secondhand-shop tie. He straightened in his chair as if he were about to leave.
Eyes were upon him. Mr Calder’s associate.
‘Carlton plays Collingwood,’ he said. ‘Even kidnappers, they want the money but they want to support their team.’
Tom looked at Orlovsky for several seconds, the slate eyes, not a blink. Orlovsky looked back, the startlingly blue eyes, not a blink. Then Tom looked at Noyce, blaming him for Orlovsky. Noyce couldn’t hold his gaze, accepted blame. I was sorry, because after Noyce, it was me, and I wasn’t going to blink either.
‘This is just the beginning,’ said Barry.
Everyone looked at him. He was leaning against the doorjamb, not in golf clothes today. Today, it was grey, all grey, like a drug dealer or an architect or someone who owned a smart cafe designed by architects. Different glasses too, more oval than the day before, duck’s egg shape, with a black rim.
‘That’s a fucking useful contribution, Barry,’ said Tom. ‘Matches your finest insights to date. And what a standard that is to live up to.’
In the air, contempt hung like flyspray.
‘Big crowd,’ I said. ‘Easy to switch bags, lots of exits.’
Noyce said, ‘Wouldn’t they be scared that we’d seal the ground, check bags?’ He coughed, ‘Sorry, silly, we’re just paying up. Anxiety drives out common sense.’
‘Depleting small reserves,’ said Tom. ‘Get a sports bag.’ It was a bark.
I watched Noyce. He straightened his spine, made small masticating movements, opened his lips, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. The set of his shoulders changed to favour his right side. Then he drew the back of the index finger of his right hand across his upper lip, put his hand behind his head. You can see these signs any time you care to stay late in the wrong pubs, get down to the hard core, just you and men who love life and beating the shit out of it.
‘I’d like to say, Tom,’ Noyce said, lawyer’s smooth and reasonable voice but with a twang in it, the twang of taut piano wire, a little tremolo, ‘that I won’t be spoken to like that. Not in private. Or in public.’
Tom turned his body to Noyce, full on, challenge accepted. But he didn’t have to fight Noyce, he could sack him on the spot. Or couldn’t he? There was a moment of indecision, of calculation, of balancing things. Then Tom made a flicking gesture with his left hand. ‘Point taken,’ he said, no contrition in his low, throaty voice, in his movement only impatience. ‘Let’s get on to what has to be done.’
That wasn’t enough for Noyce. He breathed out hard, nostrils flaring.
‘Point taken? I’m not sure it is. I think I’d be better off walking out now and sending you my…’
‘Graham,’ said Barry Carson, his voice emphatic but entreating. He had come across the room, put his back to his brother, extended a hand to touch the sleeve of Noyce’s jacket.
Noyce didn’t look at Barry, didn’t take his eyes off Tom. He had the look of a bullied schoolboy, scared, but determined to look his tormentor in the face.
Barry moved to block Noyce’s view of Tom’s face. He didn’t want Noyce to leave. ‘Don’t take Tom so seriously, Graham,’ he said. ‘It’s just that he’s a man born to command. Pity they timed the wars so badly.’
‘What the hell’s goin on?’
Pat Carson was at the door, leaning on a walking stick. Standing, grey suit loose on him, he looked closer to his age, but not much. He looked at Tom.
‘Don’t bother to tell the old man what’s happenin? That’s the attitude, is it? I have to come to find out?’
He turned back towards his study. ‘Frank, come and tell me,’ he said over his shoulder.
I waited until he was well away, then I said to the Carson brothers, ‘Would you like me to do that?’
Barry said, ‘Yes. Thank you, Frank.’
Noyce cleared his throat. ‘A sports bag,’ he said, pride put aside for the moment. ‘There must be a sports bag somewhere.’
‘Tell Lauren to find one,’ said Tom, tone a little less military this time.
I went down the passage, knocked on the open door. Pat was behind his desk again, chair swivelled sideways. The shutters were open and he was looking out at a paved, walled courtyard, a secret place, with low hedges and lemon trees growing in big pots. Without turning, he gestured for me to enter.
Standing, I told him about the phone call.
‘What about lettin her go?’
‘Tom asked. He said: “You’ll hear from us.”’
Pat swivelled to face me, rubbed his jaw, studied me. Finally, he said, ‘Don’t be a policeman tomorrow, Frank. No police work. Just give em the money.’
I nodded. ‘I’m in a giving mood.’
‘And on the money subject, the advance on the fee, Graham give you that?’
‘Yes.’ It was in my jacket pocket: a hundred new hundred-dollar notes in an envelope. I didn’t want to but I said, ‘Thank you.’
He waved a hand dismissively, a hand like a big plucked wing. ‘Mind you do what the bastards tell you. Nothin more. Then we’ll settle with em. By God, we will.’
6
Two hundred thousand dollars in fifties in a sports bag doesn’t weigh much, a few kilos. In the VIP carpark under the Great Southern Stand, tense in the stomach, I took the soft-leather Louis Vuitton bag out of the boot of Noyce’s Mercedes, felt for his tiny mobile phone in my inside jacket pocket.
‘Mr Calder?’ A fair-haired young man in a business suit, club tie. He put out a hand. ‘I’m Denzil Hobbes. I’ve been asked to meet you.’
Noyce had arranged the parking and the reception. It seemed a Carson company had a corporate box in the stand. Orlovsky was doing it harder. Not a Mercedes but his old Holden Premier, not a VIP parking spot but a long walk from across the river to a public entrance.
‘It’s pretty much a full house,’ Hobbes said. ‘I’ve got someone holding a seat for you. We can go up in the lift.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll walk. Just show me the stairs.’
‘They’re ramps actually,’ he said. ‘One in ten incline, very easy climbing. You haven’t been here before?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll show you the one to take. Ramps take eight abreast. In an emergency, we can clear the stand in twelve minutes.’
I nodded approvingly. It would be nice if people behaved that way, serried ranks of the terrified moving steadily downwards, eight abreast.
‘I’ll give you a card,’ said Hobbes. ‘Ring me if you need anything. Anything at all. When you get to the top, your seat is to the right. First seat to the right. Not the best view. The aisle seat in the back row. Just tap the man in it on the shoulder and introduce yourself. He’s expecting you. Obviously.’
Obviously. This was Carson money talking.
‘What about my colleague?’ I said.
‘He’s up there. To your left, also on the aisle.’
Traffic was light on the way up. On the long way up. At the top, I came out into the pale grey afternoon light to a stunning scene, thousands upon thousands of people around the green circle, the stand seemingly leaning over it. Then a huge explosion of sound. Something had happened on the field, some event dramatic enough to cause all mouths to open.
CARLTON 38, COLLINGWOOD 17 said the scoreboard. Ten minutes from half-time.
I found the seat, tapped the occupant on the shoulder. Another young man in a suit, a small galaxy of spots on his broad brow. ‘Calder,’ I said.
He too wanted to shake hands, gave his name: Sean Rourke. Polite staff, well-groomed, the corporate box tenants would expect that.
When he’d gone, I looked left, looked away. Orlovsky was wearing a filthy anorak and holding a radio to his
