turned to leave the bathroom he stood to gaze at Lola brushing her teeth. She flicked water in his face and he responded by trying to pull her towel away. Lola stepped into the bedroom and switched on a wall sconce as Tommy dealt a severe death to a large mosquito. They then flopped, letting the motorcycle vibrations seep from their tired bodies on the only furniture, a three-quarter-sized bed, and stared at a ceiling fan that whined as it turned. Lola snuggled into Tommy, placing her hand across his chest and easing her head onto his shoulder. It was a hot night, for winter.

  The same kids, with their same grubby faces, ran barefoot through the paddock, just a respectful enough distance away from a majestic chestnut stallion that pranced around the enclosure. Tommy leant on the railing and watched the combination of animal magnificence and child tomfoolery. The early morning sun glowed on Lola’s face as she nudged into Tommy, placing both arms around his trunk and resting her face on his back.

  ‘What a creature,’ he said, watching the horse toss its head about.

  ‘You have many horses in Australia, yes?’ she asked.

  ‘Many, and the countryside is similar. Lots of nothing.’

  ‘But we have no kangaroos,’ she laughed, breaking her hold.

  Lola walked pensively away, back towards the guest house, head down, kicking dust with her boots. Tommy sensed it was time to walk together and he joined her, placing his arm around her shoulder. She looked up.

  ‘You have been honest with me, Tomas, or whatever your name is. I worry your Inspector Mack will kill you.’ She held her gaze on him, hoping for a comment.

  ‘He hasn’t so far,’ he said, watching Lola, knowing there was at least one more hard question she needed to ask. He leaned into her and they kissed long and gently as his fingers ran through her hair. After the kiss she tackled her next question.

  ‘Is there? Do you have? Is there, a wife?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, firmly, ‘there was once but that was many years ago.’

  ‘No one for Señor Tomas in Australia?’ she pressed.

  Tommy couldn’t help but think of Jude. Someone who excited him, each time he found himself in her presence. The girl he had thought of each day since he had left Australia. He placed his arms around Lola, a woman who also excited him. One who was helping him to escape. He enjoyed her touch, her smell. Their love-making over the past two nights had been perfect. And she was beautiful. He thought again of Jude and how she was engaged to be married.

  ‘There is someone in Australia. But she is with her man,’ he said, ‘so, no, there is no one.’

  Lola responded by holding him close. For that moment, he felt that they were a couple. He stopped thinking of Jude altogether, closing his eyes as they held each other, as if not wanting to let go yet, knowing they soon would. Tommy looked over Lola’s shoulder at the three energised kids in the paddock, who were now heading towards them. He turned and faced the guest house.

  ‘How long to the border?’ he said.

  ‘We are halfway, Tomas. We’ll be there late tonight.’

  ‘Noooooo more motorbike … pleeeease,’ he pleaded, as Lola broke into a laugh, along with the grubby kids who imitated Tommy’s actions and words before giggling their way home.

  Inspector Mack sat opposite the stern-looking Deputy Commissioner, seated in his highrise office with views across to the Docklands and Melbourne skyline. This was the very same officer who had beaten Mack in the promotion stakes three years earlier. Mack despised him. In fact, he often wished to prise his two beady eyes out with a soup spoon and use them in a game of marbles.

  But, this morning was not the time for thoughts of revenge—it was the moment for his grand performance. Mack had been summoned to discuss the actions of his wayward Detective Sergeant. Time to place a few nails into Goodwin’s coffin.

  ‘I just can’t fathom that Goodwin could have done this,’ the Deputy Commissioner began.

  ‘Isn’t it the most unbelievable turnaround? I mean, I always thought he was my finest team leader. A brilliant operative,’ Mack said, shaking his head as if flabbergasted. ‘But … there have been rumours of him smelling of late.’

  ‘Really?’ asked the Deputy Commissioner, not wanting to know details.

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid the word was he was turning bad.’

  ‘The media are having a field day with him being a cop. Will they find any shit?’

  ‘How much more shit do they need, Sir? I mean, he is suspected of killing an old guy and cutting the wife’s throat.’

  The Deputy Commissioner lost himself in the newspaper article spread out on his desk. ‘What’s the condition of the poor woman?’

  ‘Lucky if she pulls through, they say,’ Mack offered, dropping his head down. He had high hopes that the old goat would snuff it at any moment.

  The Deputy Commissioner’s PA interrupted the solemn tone of the conversation with a tray carrying a pair of Wedgwood cups, alongside matching teapot and dish of fancy biscuits. She eased the tray onto the veneered oak desktop and excused herself graciously. Mack, who hadn’t had time for breakfast, briefly forgot himself and reached for a jam fancy before realising his slight.

  ‘What are our Argentinian friends saying?’

  ‘Goodwin’s arrival card was handed in at Buenos Aires three days ago,’ Mack said.

  ‘The Argentinians will get him. You know, Inspector, I read a fascinating book last year about their history after World War II, taking in Nazis and fascists to build the Perón regime.’

  Inspector Mack looked dumbfounded at his superior, who had drifted off.

  ‘Inspector, I want you to put your effort into tracking down your sergeant. Flush him out. Get the Argentinians working. This is embarrassing, don’t you know?’

  Mack was alone in his office. He hadn’t made any contact with Buenos Aires—he’d get to it, some day. Despite all the developments of late, he was a little busy with his very last annual report. At least he hoped it was his last. Hidden under the blotting board of his desk was a brochure for a Citroën 2CV. The quirky two-cylinder ‘ugly duckling’ car, as it was called in France. When in Provence the previous year, he and Dorothy had driven one belonging to a charming old Frenchman. The old geezer only wanted 3000 euros for it; a bargain, Mack thought. He might secretly buy the ugly duckling for his swan. The picture from the brochure could easily be wrapped in a birthday card and handed to his beloved for her birthday, in six weeks’ time.

  He was about to pick up the telephone to call the owner in France when it rang. It was his counterpart in the Argentinian Police department, Inspector Dias.

  ‘Yes, of course, Inspector. I was going to call. Tomorrow, I think. I mean, yes, tomorrow,’ Mack said. He was sure Dias would sense his run of nerves but Dias simply went on to explain that he had only just received fresh information that the Australian murder suspect was now travelling under the name of Tommy Paul, and that all borders had been alerted to watch for anyone by that name. Mr Paul had stayed at the Alvear Palace Hotel and his hotel account had been paid for with a National Bank MasterCard.

  Mack scribbled the Interpol information onto the Citroen 2CV brochure, wincing as he did so. He now needed to print another.

  He called Donny and asked him to drop by his office straightaway. His little mate was soon standing at his door, tapping his fingers annoyingly against the door jamb.

  ‘Come in, come in and close the bloody door,’ Mack insisted.

  ‘I shouldn’t come here, you know.’

  ‘Okay … okay, I know, but it’s important,’ Mack said.

  ‘I won’t ask,’ said an inquisitive Donny as he looked at Mack’s messy desk.

  ‘Don’t … fucking a
nnual reports! Look, take that,’ Mack handed Donny the information about Tommy Paul. Donny studied it.

  ‘That’s the name Goodwin’s travelling under and, as luck has it, he’s using his MasterCard. Can you get your guy to tag it?’ Mack asked.

  Donny looked at the sixteen-digit number, then nervously through the partition at the other detectives.

  ‘Sure, but keep it quiet. I’ve had that contact for years.’

  ‘Good. Do you have a contact in Visa?’ Mack asked.

  ‘No, I’m fucked. My contact was sacked last year and all their shutters are down for me, but I might be able to ask around.’

  ‘Any idea what’s with the name Tommy Paul?’ Mack asked. ‘I was going to ask you.’

  ‘Obviously one that has a passport and a MasterCard.’

  ‘Spud would be able to tell us,’ stated Donny, somewhat naïvely.

  ‘That will never happen, him and his fucking secret laptop.’

  Donny folded the brochure and slipped it into his back pocket before he disappeared out the door.

  Alone again, Mack thought, truth be known, he didn’t care too much about Goodwin. Goodwin, or Tommy Paul, or whoever he called himself, was a man running into a dead end. If the Mafia didn’t kill him, then he’d be done by the New Zealand cops for murder and attempted murder in the long run. A perfect result.

  The following day Tommy and Lola found themselves at the northeast corner of Argentina, looking across at Brazil and Paraguay through a gasoline haze. The atmosphere suited the numbness of their bodies; their ride was almost complete. Before them, trees of exaggerated heights had created an enormous canopy over the lush undergrowth in jungle greens and emerald. The intimidating roar of Iguazu Falls could be heard in the immediate background.

  Tommy pulled into a roadside eatery, scattering a flock of chickens in their wake. He smacked the dust from his T-shirt and dumped his helmet with disdain. Lola shook her head in her attempt to clear the past two days’ ride. They straightened their backs. The open-walled bamboo-clad café was abuzz with slightly built, brown-skinned locals. Everyone was smoking. Lola ordered breakfast. The locals took a long hard look at Tommy, then spoke quickly to each other, glancing at the pair, waving their hand at Lola, as if in disapproval.

  Lola, wearing dusty faded jeans and a loose-fitting pink singlet top, reached across the table and took Tommy’s hands into her own. The watchful faces nodded, and the unwanted attention faded. Except for that of an Indian girl, no more than six years of age with a deep-brown complexion, chubby cheeks and eyes like coin slots. She sat at the end of a bench, wearing a brilliant multi-coloured Indian jacket and holding a string of beads in her tiny fingers. She flashed a smile and held up her trinket. A fat waitress served their coffee and plastic plate of fried eggs with beans with chilli. Lola was in a hurry; she had Tommy on a schedule. She planned for him to catch the midday flight from Alejo García Airport in Paraguay, but there was still harder road ahead.

  ‘This is the Provincia de Misiones, the centre of South America. I was born only twenty minutes from here,’ Lola said.

  ‘Jungle people?’

  ‘No. Traditional people. It’s wild country, they don’t like foreigners.’

  Tommy nodded as he looked back at the little girl, still smiling at them with her beads. ‘We’re about to leave Argentina, eh?’

  ‘Yes … across to Brazil, then across the Friendship Bridge to Paraguay, all in ten minutes.’

  ‘Passports needed?’ asked Tommy, edging closer to Lola.

  ‘Not usually. That’s why we came. This region is full of smugglers.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ Tommy asked, looking around at squalor and mangy dogs doing surveillance on the tables.

  ‘Once we cross the Friendship Bridge we’ll be in the biggest duty-free town in the Americas. Full of bandits buying loads of goods to be sold for big profits in Brazil and Uruguay,’ Lola added, as she finished her eggs and coffee.

  ‘So what’s the problem with buying duty free?’

  ‘Nothing except they abuse the limit. And the border Policia accept kickbacks to turn a blind eye. It’s bad country.’

  ‘So why are we here?’

  ‘Because the guards don’t worry about tourists, just smugglers. We’re just two on a bike,’ Lola explained as she leaned across to kiss Tommy’s lips.

  The churning washing machine noise of the waterfalls competed with the racket from the herd of tiny motorcycle engines, let loose from the traffic light. Tommy watched a dozen or more bikes race into town, ahead of at least another dozen beat-up utes stacked with children off to school. The roads were potholed and debris blew into the air. A short stout Hispanic woman wearing an apron four sizes too large placed a scrap of paper onto the table, with ‘25’ written on it. Tommy pulled a few coins from his pocket and handed them over. The woman flashed her mouthful of brilliant white teeth.

  It was time to move. Tommy walked to the bike, pondering where he might have ended up if it hadn’t been for Lola. They had come a long way together.

  They fitted themselves onto their motorcycle for the last time. Tommy signalled to the smiling child to come forward. She obliged shyly. He reached deep into his jeans pocket to retrieve a fistful of coins and placed them into the chubby little hand, gaining another smile. Very dutifully the little girl offered up the delicate bracelet of polished river stones to Lola, who kissed Tommy and tapped the child playfully on the nose with her finger. The giggling girl ran back into the café as Lola hung on and the bike was kick-started.

  ‘Just go easy on the bridge, the guards shoot first and ask questions later.’

  Tommy eased forward, in sync with the next green light. Halfway through the lights he pulled back hard on the throttle and the bike raced forward.

  Half-a-dozen turns left and right and a short stretch on a busy road and Tommy pulled the bike to a halt. The rear wheel slipped from under them but he managed to hold the bike upright as he stared at the Brazilian side of the Friendship Bridge. He pulled his helmet from his head. Up to twenty men and women walked from the Brazilian side of the border to Paraguay, each carrying empty baskets, no doubt heading over to buy duty-free goods. The National Guard boom gate was up and the occasional car approached, only to be waved through by the uninterested Policia.

  ‘Easy. Just do it slow, Tomas.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Tommy as the helmet went back on. The bike moved forward. As they eased past the boom gate, five figures clad in khaki lazed about their guard box in the sun. Three were armed with old Russian army Kalashnikov .47 automatic assault weapons, the others with pistols, holstered at the hip. Tommy slowed to ten kilometres. One guard, sporting three stripes on his arm, took an interested look at Lola and threw out a smile. She reacted by turning her head and squeezing her arms firmly around Tommy. The bridge was almost empty. A gust of wind blew up and a mess of papers, dust and leaves spiralled through the air. They squinted to see the ugly township of Cuidad del Este, straight ahead. The river raged far below.

  The shrill ringing of a telephone could be heard from the guard box. The pair continued steadfastly along their path, only one hundred metres to go to the other side. Tommy could see another bike approaching from the opposite direction, its lone rider also travelling slowly. The boom gate he headed away from was up, to allow free passage. Then a siren began to wail within the Paraguayan guard box. A red light flashed on its roof. The barrier dropped sharply and two uniformed men stepped forward, their Kalashnikovs pointed menacingly.

  Lola gripped Tommy tightly; his back arched. He brought the bike to a halt and faced the guards, a pair of large armed dots in the dusty distance. He turned to look back at the Brazilian guard box. They too had closed their border. The five guards knelt on the road, aiming their weapons towards the centre of the bridge. Tommy’s heart sank.

  The other motorbike also stopped, five metres away. The face of its lone rider, minus a helmet, was ripe with panic. A guard ran from the Paraguay sentry box yelling at him.
The wailing from both sirens had become deafening. Pedestrians scattered and lay motionless on the roadway. The guard was now only twenty metres away. Tommy heard the other motorcyclist rev his bike. He noticed a massive fixed pannier attached to its rear seat. The rider dropped into gear, turned his bike around to face the direction he had come from and pulled hard on the throttle. He raced towards the boom gate. As quick as lightning, the guard shot him. The uncoordinated body fell heavily from the bike, which somersaulted twice before coming to a smoking rest against the bridge railing. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of silver Gillette disposable razor blades spewed from the pannier bag onto the Friendship Bridge.

  Tommy quickly clambered from his bike, his trembling hands raised high in the air. He used his body weight to force Lola to the ground. The guards from the Brazilian side raced at them, shouting ‘Policia, Policia!’ as they pointed their rifles. Lola looked up and beckoned to the friendly sergeant. He leaned down as she whispered to him in her native dialect. The sergeant helped Lola to her feet and walked her to the bridge siding. She explained their tourist adventure and the sergeant smiled. She smiled nervously back, this time not turning her head away. He flirtatiously waved her on, while menacingly shooing Tommy away with his gun. The tiny Chinese Tercel motorcycle and its scared rider, passenger and their luggage moved off, passing the motionless body of the razor-blade smuggler.