Peter Temple - Dead Point

‘I thought the story was your clients bribed Rykel? Anaxan.’

Legge nodded sagely. ‘That’s the story WRG have put out. Total fabrication. Opposite of the truth. Diametric.’

‘Forgive my naivety, Gavin, but if WRG had stuff leaked to them, why didn’t they win the tender?’

He smiled, eyes narrowing. ‘We believe that Rykel told them the panel was sensitive to price. So they thought they could pull it off by just topping us, coming in a few dollars above. Not very smart. The panel put the extra dollars aside, went for an all-Australian company, top-class consortium, broad range of expertise, access to-’

‘Quite,’ I said. ‘Who killed Bergh?’

His look turned conspiratorial. ‘I can’t speculate on that, Jack. But of course…’

I waited. He smiled, shook his head. ‘Let’s just say WRG are known for covering their tracks.’

I didn’t have anything to lose. ‘So WRG went for Rykel. And your mob went for Susan Ayliss.’

Without hesitation, he said, ‘Ayliss was WRG’s first choice but she gave them the arse. Rykel was second cab and he delivered.’

Legge rose, tugged at his tie. ‘Well, Jack, that’s all I came to say. WRG are people who will try to use anyone. Use them and spit them out. Take it from an old mate.’

‘Thank you for your concern,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know WRG and I don’t know that they know me.’

He nodded at me in a way full of meaning. ‘They know you, mate. Believe me.’

At the door, I said, ‘Good luck in your new career, Gavin. I can’t fault Ponton’s judgment in hunting your head.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Next time we’ll crack a bottle of the French.’

Rain had beaded on the BMW. I was beginning to hate beading.

At the Prince, the Youth Club were conducting a panel discussion covering, simultaneously, the certain outcomes of all eight of the weekend’s games. I joined in but most of my mind was elsewhere.

‘Now, Jack,’ said Norm, ‘we goin to this bloody Docklands again on Sundee or not?’

Sunday afternoon was St Kilda against Essendon, second from the bottom against the top.

‘Going,’ I said. ‘There’ll be a million Bomber fanatics there. They can’t get enough blood. The team needs us.’

‘Goin then,’ said Norm. He turned to the others. ‘Sundee’s on.’

They raised their glasses.

‘We might have a bet on the way,’ I said.

All eyes glittered.

‘Got the oil?’ said Eric. ‘Got the oil, Jack?’

I held up my right hand, moved it around in the maybe, maybe not way.

‘He’s got the oil,’ said Wilbur. ‘He’s got the oil.’

Peter Temple

Dead Point (Jack Irish Thriller 3)

She rang when hope was gone. I was at the freezer, looking at my personal Antarctic. Scott knew no bleaker moment.

‘I’m shutting down my week here,’ said Linda. ‘You’d be on your way out, I suppose. Freshly showered.’

‘Well, yes and no. On my way out I have no doubt. Showering I was putting off until later.’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Yes. Please. There’s nothing to eat here.’

Silence.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’ll cross that little obstacle when we come to it.’

I made the bed, cleaned the toilet, the washbasin, stacked the dirty dishes. For the rest, the place was reasonably clean from my recent manic attack.

The Avoca kindling came to life briskly. I put on Milly Husskind, sad and sexy trailer-park songs, a voice torn at the edges.

A shower, a quick shower.

I was barely in clean denims and an old and faithful shirt when the buzzer went.

Tonight, her hair was drawn back severely and she was dressed for outdoors in a leather jacket, polo-neck sweater and corduroy pants.

‘That’s a good look,’ I said. ‘Sort of tough.’

She came in and looked around. ‘I am tough. Toughest woman on radio.’ She took off her jacket.

‘I heard you roughing up that life coach.’

‘That was nothing compared with what I did to the woman selling her book on colonic irrigation.’

‘Stuck it right up her, I’m sure. I’m opening white wine. I suppose…’

‘I’ll drink anything.’

Linda followed me into the kitchen and sat on the table while I opened the wine. I brought the glasses over, put them down next to her. She put a hand in my waistband and pulled me over into the fork of her legs.

I looked down at her. ‘That’s a suggestive thing to do,’ I said.

‘I’m in a suggestive frame of mind.’ She hooked her legs around mine, drew me in tight.

‘Nothing wrong with those muscles,’ I said, experiencing shortness of breath. I bent down to kiss her neck, her mouth, felt her hands in my hair.

We came apart.

‘You’re pretty suggestible, aren’t you?’ she said, moving a long-fingered hand between us. She was flushed, an erotic sight.

‘I’ve got a new mattress,’ I said, hoarsely. ‘Very hard.’

She took hold of me. ‘Hard I like,’ she said. ‘Harder the better.’

When it was over, Linda lay on her back, her legs over me.

‘We never went anywhere,’ she said.

‘Anywhere? How far away is anywhere?’

‘Far. Europe. America.’

‘I’ve been there.’

‘Not with me. With the mystery hand on the train, but not with me.’

‘How could we go anywhere? I’d barely got a grip on you when you left for Sydney.’

‘You encouraged me. I thought you wanted to get rid of me. Not at the time, I didn’t think that at the time. It came to me later.’

‘I had your interests at heart.’ I rolled over, took her chin in my hand. ‘What I didn’t know,’ I said, ‘was that once a starfucker, always a starfucker.’

Linda had been married to a doctor, left him for a rock musician.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ve fucked the stars. Rock stars, TV personalities. But that’s behind me now. I’m going for the lesser lights in the galaxy. Butchers, I want. Newsagents. Seedy suburban solicitors even.’

‘As it happens, I can help you there.’

‘Yes?’ She had her right hand on me.

‘Yes, I know an excellent butcher and a…’

In the pre-dawn, misty rain in the streetlights, a much happier person left the boot factory, a rumpled, low-crotched figure fit only to be abroad in darkness. Today, I would vary my route, stumble along… no, the usual route was better. Stick with a known way.

As was always the case, I felt a surge of wellbeing as the recalcitrant muscles and tendons and sinews warmed up and stretched. I prepared myself for the dog ambush, was caught unawares yet again when the calculating beast waited until the last second before launching itself at the fence.

My thoughts turned to gluing the entire dog to a McCoy creation, but my mood was too good to be coloured by the encounter. I stepped up the pace to the point where I could have overtaken one of those scooters for the disabled, the silent machines that carry flags.

Did the drivers ever wish for something more under the pedal, a bit of grunt? Just for emergencies, mark you. An emergency power surge that spun the back wheels, lifted the nose. That would empower the disabled, brighten an entire day.

Thinking these and other innovative thoughts, I cantered in the dark up Napier Street to Freeman, turned left for Brunswick, the sacred ground on my right, the site of the departed Fitzroy Football Club, my sacred ancestral site. Here, Irish men, my antecedents, their founding male genes coming from the Jewish quarter of Hamburg, had on pale and icy afternoons heard the crowd suck the oxygen from the air as they rose to take the screaming mark.

Sucking oxygen myself, I turned right up empty Brunswick, still moving at tram-catching pace, went past the bowling club and turned right for the trip through the gardens. They were in near-darkness, the light from the lamps diffused by the soft rain.