have a shower anyway, to wash off the last of you bastards.’
Water ran; she had an instinct for where bathrooms were. I put some more Black Label in my glass and waited for her to come back clean and explain to me. I seemed to do a fair bit of that-waiting to be explained to- and it sometimes made me feel like a foreigner with an imperfect grasp of the language.
The make up was gone when she came back; her hair was damp and she’d pulled the exotic clothes on as if they were a sweater and jeans. She looked, without the gloss, tough in a different way. She made herself another drink and got a cigarette going.
‘I know all about it,’ she said.
I stared at her.
‘I mean, I know about the job. Five Dock?’
I nodded. ‘How?’
She drank and her smile reminded me of Kevin’s laugh over the phone-no fun in it. ‘I knew you were good, that you’d find something, but I wasn’t sure you’d be straight with me. So I had someone not as good as you trailing you around. He reported in to me this afternoon-all the details. It wasn’t hard to work out what the job was. D’you know what they’re lifting?’
I shook my head.
She gave that smile again and held up both hands. ‘This, and this-booze and smokes. It’s a hot load, going to get hotter. So you don’t have to worry about honest citizens getting hurt.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Wasn’t hard once I knew it was trucks and who the Queensland money was.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s a pretty dumb game though-bloody well-guarded that shipment’ll be. You did some good snooping, Cliff. The other bloke was impressed — you didn’t spot him?’
‘Maybe. Just at the end. Couldn’t be sure. Cathy… did you try to talk Kevin out of this?’
She shook her head and drew on her cigarette.
‘Why not? I did.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not interested. Seemed very sure of himself.’
She consulted her watch again.
‘Why d’you keep doing that?’
She got up. ‘You won’t go to bed, least you can do is take a girl for a drive.’
We were rolling past the Leichhardt Town Hall when she told me. ‘You won’t be able to get too close,’ she said. ‘It’ll all be staked out. I told the cops.’
‘God, Cathy! Why?’
She didn’t answer; she just sucked on her cigarette and stared ahead through my dirty windscreen.
It was near midnight and a mist was rising off the canals and grass. Wednesday night, quiet, a good night for crime. The question of getting close never arose because it all happened as we skirted the park. The highway turn-off was in full view and I saw the high shape of a semi-trailer heading down the road. Then lights pointed crazily to the sky and there were flashes and flares out of the darkness. There was a sputtering of bright orange from up the hill where I’d seen the two heavies reconnoitering. The truck seemed to meander slowly down the grade, then pick up speed abruptly. Too abruptly: it skidded, lurched and rolled. There were dark shapes moving fast from the park and pairs of headlights suddenly cut through the dark mists. I stopped and braked without knowing it; the whole thing seemed to take an age with each separate part occupying its own bit of time, but in fact it must have been all over within a couple of minutes.
Cathy sat still and stared, and then she jumped and swore as her cigarette burned down to her fingers. She jerked open the door.
‘What’re you doing?’ I reached across for the handle.
‘I want to see. I was the fizzgig, I’ve got the right!’
‘Don’t be a fool! You don’t know what’s going to happen. Who’s dead, who’s alive. You know what’ll happen to you if they find out you put them in.’
She broke my grip on the handle and opened the door. ‘Who cares?’ she said.
I got out and followed her down the road and across a broad strip of grass. We were challenged a hundred yards from the scene by a shape that rose up from behind a bush. Cathy walked unblinkingly towards the gun.
‘I want to see Matthiesson,’ she said.
The cop fell in behind us and we went the rest of the way to the overturned truck and the cars each with flashing warning lights and one blue eye blinking tracers of light over still and moving figures.
Matthiesson was a bulky man in a flak jacket and bullet proof gear. He held an automatic rifle and let its muzzle point to the ground when he saw Cathy.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘And who’s this?’
‘A friend,’ Cathy said dully. ‘Where’s Kevin?’
‘He was hit. I’m sorry. I told you I couldn’t make any promises.’
‘Yes, you did. I want to see him.’
Matthiesson guided us across behind the truck. One of its wheels was still turning slowly and bits of gravel were still falling from it. The overturned truck smelt strongly of liquor, and there were rivulets running from it and soaking into the small, dark, twisted shape on the ground. Kevin was on his back; his face was blotched with blood and one eye socket was a brimming pool. He looked like the death photo of Bugsy Spiegel. Cathy looked down at him and the tears started and fell down her face and onto the body. She just stood there, slightly bent over, and looked and wept. I moved over, put my arm around her and gently eased her away; she went, on feet that moved in a slow, hobbled shuffle.
Sirens started howling and the ambulances arrived and a team came to right the truck. There was a lot of swearing and one scream of pain as someone with bullets in him was moved. I got Cathy back to my car, gave her a cigarette and drove back to Glebe. She resisted nothing, accepted everything. Her shoes had blood on them and I made her kick them off at the door. I sat her down and wiped her face and made us both a drink. She drank it in a gulp and held out the glass for more.
‘You asked why?’
I nodded.
‘I went there to see him this afternoon. To Enmore. Just as I got there this girl came out. Great tall thing, all in pink. Kevin always liked them tall, pink’s his favourite colour. Kevin came out with her. His hair was different and he had a beard. He shaved it off, did y’see?’
I nodded again.
‘He came out with her and I watched.’
‘Cathy, you couldn’t be sure. She might have been with one of the other blokes. Anything…’
‘She copped his special big feel just before she got into her car. I should know. I know what it meant.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘That’s why.’
‹‹Contents››
What Would You Do?
I missed a forehand volley that came at me slow, loopy and as big as a basketball. That gave Terry the set 6–2 which was at least two games more than she usually beat me by. But then, she’s a professional and I’m a roughie; she says she only plays me to get practice against a kicking serve and a good lob.
‘No lobs,’ she said as we walked off the court. ‘You were lousy. What’s wrong, Cliff?’
‘I’ve got a problem.’
‘Tell me about it.’
