‘He just fucked off, no-one seen him, so they say he’s dead, they point at me.’
‘Why at you?’
Milan eyed me over the top of his glass, lowered it. ‘Warm as piss,’ he said. ‘More ice, Steve. Why?’
‘Why do people point at you over Marco?’
‘He did some work for me.’
‘What kind of work was that?’
Steve was putting ice into Milan’s glass with tongs.
‘Just work,’ said Milan. ‘Things I give him to do.’
‘Marco’s dead,’ I said.
Milan looked at Steve, eyes eloquent, looked at me. ‘Says who?’ he said.
‘Drug overdose in Melbourne.’
Milan drank some pineapple juice. ‘Melbourne,’ he said, as if hearing the name of some remote cattle station. ‘What’s he doin in Melbourne?’
‘Working as a part-time barman.’
I could see a huge powerboat coming our way at speed, foaming bow waves. It slowed, veered away to increase the distance between us when we passed. Perhaps the idea was to lessen the risk of spilling Milan’s drink.
The three men and a woman on board all waved. Milan moved a hand at them. ‘Everybody knows Milan,’ he said.
‘Marco was calling himself Robbie Colburne,’ I said.
Another exchange of looks.
‘Robbie what?’ said Milan.
‘Colburne.’
‘You sure the dead one’s Marco?’ said Milan.
‘I’ve got a picture. It’s in my jacket. Inside pocket.’
Milan looked at Steve. Steve felt around in my jacket, found the photograph, showed it to Milan without looking at it.
‘Hey,’ said Milan, a broad smile, real pleasure. ‘The Pole. Marco Polo.’
Now Steve looked. ‘Good fucken riddance,’ he said. He was smiling too.
‘Overdose?’ said Milan. ‘What?’
‘Smack.’
Another boat came from nowhere, rocked us with its wake. ‘Arsehole.’ Milan shook his head. ‘So a needle?’
‘Yes.’
Milan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Needle’s a big fucken surprise to me,’ he said. ‘What’s the Feds’ interest?’
This was not progressing. ‘What kind of work did Marco do?’
Milan smiled at Steve. Steve smiled back. ‘What you reckon, Steve? What kinda work Marco do?’
‘I dunno, Milan.’
‘Marco’s all cock,’ said Milan. ‘Work it out.’
‘If someone wanted to kill him, why would that be?’
Much laughter. Milan held his empty glass out to Steve. ‘More,’ he said. ‘Whattabout you, Jack?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m not getting anything here,’ I said. ‘You want me to pass on messages, you won’t answer a simple question.’
Milan considered this, working his tongue over his teeth. Then he leant over. ‘Listen, Jack, the cunt’s just a big prick and a thief. Maybe he stole somethin, made people angry. He’s no fucken loss.’
He straightened up. ‘But don’t lookit me. You know how I’d a killed Marco? You know?’
I shook my head.
‘I bring him out here, I open him up a little, just for blood, tie him to a 200 kilo line. Then I throw him over and I tow the cunt around lookin for sharks. Tow him till all I got on the line is a bit of bone.’
Steve’s mobile shrilled. He said a few words, handed it to Milan.
Milan listened. ‘Tell him to fucken wait,’ he said. ‘I’m comin.’
He gave the phone back to Steve. ‘Home,’ he said.
The first you saw of Haven Waters was the clock tower. What need did these people have of the time?
21
Tired, the feeling of the whole body being tired, not the earned tiredness of exercise, of physical work, just tired in the bone marrow. I went down the dark passage to the kitchen without bothering to switch on a light. The clock on the microwave said 9.14. I’d been up for seventeen hours, four hours in aircraft seats, three hours driving.
And bubbles of sour pineapple juice kept rising. Milan was right. It built up acid, it would probably clean the bowel. Scouring, they called it in horses.
Milk. I needed milk, drank two glasses, not terribly old. Then I opened a bottle of red and sat on the couch in the sitting room waiting for the place to warm up. Food I had no need of — I never wanted to eat again.
The buzzing of the tired brain.
Marco Lucia. Milan had not spoken well of him. But what had the judge said?
…an attractive person. Intelligent, full of life. And a lot of sadness in him.
There would certainly have been a lot of sadness in Marco if Milan had had his way and towed him around the Queensland coastline as live shark bait. Bleeding bait.
Listen, Jack, this cunt’s just a big prick and a thief. Maybe he stole somethin, made people angry. He’s no fucken loss.
A big prick and a thief. Would the judge agree with this description? Yes, if I understood the term relationship properly.
Marco Lucia on the run from something in Queensland. He comes to Melbourne. Many people think Melbourne is a long way from Brisbane.
Marco takes on the identity of his school friend, Robbie Colburne.
How was it possible to do that?
Groaning, I got up and found my notes.
Robbie Colburne and Marco Lucia both left the country in April 1996.
School friends. They’d gone to Europe together. But only Marco came back. Was it the case that Robbie didn’t need his identity any longer? Because he was dead?
Marco could’ve been Robbie’s brother, Sandra Tollman had said. Both pale, with black, black hair.
I poured some more wine, put the video in the slot, sank into the couch with the remote in hand.
Marco going into the Cathexis building. The new Melbourne landmark. Hideous but the very edge of architecture.
The unknown man at a pavement table, dark, balding, a fleshy face seen from across a busy street, then a new camera angle, a second camera, unsteady. The man drinking the shortest of short blacks, newspaper in his hand, looking around, half-amused.
Worth trying to identify the man? No, too hard.
Early evening, Marco in right profile, side on, several parked cars between him and the camera. He is waiting to cross a street, a narrow street, vehicles flashing by. He takes a break in the traffic, walking diagonally, the confident walk.
Nothing there.
Marco in his dinner jacket in a car.
I sat in the half-dark thinking about the origin of the clips. State cops? Feds? I thought about Marco waiting to cross the street, wound back.
Marco waits to cross, waits, a gap, he walks, he’s in the middle of the street. Freeze the frame.
