Dead and Kicking (24 page)

She looked amazing, and no wonder, as everything was brand new and the real deal – none of your night-market knock-offs.

‘Very, very nice,’ I said. ‘Louis Vuitton?’

She smiled. ‘The Resort Collection. I’m most impressed, Mr Murdoch.’

‘Me too, Miss Hoang.’

She put her bag on the bed and walked across to the room-service trolley. ‘Lemon meringue pie,’ she said. ‘May I?’

‘I should warn you that after the burger I just had, I’m not holding out high hopes.’

She took a small taste, grimaced, and put the cover back over the plate.

‘So, Miss Hoang, what brings you to our delightful tropical north?’

‘My money-laundering investigation has led me to the Darwin Casino, and I am here to make further inquiries.’

‘So it’s not my fatal charm, then?’

‘Your charm is fatal, Mr Murdoch? I’m not sure I understand. Miss Quick appeared to leave your room without suffering injury.’

That was a low blow. I’d noticed her giving the bed a quick once-over before dropping her bag on it. Perhaps she was wondering if jezebel had popped in for more than a chat and was checking the bedspread for signs of recent carnal creasing.

‘Fatal charm is just a figure of speech, Miss Hoang – a joke.’

I didn’t think it was smart to mention that with Jezebel there was always a chance of suffering a life-threatening injury, and that was certainly no joke.

‘And may I ask what brings you to Darwin, Mr Murdoch?’

‘I’m here to do a little fishing.’

‘How interesting. I enjoy fishing myself.’

‘I’m partial to the Hardy Angel Smuggler rod with a Sage reel,’ I said, ‘and maybe a Royal Wulff fly.’

‘Oh, trout,’ she said. ‘I prefer going after somewhat bigger fish.’

‘And what do you use for a lure, Miss Hoang?’

She smiled.

‘I didn’t really get the chance to thank you for saving my life back in Hong Kong,’ I said.

‘I think you showed your appreciation in other ways, Mr Murdoch, in Macau.’

‘But I’m not sure I fully expressed my gratitude, Miss Hoang,’ I said, moving towards her.

‘I still have some things to attend to this evening,’ she said, stepping deftly to one side, ‘tomorrow might be better. Breakfast perhaps?’

‘I’m going fishing tomorrow, early.’

‘How unfortunate. A raincheck then.’

Nhu picked up her bag from the bed and I walked her to the door.

‘And Mr Murdoch,’ she said, ‘one more thing. About my early departure in Macau …’

‘Yes?’

‘I had urgent business to attend to. You were fast asleep and I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘I appreciate that, but you had already disturbed me, Miss Hoang, a great deal.’ I smiled and closed the door behind her.

Miss Hoang had a habit of disturbing me in a very pleasant way, but this time I had a feeling she was keeping tabs on me and I wondered why.

I figured the odds of another hot woman coming to my door that evening had to be pretty slim, so I picked up the remote to see what was on TV. Surprisingly, the doorbell rang a third time. It was Maxine, my friendly and very helpful flight attendant. She was holding a bottle of champagne.

‘We overnight in Darwin a couple of times a week,’ she said. ‘I spotted you in the lobby and talked the girl at reception into giving me your room number. The crew bus is picking me up at five tomorrow morning so we don’t have a lot of time to mess around.’

As it turned out, we had exactly the right amount of time to mess around and Maxine really did know exactly which buttons to press.

The drive south from Darwin to the old goldmining town of Gaffneys Creek took a couple of hours. The countryside was mostly flat, with scrubby vegetation and scrawny trees and termite mounds sticking up out of the red dust. The early-morning air was crisp and clear, and traffic was light, with only the odd sparkle reflecting off a vehicle way in the distance behind me.

The open road gave me time to reflect on my situation. I’d just had a night of wild sex with a flight attendant who had several interesting takes on the brace position, and I was on my way to gatecrash a meeting of dodgy fish farmers at a pond full of feral fish, armed only with a plastic-handled steak knife and a museum-piece pistol. And to think my high-school career counsellor had suggested I go into retail banking.

A three-metre-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the old Gifford open-cut goldmine a couple of k’s outside Gaffneys Creek. The tin sign wired to the fence near the gate read ‘Fischer Aquaculture Industries Pilot Project – Definitely No Admittance! Site Under Quarantine!’. The gate was wide open, and since I couldn’t spot any roaming guard dogs or off-the-leash barrana I parked the rented Toyota and wandered in.

There were a dozen or so dilapidated workshop buildings and the odd bulldozer and forklift standing about in the red dust. The only other vehicle I could see was Detlef Fischer’s Alfa Montreal parked near one of the sheds. The bonnet was cold to the touch, so the car had obviously been there for some time. Off to my left I could hear water splashing, so I climbed a mullock heap for a look.

The pond was the size of a couple of football fields. An elevated steel-mesh walkway led out to the middle, and the same kind of floating paddlewheel and fountain pump device I’d seen in Vietnam had been anchored at either end of the pond to oxygenate the water. The splashing noise I’d heard wasn’t just from the paddlewheels and water jets, though; sleek, silver-grey barrana were leaping out of the water, and from what I could see they were bloody big fish and there were a hell of a lot of them.

I walked back towards the main building and noticed a large truck-trailer combination parked outside. Even though the smell warned me it was probably a mistake, I climbed up the steps of the driver’s compartment and took a peek. Both truck and trailer were packed with recently butchered kangaroo carcasses, plus heads, tails and skins with the front paws still attached. A gazillion blowflies swarmed over the mess, but they were way too busy to take any notice of me. I was looking at breakfast for the fish and I have to say it really put me off the thought of what I might have for mine.

The blowies had ignored me, but someone else had chosen not to. ‘Please step down from the truck, Mr Murdoch, and keep your hands where I can see them.’

Leroy Fong was holding a well-calculated choice of firearm. It was a .357 stainless-steel Colt Python Magnum, the one with the eight-inch barrel. I climbed down from the truck, smiling and keeping my hands visible. At this range, a slug from the Python would go through me and both doors of the truck behind me and still have the energy to sail way off into the wild blue yonder. I didn’t want to get shot and I definitely didn’t want to get shot by an accountant. There are some ways of dying you really can’t live down.

‘Mr Fischer and I are having a meeting in the workshop building,’ Leroy said. ‘Perhaps you would like to join us. Please put your gun on the seat of the truck first.’

The muzzle of the Python was pointed at my middle and was rock-steady. I reached slowly under my jacket with my right hand and took out the little Beretta, holding it between thumb and forefinger. Moving slowly and carefully, I placed it on the seat of the truck and then turned back towards Leroy.

‘Fourth time’s the charm, Leroy?’

He stared at me.

‘You haven’t had much success so far, have you. Saigon, the bar in Chiang Rai and then the other night in Hong Kong.’

‘I was forced to use unreliable local people in Vietnam and Thailand, and in Hong Kong there were complications.’

‘You were using local people to keep this quiet from Playford?’

He nodded. ‘Old Peng was a very reliable and stabilising influence on our organisation until his unfortunate stroke. Many of our people are feeling less sure of their future under Playford’s leadership.’

‘So you took on a little outside contract work for Crockett?’

‘I was in Vietnam on business for Playford anyway, and the money offered by Crockett’s people was very generous. Of course, if I had known how … difficult you and your friends would turn out to be, I would have negotiated a much higher fee.’

‘I hope you got some money upfront,’ I said, ‘because the firm that contracted you has recently gone into liquidation.’

He smiled. ‘Then, of course, in that case my loyalty to Playford remains steadfast.’

‘Where is the boss man, by the way?’

‘He has been delayed in Darwin. You ask far too many questions, Mr Murdoch. Now, perhaps you would like to join Mr Fischer?’

He indicated with a wave of the Python’s long barrel that I should walk ahead of him to the workshop building.

Inside, out of the harsh sunlight, my eyes took a moment to adjust. It looked like a well-equipped workshop with machine tools, welding gear, a lathe and a lot of big steel drums. From the markings, most held diesel or lubricants but I could see a couple stamped with a skull-and-crossbones symbol and the word ‘cyanide’. The drums must have been left over from the goldmining days when cyanide was used to extract gold from the pulverised ore. And then I spotted Fischer.

‘Good morning, Detlef,’ I said. ‘How are they hanging?’

The suspensory state of Detlef Fischer’s testicles was probably the least of his worries at this particular moment. He was upside down, strung up by his ankles with his head a metre or so above the concrete floor. The rope around his ankles was connected to a winch block attached to one of the shed’s steel crossbeams.

‘Conducting an overly enthusiastic tax audit, Leroy?’ I asked.

‘Get me down, Murdoch,’ Fischer begged. ‘Peng’s gone fucking crazy. He got this psycho Chink bastard to tie me up and drive me out here and now the prick reckons he’s going to feed me to the barrana as soon as Peng shows up. Peng kept raving on about what we did to him back in school and the fish not being sterile and how we’re all going to pay. Get me down, for God’s sake! All these Chinks are fucking crazy.’

‘
Harm supgwailo!
’ Leroy shouted, which is a rather impolite expression in Cantonese. He walked over to Fischer and smacked him in the nuts with the barrel of the Colt, which seemed to be not only impolite but also pretty painful.

Fischer started screaming and Leroy joined in when I stuck the pointy end of Lothar’s steak knife into his elbow. The Colt hit the floor and Leroy grabbed for his elbow, then changed his mind and grabbed for his crotch after I kicked him in the groin.

I found some more of the rope Fong had used on Detlef and tied him up. His elbow wound wasn’t too serious but it had made him drop the gun, which was my intention.

‘I’ll kill you, you bastard,’ Leroy hissed, as I added a couple more knots for safety. Knots have never been my strong point.

‘You’re going to have to take a number, mate,’ I said.

Behind me, Detlef was moaning softly and I bumped his head on the floor while lowering him from the overhead beam, which probably took his mind off the ache between his legs for a moment. It didn’t shut him up, however.

‘Cut me loose and let me at that friggin’ Chink,’ he gasped.

‘Not just now,’ I said. ‘I’ve got other fish to fry. And you should learn to watch your language, you nasty prick.’

Driving a forklift isn’t like riding a bike and it took a while for all the moves to come back. Eventually, I manoeuvred my way into the workshop and managed to get one of the cyanide barrels up on the forks. Then I headed slowly out of the shed and across the yard towards the pond.

The front wheels of the forklift were a dozen or so centimetres from the edge of the pond when I stopped, and that seemed plenty close enough. The barrel was suspended over the water, and the restless surging in the pond indicated that the barrana must have figured their breakfast was on the way.

I switched off the engine and climbed down. All I had to do now was punch a hole in the barrel and bob’s your uncle. A pistol would do the job nicely and it looked like I had two choices; I could grab the Beretta from the truck or I could go back to the workshop for Leroy’s Colt. Then a third option presented itself: I could ask Playford Peng for a lend of his pistol.

Peng’s Colt Magnum had the two-and-a-half-inch barrel, and from the look in his eye he wasn’t about to hand it over, no matter how nicely I asked.

Over Playford’s left shoulder I could see a black Lexus. I hadn’t heard the vehicle arrive due to the noise of the forklift. Looking down the barrel of a .357 twice in one morning was two times too many.

‘All by yourself, Mr Murdoch?’ Peng asked.

‘Leroy and Fischer are here, but they’re both a little tied up at the moment.’

He nodded. ‘I saw them in the shed,’ he said. ‘Bit of an Aussie funny bugger, aren’t you Murdoch?’

I shrugged. Peng kept smiling but there was no humour in his eyes and I wondered why he hadn’t released Leroy.

‘I know all about your famous Aussie sense of humour, Murdoch,’ Playford continued. ‘Fairbrothers was full of Aussie funny buggers.’

‘I take it you didn’t find them all that amusing.’

‘I was the foreigner, the fat boy, eh, Murdoch? I was the Ching-Chong-Chinaman, the Chink, Fat Guts, the Yellow Peril. The kid who ate flied lice.’

‘New country, new school, I guess fitting in can be tough …’

‘Tough?’ Peng almost screamed. ‘Tough? It wasn’t about fitting in, you idiot. It was a relentless campaign of psychological terror by the whole school against me, you stupid
gwailo
. They stuffed fried rice in my school bag and ganged up to block me from getting to the toilets so I would wet my pants. They put green dye in my shampoo and took my clothes and boiled them in the laundry to shrink them and make me look even more stupid. The teachers ignored the situation and told me to be a man and stand up for myself. I begged and pleaded with my father to take me out of there, but he did nothing.’

‘Okay, so it was more than tough, but what have you got against Fischer?’ I asked, hoping to buy myself some more time. ‘I thought you and he were pals.’

Peng sneered. ‘Fischer was the senior boy in my House. He was supposed to be my protector, but he laughed at me behind my back with the rest of them. He took me swimming at Bondi Beach once and spent all day giggling about me with his girlfriends, slutty
gwaii moi
with their tits showing, all sunburnt brown like peasant farmers in the rice paddies. They called me the beached whale like I was some stupid Asian who was too thick to understand their taunts.’