The Second Deal
STAMPED WITH GUILT
H ANNIE PUSHED A MOUND OF OVERSTUFFED quilt out of the way and looked across at her bedside clock. In less than two hours, Mosson Ferret was going to arrive for the IFF audit and she still didn’t know how she was going to explain the missing money. She rolled onto her back and laid her hands across her bare stomach. The soft ridging of inflamed intestine moved under the press of her fingers. She had already held Mosson at bay for a week, not returning calls and claiming shoot commitments. Maybe she should try and cancel today on the grounds of illness.
She sat up, feeling a sick weight move in her bowel. At least this time it would be the truth. But Hannie knew she had pushed her luck as far as she could with Mosson Ferret; the last message he’d left had hinted at frozen funds.
She stood up, tightening her sphincter against a cramp, and shuffled out of the bedroom towards the bathroom. Twice during the night Hannie had been forced awake by pressure in her bowel. Both times she had hunched on the cold toilet for fifteen minutes, pushing out small globules of mucus and blood. Hannie knew what these small night urgencies meant—she had missed too much medication. She was at the beginning of a major Crohn’s attack.
The phone rang as Hannie pushed open the bathroom door. She paused, listening for the clicks of the answering machine, then remembered she had turned it off last night when her sister had called. She ran up the hallway and picked up the receiver, the short burst of movement increasing the push in her bowel.
“Hannie, is that you?” It was Jezza’s voice, whispering.
“Yeah. What’s up?”
There was no answer. Hannie dug the heel of her hand into a gut cramp until it eased. “Jez, are you still there?” she asked.
“I saw Condo Spinner last night,” Jezza finally said. “About the gear.”
“Oh, right. He’s such a sleaze, isn’t he,” Hannie said. “Did he try his ‘come back to my showroom for a drink’ routine?”
At the other end of the phone line, Jezza looked across the hallway at Condo Spinner, asleep in her bed. Badly lit scenes staccatoed through her mind: a beer in his showroom, the top bar at the Espy, kneeling in the bedroom with Condo moaning above her, his hand in her hair. She knew she must have vomited sometime during the night too—she could taste the sour heaves. She watched Condo open his eyes and sit up, grabbing for his trousers. Obviously, a shared breakfast wasn’t on his agenda.
“Is the little creep going to give me a discount?” Hannie asked.
“He said he’d give you five percent,” Jezza said, turning away as Condo pulled his shirt over his head.
“It’s better than nothing, I suppose,” Hannie said. “Look, I’ve got to get going. The guy from the IFF is going to be here soon and I’m not even dressed.”
“Have you worked out what you’re going to say to him?” Jezza moved further along the hallway, in case Condo tried to make eye contact.
“I was thinking along the lines of bribing him, or maybe offering him sex. What do you think?”
“Well, at least you’d get a shag out of it,” Jezza said.
Hannie gave a sharp laugh, but Jezza stared down at her bare feet, remembering Condo’s warm beer breath against her ear and his weight across her chest. The taste of sour gut rose into her mouth. Had they used a condom? She remembered taking her pill, but she couldn’t remember any condom.
“Christ, I don’t know what to do.” Hannie’s voice was suddenly serious again.
“Why don’t you just tell him the truth?” Jezza asked.
“Hold on a sec, I’ve got a really bad cramp.”
Jezza heard her friend’s breathing shorten to small gasps. She knew Hannie was doubled over; she had seen it happen too often in the past few weeks.
“You should go and see your doctor,” she said when Hannie came back onto the phone.
“You sound like Sigmy,” Hannie said. “Anyway, I know what’s wrong. I haven’t been taking my tablets.”
“Again? Why do you keep on doing that?”
“You’ve got to test it, don’t you?” Hannie said. “You can’t just accept what the doctors say and that’s it—tablets for the rest of your life.”
“I suppose,” Jezza said, but she wasn’t convinced. She looked up as Condo walked into the hallway, tapping his watch and shrugging.
“I mean, what if I suddenly didn’t need to take them anymore?” Hannie said.
“I’ve got to go,” Jezza said.
Hannie was left listening to the disconnection beeps. She shook her head and hung up. Jezza was a good friend, but she had a terrible phone manner. And she hadn’t been any help at all; Hannie still didn’t know what she was going to say to Mosson. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him the truth. Even Jezza didn’t know the whole truth about Paris. Hannie looked at the chrome bar across the ceiling and reached up her hands, hooking them around the cold metal until she was stretched out and standing on her toes. The pull through her shoulders and rib cage eased the cramp in her gut and she hung there thinking about Sigmy, Robé, and shares in an ethical drug company that had never existed.
A year ago, Sigmy walked out of the house to post a letter and never came back. Hannie knew he had tried to be a loving partner when she got the Crohn’s, but the fevers and enemas and blood had stripped her body too bare for him. He gradually stopped curling around her in bed. Stopped saying hello to her breasts. Stopped smoothing her hair away from her eyes. At first Hannie was too sick to notice, but then the cortisone rebuilt her bowel and pumped her body full of false optimism. Then one night she woke and felt cold air against her back. She turned towards Sigmy, but his dark warmth moved further away and his sleeping face was already focused on another life. Now he mailed her postcards from Europe, addressed to H. Reynard, Esq., and stamped with guilt.
Hannie flexed her hands around the bar. She should never have gone to Paris. But six months into her new loneliness, the IFF deposited one hundred thousand dollars into her account. The next day she booked her flight by phone, stumbling over her credit card number and her conscience. When she finally walked into the little blues club on the Rue de la Huchette to meet an old school friend, she was wearing new heels that were too high and a top that was too low.
“Hannie? Is that you? Oh, my God, you’re so thin!”
Neely’s shrill Australian voice was the same, but the teen sports-star face that Hannie remembered had sun-hardened into worry lines and petulant furrows. Her eyes flicked over Hannie’s smooth pale face and chest. “How fab to see you again after all this time.”
Hannie smiled and nodded and was introduced to Neely’s large group of workmates and friends that crowded elbow to elbow around two small round tables. As Neely talked about her job as an English teacher, Hannie became aware of the tall man at the end of the second table watching her hands. Who was he? she asked Neely. Just a friend of a friend, a stockbroker or something; Neely didn’t know his name.
Hannie excused herself and walked up to the bar. She bought an expensive glass of red wine and as she pulled a crush of money from her purse to make room for the change, she looked up and met the tall man’s intent eyes. In that moment she knew the soft weight of her breasts, the flared grace of her hips, the long seduction of her legs. It was like another dose of cortisone through her body, and she smiled. When she returned to the table, she winked at Neely and pulled up a chair next to him. His name was Robé and his first words to her in English were: “You must be the filmmaker friend, yes?”
That night became a series of yeses, until four weeks later Hannie was sitting alone in the rumpled bed above the cheese shop holding a beautifully embossed share certificate of a fake drug research company. She had raised the certificate up to her nose and smelled Robé’s deceit, trying to pinpoint the moment when she had become a fool. Was it when Robé had brushed his fingers along her throat and over her breasts, saying he wanted to sculpt her beauty into his memory? Or maybe it was when he danced a mad, flailing-armed tango with her across the front portico of the Théâtre du Châtelet. No, she decided, she had become a fool when they were in the cafe across the road drinking black bitter coffee, their knees touching. Robé had smoothed her hair away from her eyes and said, “I did not think I would love an Australian.” Hannie had pressed her cheek into his warm palm and lent him the money to invest in the company. Two days later he was gone, the morning-cold room stripped of jewelry and faith.
Hannie let go of the bar and jammed her fingers into the familiar burn of humiliation that spiked through the cramps. No, she was not going to tell Mosson Ferret the truth.
Nearly two hours later, Mosson Ferret stood outside Hannie’s front door and rolled his shoulders, regretting the decision to wear his gray wool suit. It was too heavy for the warm autumn day, but it was his best suit and he’d figured blackmail was a formal kind of crime. He knew he looked scary in a suit, especially when he teamed it up with aviator sunglasses and a knife-thin tie. Last week he had made his neighbor Mrs. Slipweed scream when he’d met her on the stairs, and the Chihuahua in number 3 pissed on the floor whenever it saw him. He looked at his watch. Five minutes early.
Mosson patted his front trouser pocket and felt the crackle of the ten-dollar note through the cloth. Last night he had stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom for an hour and practiced blackmailing his reflection. For the first few tries he had sounded like a B-grade gangster, but now he had his hard face and threatening tone perfected. He was ready. And it was not going to be real blackmail, he reminded himself, more of an extension of his duties as executive producer.
He raised his fist to knock on the door, but then dropped his hand. It was rude to be too early. He’d have to wait. Arriving early used to be one of his mother’s pet hates. Mosson turned and looked out onto the street, suddenly reminded of the agonizing Wednesday afternoons when his mother picked him up from school to visit her friend Momi for Japanese conversation and tea. She used to park the family car in Aunt Momi’s landscaped driveway and sit watching the clock until it was one minute to four. Then she would hit the dashboard with a loud thump and they would jump out of the car together and arrive at Aunt Momi’s front door exactly at four o’clock. Once Mosson clicked forward the car clock for a joke and they were ten minutes early. It took half an hour of formal apologies and gracious soothings before they even got into the house. These days he couldn’t remember any of the Japanese he had picked up at his aunt Momi’s except basic tourist stuff and one lingering phrase—watashi wa totemo hazukashi—I am very ashamed.
Mosson checked his watch again. A few more minutes. He paced back down the short path and stood at the front gate. The street was a typical Carlton mix of renovated Victorian terraces with carefully replaced latticework and student paint-peelers with old sofas on the front porch. Hannie Reynard’s house was somewhere in between; the dark green paintwork was still good, but the original iron lattice was buckled and a faded wicker chair with a new red cushion blocked access to the meter box. Mosson decided that if the house was anything to go by, Hannie Reynard was that strange mix of scruffy perpetual student and detail-anxious professional. Most of the filmmakers he’d audited seemed suspended between these two poles. Perhaps that was the temperament of a true artist. He looked down at his precisely creased trousers and highly buffed shoes. At least he had the detail anxiety covered.
The loud knock on her front door made Hannie jump as she coated her lips with pink gloss in the hallway mirror. She looked at her watch. Exactly 10 A.M. Had Mosson Ferret turned into one of those anal accountant types?
“I’ll be right there,” she called, quickly cleaning up the botched lip with a precise forefinger then blotting her mouth on the back of a Thai take-away menu. She stepped back for a holistic view but only saw the dark circles under her eyes and the overpinked lips that appeared more inflamed than sexy. She pushed her hair behind her ears, decided she looked like a pale, inflamed fox, and pulled it back out again.
“Just a sec.” She smiled at her reflection and smoothed down the V-neck of her top. She was ready. Ignoring the twinge deep in her bowels, Hannie twisted the deadlock twice and opened the door.
“Hi,” she said. “Sorry to keep you.”
He was taller than she remembered and sleeker, with a sharp suit and sunglasses. She saw her tense smile reflected in the large lenses.
“Hannie?” He held out his hand.
She shook it quickly by the end of the long fingers and let go. “How are you doing, Mosson?”
“Can I come in?”
She pressed herself back against the door, motioning him inside. He led with his briefcase.
“Just go in on your left,” Hannie said. “Would you like a tea or coffee? Maybe something cold?” God, she sounded like her mother.
She followed him into the lounge room, watching the back of his neck. At least that was one thing that hadn’t changed; he still had his knobbly dorsal fin. With his new smooth lines and dark gray suit, Hannie felt like she was being pulled along in the wake of a large businesslike dolphin. Or maybe a fashionable shark.
“A coffee would be good,” Mosson said, sliding his briefcase onto the coffee table. He took off his sunglasses and put them in his top pocket. “It’s been a long time.”
Hannie nodded. “Do you ever see anyone from the course?”
“No. You?”
“No.”
Hannie rubbed her hands together. “So, a coffee. Black? White? Sugar?”
“Black. No sugar, thanks,” Mosson said.
Hannie nodded and hurried towards the kitchen.
Mosson watched her walk out of the room. He had never seen anyone so pale. The P.R. photo in her file had made her look more substantial. More blackmail-able. This Hannie Reynard looked like she might drop dead if he raised his voice.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked around the room. It was neater than he’d expected, with a newish red sofa and a large-screen TV. Maybe that was what she had bought with the missing money. He touched the ten dollars in his pocket again. When she came back with the coffee, he’d just do it. Exactly as he’d planned. He stepped away from the sofa and faced the doorway, hands loose at his sides. His eyes dropped to a silver road case that was pushed up against the wall, a black tripod on the floor in front of it. It was probably her camera. Maybe even some of the footage. Sol had bet him fifty bucks that Hannie hadn’t even started filming her documentary yet. Mosson hoped Sol was right—he wanted to film it from the start, even if he couldn’t have a director of photography credit. Not yet anyway.
He walked to the door, took a quick look out at the empty hallway, then knelt down and flicked open the case locks. No camera, only six Digital Betacam tapes with the seals unbroken. No proof, either way. Mosson stacked them back on top of each other and closed the case. He wiped his hands on his trouser legs and stood up. Carefully spaced on the wall in front of him were three framed film stills. He took a step back and looked at them: the fireside scene from Citizen Kane, the shower scene from Psycho, and the double-sun desert scene from Star Wars. He remembered studying Welles and Hitchcock at college, but Star Wars had been considered “too formulaic.” He leaned forward to look at the still and saw a felt tip scrawl at the bottom: To Hannie, Best always, George Lucas.
In the kitchen, Hannie poured coffee into her two best mugs and stared down at the dark liquid. She knew she shouldn’t drink coffee on an empty stomach. Especially when the ache in her gut had narrowed into a tight knuckle of pain that was pushing down on her bowels. The urgency was building. Very soon, the pressure would vent into a brief bloodied relief that would rebuild and release until she was drained of gray shit and rebellion. She pulled out the drawer next to the sink and grabbed the new box of tablets, prizing open the top flap and sliding a pristine bubble pack onto her palm. The medication was too late for this attack, but it might force her back into remission. She punched out three tablets and turned on the cold tap, sucking back each pill with a handful of water.
Maybe she should tell Mosson about the Crohn’s disease—he might reschedule the audit. She imagined him walking to the front door, the look in his dark eyes reducing her from attractive woman to invalid. Just like Sigmy’s eyes. No, she never wanted to see that look again. Hannie picked up the two mugs. If she was lucky, the cramps would hold off long enough to let her deal with Mosson and his molded aluminum briefcase.
She walked back down the hallway, trying not to slosh the coffee over the rims. As she entered the lounge room, she saw Mosson quickly straighten and step back from the wall. His smile was strained as she handed him a mug. Had he been looking through her cases?
“Thank you,” he said, and took a large mouthful, looking up at her Star Wars still. “Did you really get Lucas to sign it?”
Hannie smoothed her hair back behind her ear. “I wish. No, a friend did it as a joke.”
They stood looking at the photo of a young Luke Skywalker standing in a desert staring pensively at the double sunset.
“It’s a great film, my favorite one of the first trilogy, but it’s always underrated,” Hannie said. “I think it’s just seen as a big money spinner these days and people forget that Lucas risked a lot making it.”
“I preferred Empire Strikes Back,” Mosson said.
“That probably says something about you. They say Empire is the dark, brooding one.”
Mosson smiled. “About you too. Are you underrated and risking a lot?”
The question was more than just polite small talk; his tone had deepened into threat. Hannie mistimed her swallow of coffee, her throat suddenly blocked by fear. She turned away and coughed hard, pushing her coffee mug onto the table.
“Sorry, that went down the wrong way.” She thumped her chest with a flat hand, watching him warily.
He put down his own mug. “I’ve got something for you,” he said. “From way back.” He dug his hand into his pocket and held out a ten-dollar note.
She looked down at the money but didn’t move. Why was he giving her ten dollars?
“You lent me ten bucks when we were at college,” he said. “Remember?”
He thrust it towards her again. She took the note between thumb and forefinger as though it were a used tissue.
“Thanks, but I wasn’t expecting you to pay it back.”
“I know.” He paused, his face hardening. “But I do expect you to pay back the thirty grand you’ve stolen from the fund.”
Stolen. It pounded through Hannie’s head in a rush of blood and heartbeat. She tried to refuse the word and then soften it with gray rationalization, but its edges were too sharp. Mosson Ferret was pinning her to the wall with the harsh light of truth. She had stolen the money and she had stolen his work; there could be no more hiding in moral shadows. She was in the searchlight, stripped bare. And for once, Hannie knew when to cut her losses.
“I’ve spent it,” she said.
“I know,” Mosson said.
Hannie felt some of the weight in her bowel shift.
“I’m so sorry. I know I’ve made a huge mistake,” she said, smoothing the ten dollars between her hands. She placed it on the coffee table and took a deep breath. “I was hoping you’d help me work out some way of paying it back. Maybe installments or something.”
Mosson smiled. “Yes, I think we can work something out.”
“Really?” Hannie smiled back. “Oh, God, thank you.” She touched Mosson lightly on the shoulder, needing to feel his leniency. “I really, really want to make this film. It’s my big break. I was so scared you’d kill it.”
He stepped away from her hand. “As the administrator appointed to your project, I can make this really easy for you. I can bury that thirty thousand dollars in the budget. Or I can turn you in. It’s your choice.”
“Bury it?”
Mosson nodded. “And not in the half-arsed way you tried to do it.”
Hannie straightened, feeling a prickle of danger spread across her back. “I see. And what do you want?” She saw a sudden image of Mosson pressing her up against the wall, his long thin hand cupping her breast.
“I want to film your documentary.”
Hannie, her breath already half gone from Mosson’s imagined touch, felt her lungs buckle and shrink. She gasped for air. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. Mosson had seen her application tape. He wanted his film back.
He cleared his throat. “Way back at college I started a film about freaks too. Kind of felt like I was qualified to make it.” He rubbed his hand down the smooth plane of his skull and shrugged. “I want to get back into filmmaking, but I don’t want to start at the beginning again.”
Hannie nodded to cover the burst of relief that spasmed through her body. He hadn’t seen the tape. Thank God, he hadn’t seen the tape.
“I’ve still got a bit of the footage from my old grad film. There’s not much, but we could pool resources.”
Hannie stared at him. “You want to pool resources?”
Mosson nodded.
Hannie pressed her fist up to her mouth again, this time to stop a taut screaming laugh. Mosson Ferret wanted to share his freaks footage and shoot her film. She pressed her teeth harder against her knuckles. Her mother always said she had an inappropriate sense of humor. Like the time in church when Hannie’s niece was accepting her first communion wafer and accidentally bit the minister’s finger so hard that he screamed out, “Holy fucking Christ!” Hannie had laughed so much that her mother ordered her out of the church and totally ignored her until Hannie had washed all of the family barbecue dishes in penance. Her father, on the other hand, had relived the moment with her out in the garage, both of them laughing with their backs against the warm Holden until they had calmed down into mirror-image smiles.
Hannie carefully moved her fist away from her mouth. For now, the danger had passed. “I’d still be director, right?” she said.
He nodded. “And I’ll be the director of photography.”
Hannie didn’t believe he had gone to all this trouble and risk to be DOP, but she had worked on enough underfunded films to know that the battle for control was always fought behind the rolling camera and at the editing desk. Right now she had to save her arse, save her film, and save her career.
“Seems like we’re making a film together,” she said, and under her uneasy relief, she felt the flash of a bright phosphorous rage.
It didn’t take long to make the arrangements. Mosson would keep quiet if she kept quiet. He would replace the budget in the IFF files. They would meet on Thursday to organize an interview with the first freak, Regina Wilcox. Hannie walked to the front door, her body pointing Mosson to the exit. She wanted him out of her house. He picked up his briefcase and pulled his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket, walking past her and onto the porch. He turned around to say something, but she closed the door.
“I’ll see you Thursday,” he yelled, his voice loud through the wood.
Hannie didn’t answer—she was already running towards the toilet, her fists clenched. She only just made it, doubling over on the toilet seat, panting as her belly and bowel pushed out the searing fear and rage. She took a deep sobbing breath and rolled a wad of toilet paper into her hand, holding it hard against herself to calm the burning before she wiped. One down, she thought as she pressed the button, watching the water swirl away her pain. She picked up a Cosmopolitan from a stack of magazines next to the toilet and sat down again, leaning her elbows on her knees. The magazine was old and it fell open at an article titled “10 Contraceptive Myths You Should Know.” Hannie stared hard at the words, knowing that she would only have a few minutes to rest before the next wave ripped through her body.
THREE RULES FOR
A SUCCESSFUL HIT
T HIS IS THE FIFTH MORNING I’VE SPENT ON THE roof of the block of flats opposite my target’s house. The fifth time I’ve watched Carousel Dane walk out of her house at 7:45 on the dot, close her front door behind her, then reach back and push against it twice to make sure it was locked. Today is the same; close the door, reach back, push twice. If this pattern holds, that second when she pushes against the handle will be the best time to take the shot.
There are three rules for a successful hit. First, identify your target. It seems obvious, but you’d be surprised how many nontargets are killed by mistake or sloppy work. Just a few weeks ago four men were taken out in a hotel room in Bundoora, just up the road from here. That was Pauley Barker’s work. I know for a fact that Pauley was only supposed to take out one of them, but he couldn’t be bothered to do the hard yakka so he just mowed down all four. I’m not denying surveillance can be boring and cold, especially on a morning like this, when Melbourne stacks on a bit of early winter. But I know a week or so lying flat on this roof will pay off in the end. And this is an easy gig compared to the early days. Once in Vietnam I was in position in a swamp for ten days. Had to crap in bags and piss where I was lying. Got used to the smell of my own shit real fast.
It didn’t take long to I.D. Carousel Dane. City girls leave wide trails of public information. And it hasn’t taken long to I.D. the best time for the shot; for someone so young, she’s already set in her ways. She always leaves for work at 7:45 every morning, catches the number 16 tram, and never has the right change for the ticket machine. She gets home at 6:05 every night except Friday, when she goes for a drink with her workmates. She also plays competition tennis on Tuesday nights from 7:00 until 10:30, and for a girl with a bit of weight on her, she doesn’t look too bad in a tennis skirt.
I’ve also been through her rubbish. Your average person throws out a lot of information about themselves every seven days—old bills, telephone messages, doctor’s cards, work papers, seminar brochures with the registration form cut out—and all of it can be used to build up a picture of their day-to-day life. I now know that the best day to kill Carousel Dane is next Friday at 7:45 A.M.; she’ll close the front door, reach back, push twice, and I’ll take my shot. Friday is the best day because she’s supposed to go to a training seminar for the whole morning, and isn’t expected in at work until lunchtime. By the time anyone drops by her house to see if she’s okay, I’ll be well on my way to Perth.
The hit should be straightforward from this roof; there’s a good line of sight, the street is quiet, and the concrete coat of arms sticking up above the roofline will give me some decent cover. Funnily enough, the shield is a bit like the Carmichael arms my father showed me when I was a kid, just before he took off. He’d got some old book about heraldry from a thrift shop and found the Carmichael crest; a hand holding a broken lance. Apparently our motto is Always Ready. Too bad the old man wasn’t ready for that Ford that hit him. Maybe his motto should have been Always Pissed.
This building is also the tallest one on the street, making it the place of power in Feng Shui terms and less likely for anyone to look out of a window and see me. There’s one old girl who walks her collie every morning at eight-thirty, but she never comes up this end of the street. The only other thing to keep an eye on is the wind buck; it can really screw up the bullet trajectory. Although, according to the seven-day weather forecast, we’re heading into some cold, still days. Good shooting weather. I’ll visit Strafe Gobbo tomorrow and get a reasonable .308 with three extra barrels. Strafe has a sweet scam going, importing legit components and putting the guns together himself.
Which brings me to the second rule for a successful hit; choose a nontraceable weapon. Don’t buy a stolen vintage gun with an I.D. number then kill your business partner with it, like some dickhead did a while ago.
He then compounded the problem by breaking rule number three, the most important rule: get rid of your weapon properly. Properly means in water, not shoved under a pile of crap in your own garage. The dickhead didn’t do the prep and he didn’t get rid of the evidence, which is why the cops broke the land speed record for nailing him. I’m a big believer in careful preparation and proper follow-through, but this contract is so tight I’m going to have to take some calculated risks. There won’t be enough time to find a gun for each hit, get a feel for it, then dump it properly. The best I can do is swap barrels around so that the bullet forensics aren’t the same, and keep moving so that the cops don’t make the connection immediately: first hit in Melbourne, the next in Perth, then back to Yea, and so on. It’s going to be a busy three months.
There is actually a fourth rule for a successful hit, a rule that Hong added to the list and the rule that eventually killed him. Never let it get personal.
I told him the Johnny Tan job was no good. Johnny’s kid was Teo’s best mate at school.
“Why are you even thinking about it?” I said. “You said yourself it’s too close to home.”
Hong had pulled his mouth down, shrugging with his hands outstretched. Sometimes I swear he looked more Italian than Hongky.
“You’ve got to test your own rules, Trojan. Make sure they’re still good. And anyway, I saw five bats fly out of a tree last night. It’s a good sign.”
“Cut the fucking oriental crap. You know this job is a mistake. For chrissakes, Hong, think it over some more.”
“I’ve already accepted it,” he said. “Are you in?”
“No, I’m not having anything to do with it.”
“Your choice,” he’d said, and walked away, showing me his back.
His fourth rule was still good. Two days later, while I was sitting in a pub drinking second-rate bourbon, Hong got ambushed by four members of the Tan family. He was shot in the head from behind.
BURNT COOKING OIL
M OSSON TURNED THE CORNER INTO HANNIE’S street and straightened in the car seat. She was sitting on the fence of her house, jean-clad legs pulled up to her chest, waiting for him. So, she wasn’t going to let him back into her home. Not that he could blame her after their last meeting. He wiped his palm along the leg of his trousers then steered the car smoothly into the gutter alongside her house. She nodded without smiling, pushing herself off the fence and picking up an old school-style satchel in one movement. Like a little kid, Mosson thought as he leaned over the passenger seat to unlock the door. She pulled it open and bent down to look at him, her hair swinging in a thick plait. Mosson had a sudden desire to touch it. He quickly placed his hands back on the steering wheel.
“I tried ringing Regina Wilcox yesterday and this morning, but no one answered,” she said. “There’s no machine either, so I figured it might be an idea to just go to her house and suss it out.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” he said. He looked away as she edged her leg and hip into the car and sat down. “You got the address?”
She patted the satchel. “It’s in Springvale. The South Eastern is probably the best way.” She closed the door and reached for the seat belt. “Get onto Victoria Parade first, then Punt. Have you got a Melways?”
“I think it’s on the back floor behind my seat.”
Hannie twisted around and reached between the narrow space that separated the two front seats, bumping Mosson’s elbow with her shoulder.
“Sorry,” Mosson said. Hannie drew back into her seat, the street directory in her hand.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Mosson flicked on the indicator and stared into the side mirror. A motorbike was coming up the street. “It’s okay,” he said, keeping his eyes on the mirror. “I know how to get to Springvale.” He had been there once—he was sure he could find it again.
“If you say so,” Hannie said, but Mosson noticed she kept the Melways on her lap.
They were both silent for the length of Lygon Street, the Italian bistros and cake shops flashing past as Mosson neatly swerved around the pedestrians juggling Styrofoam coffee cups and calzone. They pulled up at a red light beside the old Trades Hall building.
“I’ve extended the filming schedule with the Fund,” Mosson said. “An extra month.”
Hannie nodded.
“And I fixed the budget.”
“You’ve got a green arrow,” Hannie said, pointing.
Mosson turned the corner onto Victoria Parade and used the steering movement to take a full look at Hannie. She had edged her body towards the passenger door and was looking straight ahead, a slight frown buckling the smooth skin between her eyebrows. She must really hate me, Mosson thought. He looked back at the road. He had not been disliked by a woman in a very long time. Not since he had outmaneuvered DeeDee Talbot for the promotion into Jeremy’s department. And after all that effort and DeeDee’s venom, he’d hated the job. The promise of hands-on producer reduced to no more than glorified assistant. But not anymore. Not since Jeremy had fucked up by being too greedy.
It suddenly occurred to Mosson that he was following in Jeremy’s footsteps. Not that Mosson was diverting company funds into his own bank account, but he was using his position to blackmail Hannie. The idea that he was in the same league as Jeremy made Mosson shiver down the length of his back. He lifted his shoulders against the feeling and wondered if it was too late to say he’d made a mistake and leave Hannie alone to make the film. He could just go back to his job, plod on as usual, or even quit and start at the bottom of filmmaking again. Mosson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. No. It wasn’t too late for a courageous man to go back, or a younger man, but it was way too late for Mosson Ferret.
“You’d better get into the left lane,” Hannie said.
It was a quick run along the South Eastern Freeway to Springvale, and Mosson was relieved to see a clearly marked sign for the turnoff. Hannie was tracing their route on the street map in her lap but looked up as he veered left onto the exit ramp.
“So, where do we go from here. Left or right?” he asked as he pulled up at the light.
“It would have been better if you’d taken the next turnoff,” she said.
Mosson looked across at her, his hands tight around the steering wheel. “Which way?”
“Left,” she said, but he caught the little half smile as she bent her head back to the map.
Twenty minutes later they were driving slowly along Segue Street looking for number 26. Hannie checked the address again in Rennie Carp’s notes. It was definitely 26 Segue Street, but none of the houses seemed to have numbers on them. She studied the letter box of the house they were passing. No number, only a No Junk Mail sign.
“I’ve got 33 here,” Mosson said.
“That’s 26,” Hannie said, pointing. Mosson pulled the car over to the curb.
Hannie looked at Regina Wilcox’s home. The place was a dump; large pieces of gray paint had peeled off the facade like sunburnt skin and both of the front windows were cracked and taped. The bottom half of an old motor mower was propping up the letter box, and the path up to the sagging front porch was thick with decaying leaves.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Mosson said. “It doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”
Hannie undid her seat belt and opened the car door. A strong smell was in the air and she sniffed, trying to place it. Burnt cooking oil.
“This is it,” she said, pulling her satchel out of the car and slamming the door closed.
She could hear her own middle-class judgment in Mosson’s voice and walked quickly away from it, along the slippery front path. A slight drag in her bowel made her pause, but she realized it was excitement, not an attack. Somewhere in that house was the real start of her career. Behind her, she heard Mosson grunt as he slid on the slick of leaves. Hannie took the porch steps in two jumps, avoiding a wet, moldy towel that was lying on the second step. She faced the front security door. It was heavily barred, with no attempt at a design to soften its purpose. There was no door knocker or doorbell, so she knocked twice on the weatherboard wall beside the door as Mosson walked up the steps. A shower of peeling paint fell to the ground, a few large pieces sticking to Hannie’s knuckles. There was no answering movement or sound.
“Try again,” Mosson said. Hannie knocked harder and called out a tentative hello.
Mosson leaned across to the front window and, shielding his eyes, peered into the house.
“Can’t see anyone,” he said. “Here, let me try.” He thumped the wall with his fist, dislodging a rotten piece of wood from the door frame. “Christ, the place is falling apart,” he said, picking the wood up and slotting it back into the frame. It fell out again.
“Yeah, all right,” a muffled male voice came from inside the house. “Keep your fucking shirt on.”
The wooden door behind the security grille opened a crack and a shadowy wedge of eye and face stared at them.
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“Hi, we’re looking for Regina Wilcox,” Hannie said. “Does she live here?”
“You cops?”
“No, we’re filmmakers,” Hannie said. She saw Mosson press his lips together, stifling a smile.
“Filmmakers? Like for TV?” The door opened and a thin Asian man, wearing only jeans, stood on his toes and looked through the bars, beyond Hannie and Mosson. “So, where are the cameras?”
“We haven’t got them here at the moment. We actually want to interview Regina,” Hannie said. “Is she here? We’d like to make a time when we can come back and do some filming.”
“Reggie isn’t here. I haven’t seen her for a few days.”
“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” Mosson said.
The young man looked at him, raising his sharply angled eyebrows, then shrugged. “Byron Solange.”
“Do you know where Reggie might have gone?” Hannie asked quickly.
“I think she had to go pull her brother out of some shit again.”
Hannie reached inside her satchel and brought out a pen and paper.
“What’s his name? Can you tell me where he lives?”
“Dudley Wilcox. He’s in some hostel over in Brunswick somewhere.”
Hannie scribbled down the name. “Do you know the name of the hostel? Or maybe a phone number?”
Byron crossed his arms. “I’m not a fucking Telstra operator, you know.”
Through the blur of the wire mesh, Hannie saw a yellow and black cobra tattoo curled around Byron’s wrist and forearm. A shrill electronic version of Mission Impossible sounded. Byron Solange looked behind him.
“Look, that’s my mobile. I gotta go.” The door started to close.
“If Regina comes back, would you ask her to ring me?” Hannie said. “Here’s my card. I’ll slip it under the door.” She bent down and poked the business card under the grille. Byron picked it up, nodded, and closed the front door.
Hannie looked across at Mosson. “Let’s go.”
She followed him down the path, watching him carefully place his feet on the leaves. It shouldn’t be too hard to track down a hostel in Brunswick, she decided. Community Welfare would probably be the best people to call, or maybe Corrective Services. And it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have Mosson around when she went to visit Dudley Wilcox. She looked at the width of Mosson’s shoulders. He was big and intimidating in a neat, dry-cleaned kind of way. Had he ever had to fight? Hannie watched the muscles in his neck move as he turned his head. If he’d lost his hair as a kid, there was no doubt he would have had to fight. Mosson unlocked the passenger door for her then walked around the front of the car. She opened her door and looked back at the house. There was something about Byron Solange that made her think of violence.
“He was a bit on the defensive side,” Mosson said as he started the engine.
Hannie shifted the satchel at her feet and nodded. “I didn’t trust him one bit.”
Mosson turned the car in a tight half circle. “What now?”
“I’ll try and find out where Dudley Wilcox is living. Maybe he can tell us where Regina has gone. I also want to see her doctor.”
“I’ll come too.” Mosson glanced at her.
Hannie tightened her grip on the molded armrest.
“I think I can manage on my own, thank you.”
“As your executive producer, I’ll be going too,” he said.
Hannie turned her head and looked out of the window. The gentle menace in his words stopped her from arguing, but there was something about him that undermined the tough-guy act. Something about his eyes and mouth, she decided. Too much humor. Or maybe a slight self-consciousness that she also saw in her weekend-biker brother. Mosson might be trying to take over her film, but he wasn’t as impenetrable or threatening as she’d first thought. The insight eased the stiff anger in her body, and she relaxed back into the seat. The freeway entrance sign flashed past.
“You just missed the turning,” she said, reaching for the Melways.
THE TEN-MINUTE SIGN
S TRAFE GOBBA OFFERS ME A COFFEE, TRYING TO KEEP things civilized.
“It’s real,” he says. “None of that instant crap.”
“Make mine black,” I say. I don’t want the coffee, but the longer Strafe delays the inevitable, the less I’ll have to do when the time comes. I lean against the workbench and watch him wipe out the coffee mugs with an old rag.
The back of Strafe’s gun shop is a mixture of storage and office space, with an ingrained coldness that comes from thick brick walls and only one radiator for the whole room. On a half-sized sink, Strafe spoons ground coffee into a chrome and glass plunger, and the rich smell briefly covers the old stink of gunpowder, oil, and metal. Beside me on the bench is a reload press with a box of empty .22 shells and a small set of brass scales. A metal desk is opposite, paperwork in neat piles and a laptop plugged into the wall. The chair has its back to three rows of open shelving that jut at right angles into the room—very bad Feng Shui. Most of Strafe’s legitimate stock is locked up and on display in cases up front, but I know he also has a hidden cache under the shelving with a range of weapons that have no recorded sale history.
“That was some fight the other week, huh, Trojan?” Strafe says. “I lost a bundle on that piece of shit that Mirko bred. He told me it was a sure thing.” He jiggles the electric kettle in its stand. “Fucking thing takes forever. Do you have milk or sugar?”
“No.”
He wipes his hand across the top of his broad bald patch, and smoothes out a straggly ponytail. He’s beginning to sweat.
“I gotta cut down on this stuff,” he says, and pours the hot water into the plunger, a Rorschach pattern of ground coffee splashing up the side of the glass. To me, those tests always look like a couple of men strangling each other. Used to worry the army shrinks no end. Strafe folds both of his stubby hands over the top black knob and pushes down on the press, then pours the coffee into the mugs.
“No milk, no sugar,” he says, handing a mug to me. I watch him pile three teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. It was time to get this show on the road.
“I’m looking for a .308, three extra barrels, and a baffle,” I say. “Same deal as usual.”
He nods, and wipes his hands on his baggy trousers. “Hang on a minute, I’ll put the ten-minute sign up.” He pushes through the beads across the connecting doorway, and through their clattering I hear him bolt the front door.
“Righto,” he says, reappearing.
He walks to the back door, checks it is locked, then pushes the last set of shelves along the wall, exposing a trapdoor in the floor. He pulls it open and looks at me expectantly. I put my mug in the sink, walk over to him, and look inside, although I have already seen how his cache works. The space is a bit less than a meter square, with most of it taken up by a small safe that only looks big enough to hold papers, payroll, and some valuables. Anyone checking up on Strafe would assume the hole had been designed for the safe. A good fake out.
Strafe kneels down and grabs the handles on either side of the safe, lifting it out of the hole. Then, with a loud grunt, he lays on his stomach with his arm in the hole, hooks his hand up under the left side, and pulls a hidden wire shelf along a couple of runners. The shelf slides into view just below floor level, holding a neat stack of plastic-wrapped weaponry. He pulls out the rifle, three barrels, and a box then pushes the shelf back under the floor.
“It’s a good piece. Totally clean. I built it from the best components,” he says, handing me the rifle.
I unwrap it, check the balance, and take aim. The highly polished butt plate is smooth against my cheek, and although the fit is not perfect, it’s acceptable. I always prefer to have a custom job, but I don’t have the time. I check the breech then the trigger pressure. A bit heavy—I’ll have to adjust it.
“Not bad,” I say.
If the bore is not too hacked up, the rifle will be adequate. I pull a small Maglite and a dentist’s mirror out of my pocket. I pinched the mirror when I was a kid and it’s come in handy for a lot of things, including checking rifle bores. I shine the torch down into the breech and angle the mirror up the barrel. The bore has the usual wear and tear, but nothing major.
I nod. “It’s good. Let me have a look at the others.”
I check the bore of each of the extra barrels. All okay.
“I’ll take them. Show me the baffle?” I say, holding out my hand.
Strafe hands me the box. “You’ll need to thread the barrels to fit it, but I can do that if you like. For a bit extra.”
I take the baffle out of the box. It’s short and wide, so it won’t add too much length to the rifle. Adding a baffle will mean customizing the .308 cartridges to counter the velocity skim, but it will minimize any sound ricohet. I pick up the rifle and study the stock and barrel. The scope I’ve ordered will need to be raised over the baffle. Not a real problem, and a few practice rounds will show the adjustments that have to be made.
“And what about my scope?” I ask. I raise the gun again, a little to the right of Strafe, settle it against my cheekbone and shoulder, and squint down the sight.
Strafe’s shoulders hunch. “Like I said, Trojan, it’s held up. It hasn’t come yet.”
I squeeze the trigger and a low click sounds in the breech. Never pump a trigger, always follow through. Like a tennis stroke.
“I need that scope, Strafe.” I lower the gun.
He shrugs.
“I’m tired of waiting.” I lean the gun against the wall and walk over to him.
“But I can’t do anything about it.” He’s sweating again and steps back against the shelving.
Compared to other nationalities, Aussies need a lot of personal space. About half a meter, all round. Of course, it varies with individuals, but if you move any closer than that, it’s a safe bet we’ll get toey. Must be something to do with the size of the country and the low population. I stand about ten centimeters from Strafe and smile down at his pudgy, sweaty face.
“You sold it to the Tapdancer.”
I’d had a chance meeting with the American a few days ago. With a few bourbons in him, the Tapdancer always brags about his new equipment.
Strafe’s eyes dart around, looking for room to maneuver, but there is none.
“I believe you owe me my deposit,” I say. And what the hell, he may as well bleed both ways. “With twenty percent interest.”
Strafe nods, the back of his head scraping up and down the edge of the metal shelving. “Twenty percent,” he whispers. “It’s in the safe.”
I step back. He kneels down at the safe and punches in a code, but his fingers are shaking and he presses a wrong key. The display flashes Error. He takes a deep breath and tries again. The safe clicks open. He pulls out a pile of fifties and hundreds and counts out my deposit. And the twenty percent.
“It’s all there,” he says, handing it to me. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I fold it over once and put it into my jacket pocket. Strafe closes the safe and watches the display run through a stream of locking numbers. Using the heel of my hand, I slam the side of his head against the top of the safe and hold him there, like a flapping fish.
“Jesus,” he moans, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He tries to bring his hands up to his face, but I pick him up by the base of his ponytail and slam him into the safe again. This time he resists and his forehead hits the edge of the metal. Hot adrenaline washes through my body and I know I’ll pay later. I pull his head back. The skin above his right eye is split and blood streams down his face into his mouth.
“No, please, I’ve heard something,” he says, spraying blood over the floor. His eye is swelling shut, but he looks up at me, begging. “Something you’ll want to know. It’s about your job.” His fingers scrabble at the safe, sliding over his own blood. “Jesus, don’t kill me.”
“What have you heard?”
“The job. It’s corporate. Out of Japan.”
I stare down at him. “Where did you hear that?”
“My Japanese supplier,” Strafe gasps. “He said he’d heard some big Jap company was behind a contract in Australia. Lots of targets. That’s all he said.”
“Why the fuck do you think I’ve taken the job?” I pull his head back slightly and he flinches.
“The Tapdancer. He reckoned you took it. He said no one else would touch it with a barge pole.”
Fucking Tapdancer. I should rip the bastard’s tongue out.
“I wouldn’t want the idea that I took that job to get around. Understand?” I say. Not yet anyway. Not until I’d finished it. I let Strafe’s head go and he slumps back on his knees. He nods carefully and wipes blood away from his mouth.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask, nodding towards the gun and extras.
“Three and a half.” He has begun to shiver but he still tilts his head and watches me count out the money.
I drop it on the floor beside him. I know he wants to pick it up, but he doesn’t move.
“Thread them all for the baffle and bring them to me at the back of the Jade Lotus in Chinatown tonight. Nine o’clock. It’s up Plumbers Lane. And not in your van, in your car. Understood?”
Strafe nods. Yes, he understands perfectly now. I look down at my hands, suddenly aware of a familiar weakness. Fuck, it’s come already. So fast. I turn my back on Strafe and walk over to the sink, forcing my shaking hands to turn on the hot tap. The water is cold at first then builds to boiling. The trembling in my hands becomes secondary to my burning skin, but I have to have the heat. I hold both hands there for another half minute, clenching my teeth, then pull them out and muffle the burn in the old rag. I need to get out, let this attack pass, but the back door has two bolts. I may not be able to work them free. I flex my fingers and ball my hands into fists. Strafe doesn’t look up as I pass him, but I hear him pick up the money.
The heat has done its job and I unbolt the door. Outside, the small backyard is empty, the watery afternoon sun making me squint. I close the door behind me and walk through the yard to the back alley, pausing to check it’s clear. My heart is too fast, too loud in my ears. I jam my hands into my pockets and start to walk.
The shaking will go away soon, but each time it seems to come on faster. One day it could even start at the same time as the adrenaline rush. That’s what the quack said. Not that the bastard could do anything to stop it. Just told me he saw a lot of it in soldiers who’d seen combat. A Gulf vet I once met in L.A. told me that Rohies helped. I tried them, but they slowed me down too much. I can’t afford to lose any more reflex time.
I walk along the length of the alley, past the backyards of the shops and the rows of council bins, and turn the corner into the main street. My breathing is too fast for a suburban shopping strip. I lean beside the doorway of a McDonald’s to wait it out. A pretty blonde holding the hand of a little boy asks, “Are you okay, sir?” I smile and nod and the kid pushes open the McDonald’s door, the chill of the air-conditioning brushing my face. I look away from her worried frown and focus on a faded white chalk mark on the concrete, flush against the wall. It’s one of those so-called secret society marks that Dug told me about. The lettering is old-fashioned and a bit wobbly. PMS. Who knows, maybe it’s a group of old has-been soldiers banding together: the Post Military Shakers.
TASTY COMMUNICATION
O N SATURDAY MORNING, MOSSON FERRET WOKE up frowning. The day stretched out in front of him with no plans. Was that the problem? Ever since his mother had died he had not made any weekend plans. No long lunches with friends, no parties, no Saturday night movies. There had only been his Sunday laps, the water, and exhaustion muting his loneliness. Maybe it was now time to go out, see some people, get away from the deep silences that threatened to box him inside his grief.
He sat up and rubbed the back of his head, feeling the rasp of the one tiny patch of hair his disease had left him. His Hare Krishna knot, Pippa called it. She had taken a lot of pleasure shaving it on the mornings they had showered together. Maybe he should call her, suggest a drink. No. Bad idea. The woman was a basket case. And she was probably on shift at the hospital anyway.
Mosson stood up and walked into the en suite bathroom. It would be good to see Sledge and Bonnie again, but with two little kids they needed a bit more warning than a couple of hours. He stood at the toilet and pissed, pressing down on his morning erect penis. Maybe Raphael would be in for a few beers at the Village Belle. He flushed the toilet then turned on the shower taps, adjusting the heat until the water bouncing off his hand bordered on burning. He stepped into the shower and closed the glass door.
As the water eased the muscles in the back of his neck, he thought about the last time he’d seen Pippa. It had been a one-nighter, for old times’ sake. Actually, more of a half-nighter, as she’d been on late shift. He realized it was also the last time he’d had sex. He counted back. Seven months ago. Jesus, no wonder he was so jumpy. He lined up the back of his head in the two carefully placed mirrors suction-cupped to the shower walls and squeezed shaving cream into his palm. It had been a lot more fun when Pippa had shaved him. He rubbed the cream onto his Hare Krishna knot and picked up the razor. Three strokes and his only patch of hair was gone. Mosson closed his eyes and stood under the water, the rest of the shaving cream sliding over his shoulders and down the plug hole.
Later, he walked to the newsagent on Ormond Road to buy The Age, detoured along Spray Street to read the For Sale board of a house he liked, then walked back to his apartment. It was still too early to call Raphael, and Mosson felt too restless to read the paper. He walked into the kitchen larder and picked up the muesli he usually ate for breakfast. But there was no yogurt—he’d meant to buy some when he got the paper. He pushed the plastic bag back onto the shelf and looked around for other options. Nothing much, unless he fancied Rogan Josh sauce on toast with miso soup. He backed out of the larder and opened the fridge. Eggs. He could make himself eggs on toast.
He remembered the Breakfast Set B he had eaten every morning at Tasty Communication in Kyoto. At first he had been attracted to the cafe because of the absurd name, but when he pointed to the picture of Breakfast Set B and was served creamy scrambled eggs, a thick slice of white toast dripping with butter, shredded lettuce, and the best coffee he’d had in Japan, he became a regular for the two weeks he was in the old city. He was greeted every morning with a shy smile and bow from the young waitress, who, on the first morning, tried to speak to him in Japanese. She soon realized he was actually gaijin on the inside. From then on she carefully enunciated her words, “Ready to tell?” and Mosson would smile and dip his head and point to the second picture on the glossy card. “With jam,” he always added, and sometimes the jam came and sometimes it didn’t.
Mosson picked up the carton of eggs and closed the fridge door. The breakfasts had been good in Kyoto, but the real highlight had been the formal Ka-Tei evening meal on his last night in Japan. The restaurant was on one of the oldest streets in Kyoto—Pontocho Alley—opposite a teahouse still used by geisha for appointments. The Ka-Tei banquet had been exquisite, each tiny course perfectly presented on beautiful porcelain—tuna and salmon sashimi on a green leaf plate, oven-baked fish coated in sweet miso and presented on a sea blue platter, green beans and sesame seeds bright against a black bowl. The courses seemed endless. But the most achingly beautiful moment for Mosson had been his first glimpse of a real geisha.
The young waiter serving him a dessert plate had suddenly straightened and looked out of the window. Mosson followed his gaze, and through the little square gaps of the wooden lattice he saw the shimmering gold fall of a hair ornament in smooth black hair. “Geisha,” the waiter said softly. Mosson glimpsed the curve of a painted white cheek, the tiny red bow of a closed-lip smile, and finally the tender butterfly wings of an unpainted nape. He wanted to get out of his seat, stand by the window, press his eye between the thin wooden bars to see the whole geisha. But he knew it would be too gauche, too gaijin. So he sat in his seat and watched the Japan he longed to understand flash by, a montage of half-glimpsed colors and matte white skin.
Mosson stared down at the smooth pale eggs in their cardboard compartments. In Kyoto he had promised himself he would learn Japanese when he got home, study the ancient culture, ask his mother about her family again. But that was four years ago and he had never found the time for the classes, never read the books, and his mother had still slipped by his requests for her childhood stories, only talking about the Kyoto she had known as a young woman. When Mosson had asked her for her memories, all she said was, “I lost three sisters and my mother at Hiroshima. There is no family in Japan.” And by then his father was no longer alive to pull Mosson aside and, in his soft, low voice, add the few details he knew about his wife’s early life.
Mosson unhooked a frying pan from the rack on the wall and placed it on the stove. He knew he would probably find out more about his mother’s family when he packed up her things. But sorting through her old papers, folding her clothes into plastic bags, and clearing the house of her furniture and dolls seemed too final. Perhaps he could do it a little bit at a time; take a few pieces back with him each visit. He had already started with that scroll he’d found. It was still sitting on his bedside table waiting for him to ask Aunt Momi for a translation. He promised himself he would ring her next week and arrange a visit. He’d have to remember to buy a box of her favorite red bean cakes as a gift. The traditional courtesy would have pleased his mother.
Mosson clicked the button on the gas lighter until a tiny flame held steady, then pushed it up against the burner, jumping back as the ring of blue flame popped and leaped at his hand. He poured milk into the bottom of the pan. Just as he flicked a lump of butter into the milk, the phone rang. He reached over and picked up the receiver, watching the butter spread.
“Hello?” he said.
“Is that Mosson?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?” He tucked the receiver between his shoulder and ear and picked up the pan, swirling the butter into the warming milk.
“Hannie.”
“Oh, hi. How are you?” He put the pan down on the flame and held the receiver back against his ear. She sounded tired but a bit more friendly.
“I’m fine, thanks. I’m just calling to tell you that Dr. Lomas has agreed to meet us on Monday at three.”
“Great, good. That’s good,” Mosson said.
“She works at St. Michael’s in the city. In the consulting suites. How about I meet you in the foyer at about ten to three?”
“Great, good.” Mosson rubbed his forehead. “What about the brother?”
“I haven’t been able to track him down yet.”
“Right.” Mosson looked down at his feet. He could be friendly too. “Maybe we should get together sometime today or tomorrow and prepare for this doctor.”
“Prepare what?”
“You know, questions. Who’s going to say what. That kind of thing.”
“There’s no need. I know what I want to ask,” Hannie said.
“Yeah, but what about the filming? I’ll need an idea of what kind of shots you want. We could meet for a coffee.”
“This is just a preliminary thing. We’ve got to find Regina first and get her okay before we start spending money on film.”
Mosson stared at the bubbling milk, the slick of butter separating again and collecting in the middle of the pan. “You mean you haven’t even got her permission yet?”
“No, not yet,” Hannie said, and Mosson heard the careful pleasantness drop out of her voice. “But she’s the only one. I’ve got the permission of the other two women and I’ve organized most of the archival footage. I know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah, right,” Mosson said, knowing his sarcastic tone was too heavy.
“At least I’ve been trying to make films,” Hannie said. “I haven’t been sitting on my arse counting someone else’s money and trying to muscle in—” She stopped.
And trying to muscle in on her film. Mosson knew he’d had that coming, but Jesus, it still stung. He leaned against the bench, unable to think of anything to say, twisting the telephone cord tightly around his hand. The sound of a sigh broke the silence.
“Look, I’ll see you on Monday,” Hannie said. “Ten to three in the foyer.”
“I’ll be there,” Mosson said, and heard the click of the line disengaging. Christ, he thought, every move he made with this woman was going to be wrong. And he had at least three months of this kind of crap ahead. Was it going to be worth it? He placed the receiver back onto the cradle and decided he couldn’t afford to let it get too personal. But as he poured the overboiled milk and butter down the sink, the image of her pale oval face framed in his car doorway played through his mind, her thick plait shimmering red and gold.
A NERVOUS LLAMA
T HE WHITE-PAINTED FOYER OF ST. MICHAEL’S Hospital was eye-achingly bright. A dazzle of afternoon sunlight bounced off the windows of a nearby building and through the hospital’s glass frontage, swamping the cold fluorescent lights and flaring off the highly polished floors. Hannie stopped in the doorway as her sight collapsed into streams of multi-colored spots. She blinked and squinted, shielding her eyes until she made out the shapes of a reception desk and a gift shop. By the time she had edged her way to the first bank of seats along the wall, she realized that the receptionists, the gift shop attendant, and most of the patients were wearing sunglasses. She wiped away glare tears with the back of her hand and searched her bag for her own sunglasses, pushing them on with a sigh of relief.
“It’s only like this for about twenty minutes in the afternoon,” a voice beside her said. Hannie looked down at an old man in a tartan dressing gown and wraparound sunglasses, sitting in one of the plastic chairs, a portable drip standing beside him. “They’re trying to raise money for some of that window tint, but I reckon it will cut out too much light for the other times. Sick people don’t want dark places, reminds them too much of the grave.”
“Maybe they should forget the tint and just make this an eye hospital,” Hannie said.
The old man laughed, the drip tube slapping the side of the electronic monitor. “Ha, that’s a good one. An eye hospital. Very good.”
Hannie smiled and moved away, trying not to look at the thinly stretched skin on the old man’s hand where the drip shunt was taped to the needle. Hannie had been fed by a drip for two weeks the first time she’d been hospitalized with Crohn’s, and although it was four years ago, she swore the top of her hand was still bruised.
She scanned the foyer, pleased to see that Mosson wasn’t there yet. When he arrived she wanted to be sitting down waiting for him, punctual, professional, and prepared. She noted where the toilet was, just in case the crouching heaviness in her bowel pushed through into an attack, then chose a seat that faced the entrance and sat down, settling her bag onto her knee. No, that probably made her look too anxious.
She moved the bag to the floor beside her feet and opened the zip, sliding her hand inside to touch the mini-recorder. She’d already checked and rechecked the batteries. No need to do it again. Hannie closed the zip and sat back in the molded plastic chair, becoming aware of a blond girl with glazed watery eyes hunched over on the seat opposite. Hannie watched as the girl took careful breaths, her hands clenched in her lap as though she was only holding her body together by will and shallow breathing. She was in a bad way; Hannie had seen enough extreme pain in the mirror to know the signs. She leaned over and touched the girl’s arm.
“Do you want me to get someone?” she asked.
The girl focused with an effort and shook her head, her damp hair sticking to her forehead. “They said…be…with me…soon,” she said, the breath-starved words so soft that Hannie had to reach for their meaning.
“I think you need someone now,” Hannie said.
She sat up straight and looked around for help, remembering her own wait in Emergency when her weight had plummeted and she could no longer explain away the cramps and pus-covered shit. She had sat in the hard chair for five hours, her hard-won control slowly leaching away into the molded beige plastic. Sigmy had wandered the car park and corridors, too frightened to sit still and too self-conscious to demand a doctor. Looking back now, how could she have missed such a huge warning sign? Hannie stood up and saw a balding male nurse pushing an empty wheelchair towards the lifts.
“Excuse me,” she called loudly. “I think you should see this girl here. She looks really bad.”
Her words stopped the low hum of conversation in the foyer and heads turned to stare. Hannie ignored the flush of heat across her face and pointed to the girl, who was now bent double over her knees. “She looks really bad.”
The nurse walked over and squatted in front of the girl, pushing his blue-lensed ski glasses up onto his forehead to study her face.
“You having trouble breathing, sweetheart?” he asked. The girl nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Are you a patient here? No? Come on, then, I’ll take you over to Emergency and we’ll get someone to take a look at you.” He looked up at Hannie, frowning. “You should have gone straight to Emergency, not here.”
“I don’t know her,” Hannie said. “I just saw her sitting here.”
“Oh, right.” He smiled a quick apology and dropped his sunglasses back onto his nose. “Come on, then, love. Off we go,” he said, helping the girl to her feet.
Hannie watched him lead her towards the wheelchair. No doubt she would have another wait in a curtained-off cubicle, but at least she was one step closer to seeing a doctor. It was strange, Hannie thought, how the space inhabited by a sick person got smaller as they got sicker. House, room, bed, and then the smallest space of all: coffin. Disease always had walls around it.
Feeling hot and a little twitchy, Hannie picked up her bag and walked over to the lifts to shake off the stares of the other patients. She turned her back to the foyer and studied the engraved metal directory bolted to the wall. The brushed brass dazzled her even through her dark glasses, but she finally found Dr. Argalla Lomas on the list—suite 406.
“That was nice what you did for that girl,” a deep voice too close to her ear said. Hannie flinched and swung around.
“Jesus, you scared the life out of me,” she said, facing Mosson, her bag up against her chest. He was wearing his mirrored aviator sunglasses and she could see her own shock in their reflection.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump,” he said, stepping back. “I thought you saw me coming.”
“Well, I didn’t.” Hannie took a deep breath. She had to be calm and professional, not let him put her off balance. She lowered her bag and smoothed out her voice. “I’ve found Dr. Lomas. She’s on the fourth floor. Are you ready to go up?”
Mosson nodded and pressed the lift’s call button.
“Dr. Lomas is Regina’s doctor, right?” he asked as one of the lifts opened, a muted chiming keeping time with the flashing light above the doorway. They stepped into the empty lift and turned to face the doors as they closed.
“She’s the one who discovered Regina could resorb,” Hannie said, pressing the button marked 4. She pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her head and unzipped her bag, pulling out the Rabbit Woman newspaper clipping. “Here, take a look at this. I spoke to the journo who wrote it. He said Dr. Lomas was blocking him.”
Mosson unfolded the paper, lifting his sunglasses to scan the article. “Did he have any ideas why?”
“Just said he had a bad feeling about it all.” The lift lurched and sank, chiming the arrival at the fourth floor. “I know what he means,” she added.
Mosson took off his glasses and put them in his top pocket. “Why have you got a bad feeling about it?”
“Dunno. Maybe it’s just being in a hospital again. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.” They stepped out into a corridor.
“Me too.” Mosson smiled. “What were you in for?”
“You know, tests and stuff. The usual kind of crap.” No pun intended, she added silently. Her family always tagged it onto the end of their discussions about her Crohn’s disease. “That’s a real bummer, kiddo,” they’d say, “no pun intended.”
“Yeah, they did all kinds of tests on me when my hair fell out,” Mosson said. “Came up with a big fat zero, of course. Just told me to buy a wig.”
“I can’t imagine you with a wig. Being bald suits you.”
Mosson flushed and looked away. Hannie felt a wave of heat sheet over her body. She’d been too personal.
“Took me about four really tragic wigs to find that out,” he said, smiling quickly. “I had one that blew off and rolled down the street.” He clapped his hand on top of his head. “Chased it for about two blocks until someone yelled out that I should keep my dog on a leash. That was my last wig.”
“Ever find it?” Hannie asked.
“No, I reckon it’s breeding in the sewers somewhere.”
They laughed, the sound echoing around the sterile white corridor. Hannie looked down the series of differently-sized signs on the wall naming the tenants on the floor. The plaque for Dr. Lomas was the smallest and an ugly shade of green. Bile green, Hannie decided.
“This way,” she said, pointing to the right.
The office of Dr. Argalla Lomas was at the end of the corridor. Hannie and Mosson walked into a dark waiting room overwhelmed by a steel-framed sofa, a cube coffee table that Hannie recognized from the IKEA catalog, and an empty receptionist’s desk. There was one door on the right, which was shut.
“What do you reckon?” Mosson said, his hand hovering above a bell on the raised frontage of the desk. Hannie shrugged. The bell clanged tinnily. They both turned towards the inner door and waited.
“Nothing stirred, not even a mouse,” Mosson finally said, leaning his elbows on the desk.
“We are a bit early,” Hannie said.
She glanced at her watch. No, they were actually on time. Suddenly the inner door opened and a bony woman with straight brown hair scraped back by an oversized gingham band stared at them.
“Dr. Lomas?” Hannie asked.
“Yes. Yes. I’m Dr. Lomas,” she said, and the sinews on her long neck twisted and jumped. “I heard the bell. You rang the bell, right?”
“Yes, we rang it. I spoke to you on Friday about the documentary we’re making.”
Dr. Lomas frowned, pushing down on the headband with the heel of her hand. “I am so bad with names. Very bad. You told me your names, didn’t you? I’ve already forgotten.”
“I’m Hannie Reynard and this is Mosson Ferret.” Hannie realized she had lowered her voice into the soothing tones she used for the loonies who sometimes lurched up to her on the tram. Dr. Lomas glanced over at Mosson, swallowed convulsively, and turned back to Hannie.
“Yes. Of course. You rang last week. You want to know about Regina, don’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t have much time, you know. And I can’t tell you much. Doctor-patient confidentiality. Yes, confidentiality. You understand?” Dr. Lomas glanced at Mosson again then looked up at the ceiling. “Confidentiality,” she whispered.
“We understand,” Mosson said, and Dr. Lomas flinched. Mosson looked down at his feet, his face rigid.
“We just have a few questions. It won’t take long,” Hannie said gently.
She walked towards the inner doorway. Dr. Lomas turned her head slightly and watched Hannie out of the corner of her eye. It was like creeping up on a nervous llama, Hannie thought. She had expected Dr. Lomas to be like the female doctors she had consulted on her way to her Crohn’s diagnosis: down-to-earth women possessing a calm efficiency that had more to do with exhaustion than temperament. Instead, Dr. Lomas reminded her of Jerry Lewis in The Nutty Professor, the geek scientist with a bad haircut and no social skills. Hannie looked at Mosson for help. He smiled broadly and stepped forward. Dr. Lomas retreated backwards into her office.
The room was overheated and dim, lit by an old blue desk lamp with a large ABBA sticker on its base. Probably original, Hannie thought. Dr. Lomas had taken refuge behind the large wooden desk, her hands gripping the beveled edge.
“Sit down. Yes, sit down,” she said, pointing to two small plastic chairs facing the desk. Each had a high stack of printouts on the seat. “Put those somewhere, beside the other piles, and sit down. Yes, sit down.”
Hannie put her bag on the floor and picked up the pile of paper. The top page read: Summary of National Cervical Test Registry 1993–1994. She dropped the stack onto the floor. Mosson dumped his pile next to it and, over his shoulder, Hannie saw that it had the same title, with the dates 1995–1996.
“Some light reading,” he said softly against her ear. His breath was warm and smelled faintly of chocolate. Hannie suddenly tasted the memory of soft caramel and nougat on her tongue and teeth. A Mars bar—Sigmy’s favorite pick-me-up. He used to buy one every Wednesday night on the way home from indoor cricket and leave her the last bite.
“What kind of things do you want to know about Regina?” Dr. Lomas asked, her voice muffled. She was sitting forward with her elbows on the desk, her hands bunched over her mouth. “Wait, I should see your credentials first. Yes, I must see some credentials.”
Hannie stepped over the various piles of paper on the floor and sat down, pulling her chair closer to the desk. Mosson sat next to her and leaned forward to give Dr. Lomas his business card. She picked it quickly out of his fingers and pressed herself back into her chair.
“Independent Film Fund? Finance manager? Why is a finance manager here?” she asked, her eyes darting up to Mosson then back to the card.
“I’m also executive producer for Ms. Reynard’s film,” he said. “I can verify her project.”
“I see. Very good. Very good.” She put the card on the desk and slid it back to Mosson.
“Dr. Lomas, I spoke to Rennie Carp from the Herald,” Hannie said. “The journalist who wrote that piece about Regina and your research?”
Dr. Lomas nodded once and Hannie sensed the woman’s wariness go up a notch. Was it the mention of Rennie, or of the research? Hannie bent down and pushed her hand into her bag. “Would you mind if I taped our conversation?”
“No!” The sharp yelp froze Hannie mid-move. Dr. Lomas took a deep breath. “No,” she said more evenly, “that would not be appropriate. Not appropriate.”
“Okay. That’s okay,” Hannie said. She quickly pushed the Record button on the machine and withdrew her hand, ignoring the kick of acid conscience in her gut. She had a hunch Dr. Lomas was going to be important. “Rennie said you would be the best person to tell us a bit more about Regina’s ability.”
Dr. Lomas straightened in her chair. “Yes, yes, of course. I can do that. I can give you some literature about resorption. It’s been well documented in small mammals, such as rabbits and mice, and there has always been the possibility of very early cell resorption in human pregnancy. The difference with Regina is that she and the others can resorb at a much later time. At four months, in Regina’s case. And it doesn’t seem to be triggered by environmental stress.”
“There are others?” Mosson asked.
Dr. Lomas stared at him. “Others?”
“You said Regina and the others.”
The doctor twisted her hands together. “Early days, early days,” she said. “Not at liberty yet to reveal—” She stopped and swallowed.
“Is that what your research is about?” Hannie asked.
“Part of an international study.” Dr. Lomas looked at the door. “Yes, I’m doing the Australian research. Very big, you know. Huge funding. Very big.”
“Who’s funding it? The government? The hospital?” Mosson linked his hands behind his head so that his elbows jutted out at right angles.
Dr. Lomas shook her head. “No, no, it’s private funding.” She stood up. “Now, I’m sorry, but I’m very busy. I must get back to work.”
Mosson didn’t move. Fighting the urge to stand up too, Hannie said, “Just one more thing, Dr. Lomas. Rennie Carp wrote about you making an ultrasound video of Regina in the actual act of resorbing. Would we be able to see that?”
“No, no, that’s not possible. It’s part of Regina’s private medical records.” Dr. Lomas smiled tightly and held her hand out towards the door.
Mosson pushed himself off the chair. “Are you practicing at the moment, Dr. Lomas?” he asked. She looked at him blankly.
“Are you seeing patients?” he said, emphasizing the start of each word.
“Well, not really. I do a day and a half at a clinic. But my focus is on my research. I’m heavily involved in my research.”
“I see,” Mosson said.
Hannie stood up, pausing to let Mosson move out of the small space. “Thanks for talking to us,” she said. “I’d appreciate having a look at some of that literature about resorbing. Would you be able to send it to me?” She opened her bag and took out a business card. “To that postal address would be fine.”
Dr. Lomas took the card. “Right. Yes, I can do that.”
Hannie leaned across the desk and held out her hand. Dr. Lomas grasped it quickly and Hannie felt hot damp skin.
Mosson nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Lomas. We’ll be in touch.”
Even to Hannie it sounded like a threat. She smiled at Dr. Lomas then walked up to Mosson, turning him with her closeness and shepherding him out of the door.
She followed him along the empty corridor to the lifts, then said softly, “‘We’ll be in touch’? What are you, a cop?”
Mosson pressed the Down button. “It was pretty obvious she was nervous about something.”
“Yeah, you.” Hannie shoved her hand inside her bag and pushed the Stop button on the recorder. It probably hadn’t picked up the conversation, but it had been worth a try.
“And she completely blocked the stuff about the others, just like your journo said.”
“I really wanted to get a look at that ultrasound tape,” Hannie said. She pressed her hand against her forehead. A headache was definitely on its way. She needed to get out of the hospital and breathe some fresh air.
“Are you okay?” Mosson asked. The lift opened. He stepped forward and pressed his foot and arm against the doors. “You’ve gone really pale.”
“Just a bit of a headache,” Hannie said.
He nodded. “Probably from that sunlight in the foyer. If I’d been in there for a few more minutes, I reckon it would have given me a migraine.”
Hannie gritted her teeth. Was he one of those men who always made it about himself? She pulled her shoulders back, forcing down the sudden fatigue that made the thumping in her head echo with its heaviness. She would have to call her doctor today—the diarrhea attacks were too frequent to hope for a spontaneous remission. Sometimes in the morning she felt like her actual life force was being drained out of her body and flushed down the toilet. She leaned her hand on the wall and steadied herself. “We’ve really got to get Regina’s okay for all this. Maybe her brother, Dudley, will know where she’s gone. I’m…” Hannie paused, strengthening her voice. “We’re going to see him on Thursday.”
They stepped into the lift and Mosson let the doors close.
“Thursday? That’s a bit far away. We do have a shooting schedule, you know.”
“I’m well aware of our schedule. The supervisor of the place where he lives says he takes off every now and again, but usually comes back for pension day. Which is this Thursday.”
“Great.” Mosson crossed his arms.
Hannie pressed her lips together and watched the digital countdown of the floors. It had taken her half a day to track down Dudley Wilcox, wheedling her way through six government departments and four harassed case workers. But she had got the information, and all Mosson could do was bitch about it. She glanced over at him. He had already put on his sunglasses and was adjusting his tie in the mirrored wall. He really did fancy himself. Maybe she should send him on some kind of research wild-goose chase. Get rid of him for a while. She had to admit that he’d asked Dr. Lomas a couple of interesting questions, but if he kept on with this tough-guy take-charge act, no one would end up giving them any information. Without the right information from the right people, her film was dead on its feet.
The lift opened and they stepped into the foyer. The bright sunlight had gone, leaving the huge reception hall coldly lit by the fluorescents. The old man on the drip was still sitting against the wall. He took off his sunglasses and smiled as Hannie and Mosson walked towards the front entrance.
“See,” he called. “It’s beginning to get dark again.”
A GENERAL’S TREASURE
T HE FORECASTER STOOD FOR A MOMENT OUTSIDE the restaurant entrance, exactly fifteen minutes late for the midday meeting. He had timed it well. Through the window he could see Dr. Famagusta waiting for him at a table against the far wall, plump shoulders hunched over a glass of red wine. The gaijin’s attention was fixed on something in front of him. A Company personnel file—the Forecaster recognized the vivid blue folder. Was that the reason for this sudden meeting? Although he knew he was being eyed by five desperate beggars crouched on the hot pavement nearby, the Forecaster was determined to wait another minute before entering. He would not even apologize for his lateness. There could be no better way to show his indifference to the unsettling nature of the invitation.
Dr. Famagusta had called him that morning to request his company for lunch, bypassing both of their personal assistants. That, in itself, had raised the Forecaster’s suspicions—he only ever saw the doctor at the larger managerial meetings, and only for a polite greeting. But it was the strange way the man had spoken to him that prompted the Forecaster to accept at such short notice: he was sure he’d heard a low tone of knowledge in the flamboyant ebb and flow of the doctor’s accented English.
But what could the man know? As a mid-level manager in Medical Research and Development, Dr. Famagusta had supplied him with the Rabbit Woman report as part of the usual Company-wide data collection, and then, when requested, the specific details about the Australian research subjects. Perhaps the doctor had noted his extra interest in the Rabbit Women and sensed there was something unusual in the requests. Perhaps he saw an opportunity to poach some glory? Or did the fool think he had found some kind of leverage?
The Forecaster took a deep, calming breath and reminded himself of Sun Tzu’s excellent advice: a general should be both tranquil and obscure. He would not show the doctor any hint of his concern, nor divulge any details of the project. He would, however, make sure the doctor understood that he—and he alone—had been entrusted with an important duty by the highest authority in the Company. Only yesterday, the Director had nodded to him in the corridor, singling him out from two colleagues with a brief smile. And his updated sections budget, carefully reworked to preserve the covert nature of the extra payments, had been signed off without any question or amendment.
It had been this smooth momentum of his plans over the past week that had sent the Forecaster to the Company’s shrine that very morning to offer thanks to Hachiman, the god of war. As usual, the dim, sparsely decorated room on the seventh floor had been empty, the Shinto ways not followed by many of the Harare-based staff. The Forecaster had politely bowed outside the red-painted torii gate set over the doorway, then walked through into the dwelling place of the gods. He threw a few coins into the offering box then stepped up to the elegant stone trough of water along the side wall. Carefully, he ladled water over his left hand, then his right, then cupped a handful to his mouth, swirling the cold liquid over his tongue before releasing it into a waiting bowl. He dipped the ladle once more, holding it upright and letting the water drip down the handle to cleanse it for the next visitor.
Suitably purified, he walked up to the carved wooden shrine set on the small dais at the far end of the room. He bowed twice then clapped, the double snap of palm against palm a courteous call to Hachiman. With closed eyes, and hands pressed together, the Forecaster bent in thanks. The god of war had been very generous to him: the discovery of the Rabbit Woman menace, the wise counsel of Sun Tzu, the chance to perform an important service for the Company, the honor of the Director’s trust, the Irishman’s network, and finally, the ready supply of funds. He pressed his hands tighter together to emphasize his fervent gratitude, and to also press home a request from his wife that he had just remembered. Would Hachiman help his son achieve well in his examinations? Giving a small grunt of satisfaction for duty done and spiritual needs fulfilled, the Forecaster bowed again and backed away. He could now report to his wife during their next phone call that he had visited the shrine on his son’s behalf.
However, the Forecaster’s feeling of spiritual ease had not lasted the morning, and standing outside the restaurant entrance, he now berated himself for failing to ask Hachiman for a victory in the meeting with Dr. Famagusta. For a wild moment, he thought about returning to the shrine and hanging a prayer banner, but the restaurant was too far away from the Company building. The Forecaster made do with a quick prayer, hoping his earlier generosity and gratitude would carry the request to the god.
He opened the entrance door and walked straight into the smell of roasting meat, the fatty weight of it mixing with the perfume from a large vase of lilies on the reception desk. It made the Forecaster’s stomach lurch; Italian food was so brutal.
“May I help you, sir?” a man’s voice asked from somewhere behind the flowers. The Forecaster stepped closer, and a small thin maître d’ bobbed into view.
The Forecaster cleared his throat. “I am expected by Dr. Famagusta.”
The man ran a long finger down the bookings ledger and nodded. “He is waiting for you, sir. Please follow me.”
The Forecaster fell in behind the maître d’, noting he stood at least a head taller than the man and enjoying the unusual moment of physical superiority. The room was large, with the tables generously spaced to allow for private conversations. The Forecaster watched Dr. Famagusta notice his arrival and close the file, sliding it into a briefcase beside his chair. Then the man straightened, ready to stand for a handshake. Or would it be the unfortunate European kiss on each cheek? The Forecaster sniffed. He would force the handshake.
The doctor jumped to his feet, both hands extended. “So good of you to come,” he said eagerly. He was good-looking but overfed, an early double chin and jowls spreading over his crisp white shirt collar.
The Forecaster bowed, taking hold of one hand firmly and shaking it. “An unexpected pleasure, Dr. Famagusta,” he said.
“Sit, sit.” The doctor settled heavily into his chair and waved at the seat opposite. “Do you drink red wine? I’ve taken the great liberty of ordering a good Australian Cabernet.” He motioned to a passing waiter, who obediently stopped. “My friend here needs a drink.”
The Forecaster paused for a moment, offended by the man’s overfamiliarity. My friend? Stifling his keen sense of correctness, he sat down and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Thank you, yes. I will take some wine.”
The waiter immediately poured a generous amount into the waiting wineglass and deftly removed the other glass settings.
“I used to work in Australia. I know the wine regions,” the doctor said, nodding quickly to emphasize his expertise. “This one is from Victoria. A little village called Red Hill. It has a fresh produce market too. Very good.”
The Forecaster smiled politely. The man was nervous. Or did he always gabble like this?
“I have not been to Australia,” the Forecaster said.
“I was there for a research project. At a hospital in Melbourne.” The doctor took a large mouthful of wine. “It is why I wish to speak to you. I’ve noticed you have a special interest in the work of one of my Australian protégés—Dr. Argalla Lomas.”
The Forecaster studied the man warily. He had been expecting more subtlety, more guile. Sun Tzu taught that all warfare was based on deception. A general should never let an enemy gain a true picture of his strengths and weaknesses. Or his strategy.
The doctor shifted uneasily in his chair. “Argalla…” He stopped, his florid skin flushing darker. “I mean, Dr. Lomas did the Rabbit Woman research in Australia,” he prompted.
“Ahh, yes,” the Forecaster said. A sudden intuition made him blink; the doctor had slept with this Lomas woman.
The man bobbed his head, reassured. “Yes, the Rabbit Women.” He took another mouthful of wine. “You’ve read her report?”
The Forecaster gave a small shrug to let the doctor know that he had skimmed through it. “I recall that she has found a few incidences of the mutation in the Australian population,” he said.
“Seven women,” the doctor corrected. “But, of course, it’s not a complete survey of the female population. It’s based on the voluntary test program for cervical cancer, and that was only introduced thirty years ago.”
The Forecaster grunted, unable to resist demonstrating his own knowledge. “Eighty percent accuracy.”
“Closer to eighty-five percent,” the doctor countered quickly. “A reasonably comprehensive view of the current situation.”
The Forecaster smiled. It was comprehensive enough for his purposes.
“Do you agree with her conclusion?” he asked. “It is my experience that women are not suited to the objective nature of science.”
Famagusta laughed uneasily. “Dr. Lomas is an excellent researcher,” he said. He looked across at the Forecaster and shrugged. “Although I must say, she’s always had a tendency to jump at a conclusion too quickly.” His voice was edged with old malice. “There are still a lot of unknown variables, but I do agree with her suggestion that it is likely to be a spontaneous gain-of-function mutation that, for some reason, is appearing in a tiny percentage of the female population. But evolution?” He shook his head. “At the moment, I think that is more wishful thinking than science.” He smiled gently at the vagaries of his female colleague. “Still, if it is gain-of-function, then it would have a dominant phenotype and would be passed on to offspring. So hypothetically you could argue evolution.”
“If it is passed on to offspring, would your protégé’s projection of its spread be correct?”
“More or less. But it would take many, many generations to have any impact.” The man’s far-flung hands measured the vast amount of time.
The Forecaster allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. He had, of course, drawn the correct conclusion from the data: eliminating as many carriers of the gene as possible would curtail the spread of the mutation for at least the span of his two-hundred-year plan. Probably more.
The doctor steepled his fingers, eyeing the Forecaster over manicured nails. “May I ask why you are interested in Dr. Lomas’s work? I was under the impression that the larger study was going to be shelved.”
“I am not at liberty to discuss my research,” the Forecaster said, pleased for the chance to set this gaijin straight. “It comes from the highes—”
“Of course, I understand.” The doctor surrendered his curiosity with a flash of pale palms. “I was just wondering if there was a chance we could assist each other.”
“What do you mean?”
Famagusta wet his lips. “Dr. Lomas has conducted some further research into the Rabbit Woman mutation that was not authorized by the Company and doesn’t appear in the report. I thought you might find the information useful.”
The Forecaster curled his fingers into his thighs. “That is possible.”
At that moment, the waiter arrived with the menus. He handed them out then began to list the specials of the day, but the Forecaster did not hear a word of the spiel. His mind was focused on Famagusta’s offer. What kind of information did the man have? And would it affect his strategy?
The waiter finally retreated. Dr. Famagusta put aside his menu and leaned his elbows on the table, closing the distance between them.
“Dr. Lomas approached two of the research subjects,” he said softly. “It was very unethical. Naturally, I curbed her enthusiasm and she’s now being monitored by another researcher at the hospital. At my own expense.” The doctor paused, giving the word expense a moment of silence around it. “But before I could isolate her unauthorized research, a newpaper published a small item about it. And just recently some filmmakers have approached her for information about one of the Rabbit Women. She refused, but…” The doctor shrugged his mistrust.
“I see.” The Forecaster struggled to keep his face expressionless. He could not allow any more investigations—print, film, or scientific—into the Rabbit Women. “Do you know what these filmmakers wanted?”
The doctor’s rounded features suddenly sharpened. “Not at the moment, but if it is the kind of information you would find useful, I could arrange to supply you with up-to-date reports.”
The Forecaster was silent for a moment, in deference to the mysterious wonder of the spirit world; Hachiman had heard his hurried prayer and sent him a spy. Exactly what he needed. He knew the importance of spies in a campaign; Sun Tzu went so far as to call them a general’s treasure. It had rankled with him that the Irishman had an information source in Australia while he did not, but now the gods had corrected the imbalance. He silently thanked Hachiman for the continued favor, then congratulated himself on his own foresight in factoring a generous miscellaneous amount into his covert budget; it would easily cover the cost of the doctor.
“It can be an expensive business to obtain reliable information,” he said, dropping his voice into the age-old lilt of the marketplace.
The doctor flicked an expressive hand in the air. “No, no, I don’t want money.”
What, then, did the man want? The doctor saw the question in his face and leaned even closer, until the Forecaster could smell the rich wine on his breath.
“A favor,” he said. “You have recently presented the forty-year forecast to the Executive, no?”
“I have.”
“And it has the budgetary and growth forecasts for Research and Development?”
The Forecaster stiffened. The man was asking him to leak an executive report. An act of great personal dishonor. He stared down at the white tablecloth, the dilemma holding him still. What was more important—his honor or his duty to the Company?
The gods’ gifts were rarely without a jagged edge.
The Forecaster hissed out a slow breath. “I can arrange for you to see it,” he said.
The doctor leaned back and pulled the blue folder out of his briefcase, passing it across the table.
“This is just a start,” he said. “I get an update every week.”
The Forecaster took it, reading the name that was typed along the edge. Dr. Argalla Lomas. He flicked open the file. A black-and-white photo was stapled to the inside cover. The woman was scrawny, sour-faced, graceless. And from what Famagusta had said, lacking any sense of professional honor. Had the man really slept with this creature? The Forecaster closed the folder, affronted by the thought. He could not abide ugly women.
A HUSTLER’S SMILE
O N THURSDAY AFTERNOON, MOSSON WALKED through the scarred front doorway of the Coddy Street Hostel for Men and immediately felt uneasy. Maybe it was the old piss-sweat smell of male despondency. Or maybe it was the overpowering efficiency of Mrs. Tricorn, the hostel supervisor. She reminded Mosson of a nurse who had looked after him during the early days of the alopecia tests. Nurse Tankard, an American woman of sharp decisions and brisk bottom rubs. Mrs. Tricorn had the same amused slant in her voice. She greeted Mosson and Hannie at the door with a handshake and led them through the dim hallway into the hostel common room. Offering coffee, she continued through to the kitchen before either of them had accepted.
Mosson sat in one of the mismatched armchairs and glanced around the room. An old television was mounted on the wall with a piece of paper taped to the bottom that read Last One Out Turns Off TV. Three other armchairs completed a rough semicircle around a coffee table that was marked with overlapping cup stains. The only color in the room seemed to be the thick red circle drawn around horse number 3, race 2 on the folded form guide beside Hannie’s chair. Maybe Mrs. Tricorn liked to have a bet now and again, Mosson thought. A person would want to keep some hope going in this kind of place.
“I think she’s Canadian,” Hannie said in an undertone.
Mosson shifted around in the sagging armchair and looked through the doorway at Mrs. Tricorn: short, spikey gray hair, thickening middle, cropped red cargo pants that showed muscular, tanned calves. Probably no older than fifty-five, but on that inevitable slip towards the masculine. He’d assumed by the drawl that she was a Yank.
“What makes you think that?” he asked, irritated that Hannie thought she could tell the difference.
Hannie leaned forward. “When I rang to make the appointment, she said for sure a lot. And listen to how she says about. It sounds like aboot. That’s Canadian too.”
“Winnipeg,” Mrs. Tricorn called from the kitchen. She walked into the common room carrying a tray loaded with mugs and a plate of biscuits. “I’m from Winnipeg. We’re known for our good hearing.” She smiled at Hannie and winked, pushing the tray onto the low coffee table between them. “Help yourself to milk and sugar.”
Mosson chose a coffee and settled back into the chair. “So, how long have you been managing this place?” he asked.
“Seven years next Monday,” Mrs. Tricorn said. She tilted her head to the side. “Maybe I should throw myself a party.”
“How long has Dudley been here?” Hannie said.
“Just under four months. But he hates being inside so he spends most of his time in the park across the way. Even sleeps there. The kid’s textbook FAS.”
“FAS? What’s that?” Hannie asked.
“Fetal alcohol syndrome.” Mrs. Tricorn took a sip of coffee. “I suppose it’s not surprising you haven’t heard of it,” she said. “The Australian government seems to have its head in the sand about it. Wouldn’t want to upset the big alcohol lobbies or lose the huge tax revenue.”
She paused, sliding her finger and thumb up under the bridge of her small round glasses to rub the deep indents on each side of her nose.
“Well, let me use Dudley’s case as an example,” she said. “When his mother was pregnant with him, she had a binge-drinking problem. Basically, the alcohol she drank damaged his brain. It’s as though certain areas of synapses just didn’t develop.”
She leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “One of those areas is Dudley’s conscience.”
“His conscience?” Mosson said, instinctively pushing against the word. It was unsettling to think that a conscience was just a bunch of synapses that could be damaged or destroyed. What did that say about morality? Hannie looked across at him, eyebrows raised, and he felt a prickle of heat sweep across his skull. Was she trying to make some kind of point?
“Dudley doesn’t really understand action and consequence,” Mrs. Tricorn said. “You and I know that if we rob a gas station and get caught, we’ll go to jail. But Dudley just can’t predict that. Every action stands alone.”
She studied the plate of biscuits, her large square hand hovering for a moment before picking up a Butternut Snap.
“Sometimes it can seem like he has no conscience, but that’s not true. It’s more like his conscience has big pieces missing out of it. Sometimes he knows what is right and sometimes he recognizes that he’s done wrong. But he can’t predict the consequences and he doesn’t seem to feel remorse.” She bit into the biscuit and chewed reflectively. “He just doesn’t have the synapses to make the connections. He never will.”
“Is that why he’s here?” Hannie asked. “Because he can’t predict consequences?”
Mrs. Tricorn nodded. “For sure. He got caught passing fake checks again and did a spell in jail. It doesn’t help that he’s also a compulsive liar with an appalling memory. If you’re going to lie all the time, you better have a good memory, hey?” She laughed and looked at her watch. “He should be back at the park soon. When you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll take you over.”
Mosson slid his mug onto the table. “Mrs. Tricorn, have you met Dudley’s sister, Regina?”
“A few times,” she said, her eyes flicking to Mosson then back to Hannie. “She’s a gutsy girl. Got her own problems, but she always makes sure Dudley’s okay. That’s typical of an older sibling who doesn’t have FAS. It’s kind of like survivor guilt.” Mrs. Tricorn ran her finger along the rim of her mug. “So, what’s your film about, Hannie? How does Regina fit into it?”
Hannie sat up straighter. “Regina is the cornerstone of the film,” she said. “It’s a documentary looking at how the medical profession has always viewed women’s bodies as freaks and labeled normal female functioning as abnormal. Particularly in the area of sexuality and reproduction.”
Mosson looked at Hannie’s intense face, at the way her hands pushed at the air to make her point, at the vibrant sureness of her voice. Passion, Mosson thought. She was totally involved in her ideas and in her film. She had the fire. When was the last time he had put himself so totally into something? The last time he had felt the fire? Mosson straightened his back against the icy doubt in his gut. He hadn’t even felt it when he had picked up his old Super 8. He knew he still had the talent; he had scraped and dug and uncovered the nugget of it. But he couldn’t feel the fire. The fuel. How much was talent driven by hot passion? And what happened to it if the passion was extinguished by age or fear?
“Did you know that late-nineteenth-century male doctors used to masturbate women in their surgeries to cure them of so-called hysteria?” Hannie said. “And look at the way menopause has become a major medical industry.”
Mrs. Tricorn nodded. “I’ve come up against that myself. God knows how much money I’ve spent on HRT and the likes.”
The two women leaned towards each other.
“My film is going to profile three women who have been labeled modern medical freaks,” Hannie said. “I’m—”
“We’ve decided to focus more on Regina because of the way she’s been treated,” Mosson said, pushing his presence back into the film and conversation.
“What do you mean by that?” Mrs. Tricorn asked sharply.
Mosson flinched at her tone of voice. It seemed to come out of nowhere, a harsh demand that had nothing to do with his statement. He suddenly understood how the pleasant Mrs. Tricorn kept a bunch of ex-cons in line. She had the power of the crone; that ball-shriveling disdain for male approval that plunged every man back to the deep-buried nightmare of an inadequate cock.
“I think Mosson means how the whole thing has been handled by the media and the medical profession,” Hannie said. “Is that what you meant?”
“Yes, it was, but—” Mosson said.
“I see,” Mrs. Tricorn said, then smiled. “So, why do you want to speak to Dudley?”
“We’re hoping he might be able to help us contact Regina. Do you know if she’s been here this week?” Hannie asked.
“Not that I know of.” Mrs. Tricorn stood up. “I’ll take you across to meet Dudley now.”
“It’s just that her boyfriend said she was coming here,” Hannie said, standing up.
Mrs. Tricorn shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen her around. Maybe she only saw Dudley, but you can ask him that. Just remember to take whatever he says with a pinch of salt.” She touched Hannie’s shoulder, directing her towards the door.
Mosson took a last look at the common room. The secondhand furniture and bare walls gave it the feeling of a waiting room. How many ex-cons had sat there waiting out their parole, waiting for a break? Or just waiting for the end. He turned and followed Hannie and Mrs. Tricorn down the long dim hallway to the front door.
Outside, Hannie quickened her pace to catch up to Mrs. Tricorn. The woman had forged ahead, past a freshly painted pub, towards a tall line of pine trees further along the road. Hannie glanced back at Mosson. He seemed to be deliberately lagging behind. Was he avoiding her? As he walked past the pub entrance, an old man emerged, a blare of poker-machine bells following him into the street. Hannie watched Mosson sidestep the sound with an irritated twitch of his shoulders. He looked as cranky as she felt, but at least she had a good reason for her bad temper.
On Tuesday, Hannie had finally visited her doctor and he’d put her on a high dose of cortisone again. “Let’s see if we can stop this attack in its tracks,” he’d said. Six tablets in the morning. She could already feel the drug pushing her carefully hidden rage through her skin, rubbing her raw against the world. She’d only been on cortisone once before, when she was first diagnosed. She remembered the first week had been the worst, with sudden flares of anger then long hours of hollowed-out sadness that had driven Sigmy into the spare room with a stack of computer games. How much of that had been the cortisone? And how much had been the brutal stripping of belief in her own immortality?
Hannie pulled her jacket across her chest and buttoned it against the chill wind. The park was the size of two vacant house lots, landscaped with gravel paths, bright yellow play equipment, and a neat center line of tall pine trees. A young man was sitting on the ground, his back against the trunk of the second tree. He waved as Mrs. Tricorn led the way over the short grass.
“Thought I’d find you here,” she called. “These people want to talk to you.”
Hannie smiled at the warmth in Mrs. Tricorn’s voice. For all her technical explanations and textbook cases, she really cared about him.
“This is Hannie and Mosson. They want to talk to you about your sister. They want to make a film about her.” Mrs. Tricorn smiled at Dudley, but Hannie thought she saw a twitch of anxiety in the supervisor’s eyes.
Dudley got to his feet. “A film? Cool.”
He held out his hand to Hannie. He was about the same height as her and very thin, with the sharp outlines of his collarbones evident through the cotton of his T-shirt. Hannie noted widely spaced eyes and a broad smile that was all crooked teeth and surprising dimples. She smiled back.
“Aren’t you freezing?” she said.
He laughed. “Nah. I never feel the cold. Mrs. Tri says I must be half polar bear.”
He turned to Mosson and shook his hand, then leaned closer. “Man, you’ve got no hair at all. Do you get lots of colds?”
“Not really,” Mosson said. He withdrew his hand.
They all stood in silence.
“So,” Hannie said, rubbing her hands together. “Thanks for all your help, Mrs. Tricorn. And for the coffee. We’ll just ask Dudley some questions and be on our way.”
Mrs. Tricorn nodded. “Of course. Nice to meet you both.” With one last considering look at Dudley, she turned and walked back towards the hostel.
“Have you got a smoke?” Dudley asked.
“No, sorry,” Hannie said. “Dudley, we’re having a bit of trouble contacting Regina. Did she see you this week?”
“Nah, not this week. She came last week, but. Gave me a new Metcard—good for a month.” He dug his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out the ticket. “See?”
“That’s great,” Mosson said. “Does she do that often?”
“Yeah. Metcards and phone cards, so I can call her. She takes me to McDonald’s too. I love Macca’s.” He smoothed his fringe back off his face. “Hey, do either of you use Metcards? I’ll give you this one for twenty bucks. That’s almost half price.”
He smiled again, his eyes watchful. A hustler’s smile, Hannie thought.
“No thanks, we’ve both got cars,” she said firmly. “Did Regina say she was going away or anything this week?”
“You sure?” he said, holding out the ticket. “What about a phone card?”
“We don’t want either of them,” Mosson said. “Was Regina going away this week?”
Dudley shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? What does that mean?” Mosson crossed his arms.
“Twenty bucks,” Dudley said.
“What?”
“He wants twenty bucks,” Hannie said. Mosson snorted, but Hannie opened her bag and took out her wallet. It was probably going to be a waste of money, but it was worth a try. She pulled out a twenty-dollar note and held it up.
“Okay, where did she say she was going?”
Dudley reached for the note, but Hannie pulled it away.
“No, tell us first,” she said. She hadn’t survived the torment of an older brother for nothing.
Dudley chewed his bottom lip. “You’ll give it to me after? You’re not going to con me, are you?”
“Tell us where she is and I’ll give it to you.”
“She didn’t really say where she was going,” Dudley said. “She said someone was after her and she had to go underground for a while.”
He reached for the note, but Hannie kept a tight hold on it.
“Someone was after her? Did she know who?”
“Don’t think so. She said she’d be all right, though.”
“What did she mean by going underground?”
Dudley’s hand hovered in the air. “With the PMS,” he said. “She said they were going to keep her safe.”
“The PMS?” Hannie frowned, dredging up a memory. “Do you mean those chalk things on the footpath?”
Dudley nodded.
“You’re saying they’re real? Who are they, then?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say.” He grabbed the other end of the note.
“Oh, for chrissakes,” Mosson said. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”
“I’m not. That’s what Reggie said.”
Hannie let go of the money and Dudley snatched it away, stuffing it into his pocket.
“I’ve gotta get back to the hostel,” he said. He pulled at the rattail ends of his hair. “Reggie said she’d be all right. She said not to worry.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Hannie said. She had seen the same look of soft-mouthed bewilderment in the face of her five-year-old nephew. “If you do see her, tell her we’d like to talk to her. Here, I’ll give you my card.” Hannie opened her bag and slid a card out of the inner pocket.
“Okay.” Dudley took the card, studied it for a moment, then walked away. Hannie watched him kick at the gravel path.
“Well, that was money well spent,” Mosson said.
Hannie turned her face into the wind, letting the chill take the edge off her irritation. Mosson was still standing with his arms crossed, waiting for her to agree with him. Hannie felt oily cortisone anger ripple under the surface of her skin. She took a deep breath and clenched her teeth. She would not let the drug take over her emotions. Mosson was allowed to have his opinion, however closed-minded and supercilious it may be. She had to agree that Dudley was hard to believe, but he was their only lead and she didn’t give up easily.
“We should at least check up on this PMS thing,” she said. “You don’t know, he may be telling the truth.”
Mosson grunted and pointed towards the road. Hannie saw the distant figure of Dudley in front of the pub entrance. He looked back at where they were standing, and Hannie thought she saw him smile. Then he pushed the door open and disappeared into the bar.
A MOMENT OF STILLNESS
F IVE MINUTES FROM NOW, CAROUSEL DANE WILL walk through her front door. Six minutes from now she’ll be dead. Then the real fun begins—getting off this roof before the shakes hit me.
I’ve settled on bourbon to give me enough time to climb down. I thought about Valium, but I’d need to take it before the job in case the shakes kick in straightaway, and the stuff could affect my judgment. Same with Rohies, and I puke up Xanax before it works. So, bourbon is my best bet. At least I’ll be able to control it, and a few slugs before the job will take the edge off this brass-monkey morning. It must be below five degrees.
Hong, of course, never got wasted before, during, or after a job. Even back in Rhodesia, when everyone else was fighting with a hangover, he was stone cold. The only time I saw him have a drink was when he recruited me in Hong Kong. I was on R&R out of ’Nam and had ended up alone in a bar called Checkmates, or something like that. Maybe it was Checkpoint—I can’t remember now. Hong was sitting on a stool at the long black bar and, as I ordered a bourbon, I dismissed him as just another Chink businessman. Then he said hello in this full-on Pommy voice and we started to talk. Army stuff. Me bragging about being the best shot in the battalion, him letting out bits and pieces about the action he’d seen: Korea, early Vietnam, Burma. He hadn’t touched the beer in front of him, but bought me another bourbon.
He started describing his current job, working as an agent for a British company who was looking for good security people to work in Rhodesia. Was I interested? He named a ballpark figure. It was a hell of a lot better than what I was getting. Of course I was interested. My three years in the regs was coming up and I had a decision to make—sign on or take off. I made it sitting on that bar stool in Hong Kong, drinking bourbon and listening to Hong describe a freelance lifestyle full of fucking and fighting. The only two things I was good at. When I said yes, Hong lifted his beer and clinked the bottle against my glass. That was the only time I saw him take a mouthful of booze.
I unscrew the top of the Wild Turkey and drink. The shot of malty sour heat makes the sides of my jaws seize up and burns the back of my throat. I screw the top back on, put the small flat bottle in my pocket, and blow on my hands. They’re steady as a rock, but for how long?
I pick up the .308 and rest the barrel on the old sock full of sand that I’ve jammed in a curve of the concrete coat of arms. It’s a good stable rest at just the right height. I settle the butt against my cheek and adjust the trajectory until the scope lines up the front door at head height. The hairs are set for fifty meters, but I roll the screw a notch with my forefinger, then roll it back. All I have to do now is wait for Carousel to come out of that doorway. I’ve always been able to wait. It’s why I was the best shot in the regs. Lots of blokes can shoot, but not many can wait. Still and silent, for hours if need be. In the end, taking the shot is the easy bit. Waiting is the real bitch.
Strafe has done a good job with the baffle. He delivered it at nine on the dot last Thursday night, behind Dug’s place. Dug was standing in the laneway with me, having a fag and bitching about Teo treating his place like a hotel.
“Tell him to piss off, then,” I said.
Dug blew smoke up into the cold air. “Nah, I can’t do that. But he never lets his auntie know when he’s coming home. And then, bam, he’s home for a night with two weeks’ worth of washing. And now I can’t get hold of him for a week.”
“I suppose he’s busy with his new brothers, or his girlfriend,” I said, watching a white Ford station wagon turn slowly into the laneway.
“Girlfriend? I didn’t know he had a girl.”
“A blonde. Shacked up with another Snake and seeing Teo on the side.”
Dug grunted and shook his head, taking a long last drag. “Sounds like trouble to me. Sometimes I think we’ve failed Hong with that boy. What do you think?”
“I think this is my delivery.”
Dug threw the butt onto the ground and straightened up. We watched the Ford inch its way along the narrow lane. “When did you last see Teo?” Dug asked.
I counted back. “A bit over two weeks ago. At the dogfight.” It was definitely time to find the boy and see what he had found out from his Snake brothers. Although, if Strafe’s information was right, I could be dealing with Yakuza not Triad. A bit like swapping a croc for an alligator.
“See what I mean? Inconsiderate little bastard,” Dug said, waving the car into the tiny loading bay.
The driver’s door swung open and Strafe stepped into the pale yellow light, leaving the engine running. His eye was nearly swollen shut and a long white curve of surgical tape held his forehead together.
“That had to hurt,” Dug said softly.
“I’m sure it did,” I said.
Strafe walked to the back of the car, his eyes on the ground. He lifted the back hatch and picked up a long bulging vinyl case. “They’re threaded,” he said, holding it out. “The baffle is in there too.”
I nodded and took the case. Strafe slammed the hatch shut, got back into the car, and reversed out of the bay.
“Not a big talker, is he?” Dug said.
“Not anymore.”
Dug lit another cigarette, cupping his hand around the small flame of the match. “I should get off these damn things,” he said, drawing in deeply.
I unzipped the case a few centimeters and counted the barrels. All present and correct. “You haven’t come across anyone asking about me, have you?” I asked.
“No. But the boys know to report anything to me.”
I nodded. Dug’s network was top quality. If anyone was gathering intel on me, he’d hear about it.
The concrete roof is chilling the front of my thighs and my breath is misting upwards. I count the seconds between each breath, finding the rhythm. The key to the shot is breath control. Wait until you are on the very bottom of an exhale—when there is no air left and you hang between the last life-giving breath and the next. That’s when your body is still. And you take the shot.
I tried to contact Teo again a few nights ago, but his phone was diverted. Dug has heard something, though. Said one of the Snake 49ers told him Teo was up in Sydney on business for a couple of weeks. My guess is that Strafe’s information is right; the job has come out of Japan and Teo will come up blank. Still, it was worth following up.
The front door opens. Carousel is in navy blue today, long skirt and blazer cut by a crisp pink shirt. I pick up her forehead in the scope and drop down to her eyes as she pulls her key out of the deadlock. She takes a breath. I match my breath to her breath. We breathe together and I wait for her to close the door. She steps outside and we breathe out. She closes the door. We breathe in. She pushes against the handle. We breathe out. Pushes again. And now we’re at the very bottom of our breath. A moment of stillness. For her and for me. My forefinger moves and the butt kicks against my cheekbone. A hissing spit and the spent shell chinks onto the concrete. I breathe in. Swing the scope down to the body on the ground. Ready for any movement. But the shot was good. I pull the gun off the rest and pick up the shell. Now the fun really starts.