Stark (21 page)

101: FOR THE LOVE OF A GOOD WOMAN

C
D was also puzzled. He reckoned he understood Silvester Moorcock. He had more in common with him than the same taste in women. CD could spot a smooth operator when he saw one. After all, it took one to know one. Of course, CD acknowledged that there were differences between the two of them. For instance, Sly was worth several billion and CD had about forty bucks -but CD did not believe in getting hung up on minor details, they obscure the broader view.

Rachel and Walter had pretty much accepted Sly’s protestations of innocence regarding the Nazi attack. After all, there was no reason for the Bullens Creek police chief to lie about it. But CD wondered why Sly had bothered to go to the extent of trying to prove it. After all, what were they to him?

CD pondered this question in the week or so after their meeting at Facefulls and the only explanation he could come up with was that Sly had something to hide. How, CD asked himself, would an entirely innocent multimillionaire react to being confronted by four penniless scruffs accusing him of promoting fascist race attacks for personal gain? Well, CD reckoned that there was a pretty strong chance that he would sue them. He might have them beaten up, he would certainly tell them to fuck off, what seemed unlikely was that he would ask them to join him for a drink and give the craziest one his hamburger. And yet this was exactly what had happened. The man had positively cooed at them, going to quite a bit of trouble to prove that he had not been involved in the attack. More than that, he had exposed to them what was clearly a rather dubious relationship with a police chief, purely in order to show some strange hippy that he had nothing to do with something. In CD’s mind this suggested extremely strongly indeed that Sly did have something to do with it.

Love is a great motivator. CD still loved Rachel, truly and achingly. If only the strength of the love that people feel when it is reciprocated could be as intense and obsessive as the love we feel when it is not: then marriages would truly be made in heaven.

With every day it hurt more. The longing, the frustration; the frustration was definitely the worst. He absolutely ached to make love to Rachel, he would have done anything to see her naked. He would sit up long into the night tearfully whining to Zimm about it and drinking Zimm’s home-brewed beer. CD was lucky to have such a willing confidante. Normally the ridiculously over-in-love are an utter and total drag to their friends and intimates, but Zimm loved hearing about CD’s problems — it made him feel better about not having any balls.

Anyway, suffice it to say, CD had only got involved with the whole protest thing in order to endear himself to Rachel, first as a hippy and then following into association with Zimm and Walter and becoming an activist. He reckoned now he was in, he might as well go the whole hog. In for a penny, in for a pound, so to speak. If he could find something out, come up with something interesting, then maybe he would be worthy of her. Then maybe she would love him and let him up her dress.

She wouldn’t, of course, the world doesn’t work like that, but love is blind and hope springs eternal.

CD could not think what it was he might find out. Whether Silvester Moorcock was involved with Nazis perhaps? Why he wanted the land so much? Maybe nothing at all, but for the love of a good woman he was at least prepared to have a bash. He only had one lead; this skinhead bloke, therefore he would have to follow that.

102: CONNECTIONS

E
ven before the terrible news of her death, Chrissy had been dubious about Linda’s naive contention that the various financial dealings that she had pinpointed were unconnected. Linda’s theory that a kind of atmospheric change was occurring in the money markets and hence causing a bunch of people to act in exactly the same way, but independently, was far too airy- fairy an idea for Chrissy to give any credence to at all. In her mind, Linda could not have it both ways. If the various deals were unconnected, then they were of no significance. Conversely, if they were of significance then they had to be connected. Therefore, since, due to the manner of Linda’s death Chrissy had already satisfied herself that something significant was going on, it had to follow that the various billionaires isolated in Linda’s reserarch were, in fact, all in cahoots with one another. If this was the case then Linda had clearly stumbled on something enormous, which was why she had been killed.

A quick bit of mental arithmetic was enough to make Chrissy weak at the knees. A significant percentage of all the money in the world appeared to be working together. What’s more, it was doing it in secret and it was prepared to kill to keep that secret. What the hell was going on? Chrissy’s mind reeled at the possibilities. So far they had only released a tiny potential of their spending power. If they wanted to, collectively, these men had the power to purchase entire countries. Christ Almighty! Capitalist predators working together. It was contrary to the whole system. But what power they would have! They could buy out national debts, hold governments to ransom, close down whole economies if they wanted to. Had these people got bored with making cars and stereos and aerosols? were they going to start making history?

Clearly speculating as to what they were up to was fairly pointless. First of all she needed to firmly establish the connections. She did not have remotely enough at the moment to make any kind of case. And what if she did? putting the murder aside, people were legally allowed to move their money about if they liked. It was what they were planning to do with it that she had to discover.

She knew that she could not say a word until she had something. Once you put your head above the parapet these people clearly shot at it. Maybe what they were planning would count as some kind of insurgency, treason perhaps? They were international figures — could one be treasonous against the whole world? Maybe the CIA were already on the case, it was certainly their territory, but these people were so enormous perhaps they owned the CIA? Maybe they owned the President? they certainly paid to get him elected. Chrissy realized that she had nothing and could trust no one. She was on her own.

She quit her job — she was freelance anyway — cashed in her stocks and shares and began to dig — to dig as secretively and as anonymously as she possibly could. She had no desire to share Linda’s fate.

Using the names in Linda’s letter, Chrissy began to try to trace the movements of the super-rich over the past few months, trying to establish that connection. It was tough, tough work, but not impossible. These were very high profile people. One useful source was the huge number of glossy magazines about money that had proliferated as the yuppy decade ran its course. They were basically gossip pretending to be theory and criticism, hence they chronicled peoples’ movements when they could just to fill up the hundreds of useless shit pages that they published every month.

Hotels were another good source. It was comparatively simple for Chrissy, posing as a reporter from one of these appalling mags, to persuade publicity-minded managers to discreetly confide the names of the more illustrious members of the business community who saw fit to patronize their establishments. Also, Chrissy had a friend in American Diner. It was a big favour, but she managed to persuade him to divulge one or two details concerning where various Platinum cards had been active over short periods of time. Eventually, hollow-eyed and a half a stone lighter, she pinpointed the evening in Los Angeles.

She was in a position to prove that at least fourteen of the names mentioned in Linda’s letter had been in Los Angeles for less than ten hours on the same evening. Obviously this was not conclusive, LA is a pretty vital business centre, you would expect millionaires to congregate there. But it was all she had. Praying that they had not met at a private house, Chrissy started to contact all the major hotels and restaurants in LA. She chose Silvester Moorcock’s name, they probably wouldn’t bother phoning Australia to check him out.

‘Hallo, my name is Patty, I am the personal assistant in the US to Mr Silvester Moorcock, the Australian industrialist. I believe he dined at your establishment on the — th of the — th this year. We cannot locate a solid gold watch that was inscribed ‘to Sly, stay real, Jimmy Carter’. It is of considerable sentimental value and Mr Moorcock wonders if he lost it that night and if you had found it. Obviously, if you had you would not have known who to send it on to.’

‘I’m sorry Patty,’ (this was LA remember), ‘but we know of no watch.’

‘Oh well, in that case I wonder if I have the correct establishment. Could you possibly check with the manager whether Mr Moorcock dined with you that night.’

Chrissy reckoned it was a pretty fair bet that you did not get to be manager of a top LA restaurant without remembering your billionaires. Time and again Chrissy stuck out. Many apologies but Mr Moorcock did not dine at so and so’s that night…

‘I would definitely have remembered, Patty, because that was the night King Hussein of Jordan took the upper-lounge room.’

Finally, to Chrissy’s delight, her perseverance paid off. She dialled ‘California Dreaming’ and found herself speaking to a very superior maitre d’, who remembered the night clearly.

‘Yes, Ms, Mr Moorcock certainly dined with us that night. I recall Sir chose swan, a very wise choice for Sir to make, if I might opine. However, I’m afraid we have no record of Sir’s watch and may I assure you that our staff are utterly trustworthy.’

Chrissy grabbed her chance.

‘But of course. Mr Moorcock wanted me to make a point of mentioning the quality of the staff and the excellence of the swan. It’s difficult these days to find an establishment that can properly accommodate such an important group of men.’

Chrissy was terrified that he would reply that Moorcock had dined alone, or with a lady friend or whatever. He didn’t, she wanted to hug him.

‘We do our very best, Ms, and I’m happy to say that our very best is the best. Mr Slampacker always honours us with his patronage when he entertains.’

She had it! A connection…Very gently Chrissy tried for more, she didn’t want to be greedy but she had to get as much as she could.

‘Catering must be hell I should think. So many cultures. I’ll bet Mr Nagasyu wanted raw fish or something…’

‘I do not recall what Mr Nagasyu ordered,’ the maitre d’ said coldly. Clearly his suspicions had finally been aroused. He was wondering whether Chrissy was a gossip journalist, she would get no more out of him. But that was fine, she had got enough.

103: A VISIT TO THE MASTER RACE

C
hrissy’s research had not been much fun but CD would have happily swapped it for the task that he had set himself. Taking a bus to Perth and then walking out to the suburbs to find a brutal thug who was on bail for criminal assault, was not CD’s idea of a great evening.

He had taken great care to prepare himself for the part he had to play because he was well aware that if this Gordon Gordon fellow smelt a fraud, he would be in serious trouble. Getting your head kicked in type of trouble.

It had not taken him long to find out where the White Supremacy People’s Fair Deal Party hung out. A trip to the library to look up some old newspaper reports of Gordon’s previous escapades had informed him that this unpleasant group of people frequented the Old Sydney Hotel. So that was where he was going. He had had his hair cut short — not a crop, more like a soldier would have it — and he wore a suit with a union jack tie left over from his brief mod-revival period.

His plan was to play a pom, and boldly approach Gordon, masquerading as a representative of British fascism.

He entered the pub, effecting an arrogant sneer that he hoped would suggest that he did not want trouble but if that was the way anyone wanted it, they could have it. CD was a small man but he knew how to walk tall. He needed to walking into a pub like the Old Sydney. It was what is called a ‘Lingerie’ pub, this being a place where you watch a semi-strip show which goes only as far as sexy lingerie. This prudish reticence does not indicate any fledgling moral principles on the part of the management, rather the local by-laws that forbid full on strips in the pubs. Apparently the strip club owners were threatening to put in dart boards and pool tables.

There were flags on the walls and various weapons, also a few sporting trophies and framed photos of long forgotten footie teams. The owner or brewer involved had clearly asked himself the question: ‘What do men like?’

Basing his assumptions principally on his own tastes, the landlSrd had come up with the answers; wanking, war and sport. Hence it was along these lines that he had decided to theme his pub. Of course very soon his pub was full of war- mad wankers talking about sport. The boss often congratulated himself on his astute target marketing. It did make for a pretty unpleasant atmosphere, of course. If you stood at the bar you could almost feel the bitter and unfulfilled macho pretensions of the clientele — every one of whom by rights should have been a top mercenary in Angola or a football star.

CD spotted Gordon Gordon easily. He sat alone, watching the lingerie girl wear her lingerie. He was wearing his lingerie too, in a way. Inevitably it was a hot night and he was sat in his vest. He sat there with his muscles permanently flexed. He did not want people to know this of course, the idea being that the rippling state of his arms actually represented Gordon in a state of relaxation. His tattoos were a fairly comprehensive collection of daggers, eagles, flags and guns. He had a bunch of empty glasses in front of him. He didn’t let them clear any away; he liked people to know how much he had drunk, which was plenty. His near-bald pate gleamed in the dullness as it reflected the changing coloured lights — they were the only bright thing in his head.

The management had thoughtfully provided these lights in order to add a touch of theatricality and glamour to a show which, when all was said and done, consisted of a girl walking around a stage in her underwear.

CD ordered a glass of water. This was a calculated part of his pose. Despite appearances to the contrary, he had to presume that Gordon was not a total imbecile. Organizing a political party, even a small and stupid one, must take at least a degree of native cunning. Therefore CD had determined to create a slightly more subtle persona than might be expected. There have, in the past, been police efforts to infiltrate organizations such as Gordon Gordon’s. CD had to presume that Gordon would be ready for the obvious.

‘Gordon Gordon?’ He stood slightly behind the big thug, not a very convivial position from which to affect an introduction. At the very least it was extremely rude; at worst, deliberately putting Gordon at such a disadvantage hinted at potential violence. This was what CD wanted, it was nerve- racking and took a lot of bottle, but in the long run CD reckoned that it would be safer than trying to arse-lick the guy.

‘You obviously know who I am, or you wouldn’t be asking,’ Gordon answered without turning around. He could occasionally play quite a cool hand and if he had had a completely different personality he might have been quite an acceptable member of society.

‘So why don’t you tell me what you want or fuck off,’ he added. CD moved around from behind, but Gordon did not look at him. He kept staring with bored detachment at the girl in the knickers. He was pretending to chew gum.

‘I’ve come a long way to see you, Mr Gordon,’ said CD, affecting his best laid-back cockney accent, hoping that Gordon would presume he was a cop.

‘If you’re going to do me, do me, mate. But watch your back when I get out, all right? If you’re here for a chat, go and stuff it up your arse.’

Lots of Perth cops were ex-poms, and that, along with the suit and the studied arrogance, had done the trick.

‘I’m not the filth, Mr Gordon, although I’ve done for a couple in my time. I represent the British race-warrior, white rock band ‘Skrew, Fuk, Die and Kill’. I presume you’ve heard of them.’

Gordon turned for the first time to look at CD. He was suddenly very interested. He had all three of Skrew, Fuk, Die and Kill’s albums, a tasteful little hat trick of two chord thrash- metal turkeys entitled respectively ‘Final Solution’, ‘Blood on the Club’ and ‘JuFuker’. CD, of course, could not have known how much Gordon was into this band but he had presumed that Gordon would at least have heard of them. ‘The Skrew’, as their few fans referred to them, were four deeply violent and utterly talentless individuals whom the gutter-press had managed to raise from total obscurity to some vague international renown, without anyone hearing a note they played. A number of months previously there had been terrible scenes of violence in Europe when England had been playing in the Cup. The British press had gone bananas claiming that civilization would end immediately if the birch, the stocks, and death by stoning were not instantly reintroduced. In the midst of this, Skrew, Fuk, Die and Kill, who had not even been in Europe at the time, were delighted to find themselves picked up by sensation-hungry hacks as an example of the terrible spectre of resurgent fascism. Thus it was that a band, who until then could draw no more than a couple of hundred punters on their best night, suddenly found themselves instantly feared and famous, with questions being asked about them in parliament.

‘What have you got to do with The Skrew?’ asked Gordon eagerly. He was a true fan, he had even listened to both sides of the albums and had spent hours trying to decipher the lyrics.

‘You’re probably aware that they’re fairly closely associated with the White British National Movement. I’m the party’s international co-ordinator. May I join you, Mr Gordon?’

‘All right, yeah, fine. The name’s Gordon.’

‘I’m aware of that, Mr Gordon,’ said CD, happy of the chance to muddy their initial contact with a bit of confusion.

‘No, call me Gordon, my first name’s Gordon.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry Mr…? uhm?’

‘Gordon. Mr Gordon. My surname’s Gordon too. Look my name’s Gordon Gordon, all right, so call me Gordon, just Gordon, got it. Look, do you want a drink?’ Gordon had been through this many times before and it was a source of deep annoyance to him.

‘No thank you, I don’t drink. We’re under a lot of pressure at home, yids, reds, filth. I’m a prime target. I find it safer to stay completely in control. It is my belief that each pint knocks two dan off my black belt.’ This was pushing the bullshit needle close to critical but CD believed rightly that Gordon was excited and wanted to believe in him.

‘I’ll come straight to the point, Gordon. The White British National Movement are anxious to start setting up some form of loose International. We see no reason why the Trotskyists should have a monopoly on co-operation.’ It did not matter whether Gordon had heard of the Fourth International or not, CD knew it would sound convincing and it did. Gordon was thrilled, this was the sort of thing he dreamed of; being part of something big and strong and dignified, instead of just the dickhead who kept getting put in prison for hitting black people.

‘Yes, well, the white race is racially…‘ Gordon would have liked to have spoken with the same confidence and articulacy as the pom but he wasn’t up to it…‘the white race is racially…white…isn’t it? I mean, that’s what it’s about, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly,’ said CD, beginning to relax. ‘Australia is very important to us. Europe’s OK but, let’s be honest, when all is said and done, they’re a bunch of wops. Apart from the Germans, they’re poor quality stuff, worse than the yanks in a ruck. Australia, on the other hand, produces the best fighting men in the world. Everyone knows that.’

Gordon swelled with pride. This was the sort of thing he could listen to all night. CD sipped his water, his eyes narrowed and he glanced about meaninglessly. He was attempting to give the impression that he was the sort of person who found it wise always to be aware of who was standing close by. It didn’t work, Gordon thought perhaps the flashing coloured lights were bothering him. CD continued…

‘Now then, the first move we are considering is some kind of cultural link. The Skrew have agreed to do an Australian tour as part of a recruitment drive. What we need is a man on this end. A man we can trust. A man who knows the local filth, who knows the top lefties, the wogs, everything. A bloke who can contain things if there’s any real trouble, and of course provoke things if there isn’t enough. You see, Gordon, most bands only require security but we also require provocation. Let’s face it, if there’s no trouble, nobody will know we were there.’

‘I’ve got your drift, mate, no worries.’ This was one of the most thrilling conversations Gordon Gordon had ever had.

‘So we were wondering, Mr Gordon, if with all your extensive experience and local knowledge, whether it would be possible for you…’

Gordon’s little piggy eyes were bright. He couldn’t believe it, The Skrew…links with top pom Nazis…it was all his fantasies come true. CD was about to drop his bombshell.

‘…to recommend someone for the job. We can’t think of a single person who would be up to it.’ Even though he was dealing with a thug, CD almost felt sorry for Gordon, whose jaw dropped, increasing his already Neanderthal appearance, he was so disappointed he could have cried.

CD’s tactics were clever. He knew that this fellow had told the police nothing of the attack on Bullens Creek other than that he had done it on principle. If there was any more to it than that, for instance if Silvester Moorcock was involved, Gordon Gordon wasn’t telling, at the moment. CD had to get him to want CD’s trust and goodwill more than any previous liaisons he had made. Gordon Gordon had to desperately want something that CD had.

CD wiggled the carrot.

‘To tell you the truth, Mr Gordon,’ he said, trying to sound hard and icy. ‘We had originally considered asking you.’ Gordon started like a puppy, his eyes were pleading. ‘Oh yes, the Grand Fascist Co-ordinating Counsel of the White National British Movement, Foreign Penetration Section,’ in for a penny, in for a pound thought CD, ‘and the band themselves, were very interested in asking you to take on this highly responsible job. A job which might eventually be seen as having played a small part in the inevitable world triumph of the Norse Peoples. A job, I might add, that would carry a not insignificant wage plus travel with the band and full expenses.’ Gordon’s tongue was nearly hanging out. ‘But then there was the incident, wasn’t there?’

‘Incident? What incident! Who’s been bad-mouthing me? I will fucking kill any man, woman or…man that has been bad-mouthing me!’

‘Bullens Creek Abo’ bash, Gordon. Bit of a mess, wasn’t it? Bit of a cock-up don’t you think? Can’t afford cock-ups in this game, Gordon. You only get the one chance. What were you thinking of? Getting yourself busted over some meaningless, piss-poor little bunch of blacks. We thought you had plans, Gordon, we thought you were a bigger operator than that.’

‘It wasn’t my idea!’ Gordon blurted. ‘I was doing a job.’

CD had it! He knew there had been something more. ‘Oh yes, Gordon? Well, that might change things considerably. Might. What’s your story?’

CD was very surprised at what he heard. He would have bet money that Gordon would tell him that the multimillionaire Silvester Moorcock had employed Gordon and his thugs in order to try and intimidate the Aboriginals away from Bullens Creek. Instead he learnt that Aristos Tyron, the brother of a completely different multimillionaire, had put Gordon up to it, paid for the transport and made a very generous donation to party funds.

This was an exciting but confusing discovery. Gordon could help him no further; he did not know why Aristos Tyron should be interested in Bullens Creek; he did not know whether Tyron’s important elder brother, Ocker, was involved. He had not, at any time, heard Silvester Moorcock mentioned in connection with Bullens Creek. All Gordon knew was that he had been asked to do the job, take the heat, and keep quiet about it — of course it didn’t matter telling CD about it.

So that was it! CD took his leave, promising that the question of the job with the band would be reconsidered in the light of what Gordon had told him.

Outside CD hurried away as quickly as he could. It had been a pretty horrible experience but he was very pleased with himself. His next move would be much more pleasant and a lot more expensive. He would have to talk to Aristos Tyron.