White Dog (31 page)

The day had dawned by the time I reached the highway, joined the early commuters. At the first traffic lights, a man in a Range Rover looked up at me, looked away quickly, didn’t look again.

What he could see was a vintage truck driven by a man with matted hair and an unshaven face smeared with blood and dirt.

He couldn’t see the handcuffs hanging from one hand, couldn’t see much of the wet, filthy, torn, bloodstained cotton business shirt.

He couldn’t see anything of the grey flannels, now black, ripped at both knees and caked with mud.

He couldn’t see the soaked shoes, ruined, bought in William Street from Mr Conroy, kept in shape with shoetrees, regularly polished.

He probably thought I was just another suburban solicitor on his way to work.

The lights changed, we proceeded. By some miracle, I drove unchallenged all the way home.

I didn’t care much about Stedman coming for me, I’d kill him, find a way. I parked the Dodge truck outside the boot factory, got the spare keys from their hiding place under the stairs, went up to my violated home and showered for a long time, examining the tooth wounds in my shoulder, the bruises everywhere. Out, I made plunger coffee, added cognac, the very superior old pale, a lot of cognac.

Hunger. It came upon me suddenly.

Nothing since the banana on the plane.

I ate Norwegian sardines on toast, two tins, four slices of bread, drank two cups of coffee.

When had I last slept? Busselton. When was that?

I drove to George’s corner shop in the Stud and rang Cam. It was a long ring, a woman answered. I said it was Jack for Cam.

‘He’s around here somewhere,’ she said.

A wait.

‘Choppin wood,’ Cam said. ‘Swore I’d never chop wood again.’

‘Small dogs, small women, wood,’ I said. ‘You can change.’

‘I knew I shouldn’t have said that. Find somewhere to sleep?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Got a boltcutter?’

‘Don’t go anywhere without one.’

He picked me up in the HSV. The boltcutter couldn’t fit between my wrist and the handcuff. With a hard click, Cam sliced through the chain joining the handcuffs. ‘Have to wear that one for a while,’ he said. ‘There’s a bloke in Brunswick can take it off.’

‘Don’t you want to know?’

‘Never talk about sex.’

Cam listened to the story on the way to Linda’s, driving with his fingertips, blank face like a careful judge.

‘Jesus,’ he said when I’d finished, ‘you really know who to fuck with. Is there a course you can do?’

‘Some things you can’t teach,’ I said.

At Linda’s building, Cam parked illegally. The Alfa was where I’d left it. I went over. Unlocked. My mobile was on the passenger seat. I held my breath, leaned over, put my left hand between the seats, pain from the bites.

Tape. Notebook. I breathed again. We went upstairs. At the apartment door, Cam opened his corduroy jacket and took the big Ruger out of his waistband.

‘I don’t think you’ve got any warnings left,’ he said. He knocked loudly. ‘Federal Police,’ he said. ‘Open the door.’

We waited.

‘Reckon they think you’re in the acid,’ Cam said. ‘Boys and the dogs watching the bubbles.’

I opened the door. Cam went first. The file was gone but nothing else touched. I fetched two Carlsbergs from the pantry, uncapped them, and we sat in chairs and watched the video on the big flat screen.

A hotel security surveillance film, poor quality, date and time shown along the bottom:
03.12.94 23.14.

It was a compilation tape, people coming and going in a hotel foyer, eight scenes, not long, the last one at 2.36 am on 4 December 1994.

The tape ended.

Cam drank beer. ‘Have meaning?’ he said.

I was looking at my mobile. A message. ‘It has meaning,’ I said. I pressed the numbers.

‘Hello.’ Quick.

‘Jack Irish.’

‘The pictures,’ said Janene. ‘It’s them.’

‘Will you give evidence?’ I said.

A long silence.

‘Without you, Janene,’ I said, ‘they’ll go free and they’ll know money can buy anything and that you were just bugs to be squashed.’

She made a sniffing noise, I thought I heard her swallow.

‘Will you look after me?’ she said.

I touched my shoulder with fingertips. ‘I’ll look after you,’ I said.

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

We waited on the winter evening pavement, rocks in the city stream, trams squealing behind us, leaning against a car not our own, Cam smoking a Gitane, the pungent blue smoke drifting to me, wrapping around my face, making me eighteen again.

They came out, dark overcoats, handsome, she wore a scarlet scarf, long, not wound around her neck, just a loose knot on the chestbone.

I took two paces across the space. They saw me.

‘Jack,’ said Tony Haig. He had perfect teeth, a wry, welcoming smile. ‘Coming to Corsica?’

I was obstructing the pedestrian traffic, people had to walk around me. I didn’t care. ‘The River Plaza,’ I said. ‘The dead girl.’

Dogteeth holes in my shoulder, the three good-looking people, rich people, they owned the world,
we were just bugs
, Wayne said that, we looked at one another, a metre separating us.

‘Come inside and talk,’ said Steven Massiani. ‘This is solvable.’

I looked at Corin Sleeman. There were thin lines running down beside her mouth.

‘She wasn’t dead, Corin,’ I said. ‘Did they tell you she was dead? Did they tell you Senator Londregan killed her? She was alive. Katelyn was alive. They took her away and gave her to crazies to kill. Did they tell you that?’

She looked at me and I knew who had sent the man to give me Janene’s name. ‘What about Janene Ballich, Corin?’ I said. ‘She had to die too, didn’t she?’

Corin was looking down, her eyes closed.

‘And then there was Mickey,’ I said. ‘And Sarah Longmore.’

‘Jack, Jack,’ said Tony Haig, ‘you’re not well, you need a rest.’

‘Can’t live with something like this, can you, Corin?’ I said. ‘Do you dream about it?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t live with it anymore.’

She did not raise her head, crossed the space and came to me, put her hands out to me like a child seeking comfort.

I put out my hands, my sleeves pulled back, the handcuff showing.

‘For Christ’s sake, Corin, shut up,’ said Massiani. ‘Just shut fucking up.’

‘Let’s go,’ I said.

We walked down the street, Cam behind us. At the corner, I looked back. Haig and Massiani hadn’t moved, eyes on us.

In the car, I rang Barry Tregear.

‘It’s about some murders,’ I said. ‘I’m bringing someone to make a statement. There’ll be another witness arriving tonight. They’ll both need protection.’

He coughed, a cigarette cough. ‘What about you?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘not now. I know for certain now.’

Hands on the mounting yard rail at Flemington, windy day, I looked at Lost Legion. He was sweating a little, a gloss on his neck, on his chest, moving his feet as if finding the soft surface painful.

The jockey came out, Danny DiPiero, an apprentice, nine wins, first ride in the city, claiming three kilograms. Just a boy, he’d probably had the treatment in the room from the veterans, small men whose bodies were contour maps of vein and muscle and sinew, no subcutaneous fat, young men with faces aged by too little sleep, no food, too much food, induced expulsion of food, cooking in steam. And the drugs, some taken for their designed purposes, others not.

Danny stood earnestly before Lorna Halsey, silken arms folded, looking up at her, nodding. Harry Strang had chosen him, he had seen something in the boy at his fifth ride as he piloted a hopeless nag through a pile-up in a maiden in Murtoa to steal third place. ‘Little bugger can ride,’ he’d said. ‘Learns the game, he could be useful.’

I hadn’t seen Harry. You sometimes glimpsed him in the crowd, the sharp face under a hat and above a buttoned-up raincoat bought in England when Harold Wilson was prime minister. By now, he’d be somewhere on the public stand with his equally old binoculars.

I looked around for Cam. He would be taking the decision. The sweating would be worrying him, it could get worse, the horse wasn’t happy, sometimes they ran their race in the mounting yard.

Down the rail, I saw forearms, snowy cuffs, long sallow hands with fingertips touching. I leaned forward and I saw the profile. Cam felt my eyes, looked my way briefly.

I stood back from the rail, stood in the jostle, saw Cam again through the people. He was in light-grey suiting, elegant as a whippet. He took off his dark aviator glasses, put them in his top pocket. Then he turned his head, met my eyes, the lowering of the chin.

It was on.

Cam was looking elsewhere. The tiny nod again. I looked.

Cynthia, the commissioner, coming my way. I had the cash in my raincoat pockets, in packs, twenties and fifties, the totals written on the wrappers. Once Cynthia carried the money to the track, passed it to her team, people more closely vetted than judges and much more scared of retribution. But, one Wednesday, without meaning to, her daughter fingered her. Cynthia didn’t know that, we hoped she never would. It would have added to the misery of losing 90 per cent of the sight in one eye. Her jaw, her nose, her cheekbones, they were repaired, almost as good as new, all the expenses met by Harry Strang.

So Cynthia didn’t carry the money anymore. She wanted to, she was unafraid, but Harry wouldn’t hear of it. What happened to her changed both of them, changed us all, probably.

Cynthia was wearing tinted glasses, not dark but close. She came up and stood facing me, elegant in black today, her costumes ranged from understated tweedy to a pink tracksuit and trainers. I took the packs from my pockets and glanced around as I fed them into the maw of the bag she held between us. No one looking at us that I could see.

‘Don’t know how this’ll go,’ Cynthia said. ‘Strickland caught a few in the third, they’ll be jumpy.’

‘It goes, it goes,’ I said.

She nodded and was gone, money to distribute to semi-retired hookers, redundant teachers, a sad-faced kleptomaniac, an aerobics instructor, the mother of the woman who did her hair.

In the yard, the jocks were all up, walking the horses around, ready to go to the line, all male, men sitting on other animals. Lost Legion was edgier and the sweating was more pronounced. Danny DiPiero would be happy to have the horse out of the confined space and on the track, riding it to the start, standing in the irons, letting it feel his weight and his hands, his confidence.

I took a walk, saw the very man Cynthia had mentioned, the punting trainer Robbie Strickland, stubbled head, dark glasses. He was talking to two men in suits, one fat, rolls over his collar. Robbie had one in this, Bold Voter, a nag of whom the tipsters today said, ‘hard to follow’. Privately, they’d be putting a few bucks on it.

The bookies didn’t need to be reminded that many of Robbie’s cattle were hard to follow. There was no knowing what his horses would do: win, win, place, a few bad runs. Then a spell, perhaps another midfield performance or two, followed by a win out of nowhere, sitting off the pace before a sneaky rails run and, at the death, just a noble head and a few inches of cable-veined neck. For the insiders, the rewards were worth the wait: $10-plus on the TAB, around half that on course, and deliciously plump combinations.

From time to time, the stewards gave Robbie the please explain for poor showings that couldn’t be blamed on missed starts, checks, runs blocked. They got the excuse note from his mother: didn’t like the surface, off its feed, pulled up sore. In life, the easiest thing is to find reasons for failure. How many ways is it possible to lose? The bookies’ sensible response was to ignore Robbie’s explanations and the form and keep his horses short.

Exposed form, it was called: the public performances, factors you would take into account when making judgments. But, in racing as in other human endeavours, it was the things unexposed, the private trials, the secret times, the instructions to jockeys, that could decide outcomes.

On the stand, I took the latest device, the VE5000, out of its housing. I pressed buttons and then I was so close I had trouble finding Danny. When I did, I watched him walking the horse around, waiting his turn. Lost Legion looked happier, the sweat had dried.

‘Favourite goes in, Fortunate Son, he’s very short, shorter on course than the tote,’ said the caller. ‘There’s money for Bold Voter, a trickle, an up and down performer. And support for Sum of Things, Queensland visitor, good form in lesser events, and Cold Callista, strong with her own sex, two wins out of three. Lost Legion’s got some support, well named this horse, it’s been a long while, years, since he had his few moments in the sun. Truly appalling record before he went off the radar. No first-up form ever, run a 2400 once for a fifth. Your mystery bet. Hard to see why he’s in city class for his comeback. Hard to see why he’s come back.’

Lost Legion was taking his place in the stalls. He went in placidly. I could see the jockey on Danny’s right say something to him, shark mouth, full of teeth, Danny didn’t look at him.

‘Five or six to come in,’ said the caller, ‘money dumped on Bold Voter on course now, he’s in to three, that’s pushed the rest out.’

Whose money was that? Robbie Strickland’s connections or ours? Harry never talked tactics to me but he loved to catch the bookies.

‘Sum of Things is on eights,’ said the caller. ‘Lost Legion’s attracting some support, he’s shortened on the TAB, paying $12.60 now, in from forty-something a short while ago.’

I looked at what I could see of Lost Legion, his head gleaming, an alert eye, the ears electric, and I thought of the horse in the trodden paddock in Gippsland, hopeless, head down to the compacted mud, the rotten rug on his back, his fearful gaze.

I said to myself, a pledge: whatever happens here, this horse will live out his life in comfort. I will pay the feed bills.

Field of twelve, 2000 metres, drawn in gate number 4, a good position. It was a long run to the first bend and Legion needed to be off the rails, three wide would be fine, race just behind the front-runners, at the start of the long curve go for his life, lead them into the straight, 453 metres.