Not unless there was something you could do for the cops, and then you ended up living in a caravan park in Deniliquin on the witness protection program.
We inspected the car. Apart from the windscreen, there were about half a dozen bullet holes.
Cam took out his mobile. ‘It’ll probably go,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want to explain these holes to the jacks. I’ll get a mate to bring some wheels around, take this away. Wonder where that prick got an Ingram?’
I said, ‘Is that what it was?’
‘Not your normal scumbag piece of iron.’
Cam got through to someone. ‘Henry,’ he said. ‘I want you to think about how much you owe me…’
Fifteen minutes later, a Ford Granada came into the parking lot, followed by a tow truck. The tow truck driver, a huge man with a beard, stuck masking tape over all the bullet holes. He’d done this sort of thing before. We were on the freeway in the Ford in five minutes.
After a while, Cam gave me a quick look. He was steering with his fingertips, cigarette drooping from his mouth. ‘Knew their business,’ he said, ‘we’d both be looking at the lid.’
‘I’m glad they don’t know their business,’ I said. I put my hands out and looked at them. I was shaking. ‘I’m just starting to react.’
Cam said, ‘Want somewhere else to stay?’
I was thinking about phone calls. Calls from Charles and Linda last night. All my calls in the past weeks. I really was a yokel.
‘I’ll need room for two,’ I said.
‘Two, twenty,’ Cam said. ‘You can use my current’s place. She’s gone to Italy.’
‘I wish I was in Italy,’ I said. ‘Italy, Bosnia, anywhere.’
Cam opened the window and flicked his cigarette out. ‘Things go right Saturday,’ he said, ‘we can all go to Italy. First class.’
28
Wootton was waiting in the parking lot of the pub, a hideous pre-cast concrete affair with flagpoles all over the front. He was in his XK Jaguar, reading a magazine. He put it away when he saw us coming. I went around to his side. The window was down.
‘Can you get someone to debug my place?’ I said.
He frowned. ‘Really, Jack, are you sure you’re important enough for people to want…’ My expression stopped him. ‘When do you want it done?’
‘Now,’ I said.
‘Now?’
‘Now. The person can pick up a key from the ground-floor flat. Number one. Say Jack sends his fondest regards and the bloke will hand over the key.’
Wootton took out his mobile phone and got out of the car. ‘What’s the address?’ he asked. He punched in a number and spoke to someone in cryptic terms, giving the address and the introduction. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said.
The commissioner was waiting for us in the lounge, a pinkish chamber, full of angular chrome and plastic furniture. I didn’t know there were people who’d place your bets for a commission who didn’t look like Eddie Dollery or like market gardeners in town for the day.
Wootton did the introductions. He introduced me as Ray and Cam as Barry. The Commissioner was called Cynthia. She was in her late thirties or early forties, grey suit, tall and slim, an intelligent face of sharp planes relieved by a lower lip as plump as an oyster. Her shoulder-length dark hair slipped silkily around her head.
She was business-like. Harry would approve.
‘How big?’ she said.
‘As possible,’ Cam replied.
‘They’re gun-shy these days,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to spread it around.’
Cam nodded. ‘This is the drill,’ he said. ‘You wait for the second call. We expect the price to drift. Then we want as many fair-sized hits as we can get without collapsing the price. Then send in the troops, like they’ve heard the late mail. Take it all the way to the floor.’
She smiled a cautious smile, cocked her head. ‘Some organising here. Small army. There’s not that many reliables around.’
I thought I caught a hint of working-class Tasmania in her voice, perhaps one of those bone-hard timber towns, full of red-faced men with pale eyes and bad breath, the girls with one pretty summer before the babies and the cigs and the mid-morning start on the wine cask. Cynthia would have got out early, escaped to the mainland.
‘We’re told you can do it. But if you can’t…’ said Cam.
She crossed her legs. In my trained observer way, I registered that they were exceptionally long legs. Part of me couldn’t believe that I was sitting in this garish place looking at legs and listening to talk about backing horses when people had recently been trying to kill me.
‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘What happens interstate?’
‘You get first go,’ Cam said. ‘We’ll take what we can get elsewhere.’
‘The TAB?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.
‘When do I know?’
Cam lit a Gitane and blew smoke out sideways. ‘Cyril will tell you where to be,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to be ready to push the button, go straight off.’
‘Not even the race number?’
Cam shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Makes it hard if it’s going to be the eighth.’
‘Life’s hard,’ Cam said. ‘Cyril says we don’t have to worry about collecting. Is that right? We hate worrying.’
Cynthia gestured with her hands, palms upward. ‘You don’t have to worry,’ she said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got three teenagers to look after.’
‘I know that,’ said Cam. ‘Think about them. We’ll need a full accounting. Every bit of paper. Anything else I can tell you?’
She shook her head and stood up. ‘Nice to do business with you,’ she said.
‘We hope so,’ Cam said. ‘We hope so.’
We were waiting at the St George’s Road lights when the ambulance came through and did a screeching right turn.
‘Just live for speed,’ said Cam.
I saw the smoke before we turned into my street, a dark plume against the cigarette-smoke sky. When we turned, we saw the street was blocked by three police cars. People were everywhere. Further down, a fire engine was paralleled to the pavement. Its ladders were up and firemen on them were spraying water into a huge hole in the building’s roof.
It was my building.
The huge hole was in my roof.
My home was burning.
Cam pulled up and looked at me. ‘Your place, right?’ he said.
I could only nod.
‘Better wait,’ he said, opening his door.
I slumped against the door pillar. I could recognise at least a dozen people standing around. Neighbours. The man from the corner shop.
Can was back inside five minutes. He didn’t say anything, did a slow U-turn. We were heading down Brunswick Street when he spoke.
‘Cop reckons the bloke turned the key and the whole place went up. He might live. Door could have saved him.’
‘It was supposed to be me,’ I said. Cam didn’t need telling. I needed to say it. I wasn’t feeling scared. All I could think about was the flat. It contained everything I valued. My books. My music. The paintings and prints Isabel
