Peter Temple - Black Tide

‘Traffic problems at the six hundred,’ said the caller. ‘Bold Chino in front, length back to Pax Americana on the rail, Priory Park on the outside hanging on. Half-length back to Vision Splendid on the outside and Hughie Hooray. Killer Serial’s on the rail. Kukri Dawn gone out wide looking for a run. Half length to the rest of the field. Here comes Stretto on the outside, big run. Four hundred to go. Stretto goes past Vision Splendid, neck and neck with Priory Park, Wicks is looking for a way out. Now Kukri Dawn’s making its run, gets up to Vision.’

At the two hundred, a gap appeared between Hughie Hooray and Pax America and Seminary Boy took it.

‘Now it’s Seminary Boy pulling in Bold Chino, goes for the line, too good for Chino, behind him a line, Stretto on the outside, half-length to Pax Americana, Priory Park, then Hughie Hooray, outside him is Vision Splendid, neck and neck with Kukri Dawn…’

Seminary Boy won by a length and a half from Pax Americana, with Bold Chino holding on for third.

Cam drove us home, whispering down the Western Highway. Harry didn’t say anything about the race until he’d put away his second Big Mac and taken off the big linen napkin, one of a supply kept in the glove compartment.

‘How’s the camera, Jack?’

‘Marvel of technology.’

Harry nodded. ‘Should be. Coulda bought a decent yearling for the price in the old days.’

Cam said, ‘Cheap stopwatch tell you all you need to know about that affair.’

‘Tell you somethin,’ said Harry. ‘But there’s more to know. Lots more.’

Senior Sergeant Barry Tregear’s first dart went into the treble twenty, the second missed it by a hair, the third didn’t.

‘One sixty-one,’ he said, took a big drink of his beer.

‘On this fucken stakeout for two days. Milkbar. Jack, there’s blokes in trees, in the roof, on the fucken roof, there’s even a prick lying under the counter, Christ knows what he’s going to do. We’re waiting for Australia’s Most Wanted. Red-hot tip-off.’

I threw a one, a treble twenty, a twenty.

‘Two twenty,’ Barry said. He sighted along his dart. ‘The milkbar owner, he’s made the ID, absolutely positive. A bloke called Krushka. Nice fella. Did time in Nam. Nerves shot to shit.’

I’d been in the army with Barry Tregear. I was nineteen years old, boy officer, last year of the war. Barry was a sergeant, the large, calm farm boy from Hay. Not so much a town, Hay, as some houses clustered together to escape the aching loneliness of the plains. One evening, Barry and I were lying next to each other, several dead people near us, day expiring in a sullen, smeared, tropical way, both hurting, bleeding steadily into the mud, praying: praying for an artillery barrage, praying it wouldn’t land on us, praying the dark would hold off. Barry turned his head, mud all down the side of his face, and he said, not in a scared way, more like someone who’d had two picks, backed the wrong one, he said, ‘Shit, wish I’d stayed in Hay.’

A very nice dart. Treble twenty.

‘One-oh-one. Treble, one, double twenty. About ten minutes to closing, nine-fifty, it’s raining, I’m having a leak against the back wheel, big relief, cunt sticks a shotgun in my back, right between the shoulder blades.’

Missed the treble. Twenty. Sip of beer.

‘Bugger. Treble, one, double ten. He says, he says, “One move I blow you away. Hands on roof.’’ They learn this shit from television.’

Treble.

‘One, double ten. “You and your mate,’’ he says, “Whatta fuck you want here?’’ I’m standing there, it’s fucken freezing, rain’s coming down my neck, can’t stop the peeing, it’s running down my leg, any second Australia’s Most Wanted is showing up for the milk, and some cunt’s got a shotgun in my back. I think, whatta fuck do I want here?’

I said, ‘Shit, wish I’d stayed in Hay.’ Threw. Got a treble.

Barry looked at me, laughed, body-shaking laugh. ‘Wish I’d stayed in fucken Hay,’ he said. ‘You’ve never forgotten that, you bastard. One-sixty. Treble, treble, double.’

Zero. Twenty.

‘Treble, treble, double ten. And then this Land Cruiser, comes down the street, I thought, it’s him, oh fuck, did my quickest hip turn, that’s not too flash I tell you, knock the barrel away with my arm. The prick pulls the trigger, big bang, into the ground, the Land Cruiser, he floors it.’

Barry drank some beer, sighted, threw, just a little explosion of fingers.

One.

‘Double ten,’ he said, didn’t hesitate, plugged it.

‘You might give a bloke a chance,’ I said. ‘So you lost Australia’s Most Wanted?’

‘Nah. While I’m jumping on this dork, my prick’s still hanging out, such as it is, frostbitten, the blokes at the end of the street get him. Turns out to be Australia’s most harmless turd, happens to resemble the real thing. Also drives one of the same fucken tractors, same colour.’

‘Upsetting.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. They offered me counselling but I already fucked her twice. Just went home.’

The barman put his head through the hatch, big head, broken nose, embattled remnants of hair, middle front tooth missing. ‘Had B11 in here Friday,’ he said. ‘Called somethin else now, what is it?’

‘I forget,’ Barry said, showing no interest, looking at his glass. ‘Could be Police Ethics Squad, could be Police Proctology Section. Pace of change’s a bit rapid for me.’

He went over to the board, plucked the darts, went back and put them on the hatch counter. ‘Do something about these fucken things, will you? Like throwing a dead chook at a wall.’

The barman did a bit of coughing. ‘Asking about your mate Moroney.’

‘Major part of their working day, I imagine,’ Barry said. ‘Asking what?’

‘Drinks with. Stuff like that.’

‘Tell em?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Tell Moroney?’

‘What d’ya think?’

‘Done their job then. Mission accomplished.’

The barman frowned, withdrew.

Barry drained his beer, burped loudly, looked at his watch. ‘Christ, got to go. Take a piss first. Hold my dick?’

In the gents, he stood at the stained and odorous urinal, rocking back and forth, while I washed my hands.

‘Any joy on that parking ticket in Prahran?’ I asked.

‘On a hire,’ he said. ‘To a Dean Canetti, one n, two ts, ACT licence, paid with a personal credit card. My bloke ran a little query on him. You want to be careful here.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He used to be a Fed. Also with the NCA for a bit.’

He found a slip of paper in his shirt pocket. I took it. ‘Point taken. Jellicoe?’

‘Looks like a burg gone wrong. But there’s worries. No signs of struggle and this Jellicoe’s not small. Also, hit just once over the head, then strangled. These things, it’s usually like six, seven, eight hundred blows. VCR’s gone, CD player, but not the wallet. And there’s no personal papers in the place. Not a fucking phone bill.’

I’d developed an uneasy feeling in the stomach, the feeling you get around midday when you’ve had no breakfast. ‘What’d he do, this Jellicoe?’

Barry zipped up, came over to wash his hands. ‘Worked for a travel agency. Had the name One World, something like that. Flinders Lane.’

‘Connors?’

‘A U-bolt. I gather the real problem was selfishness, holding on to stuff he should’ve been spreading around. It was resign or take a bullet in the line of duty. Up the arse. Known at the casino, big loser but the credit’s good. Also, the books know him. Semi-mug. He put two hundred-odd grand into Laurie Masterton’s piggy in the spring.’

On the way out, Barry asked for a packet of chips. He didn’t offer to pay and the barman didn’t ask. We stood at his car, a Falcon, at least half a dozen street drug users/ dealers in view.