Berglin lit the cigarette, flame cupped, eyes narrow in the flare. ‘This loop is you and me, Mac,’ he said. ‘You don’t come into it, you want to think about sending that nice young fella away, put the dog in the kennels, sleep under the bed with the big gun. The old days aren’t over yet.’
Alex Rickard was a creature of habit and that is not a wise thing to be when people you may not want to see want to see you. The habit meant he would be at Flemington Racecourse on Wednesday afternoon. On another day, it might have been Moonee Valley or Caulfield. What was certain was that on a Wednesday afternoon Alex would be at the city races.
I got there early and found a place where I could watch the turnstiles. It wasn’t going to be hard to spot Alex in the crowd. There wasn’t a crowd, just a trickle of depressed-looking men in jail-release clothes. Ten minutes before the first race, Alex and a short, bald man in a raincoat who looked like Elmer Fudd came through. Alex raised the standard of dress by a few hundred points. He was very Members’ Enclosure: grey flannels, a grey tweed sports jacket, blue shirt, red tie.
The pair stopped off for a quick hot dog and read their race books. Elmer Fudd had two quick hot dogs. He talked a lot, waving the race book and the hot dogs around. Alex found him amusing, smiling as he ate, and then carefully wiped his lips and hands on the little paper napkin.
I kept a good distance from them in the betting ring. They favoured different bookies. Alex knew his firm well: he got a pat on the arm from the man with the laptop computer and the slip writer whispered something in his ear. Alex had a good laugh, Fudd came over and the pair went onto the grandstand. I found something to lean against and settled
After the first race, the two came down, pleased with themselves, visited their bookies. Same after the second race, not as pleased now. It was going to be difficult to talk to Alex if he went everywhere with Fudd.
I almost missed Alex after the third race. He was alone and I was looking for the pair of them.
He wasn’t going to his bookie this time. When I realised he was heading for the toilets, I picked up speed, got too close to him, prayed he wouldn’t look around.
But he didn’t. And there was more luck in the toilet. Only one cubicle door was closed and Alex was alone at the urinal, in the right-hand corner, getting his prick out.
He didn’t see me coming.
I ran the three steps, slammed him into the stainless steel with my left shoulder, punched him in the kidneys three times, one full shot with everything, two short chops.
Alex made a vomiting noise and sagged. I held him up by his left shoulder, took a handful of his smooth hair at the crown and smashed his head into the wall several times.
I let him go and he dropped to his knees. There was blood on the stainless steel at head height. I put a knee between his shoulder blades and jerked his head back by his long front lock until he was looking up into my eyes.
‘Alex,’ I said. ‘Didn’t keep my inquiry confidential. Who’d you tell? Quick, they’ll find you dead here.’
He opened his mouth wide. Blood from his forehead ran into it and he coughed, spraying red onto the stainless steel. ‘No, Mac, no…’
I heard a sound behind me. A tall man with black rimmed glasses had come out of one of the cubicles.
‘Back in the dunny or I’ll kill you,’ I said.
He went back like a film in reverse. The lock clicked.
‘Quickly, Alex,’ I said, banged his head against the urinal again. Blood dropped onto the white disinfectant balls in the trough.
‘Mac, no…’
I banged his head again, took his ears in my hands, small ears, not easily grasped, and began to twist them off. It was difficult. They were slippery.
‘Last chance, Alex. Who?’
‘Bobby Hill,’ he said, barely audible. ‘Didn’t think it mattered, thought you were out of it.’
I let go of his ears, pulled his head back by the hair, strong hair, and looked into his eyes from close range. ‘Alex,’ I said, ‘who told you to tell Berglin that Gaby Makin was dead?’
‘I’m dead.’
I bounced his head off the urinal again, once, twice, blood spattering. ‘Right, you prick,’ I said. ‘Dead now if you don’t tell me.’
Alex groaned. I gave him one more smash. Harder.
‘Bobby.’
‘Why? Quick.’ I pulled his head back again.
‘Anything you or Berglin wanted to know, pass it on.’
‘Listen carefully, Alex,’ I said, jerking his head back again so that he could look at me. ‘You’re a little man in deep shit. Tell Bobby Hill you’ve told me, Bobby kills you. Then I dig you up and kill you. Repeatedly. Then it’s Berglin’s turn. No matter what happens, you tell Bobby, you die. Painfully. Understand me?’
I let him go. Alex’s head hit the urinal again and he collapsed sideways, slowly. I pushed his head into the trough with my right foot and pressed the flush button. A gentle spray of water dampened his face and hair. Trickles ran down his bleeding forehead and the trough turned bright pink.
‘ ‘‘Let the water and the blood from his riven side which flowed be of sin the double cure’’,’ I said. Was that the way it went? It just came to me.
Four men, different sizes, all wide-eyed, were blocking the passage.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘an emergency. Need St John Ambulance here. This man has had a serious pissing accident.’
They flattened themselves against the walls. I passed between them, left the racecourse, went home, fed the dog, made supper, played Scrabble with Lew, got beaten again.
I was washing up, thinking: open another bottle, go to bed. Lew appeared in the door.
‘Mac,’ he said, moved his shoulders, looked at the floor. ‘Think I’ll go back to school. That’s what Ned wanted.’
I looked at the boy: father unknown, mother unknowable, grandfather allegedly something I didn’t want to think about. And nothing bad in this quiet and gentle person.
I wished I could hug him.
‘I’ll take you to the bus,’ I said. ‘That’s easy.’
He did a ceiling examination.
‘Down the road,’ he said. ‘The girl. They go in every day. I asked. Will you talk to the school? And tell Stan I’ll work at weekends?’
‘Sure. Talk to them tomorrow.’ There was a new family down the road. I’d seen the girl on a horse from a distance. Perhaps both Ned and I and the girl all wanted Lew to go back to school. I had a feeling dawning about which one had had the deciding influence.
Before I went to bed, I put the Colt Python, safety catch off, in a Blundstone boot next to the right back leg of the bed.
I lay on my back for a long time, thinking about Bobby Hill, thin and handsome Bobby Hill, straight dark hair combed back, metal-rimmed dark glasses. Of the trio of Scully, Hill and Bianchi, Hill had been the watchful one, little disbelieving smile never far from his lips. He was Scully’s offsider but managed to give the impression without saying anything that pudgy Scully worked with him.
Bobby’s making lots of money in the baboon hire business. Those were Brendan Burrows’s words. What interest would Hill have in my Kinross Hall inquiries? Something Berglin once said came to mind: He who says Hill says Scully. Would that still be the case? Could it be Scully who was interested in me? I was history, he was about to be made deputy commissioner.
Was I history? What had Berglin said?
The old days aren’t over yet.