Roll With It (35 page)

‘Dad?’

‘You’re starting to scare me, son. Are you okay?’

‘I think the correct response is, “I love you too, son”.’ Rocket going for it, now he was out there in this uncertain place. But there was more silence.

‘Can’t you say that, Dad?’

‘Well, of course. You know I do. I don’t know why we need to—’

Time to end his father’s misery. ‘Relax Dad, I have to go. Give Daisy a huge hug for me. If you get a chance, tell Callum I was a good man.’

‘Callum? You’ve heard from Callum?’

‘No Dad, but you might. Goodbye.’

Laver hung up and could feel tears in his eyes. All he did lately was cry or try not to cry. Christ.

He stared at the phone and thought about phoning her. But why? He scrawled on a piece of paper: ‘Marcia. Good luck with the shit for brains from your work.’

Then screwed it up and put it in the bin. Fuck it. What was the point of making her feel guilty? She’d left just in time.

He was almost done. Laver moved to the door, having one last look around the apartment, when he suddenly put his keys back down on the table and headed to the kitchenette. He ran hot water and dishwashing liquid into the sink and then slowly, carefully, washed and stacked the dishes and hung the washing-up gloves over the tap to drip-dry into the sink.

And then he left his flat.

He had to drive two laps of the Groc-o-Mart car park in Jake’s
car before Brunetti and Wilson picked him up, the white Ford falling in behind.

‘Very slack,’ thought Laver. ‘Asleep on the job.’

He was wearing Jake’s ridiculous reggae beanie, hunched over the wheel. He wondered what was going on ahead of him. Flipper had refused to help him stop this, so Laver had decided his mate might as well watch the show. The calls had been made and Laver knew where to drive, not too fast in case they lost him. Lucky they were driving towards the city, against the flight of the after-work traffic.

Rathdowne Street was moderately busy; not bad for peak hour. Laver turned right out of Alexandra Parade and slowed, even smiling when the white Ford clearly ran the red light to make the turn. Saw the flash of the camera on the pole – one last traffic infringement to complete their criminal history. They were almost there.

Dolfin was in his car, with the house in the sights of his binoculars. A Soggie was planted on either side, three full houses away so they couldn’t possibly be spotted, as per Rocket’s instructions. Flipper was now seriously concerned about his best mate on the Force and was definitely going to be speaking to the police counsellors about him, whether Rocket liked it or not: the equivalent of a police intervention. But first, there was this house. When Laver had said ‘nuclear’ this time, there had been a note in his voice that Flipper had never heard before. After their meeting with Ned Kelly earlier that day, Dolfin knew Laver wouldn’t have used the word this afternoon unless he meant it. But he still had no idea why, or what was about to happen. Knowing only that he had to be outside this house. Watching as an old Mazda pulled up – Laver getting out of the driver’s door, wearing a ridiculous beanie.

Another car pulling up behind him, two men in suits, as Laver went through the front gate of the house and, without looking back, hammered on the front door. The two men opening the doors of their car, but not getting out – sitting and watching.

Flipper concentrating the binocular lens on the front door instead and seeing it open to reveal half of a big man, bare-chested and bald. But not bald. A flash of orange, vertically down his head. A mohawk. Something dull and grey and solid-looking in his hand. Dolfin knowing a gun when he saw one.

The man and Laver staring at one another, Laver just standing dumbly with his arms dangling by his sides. Laver saying something Dolfin couldn’t hear. The big man’s face beginning to react.

Flipper saying, ‘Oh fuck.’ Far too late.

***

Stig, sitting at the kitchen table, stoned. He’d promised Wildie he’d have it together for the sale to Barry tonight, but hadn’t been able to get Paxton on the phone all afternoon and had started smoking joints as nerves took hold. Losing the will to stop lighting just one more up, and then another.

Now looking at the world through a familiar haze, raising his head, hearing Wildie open the door and a voice say, ‘Thought it was my turn for a home visit.’

Wildie snarling, ‘You’ve got to be kidding. You are so fucking dead.’

At the front door, the cop just looking at Wildie, not saying a word as the Wild Man grabbed him violently by the shirt, dragged him into the house and landed a vicious right hook to the cop’s face with the butt of the pistol he was holding, a blow so hard the Wild Man felt it right to his shoulder. Blood exploding from the cop’s temple, but the cop not attempting to fight back. Wildie transferring the gun to his left hand and punching him twice more, savagely. The cop staggering but not falling, blood pouring from somewhere on his face, breath rasping. Wildie moving the gun to the dazed cop’s temple but just now beginning to wonder why he didn’t seem to be armed.

Oh no. At the kitchen table, Stig knew. Just knew. With a dull certainty that went way beyond the fog of the drugs.

It was like a dream sequence as Stig rose from the table, a gun magically in his hand – he’d forgotten he was even holding it – and took three lazy steps towards the front hall even as he heard the Wild Man fighting somebody: the hard smack of solid punches. Wildie grunting.

And then was in the hall just in time to see Brunetti and Wilson, Jenssen’s men, as they burst through the front door; the thought occurred to Stig that he really should raise his gun, a moment before he saw the flash from Wilson’s handgun and felt himself punched in the stomach harder than he’d ever been punched before. Stig dreamily letting off a shot and watching the plaster above Wilson’s head explode as Brunetti’s gun flashed and he was punched even harder in the right side of his chest.

Stig now feeling his legs fall away and dimly aware of the floor meeting his back. Surprised to feel floor against his temple. How did that happen? Stig thinking special effects never really prepared you for the reality; a moment of adrenalin, registering what it’s really like to be shot. Stig all wide-eyed on the ground, watching Wilson’s head explode as the Wild Man finally returned fire before Brunetti stepped all the way inside the door, hiding, and turned to look back outside where Stig vaguely registered shouting.

A cop in full Kevlar bursting past the door and the concealed Brunetti to shoot the Wild Man three times fast to the body and head. Wildie toppling noiselessly. Or maybe Stig wasn’t hearing anymore? he wondered. Dreamily, he watched Brunetti about to unload on the cop from behind the door but then saw a red explosion on Brunetti’s chest.

Stig slipping away but seeing the bike cop on the floor with Wildie’s gun, still trained on Brunetti who was sliding down the wall, hands scrambling stupidly at the hole in his chest, a river of red and bodily gunk snail-trailing down the wall as he fell.

Stig going blank for a moment but then aware of two faces, in black cop helmets, looking down at him. Seeing their mouths move. Not hearing anything. Stig now not seeing anything. Stig remembering his mother once telling him, after his uncle died, that death was like crossing a road. Stig still wondering what that meant, wondering what came next. Stig feeling light, free of his body. Stig feeling a pang – of what? Regret? Fear? Surprise?

Stig feeling nothing.

***

Dolfin walked through the front door in his usual suit, no Kevlar, gun drawn but not fired. He surveyed the bodies: the gunman against the wall was gurgling and whimpering, but one look told Dolfin that would be short term. He’d already radioed for paramedics and back-up: Shooting in progress, potential member down. They’d all be here in minutes.

Laver on his hands and knees, a handgun lying on the floor beside him. Laver, with scarlet red on his face, vomiting savagely into the hall’s carpet.

Beside him the body of the orange-haired man. Colin Wilde, Laver had called him. The Soggies were shaking their heads from above the body of the one who must be Stig Anderson. Another body a metre or so inside the front door, now with pulp where the right eye and temple should have been. The untouched left eye staring.

And there was Laver, who had seen it all coming, who Dolfin hadn’t believed, retching on the carpet.

But alive.

Flipper dug into his pocket and found a handkerchief, crouched and handed it to Laver.

‘Just gimme a minute,’ Laver said hoarsely. The blood was coming from a cut above his left eye, among other places.

Dolfin said, gently, ‘Rocket, you fucking idiot. That was suicide.’

‘You wouldn’t listen.’ Laver more moaning than speaking. Semi-conscious. ‘Nobody would listen.’

‘Where are the hippie and the nerd?’

‘Safe.’

Dolfin knelt beside Laver, still on his hands and knees, bleeding, panting, possibly about to be sick again. Probably concussed. The closest thing to a brother that Dolfin had. Alive.

‘Mate, next time, I promise I’ll listen.’

Laver gasped, ‘Next time.’ And almost attempted what might have been a laugh.

Dolfin could hear sirens. Knew there would also be unmarked cars, with Broadbent, the media liaison, probably that politician cop arsehole Strickland from the ombudsman.

He stood back up and looked again at the bodies. The man against the wall was no longer gurgling. The Soggies were standing silent, just another day at the office, guns relaxed, waiting for the sirens to arrive.

Dolfin looked at the fired gun next to Laver’s hand.

‘One thing’s for sure, Rocket,’ he said. ‘If your career wasn’t fucked before, it is now.’

Laver didn’t get out of hospital until after midnight. Cecy was
there when he got wheeled in on a bed after getting stitches for the cut above his eye, along with other patch-ups. She hugged him, really hugged him, and he could feel her trembling. Felt tears against his neck and felt his own eyes getting moist. Cecy was looking older than her twenty-something years, and Laver felt a pang that she was so much younger than he was, and another pang that the job was already ageing her. She’d been fast-tracked on the realities of police life in a big way since they’d heard Barry Paxton being shot. God, lunchtime that day.

The good news was that most of the initial grilling from Strickland and co, as well as Broadbent, had been able to happen while he waited for treatment and had his concussion assessed. There would be more meetings in a day or so, but for now he could rest up. Plus, as a bonus, he could argue later that the comments directed at Strickland were the result of a scrambled brain developing a concussion.

He crashed at Dolfin’s house, half-expecting Coleman’s ghost to be joined by Brunetti, with Stig, Wilde and Wilson maybe along for the ride – enough spectres for a card game – but surprisingly his brain relented and he actually slept. He started the drive to Jan Juc after ten the next morning, driving carefully, his head throbbing like a bastard, hoping his reflexes would not be tested on the way. The day had broken clear and warm, and Laver wondered briefly if he could stay for a surf before turning back towards Melbourne and everything that wasn’t waiting for him there.

It was just after 11.45 am when he arrived at Sunset Strip. The house was quiet, curtains drawn. He knocked on the back door, which was never locked, and walked in when there was no reply. Smelled the fog of dope the moment he entered the house.

And burst in on a naked Bushy and a topless Lou, blinking with sleep, desperately fumbling for clothes on a fold-out couch in the lounge room.

‘Oh shit, Laver. What time is it?’

‘So you two have gotten to know each other then?’

Bushy sniggered, stoned. ‘Looks like it. It was an entertaining evening.’

Lou struggled into a singlet, spectacular breasts disappearing before Laver’s eyes. Also now giggling, pupils dilated. ‘I’m feeling very protected.’

‘And where exactly is protected person number two?’

Bushy looked slightly alarmed. ‘I guess he’s still in bed. He took my room. We were sort of fooling around on the couch after a couple of joints and he didn’t look too happy.’