Roll With It (31 page)

Finally, he rose from the couch, blew his nose, had a large glass of water and sat down at the table between the kitchenette and the living area. He blew his nose again and briefly shook with sobs but fought them down.

The sobbing was over, but the empty feeling remained and Laver suddenly knew he could not stay in his flat. He needed to connect with someone, anyone. He needed noise and light. Anything to distract him from where he was right now.

He SMSed Damian: ‘Which pub? What time?’

And received a reply by the time he was out of the shower. ‘Corner Hotel. 10.’

Bless, thought Laver. The Corner Hotel was only a couple of kilometres away, in Richmond.

It was raining out, so he drove, despite the whiskies he’d consumed pre-tears. He felt horribly sober. The kind of sober that cannot possibly be softened. A cold, hard light that shone on his life – no chance of denial. He didn’t know if it was Marcia or the shooting or the humiliation of Siberia or maybe just his age, but something had died in him – and he feared it would never come back.

Best not to think about it really. He parked in front of the Dimmey’s department store, walked down to the rail pass and dived headlong, with thankfulness, into the sweaty noise of the crowd at the Corner.

Damian, tonight lead guitar for Senor Retardo, was already on stage, wailing away on one of the band’s two decent songs. Laver had to wait three back at the bar, deafened by the music, until he could finally order a beer. Gazing around the room, he felt a jolt of recognition and then smiled for the first time in hours. Just what he needed. He forced his way through the crush of people to a small table where a man about his age, jockey-sized, was sitting, wearing an old-school brown hat with a feather in it, his arm around a tired-looking blonde in a push-up bra barely hidden by a singlet that was at least two sizes too small.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ the little man said, seeing him.

‘No, just me,’ Laver shouted back over the music, moving into the table’s spare seat. ‘How are you, Stavros?’

‘Nose clean, thank you, Detective.’

‘Call me Tony. I’m off duty, as I’m sure are you.’

‘I’m not in the habit of calling cops by their first name, Detective. No offence.’

‘None taken, I suppose. What about your lady friend?’

‘Denise definitely doesn’t talk to pigs. Do you, love?’

‘Fuckin’ A,’ said the blonde.

‘Charmed, I’m sure. So how’s the pickpocket business?’

Stavros stared ahead at the stage, acting as though he hadn’t heard the question.

‘I’m serious, Stavros. Relax, I’m off duty. I’m just curious. Has the global crisis, talk of recession and all that been good or bad for you guys?’

Stavros gave him a look, and shook his head. ‘I’m not biting, prick. You want to question me, arrest me.’

‘You’re not much of a drinking buddy, Stavros.’

‘That’s because we’re not drinking buddies, Detective. Now can I be left alone please?’

Laver shrugged and stood up again, to see Damian mid-solo. He was lying his guitar on the stage in front of him, not even holding it, and sort of jabbing at the strings with his right hand. Then he somehow got his left hand’s fingers to the neck in time for some complicated notes, and picked the guitar back up, in position, without losing the solo at any point. Laver would have to ask him how he did that next chance he got.

The crowd was going nuts, whooping as Damian brought it home, but one corner of the dance floor had a different energy: the unmistakable feel of conflict, with people making room, turning to watch and trying to stay out of it. Laver saw a shaved head with an orange mohawk somewhere on the other side of the jostling crowd. Words were being exchanged.

Laver ducked back down and tapped Stavros on the shoulder.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said the small man.

‘Stavros, you’re not going to believe me but I have a job for you. I’m not kidding. There’s money in it.’

***

The Wild Man had thought the guy was going to throw a punch, wanting him to, a big footballer by the look of him, plenty of muscle. The Wild Man eager for the physicality, still disconcerted that he’d been forced to retreat yet again by that cop. Sick of Stig’s inactivity. Freaked by Jenssen men in the Heidelberg car park. In other words, totally up for the satisfying jar down the forearm that he’d feel landing a decent punch. Dying to see the blood explode from this footballer’s face. Legs itching to sink boots into ribs to feel them break and give.

But then the guy had thought better of it, a very smart decision, and let his mates drag him out of reach. Wildie was disappointed, snarling until the guy was on the other side of the room, but still finding he had a circle of space that nobody else seemed to want to enter.

Until he was bumped into from behind. He turned from the waist and found a smallish man, only just maybe reaching Wildie’s shoulder, even in his hat, and looking very pissed.

‘Shorry, mate,’ said the drunk. ‘She pushed me, the bitch.’ The man waved generically at the crowd behind him.

‘Fucking watch yourself,’ Wildie growled.

‘I will, buddy. I will,’ nodded the drunk. ‘Mate. Mate! I’m really shorry. Give us a hug.’

And lurched into Wildie, front on now, to try and wrap him in a drunken bear hug.

Wildie got a hand between them and pushed hard, sending the pissed idiot flying.

‘What is it with this place?’ he spat at the woman next to him, who was giving him worried looks. ‘Can’t a bloke watch a fucking band in peace?’

She edged a metre or so away, the packed dance floor somehow finding even more room for Wildie. He looked around, but the small drunk had been swallowed by the crowd.

***

In the men’s toilets, Stavros stood outside the closed door of a cubicle and said, ‘You owe me one, Laver, you bastard. That guy could have killed me.’

Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, Laver was going through the wallet. A Quiksilver one, very worn. Laver marvelling that somebody could have no credit cards: just $300 in cash. He dug through pockets but there was no pot of gold, like a driver’s licence. There was a blurry photo of a parrot, sitting on what looked like a couch. A condom packet, promising pink fluoro strawberry bubblegum–flavoured fun. Jesus. A Dr Who Official Fan Club discount card. And finally a membership card for a video shop in Narrabeen, NSW, in the name of Colin Wilde. Member number 000356.

It wasn’t much but it was something. Laver pocketed the card, emerged from the cubicle and handed the wallet to the pickpocket.

‘Stavros, you’ve done really well. The cash is yours if you want it. But keep in mind who you’re dealing with. If he realises it’s missing, you might want to be several suburbs away.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m gone. This band is shit anyway.’

‘Hey, that’s a mate of mine on stage. Careful.’ The noise of the band rose as the door to the toilets swung open. They both pretended to wash their hands as a guy wandered into the cubicle Laver had left, closing the toilet door and fumbling with a lock that didn’t work. Laver handed Stavros some notes and said quietly, ‘Here’s the two hundred we agreed, anyway. The bad news is I need you to return the wallet.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Giving a wallet back must be easier than taking it.’

Stavros looking sniffy. ‘What would you know about my art?’

‘Art.’

‘Absolutely it’s an art, Detective. Just because it isn’t legal doesn’t mean it’s not a skill.’

Laver thought about that, and nodded. ‘Fair enough. I don’t really give a shit. Just don’t let him know his wallet was lifted.’

Stavros looked genuinely pained. ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

‘Dunno. You’re the artist. If you don’t, I’m going to tell him you stole it.’

‘Bloody coppers.’

In the end, it wasn’t that hard. Denise danced right up next to the big man, looked at the floor, squealed, bent, wiggling her butt, showing plenty of g-string and came up holding a wallet.

‘Look what I found on the floor,’ she said to him. ‘Is this yours?’

The Wild Man felt his pocket and yelled back, ‘Yeah, it is. Shit, thanks.’

He was looking hard at her push-up bra, exploding from within her tiny singlet, Denise grooving in front of him, an eyebrow raised.

‘Wanna dance?’ he said.

‘We just did,’ she replied.

Three songs later, the band finished and Wildie staggered out of the pub, feeling the beers he’d put away. There’d been a few. He walked straight past the queue waiting for a taxi and took the first one, giving a glare to anybody thinking about arguing.

He gave the cabbie the address and closed his eyes, which was a mistake because the world started to spin. He’d only had eight beers. He was getting soft from all this sitting around. Melbourne was boring him rigid and it was time to move on. He’d have to talk to Stig once he sobered up, maybe tomorrow. Let him know that if they weren’t going to sell the stuff right now, he was going without it. Pull a robbery of some kind for cash and blow.

The taxi pulled up outside the house in Rathdowne Street, Carlton. Wildie even paid the driver, under orders from Stig to not attract any more pointless attention from the police or neighbours. It was a double-fronted brick house and Wildie didn’t have a front door key so he lurched around the side, fumbling with the gate and finding his way to bed through the unlocked back door.

Laver, in his Pajero, watched until Colin Wilde was out of sight and the lights went off in the house. Then he drove home, actually hoping he could conjure up the ghost of Coleman to rant against tonight, to keep his mind off where else that silver-suited bastard’s hands were roaming over the body of his ex-fiancée.

Stig chose a phone box near the Carlton Library, across the
road from La Porchetta pizza. He glanced up and down the street, adjusted his sunglasses in the weak morning sunshine, slotted the coin, checked the number on the torn piece of paper and dialled.

‘Barry Paxton.’

‘You’ve sold us out, you prick.’

‘What? Stig? What are you saying?’

‘You were seen yesterday. Speaking long and hard with two of Jenssen’s enforcers. You’ve sold us out.’

Barry’s breathing came down the phone. ‘Oh Christ, you gave me a heart attack. Bloody hell, Stig.’

‘You’re a dead man, Paxton.’

‘Shut it, will you. I haven’t sold anybody out, you dumb bastard. The deal is sweet.’

Now it was Stig’s turn to breathe into the receiver. ‘Explain.’

‘Of course they came to see me. Jenssen has worked out the car crash was a fake. He knows you’ve run, with the gear. He’s putting feelers out everywhere. I had to see them. What would it have said if I hadn’t met them?’

Stig found himself glancing sideways, trying to look everywhere at once. Half-expecting to see a white Ford right there, and two men walking his way. ‘Where are they now?’

‘No idea. Probably heading to Adelaide. Jenssen has already checked Sydney and Brisbane. They put in more time here because it’s your home town.’

‘So we need to move. What’s your answer, Barry?’

‘It’s on. I’m going to have to sit on the shipment for a long time, now Jenssen’s looking. I want a discount.’

‘A discount? What is this? The Boxing Day sales?’

‘Call it danger money then. Or just leave it. I don’t need this grief either.’

‘No, but you like the idea of a royalty-free collect, hey, Barry?’

‘As long as you disappear, as you’ve promised, after.’

‘Oh, we’ll be gone. Don’t worry. The Wild Man is very antsy as it is. When should we meet?’

‘Your place? What’s your address?’

‘Yeah, right, Barry. And you won’t cum in my mouth. How about midnight tonight, in the Groc-o-Mart car park?’

‘Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll have to get the money though.’

‘Fucking make sure you do, Barry. I’ll phone this afternoon to check. This needs to happen now.’

‘Just you and me tonight,’ Barry said. ‘Keep that gorilla mate of yours clear.’

‘I’m not turning up alone, but he can sit in the car. And Barry?’

‘Yeah?’

‘If one nasal hair of mine smells something that’s not kosher, you’re very dead.’

‘You’re a lovely guy to do business with, Stig.’

‘I’m a careful guy. Speaking of which, do not say a word about anything to do with Queensland in front of that helper of yours.’

‘What helper?’

‘Jake.’

‘Jake Murphy?’ Barry’s voice was pure confusion. ‘What the fuck has he got to do with anything?’

‘Just keep an eye on him and remember silence is golden. I’ll confirm you’ve got the money sorted later this afternoon and then see you tonight.’ Stig hung up and walked fast away from the phone box, still looking around the street, jittery as hell. He should probably get some breakfast but God, what he really needed was a joint.

In Heidelberg, Barry Paxton loosened his tie slightly and dialled a new number.

A voice said, ‘Yep.’

‘Brunetti? Paxton. I just heard from Anderson.’

***

‘You’re not listening to me,’ Laver said. He and Flipper were standing in front of Ned Kelly. At least, the famous bushranger’s bullet-pocked iron armour in a glass case, high up above the reading room of the State Library: a permanent exhibit that didn’t attract many tourists early in the day. At 10 am, Laver was in full bike gear, just started on a day shift, and Dolfin was in his usual immaculate dark suit but looking like he hadn’t slept for days.