Shoot Through Page 4

  I used a serviette as a pot-holder, raised the scalding jar to my lips, and sipped.

  ‘It’s a silly little fiddle, actually. One of the employees. We don’t know who.’ He frowned and ate the second friand. ‘If we go through our usual investigative channels, sooner or later, public will hear of it.’

  ‘And there’s an election coming.’

  Pursed lips, dusted with sugar. ‘Indeed. What about a discreet word with your brother?’

  ‘Can’t do hints, he’s a nitwit.’

  ‘Look, just ask him if he knows of any prison employee taking extravagant holidays, or turning up with a new car, splashing extra cash, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Okey-dokey, how’s Friday?’ I’d checked my appointments, and Friday was the earliest I could get away from work.

  He stared at me. ‘Well, that is excellent, Hardy. I must say I didn’t expect you to be so cooperative.’

  ‘I’m great at cooperating.’ And at finding ways to do annoying family business under the guise of work.

  His phone vibrated, and he snatched it up. ‘Those fucking incompetent morons,’ he muttered and started tapping out a message with a single index finger. It was painful to watch. No wonder the young despised the older generation.

  ‘Have to go, Hardy. My office will be in touch before Friday with the paperwork. Think in terms of sudden windfall, living beyond one’s means. You get my meaning.’

  He flung down a twenty, lurched himself upright, ricocheted between the tables, and went out.

  5

  THE NEXT day at work, around midday, I was deep in concentration. Would I have the ramen soup from the new Japanese place on Flemington Road, or would I go for a salad roll from the deli? My desk phone abruptly interrupted this essential process.

  ‘Stella Hardy?’ A male voice. Not friendly.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘You sneaky bitch. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘I’m hanging up now —’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  I lowered my voice. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Percy Brash. Joe’s mate.’

  Ah, here he was. Mrs Phelan’s associate. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’ve got things to talk about. There’s a pub in Keilor, on the Old Calder — Coach and Horses. Meet me there at seven.’

  A small voice in the back of my mind said be careful. But it was ridiculous. His superior tone, assuming my submission. I nearly laughed.

  ‘No thanks,’ I chirped. ‘We don’t have anything to discuss.’

  ‘We have lots to talk about. What about all that money you have.’

  A segment of consciousness broke free and stood outside my body, marvelling at how a simple sequence of words could disrupt my biological function to such an astonishing degree. Blood vessels flooded, other systems shut down. There was shaking and stuttering and violent confusion. Breathing was difficult, my skin prickled, and my tongue was dry. No words came from my gaping mouth.

  ‘The Horses,’ he said. ‘Seven, and don’t be late.’ He hung up.

  I looked around the office. Colleagues tapping on keyboards, others holding low-volume telephone conversations. A burst of laughter came from the staff room. I sent out a trembling hand to reach for my mug, but found only dregs of tea. A great wave of total freak-out was building up in me. Oh God, this was bad.

  I had to calm down. I took a breath and another, slow deep breaths, in and out. That was better. Now, think.

  How did he know about the money? Maybe he didn’t. All that money you have. He could be referring to the contents of my wallet. He was a criminal after all. Maybe he was simply a common thief on a fishing expedition. It was an ambit claim. A gambit. An ambit gambit. Because, really, who even was this so-called Percy Brash? A mate of Joe’s, who was helping Mrs Phelan in her time of need, and surely that meant he was, in fact, a decent chap. No, it didn’t. Au contraire. He was a criminal. Joe was a criminal. Joe had been in jail.

  For what crimes? I opened a browser and tapped in the address of a searchable case law website. Joseph Phelan had a recent conviction for credit card fraud. I relaxed again, remembering that’s what they’d said in the news segment the other night. Fraud wasn’t a violent crime. I read on. In sentencing Joe, the judge had noted his significant prior offences and whacked on another two years.

  Priors. The website wanted payment for further information. I switched to a general internet search and was soon drowning in Joseph Phelans. It was a popular name. A search for his name plus convicted or criminal narrowed things down. Between juvie and the Athol Goldwater green tracksuit, he’d been a lesser light in a drug dealing gang involved in a terrifying killing spree in Melbourne. Somehow, he had survived that period of slaughter, when gang members were shot on the street in broad daylight. Nothing suggested that Joe himself had been violent. He had probably been a dealer. It appeared that after the gangland killers who were still alive had been put in jail, Joe had turned to stealing credit cards.

  New thought: what if such people nursed old grudges against him?

  Now I understood why Mrs Phelan suspected Joe’s death was not an accident.

  As for Percy Brash, his name was mentioned peripherally in online articles about those times. Gossipy criminal message boards named him as a killer who had survived that same period unscathed and un-jailed. There had been no evidence — no living witnesses — with which to convict him.

  My next thought was how best to leave the country. An immediate, orderly evacuation to start a new life in, say, New Zealand. Call myself Nancy Something. Dye my hair, mow lawns for cash-in-hand. I was warming to the idea, until I remembered Brophy. He couldn’t just pull up sticks and go live in another country with me. He had responsibilities. And I didn’t want to go anywhere without him. Fuck it, I was going to have to deal with Percy.

  Fatima tapped a knuckle on the frame of my cubicle, and I nearly had a heart attack.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ she said.

  Percy Brash had come to break my arm. ‘Oh my God! He’s here? Already? Hide me.’

  Fatima hesitated, looking at me with a mix of concern and wonder. ‘It’s a woman.’

  ‘What woman?’

  She touched my arm, spoke slowly and gently. ‘It’s alright. She seems okay. She said she’s your sister-in-law.’

  ‘I don’t have a … Oh yeah, actually, I sort of do. Thanks.’

  I went to the foyer. A small young woman was staring through the curtains at the street.

  ‘Loretta?’

  She spun around and grinned. But it was clear she had been crying. Her hair told a story of irregular trims and bad bleach jobs. A haircut was a luxury. Her belly protruded quite significantly. She came towards me with skinny outstretched arms. The ensuing hug was a brief breathless squash.

  ‘Ben told me where you work. I thought I’d come to you. Save you the trouble.’

  I looked down at the bursting tartan suitcases strapped to a small trolley. Plastic shopping bags hanging off it. She had at least two sloppy joes on. Her dirty feet were in black thongs repaired with gaffer.

  ‘Where did you sleep last night?’

  ‘This church in Footscray. It’s cool. The priest knows. He comes around in the morning with a cuppa tea before he kicks us out.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Me and Nigel. Me dog.’

  ‘Where is Nigel now?’

  ‘Tied up outside. The lady told me I had to leave him outside. Some rule about dogs.’ She had an air of defiance, as though that rule, indeed all rules, were a personal afront.

  ‘What kind of dog is Nigel?’ Please be a small dog, please be a small dog.

  ‘Alaskan Malamute.’

  I sat down.

  ‘They’re from Siberia.’

  ‘Not Alaska?’


  She frowned. ‘Or from there.’

  ‘I can’t have an Alaskan Malamute in my flat. There’s rules there as well.’

  ‘Can’t go back to the church.’

  ‘No? What about under a bridge, or maybe a bus stop, just until the weekend?’

  She blinked. ‘What bridge?’

  Oh, for the love of nachos. ‘Okay, Loretta. You and Nigel can stay with me. Now, perhaps you both can hang out in the park while I do some work. Come back at five.’

  Her eyes welled. ‘Thank you so much, Stella,’ she whispered.

  I slid a box of tissues towards her. ‘No need for tears.’ It was my mother talking, the tough CWA type, not a sensitive bone in her body.

  ‘It’s hormones. Since I got preg, I bawl at the slightest thing. Saw this old bloke in the supermarket, he seemed so alone, I sobbed my heart out.’ She sniffled and wiped her eyes. ‘Then he starts to rant about the prices and the manager had to deal with him.’ She paused. ‘Cool distraction, though!’ She lifted her jumper. ‘I brought food!’

  What I had thought was six months of unborn child was twenty packets of two-minute noodles that tumbled to the floor.

  A proper house guest, this one. The jumper raised, the noodles gone, the belly did indeed protrude. This was a relief, because I wouldn’t have put it past Ben to concoct some bogus offspring for his own dumb purposes. The sight of the large bump on such a tiny frame was alarming. ‘How far along are you?’

  Her grin lit up like a million-watt bulb that could be seen from space. ‘Don’t show much, do I? Seven, nearly eight.’

  God help me. I stared at the charming little outie belly button on top of the bump. My vision blurred. I forced myself to snap out of it. What the hell, it was nearly lunchtime. ‘You must be starving. Feel like some two-minute noodles?’

  She grinned like she’d won the lottery. ‘Love some.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  When she’d slurped the last strand on her third pack of chicken-flavoured noodles, we went outside and found Nigel, tied with a Western Bulldogs scarf to the bike rack. Oh boy, was that dog huge. Size of a horse. I noted the boredom in his stare, but the tail wagged. His white bits were grey, and he was huddled against the wind. Odd for a cold-weather dog to look so forlorn. Loretta set down a bowl of noodles for him, and he went to work.

  Both girl and dog were much improved after a hot meal. Nigel’s tail whisked the air, and Loretta had colour in her cheeks.

  ‘Here you are!’ Fatima said, either astonished or annoyed, maybe both — it was hard to tell. She told me to join the rest of the staff inside for a presentation. I gave Loretta ten dollars to buy proper dog food and said I had to get back to work.

  ‘Rightio,’ she said happily.

  ‘I’ll see you back here at knock-off time.’

  She unknotted the scarf from the pole and pulled the dog and the trolley towards the shops.

  ‘Loretta!’ I called. ‘Leave the trolley here.’

  ‘Thanks. Sick of dragging that thing around everywhere. The looks some people give you when you’re trying to get on the train.’

  I joined my colleagues in the meeting room, fended off their well-meaning enquiries about Loretta, and for an hour we heard about the introduction of a new gifts policy. In the interests of probity and accountability we were told that all gifts must be declined and registered. Even if it was just a bag of lemons from a grateful client, it must be declined and registered. As the meeting finished up, Fatima took the opportunity to stress the importance of ethical, fair, and honest behaviour by WORMS employees at all times.

  Fatima caught me on my way out. ‘Have you read my email?’

  ‘Email?’

  ‘About giving a presentation on behalf of WORMS for the other agencies.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, though I hadn’t. I’d read it later, some time, probably.

  I walked away still shocked that a bag of lemons could be considered a form of bribery.

  Back at my desk, I sent a text to Brophy inviting him to dinner. I was curious to see what he would make of Loretta and Nigel. He responded straightaway with a string of emoticons: yes, happy, love. Aww. I emoji-ed heart and kissing-face. Sickening, weren’t we?

  Right, time to do some work. I would read Fatima’s email, figure out what kind of speech she wanted me to give. But not right now. I was still shaky after the call from Percy, and I needed some light distraction. I googled ‘Alaskan Malamute’. A breed favoured by nomadic reindeer herders. A friendly breed, they made terrible watchdogs.

  A watchdog, now that was an idea. But with my luck, any dog I purchased would bite me, instead.

  Before I knew it, my day was done. I logged off just as Loretta walked into my office carrying shopping bags of dog food.

  ‘We have to walk,’ I said. ‘They’ll never let us on the tram with Nigel.’

  Just then, Fatima came out of the building and locked the front door. ‘Need a lift?’

  I told you. An exceptional woman.

  Nigel, Loretta, and I piled into Fatima’s station wagon. Fatima didn’t ask a single question about the girl, the dog, or the suitcases, to my eternal relief and gratitude.

  I gave her directions to my flat. ‘It’s the one with the giant pine tree,’ I said, out of habit. I always spelled the name of my street and always mentioned the tree. Roxburgh Street, Ascot Vale, had only one building with a thirty-metre-tall Norfolk Pine in the front yard. That made giving directions to taxi drivers, Ubers, pizza delivery people easy.

  It also made it easy for my enemies to find me. And over the years, I’d had a few of those.

  After we said our thanks to Fatima, we started up the path to my building, the dog straining against the non-AFL approved acrylic.

  ‘We should get Nigel a proper dog lead and maybe dog shampoo and a brush,’ I said.

  Loretta responded with tears of gratitude, and I found it very moving. Though it might become annoying at some point, if she kept it up all week.

  In the foyer of my building, Nigel lifted a leg and sprayed urine on the bottom row of letterboxes. I didn’t mind that too much, but my cranky-pants neighbour, Brown Cardigan, would no doubt write a letter to the body corporate.

  The three of us staggered up the three flights, and once inside my flat, Loretta walked straight into my bedroom. I went in after her.

  ‘It’s only a one-bedroom flat, I’m afraid,’ I said.

  Loretta turned to me, seemingly nonplussed, or acting that way. ‘So?’

  ‘This is my bedroom. Where I sleep. I thought that you and Nigel could have the couch. It’s very comfortable.’

  Her gazed was blank as she absent-mindedly patted her tummy.

  ‘You know what? Take my bed. I insist.’

  In the kitchen, Nigel had pulled the half-eaten falafel out of my bin. He shook his head and spread onion, lettuce, and garlic sauce all over the kitchen floor.

  ‘Bad dog!’ Me at my most commanding, pointing a finger at him.

  He showed his teeth, emitting a low growl. Perhaps an Alaskan Malamute was not as friendly as I had been led to believe.

  ‘Very bad dog!’

  He backed down, tail drooping, head bowed. I dragged him by the back of his neck to the corner.

  ‘Sit!’

  He looked at me.

  I shoved his back end down. It stayed down. Alright then. This was more like it. I cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, then knocked on my bedroom door.

  ‘Come in.’ Loretta was leaning back in my bed, thumbs darting over a phone screen.

  ‘You busy?’ I didn’t really regard phone activity as legitimate. But then, I was old.

  ‘Updating my status.’

  ‘Is that wise? This pregnancy needs to be kept quiet until Ben gets out of prison.’

  ‘I never mention the baby.’ She s
eemed indignant, as though I’d questioned her intelligence. ‘I said Dakota should have won The Bachelor. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m driving to the supermarket for the dog things. Need anything else?’

  ‘Nah. Maybe some liquorice? And sherbet if they have any?’

  ‘You want lollies?’

  ‘Yeah. I have cravings.’

  ‘Cravings are a myth.’

  She shrugged.

  As I drove down Roxburgh Street, a man on the radio was muttering in a pleasantly hypnotic drone: two slips and a gully, mid-on, mid-off, deep extra cover. Deep extra cover, indeed. For the second time that day, I seriously thought about doing a runner.

  6

  I PARKED the Mazda next to a four-cab monster in the nearly full car park of the Coach and Horses Hotel and locked the door.

  Construction workers and tradies had been marinating in the front bar since downing tools around mid-afternoon. They’d been joined by white-collar drones at five; add in sundry semi-permanent residents, and the pub was almost at capacity. My anxiety levels were already high, and with this rowdy crowd, I had the added difficulty of picking out a man I knew only by his threatening tone of voice.

  I looked out for men on their own. A chap at the quiet-ish end of the bar had a glass to his lips, but his pale eyes darted around the room. Our eyes locked, and I freaked: Brash. He had a gut that enjoyed two family-sized pizzas before dinner. Despite his bulk, he leaned back, straining the bar stool, and drained the glass. Head the colour of a scalded crustacean. White hair, a chunky gold chain at the neck, an alarming dint in his forehead, and a piece of ear missing. His neutral mannerisms gave no hint of intent. He might fillet you or help you carry the shopping. He nodded to the stool beside him.

  I walked over and offered a hand, a work habit, automatic civility to commence proceedings. This amused him, as though I’d tried to shake hands with a scorpion. He raised two fat fingers, and a woman behind the bar immediately tilted a clean glass under the tap.

  ‘You don’t seem the type,’ he said, without looking at me.

  I swallowed, trying to draw moisture into my mouth. ‘What type?’