Dark Summer (16 page)

Chung smiled easily; he always succeeded in looking as if he never took offence at anything. “Jack, you've known me, what, twenty years? You've never been able to connect me with the Triads. They don't exist, they're a figment of imagination, like Fu Manchu and Charlie Chan.”

“Bullshit.” said Aldwych amiably.

He had been retired a year from what he had always referred to, with his gentle knife-blade of a grin, as “my empire.” He had broken all contacts with his old associates, with Tony Lango, who ran the Calabrians, and Dennis Pelong, who ran anyone stupid enough to work for him, with Arnold Debbs and one or two other politicians who had come to him for help, with ex-Chief Superintendent Harry Danforth, who thought corruption was a fringe benefit any sensible cop was entitled to; Aldwych had broken contact with all of them except Leslie Chung. The Chinaman was his last link with the old way of life, a sentimental connection that he would never confess to Chung. Kings can exile themselves, which is preferable to being exiled by others, but they like to be reminded of the power they once exercised. Thrones are never second-hand furniture, not in the minds of those who once sat on them.

Leslie Chung was middle-aged, with thin black hair and a thin handsome face that, when he passed amongst strangers, was as impassive as a wax mask; Aldwych occasionally joked that Les worked at being the inscrutable Oriental. He always wore, even on this hot day, dark blue suits, impeccably cut by Cutlers, blue-striped Battistoni shirts, always a black silk-knit tie and black shoes that were made for him by Lobb in London. He had a wife and two daughters, both of whom were pupils at one of Sydney's most expensive schools; but none of his associates, including Aldwych, had ever met the family. He was a jewellery and gem importer and the legend was that the Chungs had entered that trade when an ancestor had been appointed gem-cutter to the last Ming emperor; ancestry is a conceit worn by everyone lucky enough to know his own parents, and it was Leslie Chung who, quietly as ever, had spread the legend. He was wealthy, his money made in mysterious ways, and he was totally without scruples. Aldwych would
have
loved him like a brother, if he had been capable of such stupidity and if Les had been white.

“I think you're well out of the game. Jack.” Chung picked delicately at his food with a fork: with chopsticks there was always the chance that food would fall on the Battistoni shirt. “I think there's going to be war.”

Aldwych knew that he wasn't referring to what was happening in the Middle East. Real criminals recognize only their own wars, against their own kind or against the police; outside conflicts, world wars, were only remarked for the opportunities they offered to make money. Crims have a talent, unmatched by statesmen or generals, for getting to the heart of the matter. “Who's gunna start it?”

“I'm not sure, but I think it might be Denny Pelong. Since you retired, he thinks Sydney is his turf. His problem is, he doesn't know who to declare war on. Someone's muscling in and he doesn't seem to have a clue who it is.”

He was beyond all this now; but kings, like commoners, can't resist gossip. “You mean drugs?”

Chung nodded. “Whoever it is, they're making life difficult for Denny.”

Aldwych grinned. “Couldn't happen to a bigger bastard. What're they doing?”

“They, whoever they are, they're tipping off the Customs guys when a shipment is coming in. Haven't you noticed in the papers? There have been seven busts at the airport in the last couple of months. That's small stuff, I don't know why Denny uses that channel, but that's always been one of his troubles. He has big ideas, but a tiny mind. The bust that's hurt him, though, is one up north. The story hasn't reached the papers yet. The Customs Coastwatch patrol picked up one of his planes coming into a landing strip somewhere west of Darwin. Customs were tipped off by someone, probably the same crowd. Denny is out of his mind, you know what he's like. The stuff in the plane was worth eight million on the street. You like the Peking Duck?”

“It's not as crisp as usual. Let's go out to the kitchen later and scare the shit outa the chef, eh? What makes you think it's another mob that's doing the tipping-off? It could be just another bloody do-gooder, the world's full of 'em. Greenies, anti-smokers, welfare workers—”

“Get off your soap-box. Jack. You were always against drugs. You're not feeling any sympathy for
Pelong,
are you? I'd be disappointed if you were.”

“You hate the bastard as much as I do, don't you?” Aldwych sat back against the red imitation leather. They were seated in a booth at the back of the restaurant, an empty booth with a chair up-ended on its table between them and the other booths; the restaurant manager respected the privacy of favoured clients, and no one was more favoured than these two diners. They owned the place, Chung in his wife's name, Aldwych through one of the companies managed by Jack Junior. “No, I ain't feeling anything for him. I might go to his funeral, but only to laugh. Yeah, I'm anti-drugs, I hate the shit. But do-gooders get up my nose, they're trying to take over the fucking world . . . You don't watch out, they'll beat you Asians to it. Or is Asia full of do-gooders, too?”

“I don't think so. Not since Buddha's day.”

“What about Confucius, wasn't he a do-gooder?”

“Only when it suited him. He was no egalitarian, Jack, he'd never have voted Labor.”

Neither had Aldwych; all sensible crims vote conservative, or at least for conservatism. “Well, if it isn't a do-gooder snitching on Denny Pelong, who is it?”

“That's the eight-million-dollar question. You want lychees for dessert?”

“Lychees and ginger ice-cream.” They ordered the same meal every time, but whoever played host, each taking it in turn, they always went through the ritual of asking the other what he wanted. They were two mandarins, but it was only Chung, the lesser of the two, who thought in those terms. “What are you going to do. Les, if strife breaks out? Stay on the sidelines?”

“Neutrality is a wise man's investment.”

“Who said that? Confucius?”

“Leslie Chung. If it were you and Pelong fighting over the turf, it would be a different matter . . . Here's your son, come to pick you up. You're fortunate, Jack. He's a credit to you.”

“To his mother, not to me.”

Aldwych never drove himself. Jack Junior or Larry Quick always acted as his chauffeur; that way there was never any harassment from over-zealous traffic cops; both chauffeurs drove sedately, with
Aldwych,
a nervous passenger, always keeping an eye on the speedometer. Both drivers, too, were always punctual, never keeping Aldwych waiting.

Jack Junior slid into the booth beside his father, shook hands with Chung. He was wearing a lightweight suit with an open-necked monogrammed shirt, but his face was streaked with sweat; he wiped it with a silk handkerchief, monogrammed, of course. “You always look so cool, Leslie. How do you manage it?”

Chung winked. “Mind over sweat glands. How's business?”

Jack Junior shook his head, made a face. “Now would be the time to buy, everything's going at fire-sale prices. I'm looking around.”

“Keep your money where it is,” said his father. “You spend too much money, you dunno where it is. Look at that banker feller over in Perth—” He named a man who had figured prominently in the news over the past six months. “He was juggling fifteen, sixteen, balls in the air all at once. All of a sudden he finds two of 'em are his own. Stay liquid till we find out if the country's gunna go down the gurgler or not.”

Jack Junior looked around him. The restaurant was half-empty; six months ago one had had to book two weeks in advance to get a table. “Look at this. Where's everybody eating these days? Are they bringing their lunches to the office in a brown paper bag? How's the gem and jewellery business?”

It sounded like any conversation at a dozen other tables where the uptown businessmen were congregated in misery; but it was just a veneer of words. Leslie Chung never discussed his real business with anyone but his peers, who were few; and Jack Junior was, of course, too legitimate, too straight. It was no worse than the hypocrisy practised at the other tables, except that in this booth Aldwych Senior sat and listened with amusement. Hypocrisy always amused him, though he had never practised it.

“You ready, Dad? I've got the car parked in a loading zone.”

Aldwych smiled indulgently at his law-abiding son, said to Chung, “He's learned from me. Never antagonize the cops over small things, not even the parking police. Let me know how the war goes.”

“The Gulf war?” said Jack Junior.

“
No, just a figure of speech,” said his father. “Cancel the lychees, Les. Tell the chef he'd better smarten himself up on the Peking Duck, or else.”

Father and son walked out of the restaurant, two tall men who carried themselves well and with pride. The other diners looked up at them, some of the businessmen nodding to Jack Junior, with whom they had done business. All of them looked at Jack Senior, with whom they had done no business at all but for whom they had secret admiration, if no public respect. Larceny is like homosexuality, every man has a little of it in himself: most just don't let it out of the closet. One of the reasons Aldwych never went to the races was that he didn't like rubbing shoulders or shaking hands with people who would snub him once they left the course. A couple of other well-known crims had told him how it was, but they managed to grin and bear it.

There was no ticket on the Daimler, but a Grey Bomber was standing by the car, her notebook and pen ready. Jack Junior gave her a pleading smile, “It was here for just a couple of minutes. I had to pick up my father. He has a heart condition.”

She was in her forties, plump, case-hardened against men and their pleading smiles, “If I give you a ticket, will he have a heart attack right there?”

Aldwych gave her his own smile, which had no pleading in it; he had never pleaded for anything, not even for his life when it had been threatened. “My son is telling fibs. I'm as strong as an ox. He parked the car here because it was convenient and it's a helluva hot day.”

“I like an honest man,” said the Grey Bomber. “Buzz off.”

As they drove away Jack Junior said, “You have a way with women. Janis thinks you're honest, too.”

“I thought she'd be shrewder than that.”

Jack Junior looked sideways at him; then changed the subject: “What war were you and Les talking about?”

“I told you, it was a figure of speech.”

“Don't con me. Dad. You and Les Chung don't meet for lunch to swap figures of speech.”

“
Slow down.” Aldwych had one eye on the speedometer as they swept on to the approach to the Harbour Bridge. “Les said that Denny Pelong is getting into some sorta strife over drugs. Someone is tipping off the Customs, and Pelong's getting shitty about it.”

“Wouldn't you?” Jack Junior took the Daimler into the inside lane to allow four surfies, boards strapped to the roof of their Toyota rust-bucket, to hurtle past, weaving in and out of the traffic like a video-game car. Then a motorcycle cop buzzed by in pursuit and Jack Junior heard his father grunt in approval. There were certain laws, not many but a few, that Aldwych thought should be policed rigorously. “You're not involved, are you? You haven't come out of retirement and not told me?”

“I'm too old to make a comeback. Too shrewd, too. Anyhow, you know how I feel, dealing in shit. What gives you the idea I might be involved?”

“I don't know. Lateral thinking, I suppose.” Jack Junior had done a year at Stanford in California and business-school jargon still occasionally crept into his speech; most of the time his father didn't understand what he was saying, but he never queried it. After all, he had paid for Jack Junior's education. “That cop coming to see you yesterday about—what was his name?—Grime. Scungy Grime?”

“That was force of habit, all coppers suffer from it. They'll probably be coming to see me till I topple into my grave.”

They drove in silence till they had crossed the Bridge, then Jack Junior said, “Dad, why don't you make another trip? You're just sitting around almost as if you're waiting to topple into your grave.”

“Where would I go? This fucking war, who wants to get blown up by some terrorist?”

“Go on a plane from some neutral country. Garuda or Malaysia. Go to Europe. I remember the first time you went there with Mum, you said it was the first time you'd discovered history. Another thing you discovered was the balconies where all the dictators had shouted from. You said that Aussie politicians might do better if they went on to balconies instead of on television. You said all politicians look better from a distance.”

Aldwych smiled, glad, like all amateurs, that one of his jokes had survived. “It's winter in Europe. I'm not going somewhere to have my balls froze off. Didn't someone write a book about that?
Ball-
less in Gaza,
or somewhere?”

“It was
Eyeless in Gaza,
I think, something like that.” Jack Junior, a lonely child, over-protected by his mother, had grown up an addicted reader. The library in the big house at Harbord was his and over the last few years he had introduced his father to the habit of reading. But Jack Senior, as with everything, took books in moderation. His own experiences would make a book, though he would come back from the dead to kill anyone who tried to write it.

Father looked sideways at son. “Jack, are you trying to get rid of me? What's on your mind?”

Jack Junior drove carefully along the narrow main artery of Military Road. A hundred and twenty years ago, guns had been hauled along this road to Middle Head, guarding the entrance to the harbour, in anticipation of an invasion. Jack Junior had been shocked to read that the suspected invaders were the French, or, a double shock, the Americans; Jack Senior, never one to trust an ally, had just nodded and remarked that history was only the story of hypocrisy. “Dad, if something is on, I mean about to start up, I don't want you involved. You're retired, stay retired.”