Roll With It (6 page)

Laver nodded. ‘Fair enough. Thanks. I’ll try to stay out of trouble.’ He put out his hand. ‘If you like, you can call me Rocket.’

Slattery took his hand and shook it. ‘Slatts. With all the originality of the police force.’

Laver watched Slattery getting his riding stuff together. Gloves, a utility belt with a baton, handcuffs – the usual. He was surprised to see a holster.

‘We carry guns here?’

‘Yes. No. Well … you don’t.’ Slattery grinned apologetically. ‘Orders from on high.’

Laver stared at him. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Gun free. It’ll make you lighter in the saddle.’

‘And so when some crazed maniac stumbles onto the road in front of me, shooting randomly, I …?’

‘Ring your bike bell at him. And try not to be so melodramatic. You want to know how many times bike cops have found themselves involved in a shootout?’

‘I’m guessing never. Which only makes the order more pointed.’

‘Take it as you like,’ Slatts replied, holding out a peace offering. ‘Here, have a banana.’

‘You cyclists prefer bananas to morning coffee?’

‘Not really, but you’ll need something for your holster.’ Slattery headed for the door, then turned. ‘By the way, what sort of bike do you want?’

‘What?’ Laver was still lost in the humiliation of not being trusted with a gun.

‘You get to choose. We have a deal with Kona, so a lot of the rookies go for that brand – but you can get whatever you like as long as it’s within reason when it comes to price. Four grand is usually the upper limit. The only rule is it has to have a minimum of XT gearing. And most opt for XT drivetrain, SLX hydraulic disc brakes and an ST or Mavic Crosstrail wheelset.’

‘Like I said: what?’

Slattery grinned at him. ‘Another language, isn’t it? The bikes are bought out of a special police trust fund: believe it or not, the official budget won’t spring for them. Let me know what you want and I’ll try to organise it within the week. Ride our spare bike until then. It’s a Kula Deluxe, an off-roader modified for the street. It’s a beauty.’

Laver stared out the window at the yellow bike on the rack. ‘Slatts, when I get my own bike, can I get those little flowers in the spokes?’

That was yesterday. Today the sun was shining so Laver had no excuse. He found himself riding the borrowed bike alongside Constable Matthew Standish, a twenty-two-year-old with the height, muscle and meathead attitude of a key-position football player.

‘The thing I find, Senior Constable Laver, is that if you ride with the right attitude, the dirtbag element straighten up before you even know they’re there. If I ride around looking like a mountain-bike courier, I’ll get treated like one. But if I make sure my uniform is perfect, my bike is shining and my back is straight at all times, I find the respect is there before I even need it. We learned about positive passive aggression in Cadets.’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you,’ said Laver.

A couple of kilometres out from the garage, in East Melbourne and heading for Bridge Road, Richmond, they pulled up at a red light and Laver fiddled a bit with the handlebars of his bike.

‘Do you ever have trouble with these gripshift gear things?’ he asked.

‘No mate, I haven’t got them.’

‘What do you mean you haven’t got them? Every brochure I looked through yesterday, every bike had them.’

Standish gave him what was supposed to be a dismissive gaze. ‘I stayed away from the
brochures
.’ Putting an edge on the word. ‘I chose my own bike and had the boys in the lab make a few alterations, to my specifications.’

‘The boys in the lab, huh? You’re good friends with them?’

‘They understand how seriously I take my job, yes. I like to feel that my transport is good enough for any situation that may arise.’

‘You just never know when a traffic light might break down and you’d find yourself directing traffic, hey?’

‘Listen, Senior Constable, this role might be a step down for a big-time gunslinger like yourself, but I happen to believe the Mobile Public Interaction Squad does important work. I was also taught at the academy to be prepared for any situation at all times. So if I do come across some nutter or some dickhead driver, I want to have a bike that can at least make an attempt to keep up.’

‘To be clear and make sure I’m not misunderstanding you, you plan on chasing runaway cars on a bike?’

‘In city traffic. Yes.’

‘So, what have you changed?’

Standish glanced towards the cogs on his back wheel. ‘I’ve updated to XTR Hydraulic brakes with a few of my own modifications, Maxxis CrossMark Exception 26 by 2.1 Kevlar tyres, a RaceFace Deus XC stem and the Fox 32 F80 RLC 80 mill forks – I mean, the standard ones on this model are shit. And the gears are quick-fire Shimano XTR, hooking into the XTR Shadow system … It’s pretty much the racing model now, but street-ready. The whole bike was pretty much custom built once I finished working on it. Six grand in modifications, all up.’

‘No flamethrower?’

‘What?’

‘Exocet not standard? The boys in the alleged lab are losing their touch.’

Standish stared. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Nothing.’ Laver nodded to some umbrellas on the sidewalk a couple of blocks ahead. ‘C’mon, let’s decamp in a southerly direction and apprehend a coffee.’

‘I don’t drink on the job, Laver.’

‘Well, okay, you can be on the lookout for potential serial killer motorists while I do.’

‘I am not going into that café, Senior Constable.’

‘Fine. See you back at the station this arvo.’

‘We’re not supposed to separate,’ Standish huffed. ‘There must be at least two officers, travelling together, at all times.’

‘Excellent. Good to follow the rules, meaning you do have to wait while I get a coffee. Is it against regulations to sit at separate tables?’

Standish muttered under his breath, but Laver was already pedalling towards the café.

***

Stig slouched on the couch, smoking and watching the Wild Man play Xbox. It had pretty much been like this for two days.

‘Have you even been to the toilet since we got here?’

Wildie’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. ‘Yeah. Why? You want to watch? Didn’t think you were like that.’

‘You haven’t stopped playing that thing for hours.’

‘Haven’t seen this game before. It’s good. You can shoot soldiers in the head from close range. Watch … boom.’

‘Wildie, we’ve got things to do.’

‘In a bit. She’ll be right. I want to take this al-Qaeda base first.’

Stig contemplated the Wild Man, orange hair everywhere, beard untamed, powerful shoulders revealed by his blue wife-beater singlet. Thinking of how they’d met, as drug mules for an Asian syndicate between Bali and Rockhampton – home to the airport with the laxest and most easily bought security in Queensland. After they got through, they’d driven the long way south to the Gold Coast, pumped up on adrenalin, laughing stupidly with relief that they’d made it. Everything the Wild Man did then seemed hilarious: whether he was throwing full beer cans at road signs at speed, listening behind the car for the explosion if he managed a hit; or whether he was groping and occasionally managing to even screw one of the bored young waitresses in a small-town café in exchange for a tiny packet of the product they were trucking, yelling through the bathroom door to Stig, mid-fuck, if he wanted a go once he was finished. No morals at all. Or whether he was wiping a sandwich he wasn’t happy with on the glass windows of a roadhouse, daring even the truckies to take him on. The Wild Man was psycho and fucking fearless, but was also surprisingly smart. Somewhere in his dubious past he had managed an education. When it came to doing business, he could be sharp. Which made him a good guy to have along on this trip.

But shit, he could be lazy – happy to coast and let Stig lead.

‘Mate, I organised this house. I did the shopping. I got rid of the car.’

‘You want a fucking medal, Stig? Keep your shirt on.’

‘We need a car. We need to go see people about the merchandise.’

‘That’s what we’re calling it now? “Merchandise”?’

‘Well, I find it’s better than saying “stolen drugs”, in case people are listening or a room happens to be bugged.’

The Wild Man flinched as his on-screen self took a hit. ‘How can this place be bugged? You say your mate hasn’t even lived here for a few months.’

‘No, well, he hasn’t had much choice about that. Good behaviour might see him out in a year.’

‘Crap house too, just quietly.’

Stig sighed. ‘Well, excuse me for not putting you up at the Hilton.’

‘Good pub on the corner though.’

‘Wildie, we have things to do.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, you old woman. Chill. Take a tiny percentage off the merchandise and help your brain party for a few minutes, instead of fucking worrying all the time.’

‘We didn’t take it to use, Wildie. I need to think straight to get this done.’

‘Well, then think straight somewhere else. This is your home town, isn’t it? Haven’t you got any old girlfriends you can annoy or something?’

Actually, thought Stig, that wasn’t a bad idea.

***

Laver and Standish returned to the garage for lunch and Laver quietly pulled Slatts aside and suggested that, for their deal to stand, it might be best if he and Standish – or ‘Nazi Bob’, as Laver called him – were separated.

Slatts grinned. ‘Yep, Standish is one of the reasons it was felt best that you weren’t allowed to carry a gun.’

So in the afternoon, Laver rode with a kid, Ollerton, who he had pegged as Standish Lite. Ollerton looked at his reflection in shop windows far too often and took himself and the job far too seriously – but otherwise, he was not actually offensive. So far.

Laver tried to play nice as they pedalled along. To his credit, Ollerton actually did the job, directing tourists, moving along double-parked cars, phoning in an abandoned and almost certainly stolen car in a lane behind Brunswick Street. At one stage, he pulled up a bike courier, a big guy with a massive gingerish beard, for riding on the tram tracks on Swanston Street, which Laver thought was a little harsh, given they had also been riding along the tram tracks at the time.

‘We’re cops, he’s not. For him, it’s an offence,’ Ollerton shrugged. ‘He didn’t have a bell on his bike either. Another fine. You let those bastards get away with one thing, and they take the piss forever.’ Laver was unconvinced, watching the courier curse and mutter as he rode away, but decided it was his second day and he should just concentrate on enjoying the sunshine.

Otherwise, things went well until about 4 pm. Laver and Ollerton were riding along Lygon Street, Carlton, when their radios burst into life.

During his career, Laver’s police radio had sent him flying to murder scenes, crazed gunmen, sieges, interrupted burglaries – known as ‘hot burgs’ – rapes and attempted rapes, arsons, desperate suicides trying to take others with them and political demonstrations turned ugly. Today, as a dutiful member of the Mobile Public Interaction Squad, he listened to the tiny speaker hanging on his chest squawk: ‘MPI 5, MPI 17, please attend domestic disturbance at 129 Station Street, Carlton. That’s 129 Station. Copy?’

Ollerton, all business, already had his microphone in his hand. ‘MPI 5 reads you. Situation update?’

Laver had to hide his grin.

Slattery sounded tired over the speaker. ‘Domestic disturbance, Wayne. An old lady’s had a fall and hurt her arm. She’s a bit spun out and she won’t get in the ambulance. She’s screaming assault and wants the police to arrest the ambulance drivers. Can you guys just humour her until they can lock her in the back? Copy?’

‘Roger that, Sergeant Slattery. MPI 5 and MPI 17 acknowledge and are actioning that request now,’ Ollerton said, already starting to ride.

Laver pressed his transmitter and added, ‘This is MPI 17, Laver, responding. I can confirm that action and add that we’re decamping in a northerly direction now, Sergeant Slattery, sir.’

‘Thanks Tony,’ said Slatts drily. ‘Remember our deal.’

Laver caught up to his partner and yelled, ‘Vamoose! We ride!’

Ollerton didn’t laugh. In fact, he rode straight back past Laver, legs like pistons, pumping remorselessly as he pedalled hard. He turned to look back at Laver, who was struggling to keep pace, and there was no mistaking the note of contempt in his voice as he said, ‘It’s not my fault you didn’t cut it in the Major Crime Squad, Senior Constable Laver.’

Laver rode a few moments in silence, wondering whether it was worth it, but finally couldn’t help himself. ‘I did cut it, mate. I cut it a little too well. That was my problem.’

‘You’ve got more problems than that,’ Ollerton said, confident that the older cop couldn’t catch him if he tried. They rode in silence for the rest of the trip, Laver thinking his generation at the police academy would have shot themselves before showing such obvious disrespect to senior police. Damn youths.

The scene at Station Street was chaos. Laver could hear the woman’s shrieks before he and Ollerton had finished leaning their bikes on the wrought-iron fence outside the sagging Victorian terrace house. Two other cop bikes were already there, along with a gathering of neighbours and passers-by standing around outside.

‘Don’t you use that tone with me, young lady! I’ll give you more than you bargained for if you try to give me any more of your lip!’ a shrill voice carried through the open door of the house out into the street, the hint of an English accent.

A young, exasperated female voice responded, slowly and loudly for greater clarity: ‘Mrs Davies. We’re just trying to help you. C’mon, love, let us pick you up off the floor.’

A scream pierced the air, startling the gathered onlookers.

‘Don’t you lay a hand on me, you little slut! I want the police! This is assault! I know my rights!’

‘C’mon Mary,’ pleaded another voice.

‘You won’t get nowhere being that way. I’m not putting up with your insolence. I want the police!’

‘Mary, I AM the police.’

‘Like hell you are, you little tramp.’

The crowd parted so Ollerton and Laver could pass. Laver spotted a kid, maybe eleven years old, leaning on a Razor scooter, school bag over his shoulder. Laver pulled him aside. ‘Keep an eye on my bike and I’ll let you blow the siren after.’