An Iron Rose (27 page)

Nothing. I leaned my head a little further over…

The tip of a shoe, a black running shoe, in the doorway.

Can’t go down. Can’t go back. The man below’s partner would be in the building now, possibly already in the flat.

I opened the back door, thankful that I’d put it on the latch, backed into the kitchen.

No sound in the flat.

I looked around. Espresso machine on the counter. I holstered the Colt, unplugged the machine, picked it up, solid, heavy, cradled it in one arm, stepped out the door again, closed it quietly.

I stepped carefully to the front edge of the landing, coffee machine held above my head, leant forward until I could see both shoes below.

‘Hey,’ I said, gruffly, urgently.

He came out of the doorway fast, in a crouch, looking up, silenced weapon coming up in the two-handed grip.

Neckhead. I saw his face for a split second before I threw the coffee machine at him with all the force I could muster. He fired, just a ‘phut’ noise, no louder than a clap with cupped hands.

But I was already on my way down, one jump to the intermediate landing, painful contact with the railing, left turn…

Neckhead was on his knees. The coffee machine appeared to have struck him full in the face, blood down the right cheek, the appliance lying in front of him.

He brought the pistol up—one-handed now, not fast, puzzled look on his face—as I dived at him.

Another phut.

I felt nothing, just the impact of crashing into him, knocking him backwards. I was feeling for his throat, found the hand holding the pistol, forced the barrel back towards him, back, back, tried to find the trigger. He was making a strangling noise, I could smell his hot breath: cigarette smoke and meat.

Close up, the sound was loud, I felt the heat, smelt the acrid cordite. His body went limp instantly.

I pulled away, stood up. The bullet had gone in under his left nostril, the back of Neckhead’s head was gone. Even in the dark, I could see the blood spreading out from him onto the steel deck.

It had all taken a few seconds. No-one was shouting. Miles was still playing. Probably a tape on a time switch to deter burglars.

Above me, I heard Anne’s kitchen door open.

I took the silenced pistol out of Neckhead’s hand, shrank back against the door of the second floor flat. Where Neckhead had waited.

Waited.

Heard the soft feet on the steps. Rubber soles.

Saw the shoes, big, the trousers, dark, the waistband of the ski jacket.

No more.

The legs stopped. He had seen Neckhead’s legs.

‘Jesus,’ he said, came down the steps in a rush, swung onto the landing, sawn-off shotgun in his right hand, its ugly pig-nostril muzzles coming around to face me.

I shot him in the chest, twice, a third time. His eyes registered something, he bounced against the railing, mouth open, made a sound, cheerful, surprised sound, fell over sideways, slid.

I stood there, pistol in hand, feeling sick. The dishcloth was still around my neck. I took it off, used it to wipe the pistol, put it back in Neckhead’s hands again, pressed his fingers, utmost care.

I listened. Nothing but the growl of traffic on Hoddle and Victoria and Wellington Parades, and Miles Davis.

I left the scene of the crimes. Left carefully, in case Bobby had sent more than two people to get me. Not that taking care would make any difference in the long run, the short run even.

He who says Hill says Scully.

I couldn’t kill armies of people.

I went out on the Tullamarine freeway, suddenly hungry, bought a hamburger in the drive-through at a McDonald’s in Keilor, sat in the car park, appetite gone, system flooded with adrenalin, mind lurching between clear and blank.

I hadn’t listened to the Bianchi tape.

I didn’t want to listen to it. I’d left the Radomsky house with it in my hand and what I had done was to telephone Anne Karsh. All the effort to find it, lying to decent people, and then I put it in my pocket, put it out of my mind.

I took the slim plastic box out of my coat pocket, took out the cassette, slid it into the tape player, hit the buttons.

A voice, counting, humming, whistling. Darren Bianchi’s voice.

Silence.

What was he doing?

Testing a wire, that’s what he was doing.

Noise, traffic noise, tinny music, scratchy sounds.

So what’s she supposed to know, I mean, what do I
…Bianchi’s voice again. Barely audible against the background sounds.

Know the absolute fucking minimum, anything goes wrong, she knows close to fuckall.
Scully’s voice.

Bianchi is wearing a wire, sitting in a car with Scully. His boss, Scully.

Dennis will ring…
Bianchi’s voice.

Then Scully:
If Howie goes for his walk, only if he’s out of there. Doesn’t go, we wait till he goes somewhere. He goes, we see him, Dennis rings, says he’s coming round. At eight thirty. Now she’s got to wipe that from the tape, get it? Howie hears it, we’re fucked. It’s for fucking Faraday’s benefit.

So Howie doesn’t know. He’s gonna think, who’s at the door?

Darren, don’t worry about that, right? My department. Just one thing the bitch’s got to do, right. Open the garage door at eight thirty on the fucking nail. You make sure she understands that. No fucking margin for error.

Yeah, eight thirty.

Yeah, eight thirty. It’s just a run-through. She keeps her mouth shut, she gets wrapped up, they’ll be out of there, five fucking minutes, less. No way Dennis will know she’s not as surprised as he is. Okay?

Okay.

Something else. You make sure she knows, change of mind now, she’s meat. Too fucking late for that. She’s fucking in. Doesn’t want to do it, she’s seen fucking Daimaru for the last time. She’s fucking sushi. Doesn’t do it right, same thing. Applies to you, too. And me. And fucking Bobby. You don’t know this fucking El G, fucking mad. I know him from way back, kill anything, kill anyone, come in his pants while he’s doing it. Totally fucking crazy, makes snuff movies. Fuck it up, we’ll be fucking snuff stars.

Scuffling noises, car door slamming, Scully saying something inaudible.

The next five minutes of the tape were recorded somewhere noisy with background voices, laughter, scratchings, scrapings, bangings. The pub in Deer Park? Bianchi, low voice, giving Carlie Mance her instructions.

I listened with my head back on the seat, mouth dry, wishing I had something to drink, a cigarette.

Carlie showed no signs of fear, no desire to call it off. Bianchi told her what would happen to her anyway. Her last words were:
Darren, tell ’em make sure they don’t put anything over my nose—can’t bear that, can’t even have a pillow over my nose.

Bianchi said:
Not a problem. Won’t happen. I’ll tell ’em.

I ejected the tape, put it in its box, put it in my pocket.

Scully. The bastard. Scully and El G. Scully, the deputy commissioner-to-be. Scully, the man who investigated Ned’s complaint. Sitting in that car, talking to Bianchi, he knew that someone—El G, someone—was going to murder Lefroy and Carlie. Murder them, rape Carlie, enjoy it. Film it for future pleasure.

The tape might be enough to nail Scully, but I doubted it. I sat motionless for a while, uneaten hamburger on my lap, staring sightless.

Unfinished business.

I shook myself. Ian Barbie’s suicide was unfinished business. His letter to his daughter said he’d left a suicide note. Where? At his surgery? He hadn’t. Where he lived? He hadn’t. Where he committed suicide? People often did.

I got out the Melways, put on the inside light and found the quickest way to Footscray.

Varley Street, Footscray: one streetlight, icy wind pinning the newspaper pages against the container depot fence, somewhere a door banging in the wind, lonely sound.

I thought I heard them as soon as I stepped into the old loading bay: the sound of a classroom where the teacher has stepped out for a minute, not loud, but unruly, a jostling of voices.

I knew where the sound was coming from. I went across the loading bay, out into the courtyard, turned right and walked towards the glow coming out of a big doorway.

There were four of them upright, around a smoky, spitting fire. Other bodies lay as dead outside the circle, one face down. The fire cast a cruel russet light on wrecked faces, shapeless clothes, a swollen blood-filled eye. Two men who could have been a hundred years old were fighting weakly over the silver bladder of a wine cask, speaking incomprehensible words, neither strong enough to win possession. Someone who could have been a woman was nursing another person’s head in her lap, drinking beer from a can, golden liquid running down a cracked chin, dripping onto the long, greasy grey hair.

‘Robbo here?’ I said.

Only two heads turned, looked at me without interest, looked away.

I went a few steps closer. The smell was overpowering, smoke, wet clothes, other animal odours.

‘Boris here?’ I shouted.

This time a figure to the right of the fire looked at me, dirty bearded face under a beanie, filthy matted jumper like an animal skin. He was drinking a can of Vic Bitter, two more held between his thighs.

‘Fuck you want?’ he said.

I went over to him. No-one paid any attention to me. ‘You Boris?’

He drank some beer, looked into the fire, spat. It ran down his chin. ‘Fucksit you?’ he said, rocking back.

‘You found the bloke hanged himself here?’

He looked at me, trouble focusing. He wasn’t more than thirty years old. ‘Course I fuckin did,’ he said. ‘Fuckin hangin.’

I knelt down. ‘Boris, you took his watch.’

He blinked, looked away, put the can to his mouth, half missed it. ‘Fuckin,’ he said.

‘Boris,’ I said, ‘I don’t care about the watch. Did you take anything else? From the man? From the car?’

His eyes came back to me. ‘Whar?’

‘Did you take anything else from the hanging man? Understand?’

‘Fuckin,’ he said, looked away, head lolled.

I stood up. Some other time perhaps. Not tonight.

I was on my way out when Boris said, quite distinctly, ‘Pay me.’

I stopped and turned, went back. ‘Pay you for what?’

He was holding himself together with great effort. ‘Pay me ’n’ I’ll show you.’

I got out my wallet, found a twenty-dollar note, waved it at him. ‘Show me and I’ll give you this.’

Boris focused on the note, craned his neck towards it, fell back. ‘Fiffy,’ he said. ‘Gotta be fiffy.’

I offered him the twenty. ‘Show me and I’ll give you another thirty if it’s worth it.’

He put out a hand, black with dirt, fresh blood on the inside of the thumb, and took the note, stuck it somewhere under his jumper. Then he lost interest, studied the beer can.

‘Boris!’ I shouted. ‘Show me!’

His head jerked around, some life in his eyes, drained the beer can, threw it over his shoulder, put the other cans under a coat on the floor. ‘Gimme hand,’ he said, trying to get up.

I gripped the shoulders of his jumper and lifted him onto his feet. He weighed as much as a six-year-old.

‘Over there,’ he said and began to stumble towards the dark left corner of the big space.

I walked behind him. He fell once. I picked him up.

There was nothing in the corner except a rusted sheet of corrugated iron lying on the concrete.

‘Under,’ Boris said, swaying. He put out a hand to steady himself against the wall, misjudged the distance and fell over onto the corrugated iron.

I picked him up again, propped him against the wall.

‘Lift,’ he said, waving vaguely.

I bent down and lifted the corrugated iron, shifted it. Under it I could make out some clothes, two Coles plastic bags, a pair of shoes.

‘Bag,’ Boris said. ‘Gimme.’

I picked up both bags, offered them to him. He focused, put out a hand and knocked one away, almost fell over, took the other one.

He couldn’t get it open, fumbling at the plastic. I helped him. ‘Thangyou,’ he said, put his hand in, couldn’t get hold of what was inside, turned the bag upside down and tipped the contents onto the concrete.

An envelope, A4 cartridge envelope.

I picked it up. It was unsealed. I walked back to the ambit of the firelight. Behind me Boris was making sounds of protest. I opened the flap, took out four or five pages, paperclipped, top page handwritten. I held it up to the light. It began:
I am writing this because I can no longer bear to go on living…

I put the pages back in the envelope, went back to Boris, found two twenty-dollar notes, gave them to him.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Gennelman,’ said Boris.

I was in the pub in Streeton, in front of the same fireplace where I’d talked to Ian Barbie’s wife. A tired and dirty man who began the day coming out of fitful sleep in a motel in Penola, out there in the flat vine country, far from home. Sitting in the warm country pub, I could smell myself: sweat, sex, cordite, wood smoke. All curdled by fear. I drank three neat whiskies, dark thoughts.