An Iron Rose (22 page)

‘You know an expression I always hated in the old days?’ I said. ‘The loop. Well, I don’t want to be back in the loop.’

Berglin lit the cigarette, flame cupped, eyes narrow in the flare. ‘This loop is you and me, Mac,’ he said. ‘You don’t come into it, you want to think about sending that nice young fella away, put the dog in the kennels, sleep under the bed with the big gun. The old days aren’t over yet.’

Alex Rickard was a creature of habit and that is not a wise thing to be when people you may not want to see want to see you. The habit meant he would be at Flemington Racecourse on Wednesday afternoon. On another day, it might have been Moonee Valley or Caulfield. What was certain was that on a Wednesday afternoon Alex would be at the city races.

I got there early and found a place where I could watch the turnstiles. It wasn’t going to be hard to spot Alex in the crowd. There wasn’t a crowd, just a trickle of depressed-looking men in jail-release clothes. Ten minutes before the first race, Alex and a short, bald man in a raincoat who looked like Elmer Fudd came through. Alex raised the standard of dress by a few hundred points. He was very Members’ Enclosure: grey flannels, a grey tweed sports jacket, blue shirt, red tie.

The pair stopped off for a quick hot dog and read their race books. Elmer Fudd had two quick hot dogs. He talked a lot, waving the race book and the hot dogs around. Alex found him amusing, smiling as he ate, and then carefully wiped his lips and hands on the little paper napkin.

I kept a good distance from them in the betting ring. They favoured different bookies. Alex knew his firm well: he got a pat on the arm from the man with the laptop computer and the slip writer whispered something in his ear. Alex had a good laugh, Fudd came over and the pair went onto the grandstand. I found something to lean against and settled

After the first race, the two came down, pleased with themselves, visited their bookies. Same after the second race, not as pleased now. It was going to be difficult to talk to Alex if he went everywhere with Fudd.

I almost missed Alex after the third race. He was alone and I was looking for the pair of them.

He wasn’t going to his bookie this time. When I realised he was heading for the toilets, I picked up speed, got too close to him, prayed he wouldn’t look around.

But he didn’t. And there was more luck in the toilet. Only one cubicle door was closed and Alex was alone at the urinal, in the right-hand corner, getting his prick out.

He didn’t see me coming.

I ran the three steps, slammed him into the stainless steel with my left shoulder, punched him in the kidneys three times, one full shot with everything, two short chops.

Alex made a vomiting noise and sagged. I held him up by his left shoulder, took a handful of his smooth hair at the crown and smashed his head into the wall several times.

I let him go and he dropped to his knees. There was blood on the stainless steel at head height. I put a knee between his shoulder blades and jerked his head back by his long front lock until he was looking up into my eyes.

‘Alex,’ I said. ‘Didn’t keep my inquiry confidential. Who’d you tell? Quick, they’ll find you dead here.’

He opened his mouth wide. Blood from his forehead ran into it and he coughed, spraying red onto the stainless steel. ‘No, Mac, no…’

I heard a sound behind me. A tall man with black rimmed glasses had come out of one of the cubicles.

‘Back in the dunny or I’ll kill you,’ I said.

He went back like a film in reverse. The lock clicked.

‘Quickly, Alex,’ I said, banged his head against the urinal again. Blood dropped onto the white disinfectant balls in the trough.

‘Mac, no…’

I banged his head again, took his ears in my hands, small ears, not easily grasped, and began to twist them off. It was difficult. They were slippery.

‘Last chance, Alex. Who?’

‘Bobby Hill,’ he said, barely audible. ‘Didn’t think it mattered, thought you were out of it.’

I let go of his ears, pulled his head back by the hair, strong hair, and looked into his eyes from close range. ‘Alex,’ I said, ‘who told you to tell Berglin that Gaby Makin was dead?’

‘I’m dead.’

I bounced his head off the urinal again, once, twice, blood spattering. ‘Right, you prick,’ I said. ‘Dead now if you don’t tell me.’

Alex groaned. I gave him one more smash. Harder.

‘Bobby.’

‘Why? Quick.’ I pulled his head back again.

‘Anything you or Berglin wanted to know, pass it on.’

‘Listen carefully, Alex,’ I said, jerking his head back again so that he could look at me. ‘You’re a little man in deep shit. Tell Bobby Hill you’ve told me, Bobby kills you. Then I dig you up and kill you. Repeatedly. Then it’s Berglin’s turn. No matter what happens, you tell Bobby, you die. Painfully. Understand me?’

I let him go. Alex’s head hit the urinal again and he collapsed sideways, slowly. I pushed his head into the trough with my right foot and pressed the flush button. A gentle spray of water dampened his face and hair. Trickles ran down his bleeding forehead and the trough turned bright pink.

‘ ‘‘Let the water and the blood from his riven side which flowed be of sin the double cure’’,’ I said. Was that the way it went? It just came to me.

Four men, different sizes, all wide-eyed, were blocking the passage.

‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘an emergency. Need St John Ambulance here. This man has had a serious pissing accident.’

They flattened themselves against the walls. I passed between them, left the racecourse, went home, fed the dog, made supper, played Scrabble with Lew, got beaten again.

I was washing up, thinking: open another bottle, go to bed. Lew appeared in the door.

‘Mac,’ he said, moved his shoulders, looked at the floor. ‘Think I’ll go back to school. That’s what Ned wanted.’

I looked at the boy: father unknown, mother unknowable, grandfather allegedly something I didn’t want to think about. And nothing bad in this quiet and gentle person.

I wished I could hug him.

‘I’ll take you to the bus,’ I said. ‘That’s easy.’

He did a ceiling examination.

‘Down the road,’ he said. ‘The girl. They go in every day. I asked. Will you talk to the school? And tell Stan I’ll work at weekends?’

‘Sure. Talk to them tomorrow.’ There was a new family down the road. I’d seen the girl on a horse from a distance. Perhaps both Ned and I and the girl all wanted Lew to go back to school. I had a feeling dawning about which one had had the deciding influence.

Before I went to bed, I put the Colt Python, safety catch off, in a Blundstone boot next to the right back leg of the bed.

I lay on my back for a long time, thinking about Bobby Hill, thin and handsome Bobby Hill, straight dark hair combed back, metal-rimmed dark glasses. Of the trio of Scully, Hill and Bianchi, Hill had been the watchful one, little disbelieving smile never far from his lips. He was Scully’s offsider but managed to give the impression without saying anything that pudgy Scully worked with him.

Bobby’s making lots of money in the baboon hire business.
Those were Brendan Burrows’s words. What interest would Hill have in my Kinross Hall inquiries? Something Berglin once said came to mind:
He who says Hill says Scully.
Would that still be the case? Could it be Scully who was interested in me? I was history, he was about to be made deputy commissioner.

Was I history? What had Berglin said?

The old days aren’t over yet.

Not a thought to fall asleep on.

I dreamt I was in the old factory in Footscray, Dr Barbie’s point of exit. It was cold, dark in the corners spreading out. I was walking from cavernous space to cavernous space, looking for something in the gloom, uneasy. I pushed open a huge sliding door and I was in a room filled with light, the ceiling seemed to glow, one huge skylight. People were standing in groups, talking and drinking, laughing. The nearest group had their backs to me. As I approached, one by one they turned, smiling, greeting me: my father, that shy smile, Ned, Alex, forehead bloody, Brendan Burrows, Berglin, Scully, Hill, Bianchi, Lefroy. The group parted and Carlie Mance appeared, radiant, took my arm, tucked it under hers. We walked together to the centre of the chamber and she pointed. A body, elongated, was dangling from the roof, slowly turning. I waited, full of dread, to see the face. It came around slowly, slowly, familiar profile…

I woke, sweating, still filled with the dream’s apprehension. Just like the old days, I thought.

It was almost five am. I got up, no point in staying in bed, washed my face, revved up the kitchen stove, made a pot of tea, read
The Plant Hunter
till it was time to shower, cook, eat and start work. Today was committed to finishing Frank Cullen’s contraption, long overdue. But Frank was a patient man. He never hurried the realisation of his inventions because it gave him time to think about modifications. Not big ones: tweaks of the brilliant concept.

I was tidying up the welds with the anglegrinder when Allie arrived. I switched off and lifted the helmet. She knew about the contraption.

‘What I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘is why you wouldn’t simply put whatever it is you want to load onto the back of the ute. Why would you put it on this thing and haul it up with a winch?’

‘The idea, as I understand it, and I may be utterly wrong here, is that you can take this thing where utes fear to go. Reach the parts ordinary utes cannot reach. Then you haul it back and wham! It’s on board.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Haul it back? How much cable is there going to be?’

‘Brilliant idea or scrapmetal in the making,’ I said, ‘the man doesn’t blink at the bill, writes out the cheque right here in front of me, very neat and legible hand, and the bank doesn’t blink either. Which is a lot more that can be said for many of our clients.’

‘Which is why I’m glad I don’t have to send out my own bills anymore.’

‘Not gladder than I am,’ I said. ‘Listen, this extensive training of yours equip you to make a knife blade?’

‘You don’t have to be a Rhodes scholar,’ she said, ‘to make a blade. All you have to do is take pains.’

I put up my gloved hand. ‘Point taken, to the hilt. I’m weeks behind with the knives. Fit it in? I’ll show you what’s needed.’

‘Let’s look at the diary,’ she said. ‘Has to be time this week.’

I was fitting the wheels when Frank Cullen and Jim Caswell arrived, today in full squatter’s uniform. Jim took his seat on the bench, Frank came over to inspect the work.

‘Nice wheels, Mac,’ Frank said. ‘Where’d you get ’em?’

‘Place in town sells bearings,’ I said. ‘Cost a fair bit.’

‘Quality,’ Frank said. ‘Remembered when price is forgotten.’

‘Very true,’ I said. ‘Motto of this workshop.’

‘Now these tracks,’ Frank said. ‘Bin givin ’em some thought, woke up this mornin with the answer.’ He took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and carefully opened it. ‘This diagram shows what I’ve come up with.’

I looked at it. The tracks now had angled projections at each end.

‘Beauty of it,’ Frank said, ‘is these top bits. They slide into these housings you bolt to the tray. What d’ya think?’

‘Like all the best ideas,’ I said, ‘you wonder why you didn’t think of it earlier.’

Frank took a seat, lit a cigarette, had a good cough.

‘Don’t know how you can do it,’ Jim said, shaking his head.

‘Do what?’ Frank said.

‘Smoke. You know what the doctor said.’

‘Bloody doctors,’ Frank said. ‘What do they know? Know buggerall, that’s why they blame the fags. Could be somethin else entirely. Could be—could be bloody potatoes kills ya. Carrots. I read where everybody in China smokes, from babies upwards, they don’t bloody die any more than anyone else. Look at that Mao Tsebloodytung, used to smoke in his sleep, couldn’t get him to die. Same with the other bloke, whatsisname, thingummy, shot them students, eighty fags a day, still runnin the place at ninety, whatever.’

‘The Veenes,’ I said. ‘What do you know about the Veenes?’

‘Veenes,’ Frank said. ‘Don’t talk to me about Veenes. I know Veenes. Worked for bloody old Clarrie Veene, the most miserable bastard ever to walk God’s earth, bar none. Used to look at you like you were a sick dog he wouldn’t waste a bullet on, kill it with a spade. Little bastard used to come up to me, didn’t reach my top button, course I was six-three then…’

‘You were never six-three,’ Jim said.

‘You bloody dwarf, what would you know? You couldn’t see that high. Come up to me, the old bastard, wasn’t all that old then either, come right up to me, under me nose, say something like, whining bloody voice, “Cullen, when you going to do something about that slate you’re running over at Meagher’s?” Coulda killed him right there, one blow.’

‘A Veene had some land near Milstead,’ I said. ‘Pine forest now.’

‘That was Ernest’s,’ Frank said. ‘Clarrie’s brother. Another miserable bastard. Went to his son. Donald.’

‘Some Melbourne company owns it now,’ I said.

‘Rick Veene’s got a share in the company,’ Frank said. ‘Heard that. He’s Donald’s boy. Looks a lot like Ernest. Rick’s tied up with that Stefanidis from over near Daylesford. RSPCA went there, heard he was shooting pigeons. Bloke behind a wall throws ’em in the air, Greek shoots ’em with a twelve bore from about four yards. Sticks it up their arses practically. Couldn’t prove it. Not a feather to be found.’