ThornyDevils (29 page)

Peter interrupted and glared at Sam. ‘Don’t worry about Sam. He likes to dig. Like an old busybody.’

Con looked from Sam to Poppy and back again. He stood, turned the music up and began to sway. ‘Opa! Opa! Let’s dance!’ He took his serviette, whipped it around and started to dance to Zorba the Greek. ‘Come on, Peter, Poppy. Enough beer. Opa!’

Roula got up and took hold of Con’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Peter!’

Grateful for the distraction, Peter nudged Poppy and gestured to the others. He and Sam joined the end of the line, while Poppy grabbed the other end of Con’s serviette and led the dance, kicking in time with the music, faster and faster as the pace increased.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a swirl of dancing, food and wine, while Poppy and Sam did everything to avoid each other.
Peter hoped he would be able to drop off the others first and spend the evening at Poppy’s. He was crestfallen when she excused herself, saying she would have to go home and work on a brief for an upcoming committal hearing on Monday. He was pissed off with Sam at the same time.

They all helped Con and Roula pack up, Sam depositing the rubbish into bins while Poppy gathered up the leftovers, not daring to look at each other. In the Stag, Poppy sat in front with Peter while the others crammed into the back for the trip home. The journey to Poppy’s apartment passed in silence.

She pecked him on the cheek as they pulled up. ‘I might see you in court on Monday?’

‘I hope so,’ he replied.

She looked at the others. ‘Nice meeting you. Bye.’ She slammed the door and hurried off.

Peter was already jumping on Sam before he’d pulled away from the kerb. ‘You couldn’t be nice to her, could you? Thanks, Sam. Thanks!’

‘I was just saying I’d seen her at the docks. What’s wrong with that?’

‘You upset her,’ Peter bristled, ‘and because of you, I might not see her again. You stuffed it up for me.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Dave interjected. ‘You don’t usually give a shit about whether you see a woman again.’

Sorry, young fella,’ Sam sniggered. ‘I didn’t realise you were sweet on Poppy.’

‘Well I am. Shit. Why can’t I like someone? Just be happy for me.’

‘You have weird taste in women. You’ve never been sweet on me,’ Shazza laughed, ‘and I’m hot.’

‘I just wanted everyone to be nice to her. But Sam gives her the third degree and you guys give her the cold shoulder. I have great friends. Thanks, everyone.’

‘But we were nice to her,’ Shazza retaliated. ‘She barely spoke to us. I think she thinks she’s better than us because she’s a lawyer.’

‘Shazza,’ Peter replied, ‘sometimes you sound so bloody working class.’

‘Fuck you, Peter Clancy,’ she snapped. ‘And guess what? Dave’ll be keeping me warm tonight. Just because you’ll be sleeping alone from now on, don’t blame us.’

Dave nudged Shazza in the ribs and mouthed ‘shut up’ at Sam. No
one said another word until they were heading down Johnston Street, not far from Peter’s flat.

‘You and me have been friends a long time. I didn’t want to say it,’ Sam ventured, ‘but I’m not sure about that Poppy.’

‘What the hell is it now?’ Peter despaired. ‘Is this pick on Peter night?’

‘I can’t put a finger on it,’ Sam continued. ‘You know when you have a horse you’re not sure about, or someone you’re working with. It’s in the eyes. You know. In the eyes.’

‘In the eyes? I’ll fucking give you in the eyes. I’ve had enough,’ Peter shouted as he screeched the Stag to a stop in front of the Apollo café. Everyone bounced around like bobblehead dolls. He threw open his door and stormed up the stairs leading to his flat. Dave turned and glared at Sam.

‘I just have a feeling. Maybe I’m a silly old blackfella. Too superstitious, too old fashioned. But my gut says she isn’t what she says she is.’

‘Let him work it out, Sam,’ Dave replied.

‘Yeah. Yeah. I’ll drop it,’ he declared. ‘If he’s fallen in love, he’s fallen in love with the wrong woman.’

Monday.
The Truth Office

Bob designated Peter to cover the committal of Eastern and Machowicz at the Magistrates’ Court.

‘They confessed to the murders, but they reckon they’re not guilty of the crime. Go figure. I want you to cover the committal, but don’t fucking fall asleep,’ Bob warned. Then it dawned on him that Peter probably had at least one good reason to stay awake. ‘Oh, that’s right. Pretty Poppy is the defence counsel, isn’t she? Keep your eyes on the road, all right. Not on her.’

When Peter arrived at the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court, Dave was already standing in front of the building together with all the other media scum and onlookers. They were all hoping for a glimpse of the accused, but Peter was hoping to catch a glimpse of Poppy. Ilmo and his camera entourage had already set up. Ilmo’s muffet appeared to be getting higher and higher, the eagle wedge at the back thicker and more defined.

‘Clancy,’ Ilmo called, ‘try not to get assaulted today.’

‘I hope it rains and your hairdo collapses,’ Peter retaliated. ‘You deserve a Logie just for best hairstyle in a news program or documentary.’

A titter passed through Ilmo’s camera crew, but the prisoner van arrived before Ilmo had time to think of a retort. The crowd pushed forward for a closer look, held in check by a line of police. Cameras clicked and Ilmo pressed ahead of the others, calling out, microphone
poised to catch a sound bite. Just then, Poppy glided past on her way to the court entrance, catching Peter’s eye. While the others jostled to capture candid shots of the prisoners, Peter was jostling for a better view of Poppy in her conservative navy suit. She was a flash of colour in a black and white picture.

Peter called out as she passed. ‘Poppy!’ He waved his arm like a besotted schoolboy. ‘Over here.’

She turned as she heard his voice. Her eyes softened and Peter’s heart rose. She smiled the most radiant smile he’d ever seen.
Poppy
. She was saying something but he couldn’t hear her. Then she disappeared inside. Ilmo had dropped back and was making some smart-arsed comment to him but Peter didn’t care about Ilmo or anything else.
Poppy
.

He entered the courthouse and found his way to the public gallery. He would be sitting there for the rest of the day and possibly the next few, as vital testimonies and evidence would be given. The prosecuting counsel was an older man, instructed by a younger, well-groomed man in a pinstripe suit. Poppy and her instructing solicitor appeared, and exchanged greetings with the prosecution. The young man’s eyes lingered on Poppy a little too long for Peter’s liking. He would have liked to yell out that she was his. She was now wearing a wig and a black gown over her suit. Peter had never seen anyone else make that crusty old outfit look sexy.

The hearing commenced not with a crescendo, but with long and boring legal submissions. As the hearing recessed for lunch, a clerk from Poppy’s firm handed a note to Peter. He tore it open. From Poppy. And the world was in glorious technicolour once again.
Meet me at my apartment at seven. xxx. Poppy.

Three crosses.
You know what that means
, he told himself as he fumbled with the note. What was the old country and western song?
I can’t wait to touch her, kiss her, lay with her
. But first he had to sit through this bloody hearing that everyone in Melbourne seemed excited about except him. Peter was only excited about tonight.
Tonight
.

Back from lunch. Peter pulled out his notepad and pen as the witnesses were called to the stand. The rest of that day and the next passed in a blur, as he sat through the hearing during the day and made love to Poppy during the night. Running on three hours sleep.
Snatching a nap here and there in the gallery but recording the vital information.
Peter Clancy: man of action. The multitasker
.

On the third day, Poppy cross-examined the prosecution’s witnesses. Enter Mister Public Relations himself: Anthony Donarto had been called to the stand. Tony looked around the courtroom as if he was about to perform to an audience. Peter was reminded of an aging Italian crooner with an oily toupee singing in a Las Vegas lounge.
I did it my way? I cast my fate to the wind?
And the drama continued.

Yes, he had been in business with the O’Learys but he had not received all monies that had been due to him and had decided to end the business arrangement a long time ago. The coffee plantation in Vietnam, Tony was quick to add. Yes, he had been upset but he had never threatened to kill anyone. He didn’t know that Pat was in Melbourne. If they could have met, this mess could have been sorted. No need for anyone to be shot. Tony also had to add that he was a peaceful man, as he gave a forlorn look to the magistrate; that he had given so much to this great city of Melbourne, to a city that had given him and his family so many opportunities. And the tears began.
Poor Tony.
Peter had a hunch and looked around. He was right. To his far left sat Father Kennedy, hands clenched, eyes fixed on Tony.
In silent prayer?

The fucking trial of tears
, Peter jotted in his pad.

Tony Donarto was milking this for everything.
These people are doing a better job than most actors you’d see at the movies
, Peter thought. The best courtroom drama he had ever seen. Then suddenly Tony Donarto’s testimony was over.

Peter wanted to leave, but Dale McCracken was called to the stand. Dear Dale had a mediocre tale to tell. No evidence to suggest that Tony Donarto had ignited this whole bloody bushfire. Machowicz and Eastern had willingly confessed to the killings, no coercion or verballing required. All the police had to do was record it. Forensics gathered from the car showed nothing remarkable. No twists in the Eastern and Machowicz tale. No fingerprints, no weapons to be found.

Then it was Poppy’s turn again. Patrick O’Leary had been like a father to the defendants. The O’Learys hadn’t known anything about the shooting. Eastern and Machowicz acted alone in the shooting at Footscray Market. It was self-defence. They were innocent. Nothing was planned, nothing.

Peter scrutinised Tommy and Robbie O’Leary, who were there minus Ivy. The brothers looked relaxed. The defendants appeared to be towing the party line.

That’s right, Eastern and Machowicz had acted alone.
Again
. They had been caught unawares and they really hadn’t planned anything when they went to Footscray Market that day. They were there for a friendly chat with Donarto and Morosto, that was all.

The prosecuting barrister asked, if they had done this on impulse, why had they worn ski masks and gloves during the shooting?

Poppy had it covered. It happened to be a cold day. Anyone check the records? Well, we did. It was minus one that morning. A very cold day indeed. They’d gone for a friendly chat because Eastern and Machowicz knew the O’Learys had been in business with Tony Donarto. There had been a falling out. What type of business? Importing coffee from Vietnam.
The coffee again.

Pat O’Leary had saved their grimy lives from a never-ending cycle of drugs and jail. He’d given them a fresh chance. The two had witnessed Tony Donarto threatening Tommy and Robbie at their office on South Wharf. Donarto had been so angry that he had picked up a stapler from the desk and had thrown it at Tommy O’Leary’s head, injuring him. Machowicz had personally pulled the two apart. Eastern and Machowicz had gone to Footscray Market that day to speak to Donarto, that was all. What happened after that happened in self-defence. They didn’t bring the guns. Morosto’s own weapons were only turned on him after he’d threatened them first.

Everything became mundane after that, except Poppy, who performed through it all looking amazingly fresh and composed; her voice, her argument always mesmerising and commanding. Even Frank Galbally would have been impressed. Obviously, the intense, edgy sex really agreed with her. On the other hand, after a night with hardly any sleep Peter was ready to lie down on the floor of the gallery and go to sleep. And then the magistrate deliberated. Peter caught a glimpse of Poppy. She looked at him and smiled.

Eventually, the magistrate adjourned the case for McCracken to file a charge sheet for manslaughter. It meant that, instead of murder and attempted murder, Eastern and Machowicz were probably going to stand trial for the manslaughter of Aldo Morosto and reckless conduct endangering Tony Donarto’s life. Tony Donarto erupted,
yelling profanities in Italian, and stormed out. Tommy ran his finger across his throat when he saw Tony. No love lost there. Obviously. The O’Leary brothers cheered like their team had won the footy final. The magistrate was not impressed. The O’Learys were escorted from the court. Peter wanted to hug Poppy on her success but he would be doing that in the comfort of her bed in a few hours. And it was all over.
Get to the office. Type up the story. Get it out. Then hopefully home to bed for a quick restorative before a long night.

‘Shit,’ Bob commented, as Peter crawled into his office. ‘You look as buggered as a shagged-out mongrel dog. Ever thought of just sleeping with the girl occasionally? You don’t have to shag her continuously. I need you at your best.’

‘How could you tell?’ Peter asked. ‘I haven’t told you.’ He edged his way onto a chair and sat bolt upright in case he suddenly found himself falling asleep.

‘Pretty Poppy still?’ Bob pulled out the familiar Jameson’s and two glasses. He shoved one in the direction of Peter.

‘Drink,’ Bob urged. ‘It’s a good pick me up.’ Peter picked up and had drank half the contents before Bob added, ‘So your mate Sam is covert on the dock and you’re shagging their lawyer.’

‘It gets better.’

‘How can it?’

‘Sam is sleeping with the clerk who works for the O’Learys. How about that?’

‘Why do the police bother with bugging devices when they could use you randy bastards? Is this some Queensland thing?’ Bob shook his head.

‘We’re getting some great information. Sam reckons there’s a very precious container waiting to go somewhere.’

‘So, the more he shags the clerk, the more the information will come?’ Bob chuckled, still shaking his head.