around.
‘People trusted you, Johnny. With their money. Tell us about why you deserve that trust.’
Chernov put his right hand on Cam’s wrist, tried to break the grip on his chin, failed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay, okay.’
Cam took his hand away, leaving pale marks on Chernov’s chin.
The proprietor arrived with a plastic plate holding a bun covered in what looked like pink candlewax. He put it down, went away and came back with two cups of watery tea.
When he’d gone, Chernov said, ‘On the bend, the blokes in front, they slow the pace, these three come from behind, they sit on me, nowhere to go. The winner come over the top of us.’
Cam shook his head. ‘No, Johnny, that’s the same story. The vid shows different. The vid shows you had two chances to get out. That little Mundall, what’d he say to you, the bunch of you cruisin along there on the bend?’
Chernov said nothing, looked at his bun, made an impression in it with a long index finger, trimmed pink nail.
‘We’re done here,’ Cam said. ‘Don’t think I’ll risk this tea. Recycled teabags. What level you on, Johnny?’
‘Could be dead tomorrow,’ said Chernov. ‘Jesus, dead tonight. Got a baby now.’
‘That’s medium- to long-term dead,’ Cam said. ‘I’m talkin short term.’
‘Give you the money,’ said Chernov. ‘What you dropped. Cash.’
Cam said, leaning towards the man, ‘Johnny, don’t be silly. The money. We’re not here about money.’
‘You hear about Brent Chick?’ said Chernov. ‘Going for a run round that Aberfeldie Park in Essendon, near his place, got the kid with him. On his little bike. Car knocks Brent twenty metres, would’ve hit the boy too Brent hadn’t pushed him. Miracle if he rides again. Right leg’s broken, hip’s broken, ribs cracked. Never catch the bloke. Car’s stolen.’
‘I read that,’ Cam said.
‘You read where Pat Moss’s house burnt down? Middle of summer, no fires, no heatin on. Mystery fire. Lucky to get out, him and the wife. Just arm burns.’
‘No,’ said Cam, ‘I never heard that.’
Chernov took out the cigarette packet, examined it, made to put it away.
‘Smoke,’ Cam said.
Chernov lit up, hissed smoke. ‘There’s others,’ he said. ‘Boys in the country, trainers, the battlers.’
Cam’s eyes met mine.
I said to Chernov, ‘You hear about Kevin Devine? Someone rammed his float?’
He nodded. ‘He’s one. There’s others had trouble.’
‘You want to give us a name?’ said Cam.
Chernov looked down, shook his head. ‘You gotta understand,’ he said, looking up, straightening his shoulders. ‘I’m on level three, you want to come up with me.’
Cam put out a hand and patted the small man on the arm. ‘No call for that. We understand.’
‘So what?’ said Chernov. ‘You want the dough?’
‘No,’ Cam said. ‘What’s gone’s gone, Johnny. There’ll be other times.’
Chernov stood up, sticky bun untouched. ‘On my bike then,’ he said and smiled an uncertain smile. ‘Tea’s on me.’
‘Much obliged,’ said Cam.
On the way back, on the Eastern Freeway in Cam’s vehicle of the day, a gunmetal Brock Holden, he said, ‘I’m runnin the data today. Spent a week polishin it. Sixteen hundred-odd country races, horses, form, jockeys, trainers, bloody hundreds of trainers, owners, even more owners, distance, weights, order of finish, sectional times, track rating, barriers, phases of the moon, anythin.’
‘Looking for what?’
‘Know when I find it. Like my cousin’s party?’
‘Very much. Best party for a while. Thanks for the invite.’
Cam put on a CD. A woman singing a Mexican- sounding song, the woman singing in the background when he’d given me the tip.
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Someone you know?’
He looked at me, ran his tongue over his excellent front teeth. ‘Practises when she gets up in the morning,’ he said. ‘I may have to start runnin early.’
I could understand that.
Cam dropped me at the office. I had a lease to draw up for my client Laurence Baranek. Laurie was leasing a shop he owned in Sydney Road to his wife’s cousin and he required a document that no tenant in his right mind would sign. In the course of drafting it, I fell to thinking about Simone’s report on Major-General Gordon Ibell and Charles deFoster Winter. Senior US military man and senior US intelligence man.
Stuart Wardle suggested that Tony Rinaldi ask Siebold to explain the relationship between Klostermann, a Manila company called Arcaro Transport, and Ibell and deFoster Winter.
Stuart obviously knew the answer to the question. It might be inside his computer. I rang Eric, Wootton’s computer geek. He was not a man to whom speech came easily. No doubt he babbled on all night as he surfed the chatrooms of the Net, but not otherwise. Yes, he had been to Lyall Cronin’s house. Yes, he had taken away the computer. No, it had not yielded anything. Was there any chance that it would? Yes. Good chance? No.
‘Well, keep me posted,’ I said.
He didn’t reply. Probably nodding.
I went home via St George’s Road to pick up a Chinese takeaway. The shop was empty. As always, Lester barked, ‘How many?’
‘One,’ I said.
Today, he didn’t just get on with the packing. He looked at me for a long time. Then he said, ‘Jack? What happen to two?’
I sighed, ‘Two went to Sydney. Didn’t come back.’
He seemed to be relieved. ‘Sydney,’ he said, as if that provided a complete explanation. ‘Yes. Be another two, Jack.’
‘I might be at the end of my twos,’ I said. ‘You get just so many twos.’
Home. An A4 envelope in the letterbox from Bendsten Research. Linda on the answering machine. I switched off after her first word. Steel needed. Then I hit the button again, closed my eyes.
Jack, I should say this to you in person but I’ve got to say it now. I’ve been involved with someone else here. I didn’t look for it, it just happened, a really stupid thing at work.
The ear-kissing.
It’s over now. It was probably over before it began. Anyhow, listen, I had to tell you. I’m feeling a bit soiled. Soiled and stupid, so I’ll keep away from you. Perhaps later…I don’t know if you’ll ever want to see me again. You could let me know about that. Whenever…whenever you like. Or not let me know.
Pause.
So. Well. That’s it. My feelings…no, I’ll just say goodbye. Goodbye.
I slumped in the chair. I’d known it was coming. Absolutely no doubt. You know. I’d been feeling sick about it for weeks. So why did I now feel even sicker? Love. Not a word for casual use. The life-scarred use the word with extreme caution. If you’re lucky, you go through life held up by people loving you. But you don’t know you’re being held up. You think you’re buoyant. You think the buoyancy came first, the love is a bonus you get for being buoyant. And that can go on for a long time. But then one day, the love isn’t there any more and you’re sinking, waving arms and sinking, all the old sources of love gone, the newer ones turn out to be fickle. They move on. No-one to hold you up, you’re just a skinny boy, all ribs, knees and feet, out in the deep water, can’t touch bottom.
Shake yourself. To carry on is all. Who said that? Rilke?
The phone rang. Drew.
‘Put on your television. Seven.’
I found the remote, clicked.
