Luck in the Greater West (10 page)

—Take it easy, mate, he mumbled, as he shut the passenger door of the WRX.

 

Abdullah called Mia on her mobile. He needed to gauge what he was doing with her. He was doubting and needed to shift blame. He'd thought that telling Yift about her would build something. He'd imagined a handshake and some long laughter and hard shoulder-punching. But here he was. With Mia as his girlfriend, but wondering what her worth to him was.

—Hello, she said.

—Hey, Mia. What're ya doin'?

—Not much. What are you doing?

—Fuck all. Can I pick you up? Go for a root or something.

—Abdullah. Don't talk to me like that please. Look, I don't know. My dad will freak if I ask him if I can go out. And also, we need to get condoms if we're going to do that again.

—Huh? Well, what's ya brother doin'? Does he wanna hang out?

—My brother? What do you mean?

—Just ask him if he wants to hang out.

—All right. Hang on.

He could hear her talking, but not what she was saying. It pissed him off.

—Yeah, he wants to hang out, she replied. He'll wait for you out the front of our place.

 

Between eight and nine pm on late-night shopping nights, the fever of teenage behaviour changed Rooty Hill Plaza. It became a meeting place, and more importantly, it became a blueing place, and a pick-up place. The families and older couples were forced out by the swearing and spitting and tiny denim skirts, and were lined up to pay for their parking by eight o'clock.

Abdullah and Charlie hung at the top of the escalators. They'd headed out west again in the WRX because, Abdullah insisted, this was where the sluts really were.

—Hey, babe, Abdullah called out to all the girls who came up the hungry metal stairs. Most of them rolled their eyes, told him to
shut up, dickhead
. There were also plenty of westie guys around, and as Abdullah had little faith in Charlie's abilities as a half-decent bluer, he'd have to be a little bit careful. Sly.

—Hey, babe.

—Hey, a chick with blue eye-shadow said. What're youse doin'?

—Just hangin'? What're you girls doin'?

—Same.

—Smoke pot? Abdullah asked, and shifted his hand on the banister so it bumped Charlie's. There were two of them. Both Aussie, and both pretty hot.

—Sometimes.

—What about tonight?

—Why? Ya got some?

—Of course, babe.

 

Abdullah called Fadi on one of the chicks' mobile phones. It was one of the new Nokias. He'd be keeping it too; put his own SIM card in it.

—Fadi. It's Abdullah. I'm usin' a slut's phone. Can ya get ya dad's car?

—Maybe. Why, what's up, mate?

—Mate, sluts, sluts. We got sluts down at Brownthistle Park at Mt Druitt. They wanna suck ya dick.

 

These guys had seemed okay. A bit woggish, and the older one a bit cocky, but pretty cool and undemonstrative; and willing to blow them out when it seemed that no one had any pot at all. Tennille Baxter had reasoned that it would be okay to go for a ride with them up to the oval for a smoke. But after that first wrong turn, and then him locking the car doors and telling them to shut the fuck up, things had gone from something just a little out of the ordinary to something that was quite sharply threatening — something with potential teeth, but which she'd never thought she'd have to try to placate. She and Melissa had gone for plenty of smokes with boys before. But none had acted anything like this. A joint had been passed around, but the locked doors, and the total silence of the younger guy had stripped the mood entirely, leaving only unwanted paranoia. And then, as if he thought he was in a porno or something, the older guy said:

—So, do you girls wanna fuck or what?

Tennille wasn't sure what to say. Or do. But she was quite aware that there were two guys here, both much bigger and stronger than she and Melissa, and they didn't intend to just smoke a joint and take them home, like they'd said. Melissa was silent. Her posture was one of total fear: her hands between her legs, her body a nervous shell. But Tennille was still acutely aware. They could get out of this. They could survive this. She remembered a novel she'd read in high school, an autobiography, about a young woman who'd been raped. Despite her fear and disgust, the woman had done what the sick bastard had asked her to do, and she'd lived through it — where other victims had not. The absolute last thing Tennille wanted to do was have sex with these guys. But she didn't want to die. Jesus. Not now, like this. While the threat was still just words, she thought she would try reason first.

—Look, we don't fuck, okay?

—Why'd youse come then?

—We thought, you know, you'd give us a smoke.

—Have a fuckin' smoke then.

—No, thanks. I think we'll just go now.

—Uh-uh. You're here with us now. Let's have a bit of fun, hey.

—No. Please, we just want to go.

—Hey, you got us all horny. Now I think we should fuck, okay.

The guy had turned almost fully around in his seat and was looking into her. He'd started to raise his voice. Tennille shrank back. She couldn't think of anything else to say. He was slicing back at her with a response to everything she said.

—You ready? he asked, his eyes wide now.

—We can't fuck you. We have boyfriends.

—Boyfriends? If you fuck them, you can fuck us, right?

—No, please.

—All right. Look. Ya startin' ta piss me off now. How about you just come over here with me and suck me off, and your friend here gets with my mate?

—We can't fuck youse though.

—Just a suck, baby.

Melissa looked at her now, her eyes wide with accusations of betrayal. Tennille quickly shrugged and shook her head once. She could see no other way. To refuse would prolong this, and make it more violent than just this guy's foul mouth.

—Give us your mobile, the guy barked at her. She found it in her bag and handed it to him.

—Nice one, he said. He got out of the car and called someone. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was laughing. What a fucking arsehole. He got back in and winked at his mate. Then the younger guy took Melissa and stood outside the car. Tennille had to crawl through to the front seats then and sit in the passenger seat. He undid his jeans and pulled his jocks down and exposed his cock. It wasn't big, and it wasn't hard, and it was ugly, and where every other time the sight of one in the flesh had aroused her, this was something else: this was an animal's thing.

—Suck it, bitch.

She went to it. This was the most repulsive, degrading thing she'd ever done. She would have rather eaten dirt for a year than do this. There was nothing sexy in this. She'd done it before, but it was different, it had tasted like something new and exciting: this was nauseating and totally invasive and she could taste every filthy cell of sweat and piss. She knew enough from the last time she'd done this, of her own free will, and as soon as she felt it spasm, she withdrew her head and got out of the way. He spurted all over himself and his seat.

—They're Recaros, bitch, he said, and slapped her on the neck.

Melissa and the young guy now got back in the car. Tennille could hear what was going on, and was relieved when it seemed like the guy had shot out of the starting-blocks before his race began. Then a car pulled up right next to them. They'll let us go for sure now, she thought, they won't want to be seen doing this. But the guy she'd had to take in her mouth got out and was shaking hands with these guys. He knew them. They were his mates. Another guy got in the seat next to her.

—So, what about a fuck then? he said.

—No. Look, I already told your mate, just one head job, and that's it.

—Nah, a fuck I think, the guy urged, and showed her the pistol.

Salvatore Testafiglia ended the telephone conversation with his mother and replaced the receiver. She'd told him, finally, why his sister and brother-in-law had been absent from all the family occasions for the past ten years. Salvatore had thought his brother-in-law avoided them because he was Napoletano; too good for his wife's Calabrese family. That's what his parents had told him. But no, his mother now said, it was because his brother-in-law wanted nothing to do with a family where incest was ignored or swept away. Because, as Salvatore had just learnt, his father had abused Mary, Salvatore's sister, on and off for twelve years of their shared youth.

Ten years ago, Mary had told her husband about her childhood. And now, he'd finally convinced her to seek counselling. One of the things she'd decided to do in seeking help was, despite her father being dead, to report the crime to the police. His mother was talking of all this now because she assumed he'd hear about it, being a police officer. Naivety with regard to probity in the police force sparked in him a pang of almost hatred through him. But he had to remind himself that where she came from, secrets are not something private but simply fodder for gossip.

My father, Salvatore thought, did that? His blood is flowing through me?

Salvatore was older than Mary. He loved her, but the family dynamic also came into play. Salvatore loved his mother, because she loved him. Salvatore's father loved his daughter. And was hard on Salvatore. He had harboured some resentment, and jealousy, toward his sister because of this. The smell of his father's tobacco and grappa breath, his tough brown hands, and the look, as though he knew something about you; something you'd forgotten, but something bad. And this little doll: Salvatore's sister.

The family respected Giuseppe Testafiglia. It was their family's culture. But sometimes Salvatore had wished his father would die. Life was smooth and happy at home when it was just Salvatore, his mother and sister. But when his father came home from work things could turn harsh and unpredictable. Everything had to be the way his father liked it. But his preferences could change from day to day, and cause a solid whack on the back of Salvatore's head. Some days his father would want to hear about Salvatore's day at school, and he'd have to stand in the lounge room and carefully detail the day's events. Other days Salvatore would have to be totally silent, and not even cause the floorboards to squeak. Salvatore would fantasise about his father falling from one of the houses he built in the suburbs. Smashing his concrete-splashed ute on the way home. And there was that time he asked his sister — really just to cruelly tease her, because he thought she loved their father, because of the special way he treated her — if she ever wished the father dead and she said yes. It was clear now why his father gave Mary special treatment and the sickness of it burned inside Salvatore.

Mary had eloped. Went to live with her new parents-in-law. And Salvatore's father got the heart problems. Then couldn't understand
why his son wanted to become a
poliziotto
— what practical use was a policeman to the family? But Salvatore paid no heed, and became a police officer. The rules, enforcement; it was far more practical than his father could know. He respected his job — and received respect. And he'd figured out how to live in this country; something his father never really worked out. His father never properly learnt English, and was constantly in conflict with people and organisations over what were usually simple misunderstandings. Salvatore thought he'd been successful; successful in growing into someone who did not resemble his father.

His father was dead by the time Salvatore got married. Everything that upset the father caused damage to his heart and killed him a little — he made it family lore — but it was lung cancer complications that finally finished him. Two months from diagnosis to a small, grey dead thing on the bed. Salvatore took his new wife to visit the grave when it'd been there for nearly two years.

He'd met Maria at the Carciofo Club in the western suburb of Wetherill Park, which was then only metres away from orchards and chicken farms and, ironically, Anglo-Saxon heartland. She was with her brothers and cousins. They were all there for the
barzalleta
and the
canzone
, told and sung by people who know the ironies concerning Italians in Australia. Her parents liked Salvatore's quiet, polite way, and he became a part of Maria's family. He was surprised, and a little turned off by Maria's keenness to become his lover. He was, of course, always aroused when they were intimate with each other, but he had intended not to sleep with her until they were married. Her desires shocked him, and he even considered that maybe they weren't right for each other after she told him she'd done it before, with her ex-boyfriend — a guy Salvatore knew from church. The extent of Salvatore's experience
was limited to the kissing and touching he'd done with her. But after Maria eventually got him to follow his desire all the way, he, of course, forgot about his resolve to save it for the wedding night; and they soon got married at St Joseph's in Leichhardt as intended.

He and Maria had a child, and their daughter absolved anything that was imperfect in his life. Artemesia, Mia, smelt like life; she was alive, lively but precious. Salvatore was devoted. And a few years after the birth of their son he found, like his father, that he was devoted to his daughter more than his son. But he loved his son because he was a son. And proved to be a good child. But not inspiring like his firstborn. Because everything Salvatore did — his work, his responsibilities at home — he did with Mia in mind. He could not remember what had driven him prior to Mia's birth.

Salvatore could think of no greater hell than his daughter hating him eternally. He'd have to try and improve his relationship with her. She was becoming an adult, like his sister. Who hated her father, and would always hate him. Salvatore had never done, would never do, what his father had done. But knowing this had planted the thought in him — the thought that he would have to improve his relationship with Mia. But how? He was being a good father, wasn't he? Not just providing for her, but ensuring she had a safe life, and instilling values that he knew were correct. Could he allow her some more freedom? Could he trust her to be honest with him if he did? It was intensely painful to Salvatore that he didn't know how he could keep the love of his little girl. But he would have to. Whatever the answer may be, he would have to.

It was easy to preoccupy himself with other concerns though; he had solutions or at least policies for other people's problems.

Salvatore took the files that had been cluttering up his desk out to the clerical officer and placed them on her workstation.

—These are the files I requested you take out of my office last week.

—Not a problem, she said, not looking at him.

He returned to his office, shaking his head as Sergeant Rosales came down the narrow corridor trying to attract his attention by waving a newspaper at him.

—One of the girls has talked to the paper, Sal, Sergeant Rosales said, catching the Senior Sergeant in the office doorway and handing him the tabloid paper.

—Shit, Salvatore said, folding the copy of the
Telegraph Post
to focus on the single column. All right, he continued, folding the paper the other way. One of the girls identified someone, didn't she? Sold her drugs before the rape?

—Yeah. Should we talk to him? Tell the media liaison department we've got someone helping us with our inquiries?

—Yes. Get him down here. We'll talk to him. You and I.

 

Senior Sergeant Testafiglia wanted to see Patrick White immediately, but it was crucial to make a suspect wait. No matter who they are, if you make them wait, they're more likely to tell the truth. Some cops believe that giving a suspect too much time to think before questioning gives them an opportunity to cook up well-constructed lies. But Salvatore knew the opposite to be true. The longer they are made to wait, the more they feel the gravity; the more they want to escape the atmosphere they're in. They're
relieved to see you finally walk through the door, pleased to help you in order to help themselves.

Finally, he opened the door and let Sergeant Rosales enter before himself. They both sat and opened files.

—So, he began. We like drugs and young women do we?

—Sorry? Patrick White replied.

—Done some time for possession, haven't you?

—Yeah.

—And you have a thing for young women.

—My girlfriend is younger than me, yeah.

—Are they all your girlfriends?

—Are who? Patrick White replied.

—Do you know a Natalie Caxaro?

—Natalie. Yeah I know Nat. Why, what's happened to Nat?

—Can you tell us what happened the last time you saw her?

—She came around to — she came around and we hung out for a bit. Not for long though. Five minutes, not even. Why?

—Smoke some weed? Senior Sergeant Testafiglia suggested, and took off his glasses.

—Nuh.

—Tell some of ya mates where they could catch up with her in an inebriated state?

—What? What mates?

—Some of the boys you sell to. Middle Eastern boys. Some of your Leb mates?

—Leb mates? I think ya talkin' ta the wrong bloke.

—And what about this young girl you're carrying on with? Senior Sergeant Testafiglia continued, and flicked through some handwritten notes. Sonja.

—She's a friend.

—There's been some trouble though. Police have talked to you already. The young constable who brought you in told me Sonja was there at your flat this morning.

—Yeah. It's cool though.

—Oh. Oh, it's cool is it? Was it cool with Natalie, was it? She doesn't think it was very cool.

—What? What do you mean? Maybe she's jealous, Patrick White offered, and looked over to Sergeant Rosales, because he was lost; both cops could tell.

—We're going to talk to a couple of other people, and keep you here until we sort some things out, Senior Sergeant Testafiglia concluded.

 

Salvatore Testafiglia knew when people were lying. There had been only a few whose talent had exceeded his of detecting the truth. This Patrick White had done time. He could be a good liar. It's a defence mechanism some men have to use to survive in jail. But beyond knowing one of the victims, and possibly dealing drugs again, there was little else. Senior Sergeant Testafiglia had told the media liaison department that they had someone. No name yet though. The young girls and their parents would have to be talked to. A charge could be laid yet if Patrick White was breaching any of his parole conditions. And the press would continue to draw long bows. The actual perpetrators were still to be identified, but proactive police work reported in the media kept the bosses happy.

Before heating up his lunch he went to tell Patrick White what his immediate future held for him.

—There's just the matter of sorting out what was going on this morning with the young girl you're not meant to have any contact
with. So if there's anyone you need to call, work maybe, we'll make that possible for you. You could be here for a while.

—No. That's okay. Thanks.

—Some advice, mate: young women quite often have parents who will do anything to keep them away from guys. If a girl's parents don't like you, steer clear.

—Yeah, okay.

—Take the advice. Once this is sorted.

Senior Sergeant Testafiglia dispensed this fatherly wisdom despite knowing that it was unlikely to be taken. Although he lacked some of the cockiness, this guy was typical, he thought, of the Anglo-Australians out here in the western suburbs. The lazy, nonchalant manner, the apparent lack of drive to change the negative things impinging on their lives. Sure, he'd accepted the advice, but it was just so he could escape this immediate situation. Senior Sergeant Testafiglia knew that no matter what he said to this guy, it would not go on to influence any aspect of his life once he got out of here. He doubted whether even his prison time had changed him. Because Salvatore knew the type. These Anglo-Aussies and their atheistic, existential way of life. Family scattered all over. No structure. Teenagers living out on their own. And just taking each day as it comes. A freedom that seemed regressive to Senior Sergeant Testafiglia. Sometimes he felt an overwhelming urge to literally hammer some sense into these people who came through his branch of the legal system.