gets Frank’s money. Then there’s about eighty grand belongs to Bren. Frank was hanging on to it. Bitch gets that too. And Bren goes in, close that gate, he’s history, everyone’s happy.’
‘And you?’
Tony looked up at me, sniffed again. ‘I live,’ he said. ‘I fucking live.’
‘You know Frank was going to get it?’
He shook his head. ‘No fucking way.’
I took my hand off his shoulder. ‘Brendan says, “Tell Tony I’m still his mate. I know he’s under the gun. He should’ve told me. Tell him, he does the right thing now, it’s forgotten. I’ll look after him.’’’
Tony sighed, a desperate, drawn-out sound. ‘Bren’s a dangerous bloke,’ he said.
Silence. The light in the stained-glass windows was dimming, shadows growing everywhere, the sort of cold only churches can harbour coming up from the flagstone floor.
‘He says he knows how the Armits fit. He’ll settle them, take the push off.’
Tony tried a laugh, ended up coughing. ‘Jesus,’ he said when it stopped. ‘Fucking smokes. Bren got the fucking vaguest what it costs to get the Armits off my back?’
‘One-sixty.’
Tony’s head came around, eyebrows up. ‘He knows that?’
I nodded.
He sucked his teeth, hissing noise. ‘Where’d he hear that?’
‘I told him.’
He studied me. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘fucked if I know where you got that. Anyway. Bren walks on the Frank thing, it’s not over.’
‘Bren knows that. He says he can handle these people. He also says to tell you he’s got people who still owe him favours. That is, if you feel you can’t tell the truth about where he was.’
Tony suddenly found the back of his right hand interesting, freckled back of hand. After a while, he said, ‘How’d y’know I’d be here?’
‘Not an interesting question,’ I said. ‘The question you want to ask, Tony, is this: Am I better off square with the Armits and onside with Bren or one-sixty deep and offside with Bren?’
He looked at me, parts of his face moving, fingers moving. ‘Fuck,’ he said, ‘you think about it, I’m a prick. Tell Bren I know I’m a prick. Know him since I was eight. His mum made me playlunch. He’s my mate. I’m a prick. Okay. What do you do when you’re a prick?’
‘The man who’s looking out for Bren’s interests, he’s outside. And we need the hookers.’
Tony stood up and moved his shoulders, rubbed his jaw. We walked down the side aisle towards the door.
‘Come down for the night,’ he said. ‘Gold Coast hookers. Ballet dancer the one. Sylvia. Got too big. You had experience of ballet dancers?’
‘Not that I can remember.’
‘You’d remember. Your whole life. Looking at the lid you’d still remember.’
Wootton got out of the car when he saw us.
‘Tony, this is someone hired by Bren,’ I said as Wootton approached.
They shook hands.
‘Tony’s happy to place Brendan elsewhere on the night,’ I said. ‘Also to tell you where to find a ballet dancer who got too big and had to take up another mode of self-expression.’
‘Too big?’ said Wootton. ‘For me, ballet dancers can never get too big. Tony, Jack’ll go with you, show you where my office is. We can get everything sorted out.’
Tony looked at me. ‘Armits,’ he said. ‘Squared first.’
‘It’s got to be up front,’ I said to Wootton.
‘What’s the figure?’
‘Hundred and sixty,’ Tony said.
Wootton whistled. ‘Asking. So they’ll take what?’
‘Hundred and sixty,’ Tony said, with certainty.
‘That hard?’ Wootton frowned.
‘That hard.’
Wootton went for a little walk around a tree, nodding his head, preoccupied, air of a man hearing music in his head. When he came back, he pulled a face, held up his pudgy right hand. ‘To be clear, Tony, you are into the Armits for this sum. Fully paid, they would have no objection to you making a statement that will clear Brendan?’
Tony nodded, licked his lips. ‘George said to me, with Little George there, “Tony,’’ he said, “you can pay me what you owe, I can kill you or you can fucken do what I tell you till I think you’ve paid me off.’’’
Wootton was still frowning. ‘And you can produce the ladies?’
‘Yeah. Well, I reckon.’
‘That’s yes?’
‘Yes.’
Wootton looked at me, tilted his head, oiled hair gleaming in the fading light. ‘Armits,’ he said.
‘Not at the graveyard,’ I said. ‘I draw the line.’
‘After they drop George,’ said Wootton. ‘A quiet word with Con. A man who squeezes his sister-in-law’s buttock at his father’s funeral will understand the meaning of urgency. We’ll run out the distance but start at eighty grand. Half tomorrow, half after we get the hookers on tape.’
2
He was waiting outside my office, cracked leather briefcase on the pavement, a thin figure with a long face on which all the lines seemed to run south and a full head of silver hair, combed back. Most of his weight was on an aluminium walking stick with a fat rubber tip. The autumn wind, full of broad and nasty hints of winter, was whipping his grey raincoat around his legs.
‘Looking for me?’ I asked.
He gave me a looking over with clear blue eyes. ‘Jack Irish.’ Not a question.
I nodded.
He sniffed. ‘Don’t ya keep office hours?’
‘Called out urgently,’ I said. ‘Should have put a note on the door.’
He carried on eyeing me, the look of a talent scout. A faintly disappointed talent scout. ‘Spit of yer old man,’ he said. ‘Big as. And the face. Bill was pretty hard though.’
I looked down at myself, gained no pleasure from the experience. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m a bit older than he was.’
The man thought about this. ‘Still,’ he said. ‘Bit soft.’
No immediate way to controvert this statement occurred to me.
He changed hands on the walking stick and put out his right. Big hand, swollen knuckles. ‘Des Connors. Saw ya in yer bloody pram. Never knew what happened to Bill’s family after. Then I’m thinkin about needin a lawyer, look in the book, see this John Irish.’
We shook hands. Age hadn’t entirely withered his grip. I unlocked the door, ushered him in, got him seated. He put the briefcase on his lap, looked around the spartan chamber. ‘How are ya?’ he asked. ‘Mum still sound?’
‘Dead.’
Des shook his head. ‘Happens,’ he said. ‘Pity. Looker she was. My oath. Remember when Bill spotted her. We was buildin at the Shop, Melbourne Uni, just after the war, up on the scaffoldin, hot day, first week of the footy season. Can still be bloody hot then. Course it can be bloody cold too. Anyway, bunch of girls, three, four of em, rich girls, very smarty. Not the girls we went dancin with, I can tell ya. They come along, sit down on this bit of grass, just down there where we can see em, us standin up there on the boards with the bloody great bits of rock. Mind you, married man, back from the war, didn’t give em a look.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t.’
