Black Teeth (15 page)

I wave at the yellow bag. ‘Is the camera for work?'

‘Yeah. It's all about photos, right? The internet…'

‘Sure.'

‘So, like, what has this got to do with my car?'

It suddenly clicks who she reminds me of: the Road Runner. The old cartoon. The big eyes and gentle smile and total failure to judge the arseholes around her. The comparison generates so much compassion within me that I have to be honest.

‘Well…I didn't exactly tell you the truth about that.'

All of a sudden her gentle smile is gone and I lurch into an excuse.

‘The car was, like, a half-truth. I don't work for the council… It's like…' I shake off nervous Jason Ginaff, re-deploy cool Timothy Wentworth. ‘I have a client who believes that Rudy is dangerous, and that he, my client, is in some danger.'

‘Who?' Her face fills with concern.

‘Not someone you know.'

She has to squeeze her eyelids shut to think.

‘But…why did you lie about it?'

‘I didn't lie. I mean, I only lied about that. Everything else is true. You saw my card. I'm an investigator.'

‘Is this to do with Rudy's father?'

Cool Timothy Wentworth goes rigid.

‘Why do you say that?'

‘He died. Just recently. I thought—'

‘Has he mentioned anything about it to you?'

‘Anything about what?'

‘About his dad. About holding a grudge.'

‘No, he hasn't mentioned…'

From the hollow end of the platform comes a rumble. The big TV reads
Train now approaching
and a speaker somewhere warns us to stand clear of the tracks. At first it seems like this is what Beth shakes her head at.

‘It's got to be a mistake. Rudy isn't
dangerous
.'

‘I can only tell you that there's been some threatening behaviour.'

‘Not Rudy. He doesn't
do
threatening behaviour.' Her eyes urge me to agree. Warm air gusts from the tunnel and wind-machines her hair. ‘He's totally harmless. He's lovely.'

‘Are you two an item?'

She's horrified.

‘
No
.'

‘Were you once?'

‘No…gosh…I don't even know him that well.'

‘You said he was lovely.'

‘He is, but—'

‘Did he admit to taking your car?'

‘No…No, I didn't mention it.'

‘Did you mention me? That we talked?'

‘No…None of that came up. He just wants help selling his pieces and I couldn't turn him away—'

Through the tunnel comes the Upfield train. I have to shout above the noise.

‘
I just think you should give me the benefit of the doubt. Until this is over.
' She seems touched. The train squeals and stops and there aren't many people waiting to get on. Nobody gets off.

Beth sighs and yanks the door open.

‘Okay.'

Having boarded she's several inches taller, looking down on me, endeared. ‘I'll stay away from Rudy until I hear from you. How about that?'

‘Perfect.' I feel in my stomach this new certainty that I will speak to her again, step back to leave, remember myself and blurt, ‘Has Rudy mentioned anything to you about life insurance?'

She scowls. Then, questioning: ‘No?'

The doors beep and close. She raises a hand and waves and drifts away amid the chuffing of the train, baffled by this last query of mine. I wave too.

25

Glen Tyan's house is a single-storey weatherboard on a cul-de-sac called Suttle Street, where Suttle Street meets Sereen Road. The irony of these names is not lost on me as I pull to the kerb.

Nothing unusual about the house at a glance. The front lawn is mowed and edged with rose bushes, thorned stems poking out through the picket fence like prisoners swiping through the bars of their jail. Left of the dwelling is a grass ribbon driveway that stretches the full length of the house, that culminates in a garage door and the spoke of a Hills Hoist just visible through the branches of a winter canopy. If that's the backyard then Tyan's property isn't just a house but a full quarter-acre block, as are the other lots on Suttle Street that have so far avoided subdivision. Some have been converted into units—yuppie dog boxes all soulless newness—while other residents take no greater advantage of the spaciousness than to park their multiple haggard sedans on their front lawns.

I'm crossing Tyan's lawn when here are the windows: massive, either side of the small verandah, allowing no amount of insight—the one-way glass Tyan mentioned. Maybe he really missed interrogation rooms after he retired. More likely he just doesn't want people to see inside.

I watch my reflection mount the concrete porch and ring the bell. The door opens at once, but only a crack.

‘It's me,' I say, like it's not obvious.

The door retreats further to reveal an empty hallway. Tyan has
jammed himself between the door and the wall, so as not to show himself to the street.

‘Come on,' he says.

With a single step inside the cigarette smoke hits me like a panic attack: all at once, all over and hot like the house is on fire. With the dust and the sheer lack of oxygen my eyes squeeze shut and I blink against the haze, cough, weak.

Tyan closes the door, pads on bare feet to the first doorway off the hall, wears beige shorts that are best described as skimpy, along with a faded-pink T-shirt that hangs loose and merciful over his belly. I follow into a space where the light filters orange through the strange front windows: a room held permanently in sunset. There's a brightly burning gas heater and a small television and a wooden chair by the window that allows an expansive view of the street. On that chair is a threadbare cushion; surrounding it on the floor are three overflowing ashtrays and about seven used teacups, one of which has become a fourth ashtray.

I cough again, try to get as much of this air out of my lungs as I can. Then I say, ‘Here's the photo.'

Tyan sits in the wooden chair at the window, doesn't just glance outside but searches like someone out there called his name.

‘Right.' He holds out his hand and I bring the print to him, careful not to convey the triumph I felt at the camera store. I know Tyan well enough now: any hint of self-congratulation will be instantly condemned.

Tyan squints into the picture. The way he does that implies he might need glasses but he's not wearing any, not looking around to see where they are.

It's not a flattering picture, even if you discount Rudy's subphotogenic head. The concentration on his face is easily interpreted as anger, portrays him as a surly child who DID not WANT his photo taken.

‘Yeah, he looks like a crank,' Tyan says, drops the print to the floor and turns his squint to the window.

‘We go to the police now, right?'

‘Yeah…'

‘Unless you prefer to stare out the window for the rest of your life.'

He ignores this, raises a finger and points.

‘That's where he stopped. On the corner. The Volvo.'

I follow his finger to a red post box on the opposite kerb, marking the spot Sereen Road meets Suttle Street. It's not a thoroughfare: a man in his car watching the house would have stood out like a flashing neon bulb.

Tyan doesn't look at me as he speaks.

‘Did he see you take the picture?'

‘Rudy? No. But he met up with Beth Cannon.'

‘She saw you?'

‘Yeah. But don't worry. I told her I was investigating what happened to her car. Like, for the local council.'

No point in telling him how honest I was at the train station.

‘Fuck me. She believed that?'

‘I hate to say it but I'm a good liar.' While I'm full of myself, I'm like: ‘And I heard Rudy on the phone. He's in the market for life insurance.'

This has the desired effect. Tyan's head snaps around. ‘Hey?'

‘He asked for a quote on Prime Life, which I googled. It's the name they give their product at Fortunate Australia.'

Tyan's forehead shrinks into a stack of pancakes.

‘What's he want life insurance for?'

‘Don't know. Said he wanted the maximum benefit. Like, insisted on it. But I don't know why he needs it. And he can hardly afford it.'

Tyan's eyes go dark. He murmurs, ‘Life insurance…'

I can't deny a real buzz at how grateful he seems. ‘Grateful' in that he's not interrupting me or telling me off. In my grand tradition of appearing not to care, I shrug. Even as my toes curl and my heart thumps.

‘He had a tattoo on his hand, also. Looks like he might have done it himself.' I hold out the webbing between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Here. A black crown. Four points up and down…'

My finger draws the invisible picture. Tyan glares out from his rickety chair and his empty cups and his ashtrays.

‘On his right hand?'

I have to think.

‘Yeah.'

‘Was Rudy Alamein ever in Severington?'

‘Nope.'

‘You're sure?'

‘He doesn't have a record.'

‘What about an alias?'

‘I'm not sure an alias would be his thing.'

‘His father died in Severington, right? Last month?'

‘That's right.'

Tyan looks back to the window. This time he's not looking for anyone.

‘That crown. If you looked at it upside down, what would it look like?'

‘I don't know.' I rotate my hand as if the tattoo is there.

‘It's not a crown, you dill. It's teeth.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Something they do in Severington. Blokes get the black teeth tattooed on their right hand so that people know the bloke is owned. Comes from the days when the Dingos owned half the fucking prison. Pack of bikie deadshits. They're gone, long gone, but that symbol's still used. It means he belongs to someone. As if he's property. And everyone knows it.'

‘That doesn't sound cool.'

‘Hey?'

‘I mean, it doesn't sound pleasant.'

‘Why do you talk like that?'

‘Like what?'

‘Like that. Like fucking…Seinfeld.'

‘No, I just…' I make a face, shake my head to refocus. ‘So why does Rudy have it? The teeth.'

‘Maybe his old man had it.'

‘So it's, like, a sympathy tattoo?'

Tyan doesn't know. We ponder the silence. Then he says:

‘How did Piers Alamein die?'

‘Don't know.'

A car motors past the window. Tyan watches. His eyes follow it all the way around the corner and lingers to be sure it isn't coming back. I trace a line on the carpet with my toe and ask:

‘You ever feel guilty? Sending people to a place like that?'

Tyan doesn't hesitate. ‘Nope.'

He hesitates now, long enough to sip his tea. But the heaving effort of his mouth and throat relay that it's something stronger than tea. ‘Poor woman was killed in her own home. Still young. No other family. When you're dead you don't get a lot of justice. It's Severington or nothing.'

I'm about to rephrase my question but Tyan has slipped into contemplation, appears to be silently solving a riddle. Finally he blinks up afresh.

‘I suppose you want your money?'

‘Sure.'

‘What was it? Two-fifty?'

‘Two-fifty plus twenty-five for petrol. Plus a dollar for the print. Plus a trip to Fawkner Cemetery on Sunday.'

‘I've got my hands full right now, if you can't tell. The cemetery might have to wait. How much did you say?'

‘Two-seventy-six. But let's call it two-seventy-five.'

‘That's big of you.' He rises delicately and waddles back to the door, says, ‘Stay here.'

I stay here.

It's about half what I would have billed a typical client, given the time spent. But pointing that out would be screaming into the abyss.

A hinge squeals somewhere in the house. I wonder if I can open the window to breathe. Glancing over there I see a black handgun on the floor.

The sight of it, plus the heat…I'm giddy. I rub at my face. Now that I think about the stale air, I can't stop thinking. Am I breathing right? Is oxygen getting to my brain? I look around the room for a solution, find nothing. My eyes come back to the firearm. It wasn't there when I came in. Tyan must have taken it with him to answer the door.

My agitation pours out the moment Tyan returns.

‘You're sitting around your house with a gun? Is it loaded?'

He cringes like I told an inappropriate joke. A set of bills thrusts out as he moves back to his station, surveys the outside world.

‘You can't live like this.' I pocket the money. ‘We
have
to tell the police.'

‘Yeah.' Still it's half-hearted. Tyan's big toe blindly nudges the firearm on the floor. He nods, but his thoughts are someplace else. I want something more definite.

‘Rudy Alamein is obviously deranged. He's transferred all his grief about his parents onto you. So you've got friends we can go to, right? Guys who can get the ball rolling?'

Tyan stares out the window like the star of a TV soap. I realise I'm peering out there too, searching the street for whatever.

‘
Tyan
.'

He looks to me. I make a point of holding his attention and I say, ‘That's what we're going to do, right?'

Tyan nods yes. Like, all things considered, we should probably do that.

Then he's like:

‘I don't want to go to the police. I want him to have a go. I want him to try it.'

26

Tyan lights a cigarette.

‘You hungry?'

I rub at my cheek. ‘I don't understand.'

‘I can make you a sandwich.' Tyan's second inhale brings on a single raucous cough, confronting like a lion's roar would be confronting if he did it right in your face and trailed off with a phlegmy hum.