Jon Cleary - Dragons at the Party

Pinjarri made a clucking noise. ‘I always thought you’d have everything on hand. You said we were the fucking amateurs when you were here last time –’ So he hadn’t forgotten. ‘You told us what a lot of shits we were –’

Seville was fluent in six languages and foul-mouthed in none of them; the obscenities grated on his ear. He was unconvinced that violent language achieved anything, except perhaps to help the speaker’s own macho image. In the mouths of women it struck him as just ugly comedy. He was a prude in many ways, except in the matter of killing.

‘I need a gun,’ he repeated quietly. ‘As soon as possible.’

Pinjarri stopped his abuse, looked at him curiously. ‘You gunna kill someone? Or ain’t I supposed to ask? Okay, forget I asked. What sorta gun? A Schmeisser, something like that? They’re not easy to get –’

Seville doubted if Pinjarri had ever seen a Schmeisser: he was just airing his knowledge of the catalogues. ‘I want a high-powered rifle, one with a telescopic sight. A Springfield or a Winchester or a Garand. What do your kangaroo-shooters use? I’ve seen them on television in those animal welfare propaganda films.’ He could never understand why people should be so concerned with the slaughter of animals. ‘I need something reliable and I need it at once.’

‘I been ’roo-shooting meself. I used a Sako .270, it’s a Finnish job–’

‘I know it.’

‘How soon do you want it?’

‘Tomorrow at noon?’

‘Shit, I dunno … It’ll cost you.’

‘How much?’ He knew the price of a Sako: he had seen one in the window of one of the gun shops he had inspected: $800.

Pinjarri hesitated, then said almost pugnaciously, ‘Five thousand bucks.’

That’s a lot for a gun. I don’t want to buy a battery of them.’

‘Look, Mick, you know it ain’t just for the gun. Our movement’s in a fucking bad way – we need money any way we can make it …’

Seville smiled to himself. He thought of the money that was available to the PLO and the IRA. He had been in Beirut in 1982 when the Israelis had moved up into Lebanon; Rah Zaid, who knew of such things, had told him the PLO in four days had moved $400 million out of Lebanese banks into Switzerland. He felt tempted to bargain with Pinjarri, but the joke was too sour.

‘Five thousand,’ he agreed. ‘But only if you deliver it by tomorrow noon and not a word to anyone whom it’s intended for. Otherwise …’

‘Otherwise what?’ Pinjarri grinned. ‘You wouldn’t kill me, mate. I’m not worth anything.’

‘So you wouldn’t be missed.’

The grin faded. ‘Okay, how will I get in touch with you?’

‘I’ll phone you at eleven. Dismantle the gun, bring it in some sort of bag. And a box of ammunition.’

‘I’m not a fucking nong,’ said Pinjarri, trying to sound like a professional. But what had he ever done? Seville asked himself the question and imagined Pinjarri asking it, too. A few demonstrations, the blowing up of a power-line pylon erected on an Aboriginal sacred site … It was difficult to be militant in a country that ignored you. ‘You’ll have it, no worries, mate.’

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