Steve went out.
‘This place, what you think? Nice, hey?’
‘Very nice. Must be good to live on the water.’
‘The best. Cost a fucken bomb. What you reckon they want for management, upkeep, security, all that shit?’
‘Quite a bit.’
‘Forty grand a year. How’s that?’
‘That’s a lot, that’s steep.’
He scratched his chest pelt. ‘I told em, I don’t need your fucken security, look after myself. Little cunt says it’s not an option.’
I watched Steve come back. His legs were too short for his torso.
‘Ready,’ he said.
‘Pineapple juice,’ said Milan, ‘get a coupla litres.’
He led the way to the boat. We passed the man who’d been working on it. ‘She’s ace, Mr Fil,’ he said. ‘Runnin smooth.’
‘Good boy,’ said Milan, patting him on the chest. ‘Tell Denny I said cash.’
We were at the centre of a bay, a big expanse of water. The village’s long curving boardwalk was on the right, two-storey boathouse-like buildings lining it, people sitting under market umbrellas. Perhaps forty other waterfront houses were in sight, most of them with boats tied up at their landings, big white muscle boats, here and there a yacht supplying some class.
‘Like it?’ said Milan.
‘Top spot,’ I said.
‘You gotta earn it.’ He was first onto the boat.
Steve and the young man who’d searched me arrived, Steve carrying a big pitcher of yellow juice. The young man cast off, went up to the flying bridge, Steve went below.
‘Take a seat,’ said Milan, waving at the banquettes. They were gently scalloped into individual seats.
I sat down. He sat opposite me, his pectorals sagging, dark nipples peeping out of the dense hair like the noses of inquisitive forest creatures.
The engines fired, a satisfying sound, a growl that made the deck beneath my out-of-place leather soles vibrate. My searcher took the boat away from the landing, howling off at forty-five degrees from the land. In a few minutes, we were passing through a broad opening to the sea, a dead calm sea, blue-black.
Milan got up, climbed the steps to the bridge, muscles showing in the big calves, said something to the helmsman, who throttled back the engines, settled on a modest cruising speed.
Back in his seat, Milan looked at me, opened his arms, palms upward, smiled. ‘Fucken paradise, hey? Whatya think?’
I looked around. There wasn’t much to see. An endless flat paddock of ocean, a boat here and there. ‘Very close to it,’ I said. ‘You’re a lucky man.’
He laughed, ran a hand over the oiled hair. ‘Lucky? Jack, listen, mate, I come to this country with fuck-all, I work like a dog, anythin, mate, anythin, cleanin gully traps, that’s what I did. Cleaned a gully trap?’
I shook my head. I had, actually, but this wasn’t the moment to compare experiences.
‘Yeah, well, don’t talk lucky to me, mate. Qualified fitter and turner, you think I get a job? No way, they don’t want a fucken wog can’t speak two words of English.’
Steve emerged with the pitcher of yellow juice and two heavy-bottomed tumblers. ‘Yellow peril ready to go,’ he said.
‘Just a small one. I’m driving,’ I said. It sounded lame.
Milan laughed as if I’d said something very entertaining. Steve poured two full glasses, handed me one.
‘Pineapple and vodka,’ said Milan. ‘Good for you, builds up acid, cleans the bowel.’
He put back half his glass. ‘No, mate, I’m just a fucken Serb. Nobody likes Serbs, right? Be fine if I was a Kosovar. Right? Remember that lot?’
I nodded.
‘Everybody bleeding about fucken Kosovars. Mate, they not even Christians. Christian country this, right? Those people are fucken Arabs. Not from Europe. You see the women? Hide their fucken faces. Got no pity, either. Kill children. Right, mate?’
I didn’t say anything. What was there to say to six hundred years of breeding?
‘So what’s this Marco shit?’ he said. ‘You NCA, Feds, what?’
I shook my head. ‘I saw you mentioned in the newspaper. I’ve got a client who needs some information. That’s it.’
Now he had a good laugh. I was becoming funnier every minute.
‘Listen, you not from the Feds, okay, you give the Feds a message from me. Okay? Okay?’
‘If they ask me, okay.’
‘You tell those bastards, Jack, I tol em, they don’t listen. They never gonna make this drugs stuff stick on me. I don’t deal drugs, I never deal drugs, never will. Not interested. People come to me with offers all the time. I say no. That’s right, Steve?’
‘Right,’ said Steve.
‘Right. I’m not sayin I don’t know some stupid people, they get involved in this shit. Not sayin that. Everybody knows stupid people. You can have a stupid brother, how’s that your blame, hey? But I tell them, keep away from me, keep that shit away from me.’ He leaned over, belly creases deepening. ‘Jack, you think I’m such a dumb cunt I’m dealin while I’ve got the fucken Feds on my fucken hammer?’
‘It wouldn’t be smart, no,’ I said.
‘Tell em that, Jack, tell em. Tell em to get off my fucken back. Adult entertainment, that’s my business. That’s fucken all. And property, I got a bit of property. Plus a couple investments. All in the open.’ He looked at Steve.
I said, ‘Can I ask you about Marco Lucia?’
‘You ready?’ Milan said to Steve.
‘Ready.’ Steve went below and came back with a flat case. He opened it and took out a small machine-pistol and two long magazines. A magazine made a snick as it went into the butt.
Milan took the pistol, showed it to me. ‘Nice, hey? Ingram. Better than a Glock. Don’t trust fucken Austrians.’
Steve shouted something from the bow of the boat. We slowed to walking speed. A blow-up pool toy drifted by: a swan.
Milan stood up, went to the side and fired a short burst at it. The swan collapsed without a sound.
‘And another thing, Jack.’ Milan turned to me, took on a sad look, a man injured to his core. ‘I’m hurt there’s no gratitude.’
‘Gratitude?’
‘Gratitude. What these pricks in Sydney do when their fat boy gets in the shit with whores? They come to Milan, that’s what. I squeeze that cunt Papagos for them like a grape, end of problem. So where’s the gratitude?’
‘You deserve more,’ I said.
‘Fucken right. You tell them, Jack.’
‘Any time I get the chance. About Marco Lucia?’
A blow-up crocodile came by, followed by several big balls, two ducks and Mickey Mouse. Milan went into a firing frenzy, changing magazines in mid-carnage. The objects deflated, slumped on the water.
‘Marco,’ I said.
Steve appeared. ‘Hey, shootin,’ he said.
‘Pretty boy cunt,’ said Milan. ‘People say I topped Marco. Bullshit. Wouldn’t fucken waste my time. Cut his cock off, that’s somethin else. Find him, I sew it up in his mouth.’
‘Have to stick half down his fucken throat,’ said Steve. He laughed, showing his teeth.
‘Gimme another drink. Jack, have another one.’
‘No thanks. Why do they say you topped him?’
