‘What’s goin’ down, Wes? We goin’ to arm wrestle or are you opening up a branch down the block?’
‘Let’s cut the bullshit, Tank. My son’s missing. Hardy here’s looking for him and his enquiry has sort of led him here.’
Turkowitz shook his head. ‘Man, I didn’t even know you had a son. Me, I’ve got five, or maybe six. I forget.’
‘I’m not saying you know anything about Wes’s son,’ I said. ‘Not directly. But you did meet a man called Mark Alessio.’
‘Who says?’
‘He did.’
Turkowitz raised his hand to his mouth as if he wanted to chew at a fingernail. He thought better of it, but the hand wavered uncertainly. ‘He’s dead, I heard. An’ if he’s been shooting his mouth off about me I ain’t sorry.’
‘He hasn’t. He created some computer files about his investigation into how some athletes get hold of steroids. Your name’s in the files as someone who could put the finger on the source. Specifically, some steroids used by a girl named Angela Cousins. The stuff killed her.’
‘Dumb little shit. What’s he doing writing stuff like that down?’
‘All I want to know is what you told him.’
‘And why you talked to him,’ Wesley said.
‘Second question’s easy. Kid paid me. An easy two grand. Sold his fucking bike, he said.’
Wesley cracked the knuckles on one hand. ‘Did you kill him, Tank?’
‘Shit, no. But like I say, I might’ve if I’d known how loose his mouth was.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘He built a code into his computer set up. The file with your name on it got wiped when we called it up a second time.’
Turkowitz’s smile returned, complete with the glinting gold and what I now saw as the glistening porcelain caps. Slowly, lovingly, he turned the diamond stud in his ear. ‘Then you got no leverage,’ he purred.
Wesley cracked the other set of knuckles.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got Wesley who’s got a big vested interest.’
Turkowitz’s hands were folded again, composed. He stared at me and then shifted his massive head fractionally to look at Wesley. ‘Be interestin’,’ he said.
‘Ten years ago, Tank,’ Wesley said. ‘Maybe. Not now.’
Turkowitz sighed. ‘You’re right. But I could whistle an’ get me some heavy help.’
Wesley looked around the room and his gaze rested on the trophy cabinet which held, among other things, an ornate ceremonial sword. Turkowitz swivelled to see where he was looking.
‘I hate to think of the damage that could be done here,’ Wesley said. ‘Me being a man of peace.’
The tension went out of Turkowitz’s expression and body. He leaned back against his chair and it groaned in protest.
‘You’re a slob, Tank,’ Wesley said.
Turkowitz’s swarthy face darkened. A flush spread up to his bald head. ‘Don’t fuckin’ push me, Wes. Right, I talked to the Alessio kid. I have to say he had balls, comin’ in here like that. I told him who most likely gave the horse pills to this girl.’
‘Horse pills?’ I said.
Turkowitz waved me quiet. This was between him and Wesley now. ‘Manner of speakin’. I told him Stan Morris.’
It was Wesley’s turn to relax. ‘Morris being your main rival in the all-in fighting business.’
Turkowitz shrugged. ‘I heard all his blokes’re on the horse pills. Seemed likely.’
‘How do I get in touch with Morris?’ I said. ‘Where does he live?’
Turkowitz flicked a finger at his desk calendar. ‘I don’t rightly know and I don’t know nobody who does. Moves around, I guess. Just so happens though, there’s a smoko tomorrow night out Badgerys Creek way. I’ve got a boy up in the main event and so has Stan. You could try your luck there.’
‘Is that what you told Mark Alessio?’
Turkowitz nodded. ‘Same thing. Sent him to a smoko down south. Albion Park, around there.’
‘You wouldn’t tip Morris off about Hardy would you, Tank?’
‘Fuck, no. I wouldn’t tip Stan Morris off if there was a truck about to hit him.’
‘Okay,’ Wesley said. ‘And…’
Turkowitz crinkled his forehead. ‘What?’
‘Come on, Tank. The password.’
‘Oh yeah, almost forgot. Password’s “rust”.’
It was Wesley’s turn to look surprised. ‘Rust? Why?’
‘If I told you you wouldn’t believe me.’
17
Wesley invited me back to his place for a meal, promising West Indian cooking. His house was in Haberfield, a Federation job on a big block leaving room for a sizeable swimming pool and a garage that had been converted into a gym. Mandy I’d met before briefly. She was small and slight and Wesley would be able to lift her with one hand. Maybe he did. She thanked me for giving them something to cling to about Clinton and her tired smile made me hope like hell that they were clinging to something solid. Clinton, with his narrow, fine features, favoured her.
‘Pauline’s out busking,’ Wesley said. ‘Mandy doesn’t like it but Pauline enjoys it and says she needs the money. What d’you think about that, Cliff?’
Mandy was watching me. ‘I like buskers when they play what I like,’ I said.
Wesley took three cans of light beer from the fridge and popped them. ‘Diplomatic. You know what I mean. Keeping kids safe. Jesus, our parents hardly had to worry about it.’
I accepted the beer and took a sip. ‘Can she handle herself?’
Mandy poured her beer into a glass. ‘We’ve had this discussion a hundred times, even before Clinton… ‘
‘Tae Kwon Do,’ Wesley said. ‘I wouldn’t back you against her.’
‘Surviving in the city’s mostly a matter of confidence,’ I said. ‘It sounds as if she’s got it.’
‘Yes, she has,’ Mandy said. ‘I hope you’re right. Dinner in twenty minutes.’ She saluted us with her glass and drifted off to the kitchen. I noticed that she held her head rather stiffly and remembered about the whiplash. What you really needed was luck. Confidence wouldn’t do you much good when a couple of tons of metal hit you, or some crazy with a gun came wandering your way. Still, it sounded pretty convincing at the time.
Wesley showed me the gym with some pride. ‘I’ve got machines here ain’t never been seen. Prototypes, man.’
‘For what?’
‘Fine-tuning. Show you.’
He showed me, by moving massive weights long distances in ways that I didn’t really understand, but I grasped enough to see that he’d made significant improvements to the standard equipment.
‘Could be money in this,’ I said.
Wesley finished the can he’d set aside and towelled off the light sweat he’d raised. ‘Yeah, if all this with Clinton gets sorted out I’ll think about raising some capital and getting on with it.’
Between the two of them, they’d shown me just how much was riding on my fragile information and hopeful assumptions.
The smoko was set for 10.30 p.m. at an abandoned Mechanics’ Institute building in a hamlet near Badgerys Creek that had lost its name along with its population somewhere between the wars. Turkowitz had given me a sketch map which he strongly urged me to eat after memorising it. His little joke. I matched it with some maps I had of the area and formed a pretty good idea of how to get there.
