Roll With It (19 page)

Laver got back to the Vegie Bar to find that, of course,
Marcia was gone. Oh Christ, he was going to pay for that.

He called, but got her phone’s message bank, inviting him to leave a message. He did, asking her to call him back, but decided not to hold his breath.

He badly needed a drink and, now he thought about it, noise. Escape. He thought about ringing Flipper, to see if he’d talk outside work hours. But what was the point?

In a sudden moment of inspiration, Laver made another phone call instead and, leaving his car where it was, headed towards Johnston Street and then down to Wellington, to the Tote Hotel: one of the last bastions of live pub rock in Melbourne.

Nathan Funnal arrived about half an hour after Laver, as Damian’s band was setting up in the wake of a band that was a wannabe Nirvana or Oasis – Laver couldn’t decide.

Funnal bought the first beers and they found a corner where the noise from the sound check wasn’t too bad.

‘So, how’s life in the saddle?’

‘Up and down, pun intended. It’s so weird not being in Major.’

‘Do you actually turn up? Go out on the bike?’

‘Yeah, mostly. I have to sign on and off so I’d only be sitting at a desk. May as well get some fresh air. The actual bike bit isn’t too bad, it’s just the fact that the work is so … juvenile. Tourists and parking tickets, you know?’

‘Can’t imagine.’ Funnal sipped his beer. ‘Look at the bright side, you’re not involved in some of the shit going on.’

‘Like what?’

‘You know that underworld taskforce?’

‘Noble?’

‘Yep. Did you hear about the Italian connection?’

Laver felt like crying, he was so in love with having an actual non-Siberian cop talk, even if Funnal was a Soggie. He leaned in. ‘Go on.’

Funnal was trying to speak quietly but also yell over the drums being tested. ‘They had this guy in their sights for the hit on that bloke outside the gym. Remember the one in Bentleigh?’

Laver was nodding. ‘Sure. Part of the Williams–Moran thing.’

‘Yep. The Noble ones thought they had the shooter cold. They’d bugged pretty much every object in his house short of the dunny – and maybe that, too. They had him on tape saying to his girlfriend, in Italian, according to Victoria Police’s finest translators: “I shot him in the head. It was beautiful.”’

‘Nice.’

‘Off go the Noble boys to northern Italy where the alleged hitman now resides, having made the smart decision that it might be in his best interests to leave Victoria for a while. The Noble detectives have full cooperation from the local constabulary so they have a getting-to-know-you session before they head up to said alleged hitman’s remote villa. Of course, they proudly play the tape. At which point the Italian cops all start looking at each other and grinning.’

Laver waited for it. Funnal swigged his beer and leaned closer to Laver’s ear.

‘One of them says, “Who translated this?” The Noble guys say it was the Melbourne translator. “What Italian does he or she speak? Northern or southern?” Noble guy says, “Fucked if I know … he speaks Italian.” Locals laughing openly now. Turns out in the local dialect, which is what the hitman happens to speak, the tape has him saying to his girlfriend, “You give great head. That’s beautiful!”’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’

‘Halfway around the world.’

‘On taxpayers’ money.’

‘Explains why the girlfriend didn’t say much on the tape?’

‘Very much so.’

‘Oh Jesus. That’s hilarious.’ The two cops now with their shoulders quaking. ‘No wonder Flipper has been in such a foul mood.’

‘He was one degree of separation from the surveillance, lucky for him.’

Laver went and got more beers. As he sat down again, he said, ‘Spider, I’ve got a problem. Nobody will listen and I’ve spotted some potentially nasty stuff about to happen.’

Funnal looked serious. ‘Rocket, you know I can’t get involved.’

‘You’re a Soggie, Spider. You’re the guys who famously don’t give a shit.’

‘The squeaky-clean demands currently washing through the Force haven’t missed us, Rocket. You know that. You think you’re the only one being looked at? No wonder the assistant commissioners are all shitting themselves, given the number of skeletons out there – literally in some cases. This new chief has the right head for the job and he’s brave, even braver than the last one was. Rest her soul with the bushfire commission.’

‘Mate, all I want you to do—’

‘Nope. Flat no. He’s already looking at the bodies below him. Four separate shooting investigations, corruption charges looming against senior uniforms, that potential murder charge against the ex-vice bloke. It’s heads-down time. Mushroom city. Cliché of your choice that means “stay within the lines”.’

‘I get all of that, but I’m talking street level. I’m out there and I’ve seen some bad heads. New ones too, as far as I can tell. You know my instincts … I’m sure this is noteworthy.’

Funnal shrugged. ‘I’m not doubting that. But if I lifted a finger to help you I’d be on the Malvern Star two bike racks down from yours.’

‘You can’t run some names for me?’

‘Rocket, think about it. I’m a Soggie. They point us in a direction and we break down doors. Why would I be running fucking names?’

‘You don’t know what it’s like, Spider. It’s like they’ve just cut off my balls. Like all my years of knowing who to watch and who to ignore have been wiped by that prick Strickland from the ombudsman.’

‘And Broadbent, but mate, just sit tight. All going well, it’s not permanent.’

‘But these dickheads are out there right now. They’re not waiting for the Coleman inquiry to run its bloody course. And people might get hurt.’

‘If they do, they do. You don’t have to catch them all, mate.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Deadly.’ Funnal leaned in and pointed a finger at Laver’s chest.

‘Listen, when you are saddled up where you belong, in Major Crime, you do great work, Rocket. You put nasty people behind bars. You protect the public if you want to get all holy about it. But right now, you aren’t in that chair, so relax.’

‘That’s what everybody says. Relax. Get a suntan. Fuck.’

‘So do it.’

‘Spider, I’m a cop. I’m not a bike courier. I’ve never taken my fully allotted holidays. I’ve worked the crazy hours and chased the half-arsed leads, because it’s the job. I think I’m on the brink of losing my second serious relationship because of my work. I’m a cop.’

‘Only just, Rocket. Remember that. And if you keep sticking your head up, it could be gone forever.’

‘What does that mean? Is that a threat?’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake. It’s a mate giving you advice, dickhead.’

Laver took a deep breath. ‘Sorry mate. Truly. I’m not coping well with this.’

Funnal gave him a look. ‘Gee, you think?’

Laver swigged his beer to the bottom and stalked off to get some more. When he came back Damian was on stage, wearing jeans, a green T-shirt, a full-length fur coat and a Fender Stratocaster guitar.

‘Hey y’all,’ he said, voice booming out of a speaker to Laver’s left. ‘Welcome to the Tote. We’re The Mutant Children of Ossie Ostrich and we’re going to rock this place! In honour of a friend of mine who’s in the audience, we might even go all Mixtures on your ass and play “The Pushbike Song”. You ready? Boys – pedal to the metal!’

As the band fired up, Laver raised a single middle finger in the stage’s direction.

‘Mate,’ Laver went to shout to Funnal, but the Soggie raised a hand.

‘No Rocket. No. Let’s just get pissed and listen to your mate’s latest shit band.’

So they did.

Jake swam but there was no sign of Lou. He’d finally
returned to the pool because he was worried about losing his fitness, plus he missed the routine of swimming and, even more so – if he was totally honest – he missed seeing her in that bathing suit.

Their meeting at Bar Open the night before had been a trip. Jake had been shaken by the whole thing with the cop and the guy following him but hadn’t mentioned any of it to Lou. Part of him was dying to tell her, to show what a potentially dangerous, mysterious cat he was under his supermarket assistant-manager disguise. But then he’d thought of Lou’s ex-boyfriend and his mate and realised he had a way to go when it came to being dangerous.

In the end, he’d decided not to mention it – he didn’t want her thinking he was getting paranoid or was about to get cold feet about the sticker plan, which she wanted to do, sooner rather than later. So he’d ordered a light beer and they got to talking, which wasn’t easy over the thrash band playing at the back of the room.

Lou had brought a tiny booklet with her: ‘The guide to ethical supermarket shopping’. The Earth in a shopping basket on the cover.

It claimed to be the bible of which companies were genuinely environmentally friendly, actually organic or really cruelty-free when it came to the treatment of animals. Jake had been surprised flicking through it. Some major brands were firmly in the ‘Avoid where possible’ and ‘Boycott!’ categories, while others had question marks over them. He couldn’t help thinking that anybody who lived by that book would have trouble walking down any aisle of the Heidelberg Groc-o-Mart.

Lou had said they should meet the day after tomorrow, at night, to plant the stickers, which she was organising. Jake swam, knowing he had a date: a guaranteed night-time rendezvous with Lou.

He was still thinking about it when he arrived at work, hair damp from the pool. The car park was mostly empty. Barry’s car was in its usual spot, there was a delivery truck at the loading bay, and there was a white sedan over in the back corner, almost hidden behind the industrial bins and a bush that was getting seriously overgrown. Jake felt his heart jump. He worked hard not to look directly at the car, but he instantly registered that it was a Ford. And there were two people sitting in the front seats.

Jake hustled into work, sweating straight through his after-swim shower and deodorant. The cop’s card was in his wallet. But it was 8.27 the morning after he gave it to him. Jake would look like an idiot if he was on the phone that quickly. He decided to wait and see if the car was still there in a few hours.

***

Head pounding, Laver caught a taxi to Brunswick Street and found his car with three tickets already fluttering on the windscreen. The first one, from when Brunswick Street was a morning peak-hour clearway, was $400. Laver reflected that Siberia probably meant nobody would even make the bastards disappear. As though in protest at having been abandoned the night before, the car refused to start until the third try, something that was happening often enough that Laver thought he should probably get it looked at.

It had been an expensive night in lots of ways. He had taken a taxi home from the Tote, with a long detour to Marcia’s apartment block in Toorak, where she didn’t answer the buzzer. Either she ignored him or she wasn’t there. She must have been pissed off or upset, so maybe she’d stayed at a girlfriend’s place? Should he send flowers to her work? Flowers and a fluffy toy? Have the Botanical Gardens sent there? Would anything help at this point? God, his head hurt.

As Laver finally walked in the door of the Mobile Public Interaction Squad headquarters, holding two takeaway coffees, Slattery tilted his head, smiled and said, ‘An hour late. That’s coming off your pay.’

Just the two of them in the room, everybody else already having ridden into the day.

‘Fair enough,’ Laver said. ‘If it involves a memo, don’t type it too loudly.’

‘Actually all is forgiven if one of those coffees is for me.’

Laver winced at the fluoro lighting as he removed his sunglasses. ‘Actually, they’re both for me. Medical emergency.’

‘Second strike,’ Slattery said, shaking his head.

‘Oh okay, have one. With the extra entertainment of watching me suffer.’

Laver pulled up a chair on the other side of Slattery’s desk. They both sipped coffee.

‘Slatts, I’ve got a name I’d like to run through the database, if you could help me out as senior officer.’

‘Someone you woke up with this morning?’

‘I wish. A potential perp that Officer Valencia and I encountered recently on our rounds.’