Black Tide (36 page)

A voice off-screen, faint American accent:

Just for the sake of the record, Brent, when you say we, you mean…

252

Lyall said, ‘That’s Stuart.’

The ravaged man said:

I mean me and Steven Levesque and McColl and Carson, of course. Led by Steven but willingly led, not an innocent among us.

I looked at Lyall. She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘This is the grail,’ I said. ‘Stuart’s news story from heaven. It killed him. Now the trick is for us to stay alive.’

‘The media,’ Lyall said. ‘Go to the media.’

I could hear Dave at our first meeting, sitting in the car in the little square, watching the leaves blowing in the cold, wet wind.

The point here, Jack, the point’s simple for an intelligent bloke like you. Change Hansard, shut up journos, that’s kinder stuff for these people.

He was these people. He knew.

‘No,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to be the media ourselves.’

I rang Eric the Geek, told him what I wanted to do. He arrived twenty minutes later with a laptop and a suitcase of electronic gear.

‘Streaming video,’ he said, a gleam in his eye. ‘Always wanted to do this.’

It took the rest of the night and the first hours of the day. At 8.30 a.m., Eric, exhausted but happy, went home. Lyall was asleep in the big white bedroom, head beneath a pillow. At 9 a.m., I rang the newspaper.

‘Editor, please,’ I said. The secretary came on. ‘Jack Irish to speak to Malcolm Glasser.

He knows who I am. Tell him it’s his son’s lawyer.’

He came on. ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘I wish you wouldn’t identify yourself that way.’

I said, ‘Malcolm, I’m going to give you a website. Ring me back inside half an hour. If not, I give it to everyone. You’ve got a tiny edge on the rest of the world here. Tiny.’ I gave him my number.

Glasser was back in ten minutes.

253

‘Utterly unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Jesus, story of the decade. Bigger than that, much bigger. How the hell do you fit in here?’

‘I don’t. You running it?’

‘Fuck, yes, fuck the risk.’

‘There’s no risk, Malcolm.’

At 11 a.m., I began to ring television stations, radio stations, other newspapers, giving them the website.

My fleshwound was aching, but I didn’t mind. I ache, therefore I am. Alive.

Could be much, much worse than that.

By the end of the day, the whole world was reading the story of Steven Levesque and TransQuik, watching the haggard and dying Brent Rupert telling his electri- fying stories about a transport empire founded on drug money, money provided by Klostermann Gardier of Luxembourg. Klostermann Gardier, banker to The Connection, an invisible organisation run by people with high-level American military and intelligence connections.

The audiences learned about massive drug importations, about bribery and murder, about Steven Levesque’s ability to stop prosecutions, derail police investigations, and control politicians and bureaucrats at the highest levels.

They learned about how TransQuik, through the cousins’ travel agencies, even laundered the cash that flowed into the hands of the people to whom they sold drugs in bulk.

A full-service company.

And Brent Rupert, often visibly weary, sipping something colourless from a small glass, had total recall. He named the names, put dates and places to everything. Names high and names low. Including Gary’s name, as the go-between, the carrier of messages, the arranger, TransQuik’s Mercury.

It was dark outside, raining, the city a smear of lights, when Lyall woke up, came to the door of the study and stood with her hands in her hair, pushing it back.

‘I didn’t know where I was,’ she said.

254

On the television screen, the 6 p.m. news was ending with shaky footage of Steven Levesque shot from outside a moving car. He was seated between two large men, averting his head.

She came over and stood behind me, put her hands on my shoulders. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked.

‘Bollinger time,’ I said.

51

On a cold, clear Wednesday, high and pale winter sky, whiplash wind, we went to Moonee Valley racecourse.

Wootton was leaning on the mounting yard rail, looking like an advertisement for what upper-middle-class men should wear to the mid-week races. Not far away from him, I recognised Cynthia, his head commissioner. She’d had her hair cut short since I’d last seen her and she was looking inconspicuous in an off-white trenchcoat and a drab scarf.

Lyall and I watched the horses being walked. Vision Splendid came along, accompanied by Karen Devine’s jagged-haired strapper. The big grey looked good, unfussed by the crowd, tight as a proper bullboar sausage, but with bandages on all legs.

‘The grey,’ I said. ‘Vision Splendid. That’s the one we’re here to see.’

‘What’s wrong with its legs?’

‘Nothing. That’s why they’re bandaged.’

She gave me a look. ‘Can I ask you again? What exactly do you do for a living?’

I looked back, looked her over, took my time. She was worthy of study: colour in her face from the cold, hair tied back loosely, big tweed jacket, man’s white cotton shirt, corduroy pants. ‘Suburban solicitor, with all the breadth of cultural and other interests that the term conveys,’ I said.

‘And we are talking broad.’ She took the Age out of my hand. It was open at the form.

Cam came down the rail, dark-grey suit and black polo-neck, elegant and insolent-eyed as ever. He joined Wootton for long enough to say a few words, light a cigarette with a match from a paper matchbook, blow smoke over the man’s head and tuck the matchbook behind the triangle of red handkerchief in his top pocket. Marching orders delivered. Harry never handed them over until the last minute.

255

Wootton closed his race book and glanced around, a worried expression, the look of someone trying to decide whether to go to the toilet now or chance it. He fished the matchbook out of his pocket and stared at it. Cynthia appeared at his side. I couldn’t see him pass it over, but she didn’t linger any longer than Cam had.

‘It says here,’ said Lyall, ‘that Vision Splendid is an unremarkable veteran who failed miserably at a comeback attempt in Ballarat.’

‘Who says that?’ I took the paper and looked. ‘Bart Grantley. Shrewd judge of equine performance. Got any money?’

‘I am carrying a sum of money, yes.’

I told her what to do.

She said, without expression, ‘Do I understand you to be disputing Mr Grantley’s expert opinion?’

‘No. He’s right. Spring in there and do it.’

By the time we got out on the stand, the caller was saying, ‘…load of money for the ultra-veteran Vision Splendid, number six, Tommy Wicks up, trainer, K. Devine. Not exactly an unknown quantity this horse, form goes back to when some of the jockey’s riding in this race were getting their second lot of teeth.’

‘He’s being sarcastic about my fifty bucks,’ Lyall said.

‘They’re like that. Lots of cruel people in racing.’

We found a good spot. Looking down, I could see the McCurdie family. They’d formed a defensive circle, warily eyeing the city folk around them, alert for pickpockets, handbag-snatchers and perverts.

The caller went on: ‘Sizeable plunge, the bookmakers have hauled it in from 40-1 to tens very smartly. No, it’s down to eights, there’s money for it interstate, some money, fair bit for this time of the year. World’s full of optimists. Either that or they’re clever people, visionaries. Well, ladies and gentlemen, Tommy Wicks carries the hopes of the Viagra generation here today. They shall fall to rise again. At the barrier for the fourth, sixteen hundred metres, field of eleven, well-mannered lot, I think they’re letting the elderly horse go in first. Seriously, they’re going in nicely, five or six to come…’

I could feel Lyall looking at me. I was taking the menacing post-Gulf War camera out of its case.

256

‘Suburban solicitor,’ she said in a musing and mildly questioning tone. ‘I wonder what big city solicitors are like? I’d like to know one. They’d be involved in serious stuff, wouldn’t they? Wars and famines, bribing presidents and kings, laying waste to whole fucking continents, that sort of thing?’

I put the technology to my eye, wandered around, found the gate, obeyed the digital instruction. Then I could dwell on Tommy Wicks’s nose and look at one of Vision’s liquid and stoic eyes. ‘No,’ I said. ‘They only do the boring stuff.’

On my thigh, long fingers fell, casually as a leaf dropping, no purpose, no intent, simply an open hand come to rest.

‘Away in a clean line,’ said the caller. ‘Melanie’s Child the best, leads The Gallery, January One on the inside, Vision Splendid’s handy on the outside, dropping back quickly, replaced by Honey Dew, then comes Fatbat, Kilberry Lad, Shebeen, out wide is Drumlanrig improving quickly and bringing up the rear Count Waldersee and Pericard.’

With twelve hundred to go, the field had divided into two. Vision Splendid was the backmarker in the bunched front group of five, a length clear of the sixth horse.

‘Not a lot of pace on here,’ said the caller. ‘Might be out of respect for the senior citizen now lying fifth behind Drumlanrig, Shebeen, January One and in front The Gallery looking strong. At the thousand metres, Drumlanrig hanging out. Shebeen’s gone up to January One and Vision Splendid’s almost level pegging with Drumlanrig. In the back group…’

‘What’s happening?’ Lyall asked.

‘Looking good,’ I said. I had clear sight of Tommy Wicks as they came down the straight towards North Hill. He was riding a patient race, tucked in behind the three leaders, waiting for his chance to take the gap between Drumlanrig and Shebeen.

At the five hundred, beginning the turn into the run for home, I could see Tommy beginning to ease Vision forward. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘Go for it, Thomas.’

The caller said, ‘At the five hundred, the pace is on now, the veteran Vision Splendid’s staying with them, he’s going forward, oh dear, January One’s shifted out, he’s bumped Shebeen, nasty knock, Drumlanrig’s checked, lurched sideways, that’s knocked Vision almost onto the rail, stewards won’t like this one bit…’

In the confusion, I lost sight of Tommy for a second, found him, saw the snarl on his face, could almost hear the foul words he was shouting at Drumlanrig’s teenage jockey.

Swearing wasn’t going to help.

257

I looked down. McCurdie was pulling his hat down, trying to get it over his eyes, shut out the awful day.

‘Three-fifty to go,’ said the caller, ‘The Gallery’s in the clear, going for the doctor, confusion sorted out behind but too late for the plunge horse and the rest…’

I found Tommy Wicks again.

Tommy didn’t believe it was too late.

He put Vision Splendid into a space the width of its head between January One and the rail, appeared to make contact with the jockey. January shifted out again, this time bumped The Gallery.

In the straight, two hundred to go, Vision and The Gallery.

‘Here’s a turn,’ the caller shouted, ‘plunge horse’s through on the rails, unbelievable finish this, Wicks has shouldered his way through, gone up to The Gallery, the veteran’s moving like a three-year-old, they’re well clear of the rest, stride for stride, fifty to go, The Gallery’s holding on…’

I could feel Lyall’s fingertips digging into me, getting close to my thighbone.

The horses were both at full stretch, low to the ground, necks extended, jockeys riding hands and heels, willing the creatures to make one final desperate effort.

‘Going to the line together, can’t separate them,’ shouted the caller. ‘The Gallery may have held on by a hair in a nostril. What a race. They’re calling for the picture to separate them, my feelings is The Gallery…’

I put the glasses down, felt my shoulders slump, Lyall’s grip on my thigh loosen. Down below, the McCurdies were in shock, looking around in a dazed way, like people surprised to have survived an accident.

We waited.

‘Is it digital?’ Lyall asked.

I looked at her. ‘What?’

‘The camera. Is it digital?’

I didn’t say anything.

Waited.

258

‘Number six gets it,’ said the caller. ‘Vision Splendid by the narrowest of margins over The Gallery, third is Shebeen.’

Jock McCurdie, his wife, daughter and the two nephews were in a laughing, hugging, crying circle, like a depleted all-age, all-gender football team winning its first grand final for forty years.

‘Well, the bookies have been monstered here, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the caller.

‘Here and elsewhere. Turns out the visionaries were right. They’ll be pulling the ancients out of the retirement paddocks as we speak. K. Devine the trainer, trains at Lancefield, must be something in the air out there…oh, oh, there’s been a protest.

Second against first. I think it relates to Tommy Wicks forcing himself through on the rail. So. The excitement isn’t over yet.’

‘What’s this mean?’ Lyall asked.

I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘Second-placed horse’s jockey says he’d have won if our bloke hadn’t nudged him coming into the straight. If the stewards agree with him, we come second.’

‘How do they decide?’

‘Look at the video, interrogate the jockeys, consult the taro cards, disembowel chickens.’

We waited.

The McCurdies had gone back into shock. Jock had his arm around Mrs McCurdie’s ample shoulders, talking into an ear. I knew what he was saying: There’ll be other times, love.

We waited.

Down below, I saw Cam leaning against the fence, a study in indifference, smoking a cigarette, reading the race book.

There’ll be other times, love. Probably not.

The speakers crackled. The caller had been silent for a moment, now he said, ‘Protest dismissed. Result stands. Vision Splendid is the winner of the fourth.’

The McCurdies went mad again. There won’t have to be other times, love.

‘Jesus,’ said Lyall, ‘I don’t know if I could stand this kind of tension regularly. How much have I won?’

259

I said, ‘Four grand and your money back.’

‘Wow. I’ll give you half.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I had a bit on myself.’