Saving Billie (12 page)

The other piece dealt with his involvement in a New Zealand land deal thrown into doubt by a couple of the parties suddenly coming under fire for tax transgressions. Oceania Securities had arranged amnesties and compromises and the deal had gone through satisfactorily. This item revealed that Greaves was a lawyer with degrees from the universities of Melbourne and Chicago. It was unclear whether he was a New Zealander or an Australian. He described himself as an Australasian to the reporter who'd managed the briefest of interviews,

That was something to chew on. Clearly he had some connection with Clement and not an altogether happy one from his behaviour on party night. Was he backing Lou Kramer's work in some way? He looked like a possible source for the extra money she might need to lure Billie, but what would his motive have been for that? True love? I doubted it.

Given the apparent scale of his operations, I was surprised Greaves hadn't attracted more press attention. But I suppose that just as those who seek it can get it, those who don't want it can avoid it. I had a contact at the
Australian
Financial Review,
a former editor in fact, who now had gone back to investigative work as any dinkum journalist would. I rang her and put the question about Greaves.

A true reporter, her first response was, ‘Why? Have you got something?'

‘Hey, Lily, I'm asking you.'

‘Pity. Mystery man, probably an Enzedder but I've never seen his passport. A lot of these types have a few anyway.'

‘He's a type, is he?'

‘Cliff, I really don't know. There're rumours about him. He's involved in this, he's involved in that, but never anything substantial and he's sort of not interesting enough for anyone to put in the time and effort on him.'

‘Is that because he likes it that way?'

‘You're learning.'

‘What about his politics?'

‘No idea. You're intriguing me.'

Lily Truscott is a woman I wouldn't mind intriguing. I'd met her at a fight night in Marrickville. Her brother was on the bill and I was sitting next to her. She was his most enthusiastic supporter, and when I made a few complimentary remarks about his work, she gave me a smile. When he won she jumped up, whooped and gave me a hug.

After that, we had a drink and, as the Stones put it, spent a few nights together. But she was career oriented. So was I, in my way, but there was something there, and I suppose it was in the back of my mind to develop it when I rang her.

‘Tell you what, Lil. If anything comes of this I'll let you in on it.'

‘Yeah, yeah. But I'll hold you to that and give you this—from what I've heard about Greaves, which is buggerall, so this is just intuitive stuff, I'd guess that he's a man out to make a big score.'

We left it there. I felt like one of those con men who sell off acres they hold a shaky title to, over and over and over again. But I just might be able to make good on the deal.

The online bank showed that Lou's cheque had bounced and that my account had been debited for the dishonoured fee. I rang and told them to re-present it and that I'd pay the fee to accelerate the clearance again. Hardy the gambler.

That left me with Steve Kooti. A knock came on the door. I opened it and Tommy stood there, uncertain but optimistic.

‘Hey, man, you owe me a hundred bucks.'

I had to laugh. ‘So I do.' I felt for my wallet but discovered that I didn't have enough cash. ‘Have to go to an ATM.'

I pulled the door closed and we started down the stairs. On the way I told him I hadn't meant to run out on him, it was just that I had to follow someone. ‘Anyway, I didn't get you in trouble. I didn't go near the house you showed me. How did you find me, by the way?'

‘Found one of your cards in the car.'

‘So you can go back and get on with your job hunting.'

‘Kinda like it down here.'

‘Hard without money.'

There was a queue at the ATM and just for something to say I asked him if he knew Steve Kooti.

‘I should. He's my uncle.'

I looked at him sharply. ‘I thought you were a Koori.'

‘Koori one side, Maori the other, with other stuff thrown in. Real mongrel, me.'

I got the cash and gave him the hundred. ‘Hang on. I'll buy you a drink.'

He shrugged his acceptance and we went to the pub near the railway station. His was a schooner of New and mine was a middy of light. He took a long drink and sighed. ‘That's good. Pity I'm out of smokes.'

I gave him a twenty and he came back with a packet and lighter. ‘I'll buy the next round,' he said.

‘We'll see. Tell me about Steve. He used to be a heavy, now I'm told he's in the God squad. Does he hang out with Manuma's lot, the protection mob?'

‘Shit, no. Used to, but now he's in the other church. Big John's Island Brotherhood, Uncle Steve's in Children of Christ.'

‘What's the difference?'

Tommy sucked in smoke and beer. ‘Not much as to singing and praying and that, but a lot in other ways. IB's for coconuts only. Doubt they'd let me in, being part Koori. CC'll take anyone.'

‘What else?'

He looked at me shrewdly. ‘You're trying to get me in trouble again. Have to pay to do that, man.'

I thought briefly about an idea that had come to me. Tommy had an attitude and some bad habits but he looked strong and he was enterprising. He'd talked about wanting to work. I figured he was worth a chance, especially as he could be useful. ‘What if I said I could get you a job here?'

‘Doin' what?'

‘Gardening, A month's work for sure. Maybe some painting after that.'

‘Sounds good. Where?'

‘Lilyfield. Friend of mine's bought a rundown house there. Big garden completely overgrown. It needs clearing and straightening up. Then the joint needs painting and repairs. You could doss there while you worked.'

For all his street-wise toughness there was suddenly a bit of vulnerability about him. The thought of having somewhere to live, a real job to do, a place in the scheme of things, seemed to change him from a passenger to something more positive.

‘You dinkum?'

‘Yes. Course if you fucked up . . .'

His cigarette had burned out and he hadn't lit another. His beer was getting warm. ‘I won't. What was it you wanted to know?'

‘Let's get this fixed up first.'

Mike D'Angelo, who operates a bottle shop in King Street, is a friend. He'd bought the Lilyfield tumbledown and intended to live there, but with three shops to care for he hadn't the time to clear the block—round about a third of an acre. He'd asked me if I knew a reliable handyman. I bought Tommy a new pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt and he tidied himself up in the little bathroom in my building. I took him to meet Mike and they got along well. Mike handed Tommy the keys to an old ute he had parked behind his shop.

‘You'll have to dump lots of loads. Keys to the house and a couple of sheds are on the ring.'

‘Right,' Tommy said.

Mike handed over forty dollars. ‘Two fifty a week. This comes out of it. You'll need boots and gloves. There's some tools in the ute. Power's on and the phone's connected, I think.'

‘Right . . . thanks.'

‘I'll show him the place,' I said.

‘Watch out for snakes.'

‘My totem, man.'

Mike laughed. ‘Bullshit.'

‘Right,' Tommy said.

We bought work boots and gloves in a disposal store and I drove to the Lilyfield place with Tommy following in the ute. It was a corner block near a park and every weed and noxious growth in the area, native and introduced, had invaded and taken hold. The land was choked with lantana and bougainvillea and wisteria and others I couldn't identify. Tommy took a look and sucked in a breath.

‘Whew, big job.'

‘You up to it?'

‘You bet.'

‘He's paying you two fifty a week and free rent. You're looking at a couple of grand easy.'

‘I'm grateful, man. Best thing that's happened to me in a long time.'

‘Good. Mike runs a pretty big operation—he's got a couple of shops and he's got interests in other businesses. Play your cards right and you could have a career with him.'

Tommy nodded.

‘Let's have our talk and I'll leave you to it.'

Tommy Larrigo told me, in his own words, that there was ongoing tension between the Island Brotherhood and the Children of Christ and those attached to both organisations. Now that he was out of the area, he felt free to say that the Brotherhood, while providing some community services, also had a dark side—assisting the Department of Housing and real estate agents in evictions and taking bribes to stave off evictions. As Rudi Szabo had said, there was an insurance scam industry in Liston and adjoining suburbs and it had to be controlled by someone. He'd assumed Steve Kooti was somehow connected with it, but Tommy assured me that the criminal element in the island community was a worry to his uncle, who'd had more than one confrontation over it with John Manuma and others.

I helped Tommy unload the tools from the ute and unlocked the house and the sheds where there were more tools, rusty and cobwebbed but useable. His enthusiasm mounted with each discovery. The power was on in the house but the phone wasn't connected. I gave him my mobile and asked him to call his uncle and arrange a meeting between him and me.

Tommy laid it on thick—how I'd got him this great job with prospects and what a good guy I was and how he wouldn't be hanging around Liston with his arse out of his pants anymore.

After a few exchanges, some of them in Maori, Tommy shut off the phone and handed it back. ‘Says he'll meet you at the Campbelltown TAFE—Narellan Road. He's doing some sort of course there. Says he'll know you. This arvo, two o'clock.'

‘Okay,' I said, ‘start slashing.'

As I'd told Sharon Marchant, in this game you never know where you're going to be or for how long. I went home, collected the .38 and packed a few clothes and bits and pieces. I tanked up and was on the road south-west again with plenty of time to meet Kooti, racking up the kilometres and petrol receipts against an as yet still unpaid retainer. I'd heard of Kooti over the years from various people but as far as I knew I'd never met him. Still, if he said he'd know me I guessed he would. My plan was simple—to see if I could persuade him to help me detach Billie Marchant from the Island Brotherhood. If I had to put up with some Bible-bashing to achieve that, I would.

Kooti wasn't hard to spot. At about 200 centimetres and a hundred plus kilos, he stood out like a bishop on a beach. He wore a polo shirt with the arm bands stretched to breaking point by his biceps, and baggy shorts that showed the kind of legs that had made him virtually impossible to knock down on a football field. Massive head, a metre of shoulder breadth. I parked and approached him, noting the backpack and book in his hand.

‘Mr Hardy,' he said. ‘Good to meet you.'

My hand got briefly swallowed up by his. ‘Mr Kooti, thanks for agreeing to see me.'

‘Good reasons. C'mon over here and sit down. There's a scrap of shade.'

We walked across to where a straggly tree threw some shade over a park bench. He stuffed the book into his backpack; I caught the word ‘faith' in the title.

‘Tommy said you'd know me, and you did. Can't see how.'

‘Ah, doubting Thomas. I'm grateful for what you're doing for him. He's not a bad kid, but wasting his life like so many of them. Maybe you've helped him onto a new path. Yes, I know you. I was there in the Rockdale Arms when you hauled Ricky Clitheroe out of harm's way. I asked who you were later.'

I shrugged. ‘He was a lightweight, junior welter at most. All the rest were heavies.'

‘I was one of them.' He extended his arms and I could see pale scars crossing the dark skin of his forearms. ‘One of the brawlers. I got badly cut up.'

‘When you were working for Rudi Szabo?'

‘Yes.' He looked at the cheap watch on his wrist just below the scars. ‘I've got a class soon. What do you want from me? You know that I'm a servant of the Lord now. I don't do violence.'

I outlined my problem to him, stressing that Billie Marchant needed proper medical care, but not concealing the fact that I had a particular agenda quite apart from her welfare. There was no point in dissembling. Steve Kooti was an impressive piece of work—calm, intelligent, confident. He had the kind of composed inner strength I'd seen in some soldiers, some boxers, some cops and an occasional criminal. You can't bullshit them.

He heard me out. ‘John Manuma is a . . . let us say, conflicted man. There is much good about him. He's a genuine Christian, I believe, but his power and influence can send him in wrong directions at times.'

‘Do you have any influence with him?'

‘No, not of the kind you require. Are you sure this woman is not receiving proper care? The power of prayer and faith are enormous.'

‘Her sister says not. She also fears for the boy, her nephew, falling under the influence of this Yoli.'

‘Yolande Potare. Yes, he's a different thing altogether. A criminal. I might be able to help you. Have to think about it, and take counsel with others. Where will you be this evening?'

‘Wherever you want me to be.'

He looked at me and a smile played across his broad, dark face. ‘I don't see you booking into the YMCA. Find a motel in Campbelltown and ring me on the mobile around six o'clock. I have to go.' He slung his backpack, smoothly uncoiled his huge body and moved away. Then he turned back. ‘How's Rudi?'

‘As ever.'

He nodded. ‘Not the worst villain around.'

‘What're you studying?' I asked.

‘What do you think?'

‘Religion?'

He smiled. ‘Stereotypical thinking. I'm disappointed in you. Computing, Mr Hardy. Computing.'