The Big Whatever (42 page)

Max, walking strangely, headed down the hill. We followed.

There was a large pile of tree stumps, twisted roots, bits of rock and torn-up vegetation to the right. Max walked over, leaned into the muddy mess and pulled out what looked like part of a Samsonite suitcase. He held it up, then dropped it and marched towards the dam wall. Again, we followed. No one said anything.

We walked around the right side of the newly shaped dam edge, onto the unfinished wall. Max looked closely at the dark, moist dirt beneath us. There were little white flecks through it, here and there a fine dusting of white, like icing sugar on a chocolate cake.

Max stood staring at the ground, then bent and picked a bit of torn plastic out of the dirt. Chinese writing on it. He let it drop again. Then he found another bit, five yards the other way. Then he shook his head, turned to the three of us of and said, “Sorry. Fucked that
right
up.”

We wandered around aimlessly for a while, each of us probing the dirt, pulling out shreds of plastic. Charlie found the other half of the suitcase. Mark dug up a shred of the plastic
groundsheet Max had wrapped the packages in. The white flecks were visible, if you looked hard, over a wide area.

After half an hour Charlie said to no one in particular, “Well, I suppose a cup of tea back at the house is in order.” His smile was weak and forced.

We turned and without another word began to trudge back to the cars. And then stopped.

Standing at the top of the rise were four figures, silhouetted against the sky.

We walked slowly up the hill towards them. My gun was in the panel van.

As we got closer, the differences between them became clear. An older bloke, thickset, with a big gut and red face, in a fawn sports shirt, permanent press trousers, white shoes. Fred Slaney. Next to him a younger, wiry-looking, ginger-haired feller in a black t-shirt. Scarred face. Then a thirty-something squarehead, and at the end a pudgy, jaded-looking older guy with long straight grey hair and a droopy moustache, wearing a beaten-up linen suit and a straw hat. He had pale, loose, almost colourless flesh.

They separated out a little as we approached. When the four of us reached the ridge, each of us was more or less face to face with one of the men.

“G'day, Fred,” I said to Slaney. To the redhead next to him I said, “Vic, is it?”

He nodded guardedly.

Mark made a sound, like a hound baying at the moon. Vic gave him a look but said nothing. Mark did it again.

I looked closely at the third man, the squarehead. I had no idea who he was. Then I faced the big guy with the mo. Something about the way he was standing, the way the others were standing, indicated he was in charge.

“Blighter,” I said. “I had a feeling I'd be seeing you.”

“William. My dear, dear, fellow.” He shook his head slowly, smiling broadly, as if marvelling at how splendidly everything
was turning out. He walked across and tried to give me a bear-hug. I writhed away, hit him in the face with my elbow, saying “Fuck off!” He stepped back again, still smiling, no offence taken.

Then he looked at the ground between us, panned across slowly till he got to Max, then gave him a leisurely once-over, from the feet up.

He came to Max's face. Long strands of grey hair, the haggard features, half-crazed, hollow eyes. “You look like utter shit,” he said quietly. Not smiling now.

Max kind of squirmed a little, then grinned apologetically. “Well, it's all gone now,” Max said. “That's for fucking sure.” He pointed back down the hill behind us. “The worms got it all.”

The four of them looked at the earthworks, the new dam, the mud. No one said anything for a long few seconds. Then the squarehead said, “No matter. We'll make do with the money.”

“And you would be . . .” I said.

Fred Slaney stepped between us. “Craig Grossman, Bill Glasheen.”

“Alias ‘Craig the Copper',” I said. “I thought you were out of the running, retired hurt.”

“I was,” he said. “But I thought about my situation, talked with wiser heads.” A slight nod towards Slaney. “Thought about what I'd been through, and what I was owed.” He spoke with a strange earnestness.

“I thought you were working for me, Fred,” I said to Slaney.

He smiled a little. “I am, Bill, believe me.” To the whole group he said, “Let's go back to the farmhouse and get this all shit straightened out. What do you say?”

The four of us stayed where we were. I glanced at Max. I guessed he was thinking about guns. Something in his expression told me he had something in the truck. And he knew
I
knew what was on his mind.

Slaney watched me, watched Max, then said in a slightly overhearty way, “Well, I'm getting out of this sun.” He started to walk back down the hill towards where their Falcon was parked
behind our vehicles, then stopped and turned around again. “Oh, for Christ's sake, we already found the kitbag of money, if that's what you're worried about.”

Max said quietly to Vic, “So you turned dog on us?”

Everyone was dead still. Vic said nothing.

“Jimmy rang you from near Violet Town,” Max said. “He told you he'd given the big end of the swag to me for safekeeping. You were the only one who knew it hadn't all gone up in smoke. Apart from me.”

Vic looked at the dirt in front of him.

Max nodded. “Yeah, thought so.”

Slaney walked back to the group. “You're disappointed,” he said. “But all in all it's better this way. Everyone gets a little something. It'll save trouble later on. No point blaming Victor. Come on. Let's get this whack-up done.”

He walked off again, and this time the rest of us followed, silently and uneasily, through the dry grass back to the cars.

Mark, walking next to me, muttered, “Eight shares now.” I was probably the only one who heard it.

When we reached the cars, Max gave me a quick glance, his hand resting on the truck's door handle. Slaney was ahead of the others, nearly at the Falcon. Glancing back, he too caught my eye. I couldn't quite read his look, but my best guess was, he was signalling he was onside, ready to go with my call, whatever it was. Maybe.

Time to act.

Then the sound of a car motor, and a green Honda Civic came around the bend, weaving along the dirt track towards us. Everyone froze, watching it approach. The car pulled up and Denise got out in her denims and R. M. Williams, smiling.

Mark sighed quietly, “
Nine
shares.”

My thought was, “I wonder if she's got a gun.”

As if she'd heard me, Denise called out, “I've got a lawyer!” She put up her hands. “Don't shoot!” Still smiling. Then she looked at us one after another. She peered at Max standing uncertainly next to his truck, grey and crazy-looking, then ran
over and hugged him, buried her head in his shoulder, crying and laughing. Then she went to Mark, hugged him too, more briefly, but warmly. Then she came to me, said a quiet hello, kissed me. She hooked her finger into one of my belt loops and casually, affectionately, leaned against me. Under her loose shirt, something stuck in her waist. A gun. Concealed carry.

“So what happens now, boys?” she said. Still smiling, but dead serious.

We were back where we'd been a moment before. I could start shooting. I played it out in my head. Slaney and Max would have guns in their hands within seconds. Slaney would be a good shot, but Max would just as likely panic and accidentally shoot one of us. As a marksman I was barely adequate, even on my best days. The Blighter was probably tooled up, carrying. Would Vic go with him or with us? Hard to say. Grossman definitely with the Blighter.

We had the numbers. But the Blighter would shoot anyone here, including Denise, without a second's hesitation. And he was
very
good with guns.

Did he read my thoughts? He was smiling slightly now, waiting.

I shook my head. No blue.

“Yeah, let's get out of here,” I said, and got in the car.

* * *

We drove back to Charlie's place in a slow convoy. Slaney's Falcon in front, then me in the van with Mark, Max and Charlie in the truck, Denise in her Honda at the rear.

We pulled into the yard. The others all left their cars, headed into Charlie's kitchen. I went over to Denise's car as she came to a stop. She got out, and we hugged again. When I was sure no one could hear us, I said quietly, “I saw your story.”

“Did you read it?”

“Yeah. It's good,” I said. “Wran was okay?”

She smiled. “A bit stand-offish at first. I told him I was a
friend of yours. That helped. He said you were a ‘truly unique Sydney character'.”

“Smartarse.”

“He called
you
that too.” Denise glanced towards the farmhouse, dropped her voice even further. “Anyway, I carry an important message from brother dear,” she said, smiling.

“Go on.”

“Top level, super hush-hush. The government boffins are onside. Federal people spoke with the state people. There's a budget allocation being arranged.
Millions
. It's a big thing now. They're looking at buying up most of Glebe. Save the heritage houses from developers and freeways. Preserve the working-class character of the area. That sort of thing. The story in the
Review
tipped the scales.”

“Terrific. But I don't give a shit about Glebe. Will they buy that street in Annandale?”

“You just say the word.”

We went into the farmhouse kitchen. The Blighter was standing against a wall. Max and Mark hovering. Charlie opening bottles of beer, a kettle on the stove. Sao biscuits on the table.

Slaney sat down first, and with elaborate indifference, took a gun and car keys out of his back pocket and put them on the table. And smiled. He wasn't worried about a thing.

Craig looked at him nervously, then reached in his back pocket, put a small gun on the table. He sat down. Then Max did the same. A .38. By now it was a ritual, and everyone was waiting for the next person. The Blighter shrugged, removed his shabby jacket, put it over the back of a chair. He took a Webley, also a .38, out of his belt and dropped it on the laminex. Then he pulled out a copy of
Lost Highway to Hell
from the inside jacket pocket, put it next to the gun. To Max he said, “I'll get the author's signature on this later, if you don't mind.” Max grinned, unsure if he was joking.

My turn. Everyone waiting. I looked at Denise. She lifted the front of her blouse, took the .38 out from right in front of her
belly button, and thumped it down. Much laughter. But nervous laughter, no one really knowing what the correct protocols were.

Mark tipped the contents of the kitbag onto the table and proceeded to dole out the fifties, then twenties, tens, fives, twos and ones, until there was a nice, not too small pile in front of each person.

Denise said, “You know, that was always the idea. Cathy's idea, actually. Co-op. Everyone involved gets an equal piece.”

When it was done, Max, Mark, Charlie and Denise each disappeared with their portions of swag. Then Vic left with his. The Blighter, Slaney, Grossman and I sat at the table.

I took a sip of tea. “I'd figured it was you tracking me across the countryside,” I said to the Blighter. “The follow was too well-handled to be just cops.”

He shrugged modestly.

“You were in touch with Multi?”

The Blighter gave a slow nod.

“The brown car at Bungendore? The linesmen out on the road there yesterday? Your men?”

He nodded. “I got some help from local authorities. And from others, of course,” He nodded at Slaney.

“You tipped off the Blighter, Fred?”

Slaney put three spoons of sugar in his tea and carefully stirred it. Then he looked at me over his glasses. “This was all heading to a very bad conclusion. So yeah, I took a hand. But no, I didn't tip him off, or anyone else.”

“In fact, I sought Fred out,” said the Blighter. “But I was already closer than you would have ever guessed. You may or may not remember, I grew up just down the road from here.”

“Right, Gunnedah. I'd forgotten.”

He nodded. “I would've found this place on my own in another day or two.”

“You're still a government man, obviously.”

He shrugged, as if saying, well, yes and no. “Not always so clear cut.”

We fell silent. I heard Denise's car door slam outside, and a
few seconds later she came in, followed by Max and Mark.

The Blighter pushed his copy of
Lost Highway to Hell
to Max. “Author signature?” he said, cheerily.

Max shrugged, picked it up, wrote something, dropped the book back on the table.

The Blighter nodded, tapped the book, then looked at Denise. “I'll take your copy, if I may.” Then to me, “Yours too, Bill.” Then to Max and Mark. “And any others you lads might have lying around.”