Dead and Kicking (21 page)

‘Did what happen?’ Crockett said with a smile.

‘But maybe what we’re talking about here isn’t some convenient, accidentally off-target arc light strike out in the boonies.’

I wondered if Crockett was thinking about pressing that button.

‘Ever get totally wasted at a party, Mr Ambassador, and do something you regretted?’ I asked. ‘Speaking for myself, I gave up championship-level drinking a few years back when I realised that if you hang out with photographers and get pissed and do something stupid, some bastard always has a camera handy.’

Crockett looked across at the bubble-wrapped photograph on the easel.

‘I was beginning to think you’d never ask,’ I said, sliding the protective covering off the photograph.

A picture might be worth a thousand words, but for the Ambassador I reckoned this particular one was worth around seven. Shit creek, barbed-wire canoe, no paddle.

The Ambassador stared at the photograph without speaking. Without breathing, too, from the look of things. I knew he wouldn’t press his panic button because he couldn’t risk anyone else coming in and seeing what we were looking at. Crockett was screwed, and he knew it.

‘How do you like it?’ I asked. ‘The colours in the negative were a bit faded, but that’s understandable given its age and the storage conditions. And, of course, colour negative film was pretty crappy back in the sixties but I think the grain adds to the effect.’

Crockett kept on staring and his Botoxed face was very pale.

From the room layout, the photograph might actually have been taken in a suite at the Hotel Indochine Luxe Royale, way back before the renovations. Chloe Ransome, our senior retoucher in the Sydney WorldPix office, had carefully scanned the old negative before cleaning up and sharpening the resulting digital file in Photoshop. She’d brought out most of the original colour and detail, and had done an amazing job considering I’d instructed her to do it with her eyes shut and to forget she’d ever seen the image after it was printed and mounted.

In the photograph, several half-empty bottles of Cutty Sark whisky sit on a table amongst bundles of greenbacks and plastic-wrapped packages of compressed white powder with Chinese characters on them. Old Peng had been a good-looking man thirty some years back. He was wearing a nicely tailored sharkskin suit and sitting on a couch with three young Vietnamese girls, all smiling, all topless. Crockett, probably then in his early twenties, was smoking what appeared to be a very large joint and was naked except for a towel around his waist. He was posing with a Smith & Wesson submachine gun in one hand, a Colt semi-automatic pistol tucked into the towel at his waist and his spare arm around a girl who was also topless and looked about twelve.

I figured Old Peng had organised for another girl or one of his henchmen to casually take the picture when Crockett was too bloody stoned to care. Old Peng looked as sober as a judge and he was smiling into the camera as someone snapped his insurance policy.

I turned back towards Crockett. ‘I’m thinking of calling it “Future US Ambassador and potential vice-president with booze, under-age Asian hookers, guns, heroin, bundles of cash and nasty Chinese gangster”.’

Crockett looked like he might be about to throw up.

‘Good thing you were wearing that towel, Mr Ambassador,’ I said. ‘If they fuzz out the girl’s tits they’ll be able to run it on the cover of
Time
and
Newsweek
. You want that drink now?’

Crockett nodded. I poured him a triple. The whisky was Cutty Sark, the same brand as the bottles in the photograph. Cutty’s a blend, and it isn’t something I’d usually drink, but I reckoned a little nostalgic touch might be appropriate.

I studied the picture for a moment, trying to visualise it with the
Time
or
Newsweek
logo at the top. If they did run it, they really would fuzz out the tits. That was America for you: they could show a venal politician caught in the act of consorting with criminals, under-age girls, guns, illicit drugs and wads of illegal cash, but the sight of a nipple would bring in millions of letters, phone calls and emails from a morally outraged citizenry.

Crockett had finished off his whisky. ‘There was a war on back then, Murdoch, you know.’

‘Great,’ I said, ‘that explains the guns. Now all we have left are the half-naked teenage hookers, the piles of cash and all that heroin. And the Chinese mobster. Even your spinmeisters at MB&F won’t be able to help you wriggle your way out of this one. And speaking of MB&F, I hope Brett Tozer’s family got a nice little remuneration package after his untimely demise.’

‘Brett who?’

‘Tozer. He worked for you at MB&F. I’m guessing he was on the movie to look out for your interests.’

Crockett was looking confused and the bluster and bombast was gone. He was even speaking softly.

‘My people had instructions to buy off or shut down every attempt to film Cartwright’s story because of the questions it might raise, but this production somehow got past us while I was concentrating on securing the vice-presidential nomination. I figured we’d just invest in the film and leverage our position to put someone in to keep an eye on things. I didn’t even know the name of our man.’

That was probably true. People like Crockett just issue general instructions to their underlings and then stay well clear, purposely ignorant of the specific dirty work that ensues. Qualities like those, of course, made Crockett well suited for high government office.

‘So what’s your price for the negative, Murdoch?’ Crockett asked.

I shook my head. The Ambassador thought for a moment and then he decided to go with the approach that usually worked for him.

‘You’ve seen what my people can do. I could set them the task of finding that negative, whatever it takes, no matter who gets hurt.’

‘C’mon, Crockett, get with the programme,’ I said. ‘This is the digital age. The negative means nothing. There are multiple copies of that picture stored all over the world as data files. I’m the only one who knows where they all are and who can make them go away.’

‘So you do have a price?’

I nodded. ‘And it’s a bargain. You go away and they go away. Resign from public life, book a long cruise, start a charitable foundation, try to set a world caviar-eating record, I really don’t care. Just fuck off out of politics and never come back, and the picture never sees the light of day.’

He was looking at me again with those dead eyes.

‘I’m surprised you are willing to settle for just that, Murdoch. I would have thought a little man like you might want to be known as someone who brought down a potential candidate for vice-president of the United States. What exactly have you got against me, Murdoch? I don’t understand. We’ve never even met.’

I was looking at a bloke who was after the second most powerful position in the world, and he didn’t get it.

‘Putting aside the fact that you’ve been trying to kill me and a number of my friends,’ I said, ‘did you actually look at any of the pictures on the walls out there? People tell me I’m cynical, but my job lets me get up close and personal with what happens when the wrong people start calling the shots – people like you. So let’s just call it a surgical preemptive strike on behalf of all those with the potential to be written off as collateral damage.’ I put my glass down on the table. ‘Let’s say I’ll be content to think of you sitting on a yacht somewhere contemplating what could have been, and the wisdom of fucking with people you really shouldn’t fuck with.’

‘That makes us sound a little bit alike, doesn’t it?’

I shook my head. ‘Not in the slightest. And the way I can tell is that if I was anything like you, right now you’d be dead.’

‘I still have some very powerful friends you know, Murdoch.’

‘Bully for you, Mr Ambassador. Sadly, I don’t. But I do have a number of very reliable acquaintances who have instructions about what to do should anything unfortunate happen to me, Peter Cartwright and his son, or Jack Stark and his mate VT, and you can be connected to it in any way, shape or form. And believe me, that picture will go public and then you’ll be able to count your powerful friends on the fingers of no hands. So go take a long boat ride and enjoy your retirement.’

Crockett poured another whisky. ‘Okay. Suppose I were to do what you suggest. Can I trust you, Murdoch?’

‘Nope,’ I said, ‘not for one bloody second. So I guess that makes us even.’

When I got back to the party I was feeling pretty chipper, and my mood got even better when I found there were still some snacks left. I spotted Gudrun in the middle of the hubbub chatting to a photographer visiting from the UK. The bloke was putting in some serious spadework in the charm department so I felt I was actually doing the poor bugger a favour by interrupting.

‘Hey, Goods,’ I yelled. ‘Try and grab the Yank Ambassador before he leaves. You might want to ask him if he still plans on throwing his hat in the ring for the vice-president’s job.’

‘I owe you, Alby,’ she said.

‘Always, babe,’ I said, and then we split in different directions.

‘Believe me, mate, you never had a chance,’ I called over my shoulder to the unhappy-looking Pommy lensman.

Kellie appeared out of the crowd carrying a tray of spring rolls and she seemed to be looking for me.

‘Excellent timing,’ I said, helping myself to a couple.

‘Mr Murdoch,’ Kellie said in a low voice, ‘there’s someone in the kitchen who wants to speak to you. He says it’s urgent.’

She led me out to the large kitchen, where two men were waiting. One of them was another of those bodyguard types who seemed to be cluttering up the evening and the other was Peter Tranh.

‘You ought to try one of these
cha gio
, mate,’ I said.

Peter Tranh didn’t look like a bloke interested in finger food. Peter Tranh looked like a bloke with something to get off his chest.

‘Mr Murdoch,’ Tranh said, ‘I’m here to make a confession.’

‘You and your old man don’t need to worry about Crockett any more. That’s all been taken care of.’

‘This is good news, and I know my father will be very grateful, but it’s not why I’ve tracked you down. This is about Project PB, the barrana.’

‘I’ll bite,’ I said, ‘because I know those damned fish do.’

‘As you may know, until recently I was a regular visitor to the Manchu Palace Casino’s VIP rooms. On several occasions I spoke with Playford Peng on general subjects and sometimes about my research with fish. I mentioned the piranha project and the ensuing difficulties, which seemed to pique his interest. Soon after this, I began to lose heavily at the tables but Playford was more than happy to advance credit.’

As shocking as the concept of a casino running rigged tables was, it was easy to see how the Manchu Palace could afford to hand out ten grand in chips to valued customers.

‘When my losses finally reached a level way beyond my ability to repay, Playford suggested that I could eliminate the debt by producing a special batch of fish to his specifications. I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking straight, and I was concerned about the shame I might bring on my father, so I gave him what he wanted.’

It was like a car crash you can see coming. Suddenly everything went into slow motion and I knew the spring roll I was holding wasn’t going to get eaten. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to keep down the ones I’d already swallowed.

‘Peng wanted a batch of fish that weren’t sterile, didn’t he?’

Peter Tranh nodded. ‘Playford Peng now has breeding stock of these dangerous creatures. These particular fish are very enthusiastic at mating time.’

I couldn’t fault them on that score, but you just knew the barrana wouldn’t be practising safe sex. In fact, there was nothing safe at all about these bloody fish.

‘And if they should escape from captivity,’ I asked, ‘say, into our local rivers and perhaps the ocean?’

Peter Tranh looked down at his shoes. ‘I’m afraid that would not be a very good thing, Mr Murdoch. That would not be a very good thing at all.’

I was looking around for a bin to dump my spring roll when Kellie came up to me with her silver tray.

‘You really need to try these fish balls with lemon and dill mayonnaise, Mr Murdoch,’ she said. ‘They’re straight from the oven and, believe me, they’re pretty damned delicious.’

I shook my head. ‘Thanks but no thanks, Kellie,’ I said. ‘I’ve just discovered there are some other fish balls I need to take care of ASAP.’

In my game, I bump into people I know all the time at airports, which can either lead to us having a couple of drinks in the nearest bar or me hiding behind a handy magazine rack until they buzz off. This time, the magazine racks were tantalisingly just out of reach.

‘Hello, Mr Murdoch, fancy meeting you here.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s a depressingly small world isn’t it, Lothar.’

Lothar looked like he was waiting for someone, and thankfully it wasn’t me. Last time we’d crossed paths he was hanging out with an ex-con white-collar crim named Priday, born again in prison as pastor to the upwardly mobile. Lothar’s job had been to supply guns and muscle, and the relationship hadn’t worked out.

‘Mr Murdoch, I’d like to say something. I’m sorry about what I done in Sydney and I’m a changed man.’

He did seem different. He was still skinny and seedy-looking, with bad teeth and lank hair, but he now had a tan. The effect was a bit like a first attempt at make-up by an undertaker’s apprentice, but at least he was wearing a clean white shirt, neatly pressed chinos and deck shoes.

‘Mr Murdoch, I was ensnared by the testicles of organised crime at a young age and now I’ve finally broken free.’

‘Lothar’ and ‘organised’ were two words I’d never put together in one sentence. ‘Crime’ was a different story. If he was here in Darwin it would be because Sydney was currently too hot for him. He’d probably supplied some heavy dudes with illegal items which weren’t exactly as described per the agreement. Besides trading in girls and guns, Lothar sometimes sold counterfeit Viagra that couldn’t raise an erection in Long Bay Jail.