Peter Temple - Shooting Star

‘How’d you get involved with him?’

Martie sighed. ‘I fucking ask myself that. Daily. Hourly. I met him about ten years ago when he was with Ross, Archer amp; Stegley. We used to have them on the other side every now and then. He was Mr Hotshot Young Lawyer. And compassionate, night a week at the Altona Legal Centre. Out there in the chemical smog. Then he resigned at Ross’s, gave up a partnership.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, the prick says it’s because he wanted to get out of the law, make some real money. That’ll be the fucking day. Anyway, I ran into him again, we got talking, he had this terrific-sounding proposition.’

He made a gesture of despair. ‘In short, I was a boof-head. It’s the Carson name. He trades on it to the max. He comes on like he’s fully underwritten by CarsonCorp, like he’s the entrepreneurial arm of the company. Entrepreneurial arsehole’d be more like it.’

‘This Polish deal, what could have gone wrong?’

Martie laughed. He had big teeth, capped teeth. ‘How about everything?’ he said. ‘Every last fucking thing. A, they’re bullshitting you from the word go. B, they don’t have a highly developed respect for the contract as a document binding both parties. They think a contract is like where you write down how much you’re going to give them. And C, if they find out they can’t screw you, they get really pissed off. You know the way these junkie streetkids tell you to fuck off if you won’t give them a dollar? Magnify that by a million and you’ve got an idea about dealing with the old evil empire’s new capitalists. Bring back fucking Stalin, that’s what I say.’

Orlovsky’s father wouldn’t approve of that view, I thought. ‘In this particular case, what would you say went wrong?’

He shrugged extravagantly. ‘I’d be guessing, right? But what I’d say is Mark found some fuckhead American to fall for this not-to-be-drawn-on two-million-buck-line-of-credit shit. Then the Mafia says, listen, we need some of the money for a little while, the investors want to see the gold. So maybe the prick actually forks over some cash. Then the Ivans want a bit more. Mark’s sucker sees the light and says no, sue me. What’s this, says the Mafia to Mark, we’ve got a fucking deal with you? Give us the rest of the money. Or else. And since the bastard’s been handing out CarsonCorp business cards, the Mafia feels entitled to come after the family too.’

‘Martie,’ I said, ‘as someone who knows a bit about how these ex-Communists work, would you say they’d be capable of operating here?’

‘Operating? How d’you mean?’

‘Carrying out threats, that sort of thing.’

Martie’s phone rang. He had a short non-committal conversation, not a definite word in it. ‘Get back to you on that,’ he told the caller. ‘But keep breathing.’

He looked at me, frowned. ‘Oh yes, operate here. I’ll tell you a story. There’s a bloke in Sydney, a stockbroker, he decided he’ll broker other things. So he gets involved with these Russians in selling cropdusting planes to the Philippines. Big deal, about six million bucks involved. A couple of planes arrive, tiptop. Some money paid. The buyers’ rep, he’s also an Aussie, he goes to Russia to see the rest of the planes loaded, put on the ship. No problem. Goods as described loaded. The buyers hand over the rest of the money. But when the buyers open the crates in Manila, they find they’ve bought the biggest fucking collection of aeronautical junk ever assembled, much of it dating from World War Two and not airworthy then.’

Martie had a good laugh, he liked this story, took out a spotted handkerchief and wiped his eyes and his mouth.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘for various reasons, the stockbroker hasn’t paid the Russians yet when the shit intersects with the fan. You’ll understand, they expected to have the money by then. And he tells them he’s got these Filipino feudal lords on his back, he’s not handing over anything until they get the right planes.’ He paused. ‘Well, the Russians made a few threats. He told them to piss off, this is Australia.’

Martie was nodding at me. I waited.

‘The bloke lives in an apartment block, just a small block for millionaires, on the harbour. North shore. The Russians ring up. They tell him, watch your boat. He can see his sixty-foot motor yacht from the balcony. Before his eyes, it explodes, they find yacht fittings a kilometre away, the blast takes out three other boats.’

He laughed again. ‘But there’s more. The explosion’s still ringing in his ears, the alarms in the underground carpark go off. The place has had about half a tanker of petrol poured into it and now a few million bucks worth of cars are burning. A miracle the whole building wasn’t blown into the harbour.’

‘What’d he do?’

‘Sent them the money. In the Swiss bank inside an hour. He thought he’d rather take his chances with the Filipino land barons. That answer your question about can they operate here?’

‘Comprehensively. Martie, I’m grateful for your time. Can I ask you just one more thing?’

‘Sure.’

‘When you say Mark’s got a weird side, that he can give you the creeps…’

Martie was less happy about this line of inquiry. ‘I don’t know, something in the eyes. My wife saw it, my ex-wife. And she normally likes good-looking blokes, believe me. Does something about it, too.’

‘Just something in his eyes?’

He fiddled with his tie. It had little yellow ducks on it.

‘He’s got a way of talking about women, I can’t describe it, it’s like a contempt, like they exist for his benefit, like they’re dolls or something.’

‘He liked the porn studio idea.’

‘Excited by it. We were on the plane…Well, he loved it.’

‘You were on the plane.’

Martie checked his watch. ‘I’ve got a 9.30,’ he said, ‘some preparation required, so if…’

‘The plane from Europe? Is that after you’d talked to the Poles?’

A show of palms, a frown. ‘I never said I didn’t check out this deal. I never said that.’

‘No, you never said that.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘So you went to Poland with Mark?’

Nods. ‘I had other business in Europe, so I went, yes. Not in Poland. The other business.’

‘And you checked out the deal?’

‘Yes. We went to fucking Poland and got the spiel and I came back and talked to some people and I told him, I told him, no way am I dealing with these animals. And I was out. Out. Haven’t seen him since, don’t want to, never will. You can tell the Carsons that. Don’t know where he is, what he’s doing. He doesn’t call and I wouldn’t know how to call him.’

Swallow, the bobbing of the throat apple. ‘Mark Carson is not in my life anymore.’

‘I’ll tell them,’ I said. ‘Martie, what excited Mark about the deal?’

Martie opened his eyes wide, then closed them for a while. Long curving eyelashes, noticed for the first time. He ran both hands over his naked head, penitent’s head in other times, clasped the back of it, pointed his elbows at me. A man trying to tell me he was comfortable.

‘Couldn’t stop talking about the women in the films,’ he said. ‘They showed us some films. Blonde Ukrainian women. These Russians, three of them, they talk about the girls like…like, I don’t know, cattle, sheep. Here’s a good one. Do you like that? There are many more like her, we can deliver a dozen, easy, that is easy.’

He was anxious now, anxious about what he’d been involved in, seen.

Done.

Done on his trip to Poland. Perhaps.

I said, ‘Martie, I’m very grateful that you’re talking to me at all. So anything about Mark, the family will be grateful. The women in the films, is that what excited him?’