The Second Son, page 15
It’s been raining solidly since I woke up this morning. Anto and I are painting mud on the number plates of our four stolen vehicles, while Brick and Blocker jackhammer up another garage pit to match the one on the other side of the warehouse, below the car hoist. I didn’t feel bad taking the easy job and giving the younger guys the really fucking hard job. That’s what seniority gets you in life.
The new garage pit will be two metres long, one metre wide, one metre deep and lined in concrete. Stump and Fibs are building a false timber floor that will end up twenty centimetres above the bottom of the pit. The false floor will come out in three sections and the space underneath will be our new storage area. It won’t fool a police search party for long, but it will slow them down.
Mum arrives with a big box of fritule for morning tea, but the rain hammering on the warehouse roof makes conversation impossible. I’m lost in my thoughts, sipping my tea, when a grinning Anto taps me on the shoulder to show me his phone is ringing. On the screen is the pretty face of his ex-girlfriend, Tina. He has to go outside and jump in the Jeep to hear what she’s saying. When he returns, he’s still grinning: she’s come through with a residential address in Bankstown for an Ian Slater linked to the IS 007 number plates. Anto gets the Detective of the Year award.
Seventeen minutes later, we’re driving through the guts of downtown Bankstown, one of Sydney’s most culturally diverse suburbs. They’ve even got their own airport. That’s where the good news ends. Bankstown’s high unemployment means there’s an evil twin, a high crime rate. The place is full of crooks and it’s also the home base of one of my least favourite rugby league teams, the Bulldogs. They stole the Morris twins off the Dragons and they’ll never be forgiven.
Apart from a few new townhouses on Ink Slater’s street, the rest of the dwellings are single-storey, brick-veneer and weatherboard homes, built in the fifties, sixties and seventies. I’m impressed by the general tidiness of the front yards. It looks like a nice neighbourhood, but I know better. We drive slowly past Slater’s small, cream weatherboard cottage. Sitting in the driveway is a black Mercedes ML63, IS 007 number plates, chrome rims and low-profile tyres. So out of place. We park halfway down the block and I grab my gun from the glove box. Anto raises both massive eyebrows at me as I stick it down the back of my shorts.
‘I’m paranoid at the moment. Okay?’
‘Are you sure we shouldn’t be waiting until after dark to do this?’ he asks.
‘Probably, but we’ll be careful, and we’re running out of time.’
Only two more nights until we pull the job on Stanislav. I need to put some insurance in place.
We’re lucky the rain hasn’t eased off. There’s no one around. We run back towards the house, as if we’re trying to get out of the rain. This kind of cottage came with a lawn, a couple of ornamental trees and some rosebushes. Now it’s all concrete, with three dead pot plants near the low brick fence running across the front of the property. We stroll as casually as possible up the driveway on the far side of the Mercedes, close to the high, timber fence separating the house from its identical neighbour. Then we crouch down to avoid being seen from the street. The cracked and weedy concrete driveway runs the full length of the house back to an open brick garage, where a black Harley stands in lone splendour. We’re definitely in the right place. I head towards the garage in a crouching walk. Anto follows, trying not to slip on the wet driveway.
We take it slowly, popping up to check each room on the way. Closest to the street is the living room with a big-screen TV, a modern corner sofa and a green velvet reclining chair from an entirely different era. There’s even a white lace cloth on the headrest. Next is the dining room, an old timber table in pride of place, decked out with a lace table runner and matching green velvet chairs. As we approach the back of the house, we hear voices. In a house this age, they’re probably coming from the kitchen. We stop and listen.
‘Nanna, ya make the best sangers in the world.’ A male voice. A wheedling quality I recognise.
‘You’re too skinny. If your mother hadn’t been a junkie you would have filled out by now.’ I picture the little old lady from the Facebook page.
‘Don’t talk about Mum like that, Nan.’ Now there’s menace in the male voice and I don’t like it. The fucker has no right talking to his grandma that way.
I make a waving motion with my hand, back the way we came. Anto turns and we crouch-walk back down the driveway. Once we’re on the street side of the Mercedes we stand up and look around. No one in the street and no twitching blinds. It’s still pelting down. Everyone’s probably at work. Or maybe no one gives a shit anymore about two blokes creeping around a neighbour’s home.
I lead the way across the front yard, up the narrow passage between Slater’s house and the one next door. Old garden tools lean against the timber fence. The three chest-high sash windows suggest bedrooms. The first window is open a hands-breadth. I motion to Anto to wait, while I raise my head and take a peek inside. An old lady’s room, all crocheted doilies and blankets, old-time photos on the walls.
The next window is also open a few inches and this bedroom hasn’t quite made the transition from a teenage boy’s room to the lair befitting the leader of a bikie gang. A king-size bed with black sheets takes up most of the real estate, but the walls are covered in posters of Harleys and blonde pin-up girls. In pride of place on the ceiling above Slater’s bed is a poster of Gwen Stefani, the rest of No Doubt cut out. A small desk is littered with charging cords, a laptop and bike magazines. At twenty-eight, Ink Slater still lives with his nanna.
Slinking further up the side, I find the third bedroom. This one is empty apart from a single bed and some old timber furniture. Backing out, Anto and I lope across the front of the house and down the street to the Jeep.
An idea has been forming in my mind all morning. I’ve been moving it around, looking at it from every angle. But the thought of Granny Slater getting caught up in my plan makes me uncomfortable. She’ll be there, asleep in her bed, when the cops bust down the door with a battering ram and come through the windows before dawn. She’ll be scared out of her wits. Fuck. I hope she doesn’t have a heart attack or something. I’ll have to make sure she’s all right, somehow, after this is all over.
As I walk into Mum’s kitchen, the smell hits me and my mouth floods with saliva. She’s frying up small fillets of chicken, bashed thin, coated in her homemade breadcrumbs. The sight of them makes me feel about ten years old. Dad is sitting up his end of the kitchen table, looking sour.
‘You notice, Branka? You notice our son? Is lunchtime. He turns up at mealtimes, always.’
‘Stop it, Milan.’ Mum sweetens her words with a quick smile at my father, then goes back to flipping the chicken pieces in the spitting pan. ‘Johnny is young man, needs food only Mama can cook.’ She shrugs. ‘We always have enough.’ She wipes one hand on her apron and reaches up to pat me tenderly on the cheek. Yep, still ten years old.
‘Sit, sit, sjediti, sjediti.’
Mum pulls potatoes out of the oven, piles the chicken on a plate and sets the food down in the centre of the table next to a big bowl of lettuce, tomato and onion salad. She helps us to serve ourselves, then goes back to the sink to clean up, banging pots and pans around. Only when Dad and I are well into our second helpings does she sit down and start serving herself. I’ve tried to change this habit of putting herself last, but when we eat in the kitchen, this is how it is. It drives Amy crazy.
‘Dad, I need to bring you up to speed on my research into Ivan’s death.’
Mum lets out a wail, then slaps a hand over her mouth as though she can’t bear the sound. Dad looks as if he wants to lean across the table and strangle me. I feel like a complete shithead.
Mum starts to pray.
‘Sorry, Mum, I’ll wait until we’ve finished lunch. Dad and I will talk out the back.’
‘No, no, you busy man. You talk, I pray, then eat.’
I look at Dad. He nods his permission, but there’s a warning there too.
‘So, I’ve heard something through one of the stoolies we use sometimes. He reckons he was down the cop shop in Liverpool last week and heard two detectives talking about—’
‘Ivan,’ supplies Dad.
‘Yeah. They were saying they had a special task force set up to catch the killer. They reckon whoever shot Ivan, Michael Vucavec and Tony Fazzini was a serial killer.’
‘A serial killer. Really. This is what detectives say in front of stool parrot?’
‘Is stool pigeon, Milan,’ says Mum. She seems to have recovered a bit.
Dad looks at her in disbelief. ‘Stool parrot, stool pigeon, all should be dead. Why they say in front of this guy? Is bullshit.’
‘Apparently, he was around a corner, couldn’t be seen, but he could hear these cops talking. Anyway, he came to me with it, because he knew I’d give him money for the info.’
‘You give him money. How much you give?’
‘A hundred bucks. Dad, it’s not important what I gave him.’ Telling him about the two different guns might be too complicated right now. It’s time to move him off the stool pigeon fiction. ‘Last night a black Mercedes SUV sped by me, right after Amy and I walked out of Frentini’s.’
‘You see Amy?’ Mum breaks in. ‘How is my Sasha?’
‘Is why we not discuss business in front of women.’ Dad pushes his chair back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and takes off down the hallway.
‘Thanks for lunch, Mum.’ I stand up, ready to follow my father.
‘Tell me first. Amy and Sasha okay?’
‘They’re fine, Mum, and they’re safe. This will all be over in a couple of days and they’ll be back.’
‘You have a big job Thursday night. Then you and your tata must stop. Is over. We have enough. Then Amy come back.’ Her tone is matter-of-fact and I turn to her in surprise. There’s no way Dad would have discussed the job with her. But Amy knew too. The women must be talking, but they all know enough to talk only to each other. She grabs my shoulders. Her dark-brown eyes are wet with unshed tears.
‘You make peace with Marko?’
‘Yeah, Mum, we’re fine.’
‘Dobro, dobro. You be careful. You look after your tata. You all come home.’
I nod.
‘You promise your mama.’ She’s got a solid grip on my shoulders.
‘I promise, Mum.’
Satisfied, she lets me go and starts clearing plates.
Out in the backyard, the ground is steaming in the sunshine. The humid air is a hot, wet blanket. Sitting at the table under the shade of the tin roof, Dad is rolling a cigarette, his nicotine-stained fingers slow and assured. I sit next to him. As he lights up, I make a decision. If I’m going to protect Amy and Sasha properly, I need his help.
‘Okay. So, yes, I had dinner with Amy last night. We’re working on getting back together, like I said would happen. But as I watched her drive away, I saw the black Mercedes, three men inside. Same model used during the drive-by. I got a bad feeling, some kind of instinct, you know?’
Dad looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Then he makes a circular motion with his hand. Get on with it.
‘I caught up with them just as Amy went into her parents’ place. Now they know where she lives.’
‘Now they know where she lives!’ he growls, mocking me again. ‘You follow them? You shoot them?’
‘No, I didn’t, Dad.’ I struggle to hide my impatience, but I also start to wish I’d done exactly what he’s suggesting. I take a couple of deep breaths. The smell of his tobacco calms me.
‘I didn’t have my gun on me.’ I wait while he shakes his head in disgust. ‘I went home and discovered someone had broken into our house, stolen Ivan’s gun and left me this note.’ I pull out the folded note, the words threatening the stick figures.
Dad’s expression finally changes to one of concern. Hallelujah.
‘Who leave this note? Why he warn us? What he want?’
‘I think whoever it is wants the Serbs and the Croats at war again and both crews fighting the Italians. They want me doing something stupid, like killing Stanislav, even though we have no proof he had anything to do with Ivan’s death.’
‘Maybe. Maybe.’ Dad rocks back in his chair and blows perfect smoke rings into the sky. It’s one of the things he does when he’s figuring out a problem.
He leans forward again, his scowl ferocious. ‘We must protect Sasha.’
Bingo. ‘You’re right, Dad. We need to protect Amy and Sasha. I’ve already asked Marko to keep an eye on them, but the boys could work in shifts.’
Dad nods, picks up his phone and speed dials, yammering away in Croatian, then hangs up twenty seconds later.
‘Josef will be outside school today. He will follow Amy home. You tell Amy she not go anywhere without telling you where. We protect.’ He sits back, pleased with himself, and I exhale a sigh of relief.
Dad looks at me again, suspicion blooming in his bloodshot eyes.
‘But you not tell me everything. Tell me now.’
‘I know who owns the black Mercedes ML63.’
‘Who?’
‘Ink Slater. He runs a bikie gang out of Bankstown. I reckon he wants us all to kill each other, so he can take over the whole territory.’
Rocking back again, Dad blows a whole lot of smoke rings at the sky.
‘He wants to take over whole territory? You go kill this Slater. Crew will protect Amy and Sasha until it is done.’
I consider telling him about the plan forming in my mind, but decide to walk away with this victory. I’ll come back and present the idea once I’ve foolproofed it.
AMY
Although the rain has finally stopped, the road is slippery; I give myself plenty of time to pull up at the stop sign. No more drinking for me. I don’t know why I thought that bottle of rosé was a good idea, on top of the champagne at dinner. I’ve still got a cracking headache. Perhaps I wanted to obliterate myself.
Outside the school, the line of cars is trailing halfway down the block. I barely make it through the stop sign when a little girl runs across the road in front of me, pigtails flying. The car is crawling when I hit the brakes, so I know there’s no danger, until I hear a loud bang and I’m shunted forward a metre. Sliding now, my foot jammed hard on the brake, I pull to a stop less than half a metre from the girl.
Frightened, she drops her schoolbag and starts to cry. One of the mothers runs out, scoops her up and gives me a dirty look. I’m shaking. That was too close. I check my rear-view mirror and recognise the man getting out of the white van behind me. Milan’s younger brother, Josef. He looks mortified. What’s he doing here? He doesn’t have any grandkids to pick up.
I wave and point to a space at the kerb ahead where we can both pull over. Then I walk back to meet him.
‘Josef?’
He’s red-faced and stammering.
‘I drive down the street and you stop and wham, I hit you. I’m sorry, Amy. The boys fix for you, good as new. You won’t even notice.’
I survey the damage. It’s not that bad, a dinged bumper bar. And the little girl is okay. Let’s hope she doesn’t run out onto the street next time. But I’m still feeling shaky and Josef is acting strangely, as if he’s been caught in the act. What act, I don’t know. Then it hits me. Johnny told me Marko would be keeping an eye on me; now it’s Josef too.
‘Are you following me, Josef?’
This has him spluttering excuses about doing some shopping for his wife. I let him off the hook, knowing there’s no way that could possibly be true. Mary would never set Josef loose with a shopping trolley. I’ll find out what’s going on from Johnny instead.
As Josef drives off, Sasha sees me. He climbs in the back of the car, a frown on his face. I reach back to pat his leg, then indicate and move out into the traffic.
‘Mum, are you and Dad getting a divorce like Timmy’s parents?’
His words are like a sharp blow right under my heart. I pull up again further down the block, so I can turn around and look at him.
‘Sasha, sweetheart. It’s like I told you this morning, your Dad and I are working through it. You’ve got to trust me and give me a little more time.’
‘I think you’re lying to me. Have you done something bad to Dad?’
For a second, I’m gutted by how unfair it feels to have my son blame me for this situation. But I’m also filled with guilt, because I have been lying to him. Imagine how he’ll react if this separation becomes permanent?
‘Would you like to see your dad this afternoon?’
The smile on his face breaks my heart.
‘I’ll see if I can arrange it, okay?’ I jump out of the car.
Johnny answers my call immediately. ‘Hi, honey. How you doing?’
‘I’m royally pissed off.’ I keep my voice down, but Johnny will know I’m angry.
‘What’s up?’ He sounds worried. Good.
‘Yesterday it was Marko. Today it’s Josef. He just rammed into the back of my car in the school pick-up zone! I nearly hit a little girl!’ My voice is a hiss now. I don’t want Sasha to hear. ‘I agreed to Marko keeping an eye on me, at least he’s discreet. I don’t even know why I agreed. What’s going on? Why do I need to be followed?’
‘Okay, calm down, I’ll tell you. But you’ve got to promise you won’t get angry.’
‘I’m already angry! Haven’t you noticed!’ This time I can’t help raising my voice. I glance behind me: Sasha is staring through the window. I smile at him and take a deep breath.
‘I get it,’ Johnny says. ‘But this is about keeping you and Sasha safe.’
I turn around so Sasha can’t see my face. ‘Safe from what, Johnny? Spill it. If you lie to me now, it’s over. Do. You. Understand? Over.’
‘Yeah, Ames, I get it. Okay. I thought I saw someone follow you home last night after you left the restaurant. I might have been imagining it, but I’ve put the crew onto protection duty, just for the next few days. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘Who would be following me, Johnny?’ I’m not angry anymore. I’m scared.
