Caymans, places like that. In the end all I got was that Eagle had a link with a Manila company, the name’s gone…’
What was the name Stuart Wardle had given Tony Rinaldi to put to Siebold? It came to me.
‘Arcaro Transport?’
‘Absolutely. Arcaro. And both of them, they both had links with another company part-owned by a company owned by these two trusts. It’s complicated stuff. You need to draw it on paper. Anyhow, I got nowhere. Then I asked a mate of mine in Sydney, knows everything this fellow, gave him the names. He got back, he says, “This is The Connection. Walk back, walk back very, very carefully.’’’
‘The Connection.’
Rapid nods, smile, no tics, another puffing cigarette combustion transfer. ‘The Connection. I’d never heard of it. My friend says, doesn’t mince his words, “Don’t fuck with these people, Miles,’’ he says, “it’s the good old boys from Manila.’’’
Behind me, silent entry like a butler, the warder coughed. ‘I’m afraid that’s it, Mr Irish.’
Impeccable screw behaviour in this place. Not like screws at all. Perhaps there were front-of-house screws, with the real screws inside.
Miles put out his hand. His lethargy was gone, replaced by a feverishness. ‘I didn’t ask any more questions. Listen, come back, I’ve got other interesting stories. Tell Alan, tell him, tell him I don’t forget. I’ll show him that when I get out of here. Good man, excellent person. Alan. Yes.’
I came out of the neat jail, a jail designed to look like a motel, a compulsory-stop motel, and aimed the Lotus down the highway. A long day entering its twilight, a day following a night rich with unpleasant surprises. I felt invigorated, mind fresh. Perhaps the adrenaline pump wouldn’t shut down? Was I to be permanently primed for fight or flight until I simply fell over?
Sticking on the speed limit in the red Lotus from Basement 1, I thought about Miles Crewe-Dixon and his facial tic. Miles and Steven Levesque. TransQuik and Eagle Exprexxo of Tampa, Florida. Stuart Wardle and Arcaro Transport and Major-General Ibell and Charles deFoster Winter. Gary Connors and Klostermann Gardier. Steven Levesque and Klostermann Gardier and The Connection. Good old boys from Manila.
The Connection. Good old boys from Manila.
Brent Rupert, he was one of the bosses, he used to go to Manila and to America with Gary.
That was what Chrissy Donato-Connors-Sargent had said.
What had Lyall said about Stuart Wardle?
He was big on the Philippines, working on a book on the subject.
Good old boys from Manila.
I tried to remember what Simone Bendsten had told me, couldn’t recall a word. It seemed like a month had passed. I’d been too tired to register anything.
Ring her. No.
Then I remembered: her unread report was in the secret compartment of my desk.
46
In and out quickly. They wouldn’t be expecting me to come back to my office, not at night and alone.
I found an illegal park a hundred metres down the street and was in the office inside a minute, didn’t put on the light, had the envelope in my hands in thirty seconds. Out the front door, turned the key in the deadlock.
Rain like mist, tarmac shining. Light on across the way in McCoy’s studio, some artistic atrocity being committed. On the pavement, a steel rubbish skip. How did McCoy decide which of his efforts to throw away? Toss a coin?
I looked down the street towards the Lotus. Half a block beyond it, I could see the dark bulk of a four-wheel- drive parked outside the back doors of the old chutney factory.
Mr Pigtail the warehouse developer having a late inspection, gloating over the profits to come.
I was ten metres from the car, walking in the street, when two blocks down a car turned the corner, came towards me, turned right into St David Street.
Two men in the four-wheel-drive, slumped in the front seats, just the tops of their heads caught for an instant in the headlights of the car behind them.
Warehouse converters?
No. I knew who they were.
I stopped, froze.
Run for the Lotus?
A movement in the driver’s seat of the big vehicle. The driver sitting upright.
Get to the Lotus, unlock the door, get in, get it started.
It was an unfamiliar car. It would take me seconds to find the ignition.
No. Too late.
Run for it. Run back. Run for Carrigan’s Lane and Smith Street.
The four-wheel-drive started up, headlights came on.
Run.
I hadn’t gone five paces when I knew I’d never get to Carrigan’s Lane, never get to Smith Street.
Look back. The big vehicle pulling out from the kerb, squeal of fat tyres.
Run. Run for what? Never get my office door open in time, two locks to open.
Running, hearing the vehicle behind me, look back, headlights fifty-sixty metres away.
Running. Run for McCoy’s door, could be open.
Look back. Never get to McCoy’s door.
Head, shoulder and arm leaning out of the vehicle, out of the window behind the driver. Something in the hand.
Oh Jesus, I’m dead.
McCoy’s rubbish skip. Get behind the skip.
Flat sound, not loud, whine of lead off the tarmac in front of me.
Oh Christ.
The skip. Nearly there.
I could hear the engine roaring. Close.
I dived for the steel box, bounced on the cobblestones, landed on my elbow, my right hip, pain shooting through my whole body.
Huge bang next to my head. Bullet hit the skip.
Crawl, crawl behind the skip.
Behind it.
The sound of McCoy at work on his tree trunk. He wouldn’t hear anything above his own din.
The four-wheel-drive went into reverse. Back ten metres. Brake. See the brakelights red as blood.
Trying to get a clear shot at me. Legs not good enough.
Forward. Savage left turn. Brake. Reverse lights.
As the vehicle backed onto the pavement, I crawled around to the other side of the bin, the narrow side. Breathless, little involuntary fear noises in my throat.
Scream of the engine, right turn, forward, looking for me.
I tried to crawl back. My right leg seemed to be paralysed.
Crawl. Drag yourself.
Too late. Too late.
I looked up into the face of a man in the back seat of the four-wheel-drive. A fat face, bald head, mouth open. He looked like a white seal. A happy white seal with a pistol, silencer on the end.
He steadied both forearms on the windowsill, sighted down the barrel, not in a hurry. On my chest. Getting it right.
I felt nothing. Fear gone. Not even despair. Just a thought about my daughter. I didn’t write often enough.
