ThornyDevils (24 page)

‘Tony Donarto rang me,’ she explained. ‘Wants to clear the air. He feels victimised. In his own words.’

‘Why you? You’d think Tony would love to be on television preening himself in his expensive Italian suit rather than go to a paper.’

‘He says he trusts us.’

‘After what we did to him?’

‘I know. Go figure. Anyway, I told him I’m outta here and he’ll need to speak to you.’

‘And what did he say to that?’

‘He agreed. But he wants to be paid for the interview or he’ll go to a TV channel.’

‘And he needs the money?’ Peter shook his head. ‘You didn’t agree?’

‘Bob did. He said it might break open this story and we can print it as an exclusive.’

‘You’ve done well. Where are we doing the interview?’

‘He’ll call you to let you know. You’ll be okay?’

‘You worried about me or Donarto?’ Peter chuckled. ‘Will you be okay in Sydney?’

‘I’ll be fine. I’ll keep you in the loop. Shame Bob won’t buy me one of those new cell phones.’

‘It would never fit it in your handbag.’

‘Okay, wiseguy. How about your leads?’

‘I did an off-the-record, cryptic interview with Poppy the solicitor.’

‘What did you find out?’

‘That the O’Learys grew coffee in Vietnam.’

‘I didn’t know they grew coffee in Vietnam,’ Stella replied. She reached for a book buried at the back of her desk. ‘I’ll check my facts-of-the-world book.’ She opened it and started poring over its well-thumbed pages.

‘Interesting reading.’

‘I like to get my facts right,’ she commented as she turned over the pages. She stopped at one page. ‘Coffee producing countries in the world.’

‘I’m surprised there’s a market for this useless trivia,’ Peter remarked.

‘Well, waddaya know? Here it is,’ she pointed her finger at a line on the page. ‘It does grow coffee. Remind me why you were asking about coffee-growing in Vietnam.’

‘Poppy mentioned that the O’Learys and Tony Donarto had been in business together. Wait for this: They were once in the coffee-growing business. They even owned a plantation there. I have my doubts about it being a coffee plantation.’

‘I think you’re right. I don’t think it was a coffee plantation. She’s given you some clues, hasn’t she?’

‘It’s not coffee,’ he replied. ‘I think it’s heroin.’

‘Maybe that’s how they’ve imported it. In coffee cans. I’ve heard of it being done by that method before. Back in the States.’

‘Pity the interview was off the record,’ he remarked.

‘Seems Pretty Poppy has pointed you in the right direction. I don’t understand why she even went that far. It’s a cryptic clue, isn’t it? She’s telling you why these two parties have fallen out.’

‘Maybe I’m just a bloody good interviewer. I’ve always been good at reading between the lines. I have a theory that people give out cryptic clues even when they are trying to cover up the facts.’

‘Nice hypothesis, professor,’ Stella teased. ‘You certainly have a healthy ego. I think she may have an agenda. Don’t know what it is, though. She’s trying to tell you something.’

‘Agenda? Interesting theory. I’m taking her out on a date on Friday. She may tell me what it is then.’

‘Mixing business and pleasure can be tricky, as you’ve seen. Good luck.’

‘Good luck with the Cross. Wear two pairs of knickers, though, and give Sydney my regards,’ Peter laughed.

Of all the hundreds of containers that were unloaded on South Wharf during the week, Sam noticed that the O’Leary brothers paid special attention to a pale blue twenty-foot container with the lettering KTV marked on it. Since the arrests of Eastern and Machowicz there had been a staff shortage, and Sam had been promoted from forklift driver to a straddle carrier operator.

It was a gigantic piece of machinery with no room for error. Sam, in his usual quietly confident manner, had picked it up after three instruction sessions with Tommy O’Leary. He saw it as his mission to challenge those white folks who thought the black man was less intelligent than they were. And there were other benefits, aside from the extra pay. A straddle carrier operator sat at the very top of the crane in a central cockpit with views both front and rear. It was a perfect position to keep an eye on the activities of the wharf.

The KTV container had not been stacked, but sat isolated at the end of a row of containers. And the O’Leary boys always checked on it several times a day. They didn’t unlock it, but they walked around it, inspecting the metal skin and the locks diligently. Sam had told Peter and Dave about the container in dinner conversation over his homemade shepherd’s pie.

From his cubby in the sky, Sam could see the O’Leary brothers mostly arguing and occasionally talking as they inspected the container. The other people who had showed interest in the container were two customs officers. Sam had seen the O’Learys and the customs officers opening the container one day. It didn’t appear to be a normal
inspection. The four of them had emerged after ten minutes, all jokey and friendly. Sam assumed being friendly to the wharf operators wasn’t part of Customs’ job descriptions.

After a friendly chat with Babs, Sam learned that the brothers engaged their own security firm on the wharf. O’Leary Security. According to Babs, the security guards consisted almost exclusively of ex-cons who were no strangers to violence, but as loyal to the O’Learys as the Waffen SS were to Adolf Hitler. Through good old Babs, Sam had also ascertained that containers were at a high risk of being broken into, either through cutting the door locks or cutting through the metal wall. It had happened several times in the past, although it didn’t happen anymore. The brothers had found the culprits, she told him. When he asked if the thieves had gone to jail, she fell silent.

Good old Babs, Sam thought. She was a solid stick who didn’t mind a yarn. And she was a good sort. A bit rough around the edges, but he was always a sucker for a woman who showed an interest. Maybe he would ask her out on a date. But the main job at hand was to find out what was going on with this container. Babs was his source, first and foremost. It was like a movie, Sam thought. Like
The French Connection
.

Sam switched off the crane for lunch and climbed down the steps. He saw the O’Leary boys climb into their black Mercedes and speed off. He slipped across to the container. He walked around it. Touched it. There were locks securing the doors. No way in without breaking in. Stumped, he leaned against the container. He smelt cigarette smoke. Stiffening, he peered around the corner of the container.

‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ Babs rasped between puffs. ‘This container. Of all the containers on this wharf. This is the most interesting.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and walked up to Sam.

‘I was wondering if I had to move it,’ he lied. ‘It doesn’t look safe here.’

‘I wouldn’t move it, Samson.’ She approached him, reached out and stroked his face. ‘I think it’s the safest frigging container on this wharf. The boys would get very upset. Don’t you think?’ She stroked his face several times more, then lowered her hand. ‘You’re a good looking man aren’t you, Samson?’

‘I scrub up all right,’ he said smiling faintly. He didn’t know whether to be aroused or frightened. Was Babs Bell onto him?

‘You’ve been looking me over for a while,’ she said flirtatiously.

‘Well, you’re the only woman on this wharf. You certainly beat looking at Tommy and Robbie.’

Babs chuckled. ‘I like dark skinned men,’ she cooed. ‘Always have. You look more manly. More sexy. You remind me of Isaac Hayes.’

‘I won’t disagree, Babs,’ Sam smiled. Was she luring him into a false sense of security, he wondered. If she was it felt bloody good.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ she asked. She reached down and picked up her cigarette butt. ‘The boys don’t like litter on the wharf.’

‘What do Melbourne girls like to do on a first date? I’m not the restaurant sort of bloke.’

‘Bugger restaurants,’ she replied. ‘And besides. I’m not a Melbourne girl. More Wodonga.’

‘We could go to the pub,’ he suggested. ‘Though I’m not a pub bloke either. I’m not a drinker.’

‘Come over to my house. I’ll cook you dinner. Good wholesome food. How would you like that?’

‘I wouldn’t mind that,’ he blushed. ‘If that’s all right with you?’

‘Of course, love,’ she smiled and stroked his face again. ‘Meet me at the car park after work. I only live in Port Melbourne.’

‘You don’t care if I’m not dressed for dinner?’

‘You can always slip into something more comfortable when we get to my place,’ she winked and then walked away.

***

Sam was finding it difficult to relax. He shifted uneasily in the battered beanbag and sipped occasionally from a can of soft drink as he watched Babs standing over the stove with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, stirring a mixture in a frypan that smelt like fish. For all the efforts Sam made, his eyes still drifted back to the two snarling German shepherds flanking him in the lounge room. He was thankful that the dogs were restrained by thick chains attached to a heavy oak table and out of reach of him. Manson and Ripper growled every time he moved. He hoped that dinner would be on the table soon. And the knocks on the door? They hadn’t stopped since he’d arrived. Each knock sent Manson and Ripper into fits of barking and pulling at their metal chains until they were taut.

Sam could see who was coming to the door if he stretched up. Sometimes it was a secondary school child, or a person in work
clothes, but usually it was a procession of wasted shells of people staggering to Babs Bell’s door. Sam knew that these people weren’t friends, or collecting donations or hawking products. He wasn’t too sure why the Bells were popular at first, until a chill that ran down his spine. Then he saw Babs grab a baseball bat from behind the door and shake it in the face of a skeleton person. The skeleton person begged but was pushed away. Sam wondered how he could have been so naïve. This wasn’t Hollywood. This wasn’t a sleazy tough guy with a New York accent dealing drugs down a side alley. It was Babs Bell, a woman old enough to be a grandmother, dealing the same stuff from a suburban house in Port Melbourne. He peeled himself slowly out of the beanbag. He had to get out of here.

‘Dinner,’ Babs called from the kitchen as she dished up the meals onto four plates. ‘My favourite, Sam.’

‘What’s that?’ he stammered as he adjusted his shirt.

‘Tuna mornay,’ she replied softly. She reached into a cupboard by the door and pulled out a cardboard sign with the words
Don’t Disturb Or Else
written on it in crayon. She opened the door and placed the sign on it, slammed it shut, locked it, then marched towards the kitchen. Brushing past Sam, she grabbed two plates that were piled higher than the other two and returned to Manson and Ripper.

‘It’s their favourite too,’ she smiled as she placed the plates next to the dogs. No sooner had she put down the plates than the dogs devoured their meals and were looking for more.

‘I’ll get them a bone each after we eat,’ she stated as she grabbed the plates and walked to the dining table. The dogs settled as she and Sam sat at the table. The chain rattling stopped.

‘This looks nice,’ Sam lied, as Babs placed the dish in front of him. Sam thought it smelled strange. Like rotten fish. It wouldn’t be the worst meal he ever ate. Fried kangaroo guts held that honour. He was grateful when the telephone rang and Babs scurried off to answer it.

‘Yeah,’ he heard her say, ‘I need you to help me.’ Apparently the conversation wasn’t proceeding quite as she had planned. Next thing Sam heard was Babs yelling down the phone, ‘One night is all I’m asking for, one fucking night and we’ll be set up for life.’ A pause and then, ‘You will? Seen sense at last, hey? I’ll tell you when, Buddy. Nah, nothing like that. Yeah, I’ll call you. Bye-bye love. Bye-bye sweetheart.’ Then she resumed her place at the table as if nothing had happened.

‘That’s my grandson, Buddy. Still lives in Wodonga. He’s a bit of a rough nut, just like his dad was. Before his dad disappeared.’ She took a mouthful of food and chewed as she spoke. ‘Yeah, Lionel disappeared nearly ten years ago. I blame his father.’ Another mouthful. ‘The bastard was always in jail and when he was out, he used to bash us senseless. Knocked Lionel around so much that he damaged his bloody brain.’

‘That’s…sad,’ Sam replied with as much sympathy as he could muster.

‘Buddy’s on a disability pension now, too,’ she continued. ‘He has trouble controlling his impulses.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘Hmm. I’ll take Manson and Ripper outside with their bones.’ She stood up, unchained the dogs and led them out the back door.

Sam sighed. Whatever feelings he might have had for Babs were waning by the minute. He couldn’t really be attracted to a drug-dealing granny, could he? He told himself that, from now on, it was just a bit of sex. And a great deal of important information. He had to continue the relationship. No matter what.

‘That’s better,’ Babs sighed after she closed the door. ‘It’s good to have some peace.’

‘You brought your son up by yourself?’ Sam asked.

‘Yep. On me own. Lionel’s father got shot in a bank robbery a long time ago. But I reckon the frigging coppers set him up. Anyway. That’s another story. I’ve had a few men since his father but they’re all the same. They just want to root ya and bash ya and hurt your children. Got any children, Sam?’

‘Never had the privilege. I had a woman, but she died up north. Ten years ago.’

‘That’s sad,’ she said as she touched Sam on the shoulder.

‘Can’t be sad about it,’ he reflected. ‘Just have to get on with it.’

‘You’re a good man, Sam. You and me deserve a bit of happiness.’

Maybe he’d been too quick to judge her. ‘I guess.’

She reached across the table and began to kiss Sam on the mouth. He responded by clutching her around the shoulder and pulling her towards him.

‘Looks like the horse hasn’t been out of the yard for a while,’ she laughed as she pulled away and undid her blouse.

‘How did you know?’ Sam grinned as he reached for her again.

‘You can kind of tell with a man,’ she smiled looking down at Sam’s groin region.