ThornyDevils (26 page)

‘Mamma didn’t kill you?’ the goon said between bursts of laughter. ‘She thinks all strangers in the house are Americans from the war. She’s a little…crazy…you know.’ He traced little circles with his finger around the side of his head.

‘And you didn’t warn us?’ Peter spat at him. ‘We wouldn’t have gone in.’

‘Mister Donarto said you would think it’s funny. He said you have a strange sense of humour. Mister Donarto also said that you like catching people off-guard.’

‘Really. Can you see me laughing? I’m not even laughing on the inside. Okay. I get it now. It’s Tony little act of retribution.’ Peter snapped as he swung open the door to the Stag. ‘By the way, where is Tony?’

‘He’s not here,’ the ape-man replied.

‘What the…? Where is he?’

‘Mister Donarto is at St Francis’s church in the city. He wants to meet you there.’

‘But he told us to come here. What’s your name?’

‘Marco. And now he says for you to go there.’

‘And how do I know this isn’t just another stunt? Another humiliation?’

‘He said that if you want the story, then you have to met him at St Francis. Pronto.’

Peter toyed with the idea of telling Marco exactly where Tony could shove his story. Then he remembered Stella. ‘On our way,’ he replied. ‘If you let us out, Marco, we’ll be there. Pronto’

***

Peter zipped down Lonsdale Street, flew past the back of the Myer department store and did a U-turn, just as the lights at Elizabeth Street turned green.

Dave looked at him, shaking his head. ‘You drive like a racing car driver.’

‘Well, Peter Brock and I do have at least one thing in common,’ he responded.

‘What’s that?’

‘Good old Collingwood, forever,’ he grinned as he stopped the Stag a little further up from the church and snapped on the parking brake.

He and Dave passed by the tablet that pronounced St Francis Melbourne’s oldest Catholic Church. As far as Catholic churches went, Peter was prepared to concede that this one was exceptionally pretty and modest, and so much more inviting than that bluestone mammoth, Saint Patrick’s, up the road. They entered the church through a side door, where Dave stopped momentarily to genuflect, before walking slowly towards the front of the church.

‘I hope this isn’t another joke,’ Dave whispered.

‘What next?’ Peter looked around the church. ‘We’re going to be set on by a mob of crazy nuns?’

‘Why a church?’ Dave remarked.

Peter scoured the pews. ‘Over there. Is that him?’ In the gloom he noticed two men sitting together in the pew closest to the altar.

‘Is that a priest with him?’ Dave wondered, drawing closer.

‘What’s going on?’ Peter asked, as he stood in the aisle next to Tony.

The priest replied with a loud shush. ‘You’re in a church. Lower your voice.’

Tony grinned. He was his usual oily self. His suit was tailored, his hair dyed, his manner reeking of arrogance and expensive aftershave. The priest looked like any other Catholic priest: pinched and intimidating. Tony beckoned Peter and Dave to sit behind them. By force of habit, Peter found himself genuflecting before taking the seat closest to Tony. Dave took his seat a little further away and started taking his camera out of its case.

‘No photographs in here,’ the priest waved a bony finger at Dave. He immediately stopped and repacked the camera.

‘This is Father Kennedy,’ Tony announced, looking at the priest with admiration. ‘He’s been the parish priest here for many years. A good priest, a good man of God. He’s here to help me sort out this mess.’

Mess,
thought Peter.
Interesting
.

‘And you have been a good provider to the church, Mister Donarto,’ Father Kennedy replied.

Peter thought how it was funny that priests always seemed to have a special place for wealthier parishioners and another place for the rest of the congregation. In his experience, the special place was called hypocrisy.

‘You met my dear mother?’ Tony said softly as he turned to Peter.

‘How is your mother?’ Father Kennedy interrupted.

‘Very frail, Father,’ Tony replied. ‘Very frail.’

‘She didn’t seem very frail when she was running at us in a banzai charge with a meat cleaver.’

‘You’re referring to Missus Donarto? She would never do that,’ Father Kennedy said.

‘She’s very frail and unwell, Father,’ said Tony.

‘I must go and see her, then.’

‘That would be very good. It’ll help her feel at peace,’ he replied as he patted the priest on the back.

Peter grinned as an image of the priest being chased around the mansion by Nonna wielding an axe flashed into his mind. Then back to the job at hand. The interview.

‘Why have you been wanting to talk to us Tony,’ Peter asked.

‘Before we begin,’ Tony replied, ‘there’s the question of the donation.’

‘The fee for the interview?’

‘The donation. We agreed,’ Tony continued. ‘I give you an interview and you make a donation.’ Peter felt for Bob’s cheque in his breast pocket. ‘To the church.’

Peter took out his wallet instead of the cheque, opened it up and withdrew a ten-dollar note. Tony took one look and shook his head. ‘More than that.’

He took out a twenty. Again, Tony shook his head. ‘You have to be joking.’

Anything more and I’ll have to cash the bloody cheque myself and keep it.
Peter opened up his wallet and offered Tony the entire contents.

‘That’s better.’ He pulled out a handful of fives, two fifties and snatched the twenty still clasped in Peter’s hand. Tony turned to Father Kennedy. ‘This is a start. For the renovations to the church, Father,’ Tony declared as he tucked it into his shirt pocket.

‘Oh, thank you, my boy. Thank you,’ the priest said.

For a moment Peter thought the priest was going to kiss Tony Donarto’s hand, as if he were the Pope himself. After all, Tony was wearing a large gold ring on his finger. Of the many reasons he had left the Catholic Church, Peter reflected, this was probably the main one. A church that based it doctrine on the acquisition of wealth and the courting of the wealthy and influential simply didn’t match what he had been taught during religious instruction. Give to the poor, et cetera, et cetera. Or perhaps he was just mad at the nuns and brothers who had thrashed him throughout his long, dark years in the Catholic education system. In time he might forgive. In time.

‘I want to clear my name here,’ Tony announced, dramatically looking up to the heavens. ‘Before God.’

Father Kennedy put his arm around Tony.

‘Why do you have to clear your name, Tony?’ Peter asked.

‘I’ve been dragged into this…this mess. This mess that the O’Learys have created.’

‘Won’t all this be brought up in court?’ asked Peter.

‘I am a respected businessman and former…former because of you,’ Tony pointed a finger at Peter. ‘Former deputy mayor of Melbourne.’

‘How well did you know the O’Learys?’

Tony stiffened before replying. ‘We were in business together. Growing coffee.’

‘So I heard. And it didn’t work out.’

‘Yes, that’s right’ Tony continued. ‘They were too violent. Too skip.’

‘Skip?’ Dave asked.

‘Skip. It’s what some European-Australians call Anglo-Australians. You know, Skippy the bush kangaroo?’ Peter explained.

‘I got out of the business but they got angry,’ Tony continued. ‘They threatened me. Threatened my family. That story you did on me—they told you all that, didn’t they?’

‘I don’t disclose my sources, Tony,’ Peter replied.
Had Slugger been fed the information by the O’Learys? Maybe
.

‘Good for you!’ Tony pretended to sob. Father Kennedy patted him like he was burping a baby. The crocodile tears flowed until the priest handed him a tissue. Tony continued after wiping his face, and took another tissue from a box next to him. Father Kennedy had come prepared.

‘You see?’ Tony continued, ‘I am an innocent man. Aldo was an innocent man.’

‘So you think the O’Learys did all the shooting? Peter questioned.

‘Well they caught the men, didn’t they? Those two thugs worked for them.’

‘But it all seems to have started after Pat and Mickey O’Leary were killed in their garage.’

‘My theory is this—this is what you paid money for, so listen closely. It’s very important,’ he took a deep breath and continued. ‘That family are not nice people. You see? They always fight among themselves. The father, Pat, he was okay to deal with. But the sons. No good. No good. They fight each other. Those boys even treat their mother badly. No one should be disrespectful to their mamma.’

‘So you think it’s a family feud and you’ve been drawn into it?’

‘Yes. For sure. That’s it. I’m an honest businessman who made his money honestly. I did business with them. I trusted them. Bad idea. Very bad.’ Tony finished with a dramatic sigh and looked at the priest for comfort.

‘Is it possible,’ Peter began slowly, ‘that the brothers are importing illegal substances into the country?’

‘You mean…drugs?’

Peter observed that Tony’s eyes were darting around in their sockets. ‘Maybe,’ Peter continued. ‘All this seemed to be pointing in that direction, but you’re probably right, it’s a family feud. I’ve met the O’Leary clan and got punched to the ground for my troubles.’

‘I declare before God, I do not know anything about drugs,’ Tony declared loudly, looking upwards at the crucifix as Father Kennedy patted him on the back. ‘When you get into bed with dogs, you wake up with fleas. And I’ll be telling the court that. I hate drugs. They destroy the innocent. I give money to help them get off drugs. Don’t I, Father?’

‘Yes. You do.’

‘I have my hunches, but nothing’s been proven yet,’ Peter added. ‘About the business.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ Tony sighed.

Peter thought it sounded a lot like relief. ‘Is that all you were going to tell Stella? You have to be joking, Tony. You have to give me my money’s worth, at least.’ Peter closed his notepad and shoved his pen into his coat pocket, rueing his hundred and forty-five dollars, but glad that he hadn’t handed over the cheque. ‘One more question. Are you afraid for your life?’

‘What do you bloo…Sorry, Father. What do you think? I can’t sleep. I have had to hire security. I’ll be happy when these O’Learys are locked away. Pity it’s not the whole lot of them. Not just those thugs that work for them.’

Peter thought for a moment before replying. ‘Let’s wrap it up.’

‘Do you want to take my photograph?’ Tony asked anxiously.

‘Of course,’ Peter chuckled.

‘How about in front of the church?’ Dave suggested.

Tony Donarto was adamant that he should pose holding his hands in prayer in front of the church but after gentle persuasion from Dave it was decided that he would look better looking up at the church. Like an innocent altar boy. As Tony Donarto stood solemnly in front of Saint Francis’s church affecting the pose that Dave wanted, Peter had already composed the headline:
Tony Donarto: God’s Good Man
.

‘What did you think of that,’ Peter asked as he slipped the Stag in behind a group of cars at a traffic light.

‘I don’t know,’ Dave said with bemusement. ‘Is he going out of his way to tell everyone he’s Mister Good Guy?’

‘I bet he’s employed a public relations firm to work on his image. I bet you. The court case is coming up and he wants to tell the public that he’s a good man.’

‘Quite the celebrity, isn’t he?’ Dave remarked.

‘He loves the spotlight. Always has done. I’m surprised they haven’t given him a role in
Neighbours
,’ Peter stated as he accelerated away from the green traffic light.

‘Do you think he’s innocent? Dave asked.

‘I’ve never heard that he’s involved in anything illegal. That’s interesting. But what was more interesting was how Tony reacted when I asked him about the drugs.’

‘He did his best to dodge and weave around the question. But he could be scared.’

‘Shit,’ Peter barked as he screeched the Stag to a stop.

‘What?’ Dave looked around.

‘That useless prick just pulled out in front of me without indicating. Fuck!’ Peter said as he blew his horn. He engaged first gear again and accelerated.

‘I thought it was something important.’

‘I’m sure the traffic is getting worse,’ Peter complained. ‘Everything is changing. More traffic. More criminals. More shit going on. Everything is changing.’

Peter checked in with Bob as soon as he got back to the office. Shazza told him she hadn’t seen Bob come out of his office for hours. He knocked on Bob’s door. There was no response. He knocked harder.

‘Yeah,’ Bob yelled, ‘come in.’

Peter entered the office to find Bob unscrewing the cap of a bottle of whiskey and pouring two glasses. There was an empty bottle sitting in the waste paper basket. The ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts.

‘I was wondering when you’d come by,’ Bob slurred.

I’ve never heard Bob slur his words,
Peter thought.
Ever
. Bob had the same alcohol carrying capacity as an elephant. He pushed the glass of whiskey in Peter’s direction. ‘Thanks,’ Peter picked up the glass, took a sip and placed it back on the desk.

Bob threw his back and plonked the glass back on the desk after he had drained half of its contents.

‘Are you okay?’ Peter asked.

‘Of course I’m okay,’ he replied. ‘Don’t you think I am?’

‘You seem to be taking Stella’s vacation hard.’

‘I shouldn’t care that she’s putting her arse on the line, infiltrating God knows what organised crime syndicate for me?’ Bob emptied the rest of the glass and poured a refill. ‘I should be the hard-arsed editor that doesn’t care. Maybe you should be the hard-arsed editor. You don’t seem worried about her.’

‘Of course I care,’ Peter said. ‘I really like Stella, but she’s only gone to Sydney, Bob. I want her back as much as you.’

‘Sorry, mate,’ Bob sighed as he leaned back in the chair. ‘I guess when you have a personal involvement with someone it makes it bloody harder.’

‘That’s why I’m worried. We’re all worried about you.’

‘I keep thinking about the photos and the type of scum she’ll have to mix with to get information. Maybe we should hand the photos over to the police and drop this whole story. What’s a headline when there could be a person’s life at stake? It’s a grubby fucking game, isn’t it?’