Dark Summer (9 page)

“Where could we find White?”

The balls rolled into a smile full of cheerful malice, “I keep tabs on him. He's working on Number 9 wharf. He's there with The Dwarf.”

“A dwarf?”

“
Wait till you see him.” Bremner stood up, the chair cracking once more like a gunshot, and held out his hand. “Don't tell Snow White I sent you. But if you arrest the bastard, lemme know. It'll make my day. Give my regards to your old man. He was a real terror in his day, y'know. Drop a crane hook on a boss or foreman, soon as look at him. Great union man.”

Malone and Clements drove round to Nickson Road. The wharves lined the western side of the roadway; on the eastern side were the hill and cliff-faces that led up to the central business district. There were few major cities in the world where the country's imports were dumped on the doorstep of those expected to pay for them; in the glass castles along the top of the hill executives stared morosely down at their growing debt. Champagne had been drunk in those castles two or three years ago; now they were drinking mineral water. Domestic, of course.

Malone flashed his badge at the gatekeeper on Number 9 wharf and they drove on to the big expanse, like a concrete field, where containers were stacked three storeys high like townhouses in which the builders had forgotten to insert doors and windows. Three large container ships were moored dockside, stretching through to the neighbouring wharves. A giant yellow mobile crane, looking large enough to lift the national debt, loomed over the police car as it came round the corner of a stack of containers. Clements braked sharply, throwing Malone against his seat-belt. Two men abruptly appeared from between the containers: Malone's quick impression was that they had been lurking there like muggers.

“Where the fuck you think you're going?”

Malone got out of the car, waited till the crane inched its way past them, then he showed his badge and introduced himself. “Where can I find Snow White?”

“You've found him.” He looked middle-aged, but it was a look that might have been with him since he had left school. The brown eyes were old and cunning, the lines in the cheeks like chisel-marks in leather, the mouth a brutal line above the pugnacious jaw. He had dark hair cut short back-and-sides and ears that lay along his head like a faun's, the only soft note about his whole appearance. He was of medium height and bulged with muscle, the result, Malone guessed, of many work-outs in prison yards. “What's on your mind?”

Malone
looked at the huge man beside White. He was about two metres tall and seemed all body and limbs; his tiny head sat on his wide shoulders like an afterthought at birth, something stuck on when the doctor had discovered the newborn infant was incomplete. The small face still had a baby look to it, blank but for a permanent frown of puzzlement between the small blue eyes. Malone guessed that The Dwarf would have a one-track mind: two thoughts at the same time in that small head would only cause a traffic jam. Snow White would do the thinking for them. “Your name is—?”

The Dwarf hesitated, as if the question had baffled him, then he said in a surprisingly soft voice, like a girl's, “I'm Gary Schultz.”

“What's this about?” said White, whose voice was anything but girlish; it had the threat of fists or even worse behind it.

“Did you know a man, a tally clerk, named Normie Grime?”

“No,” said The Dwarf, quick off the mark for once.

White glanced at him, the mouth tightening still further till the thin lips disappeared; then he looked back at Malone. “Gary's forgotten. Yeah, we knew him. We worked with him once on a job over at Walsh Bay.”

“When did you last see him?”

“I dunno. Before Christmas, maybe, I dunno. What's up with him?”

“He's dead,” said Malone, “that's what's up with him. Murdered.”

The four men were silent for a moment. Beyond their circle there was the rattle of a chain, a man's shouting, the hum of a fork-lift as it sped past. Heat came up from the concrete in an eye-searing blaze, was reflected off the red metal containers, pressed down from the glaring sky; Malone could feel himself being boiled and shrunken by it, his skin closing up, suffocating him. Between the bow of one ship and the stern of another he caught a glimpse of water, but it looked like burning glass. This summer Lisa had insisted he start wearing a hat, he was developing sun cancers on his cheeks, but he had left the hat in the car. A gull flew overhead, mewing harshly like an Outback crow.

Then White said, “What's it got to do with us?”

“
We thought you might be interested,” said Clements, taking over the bowling. “We understand he came from Melbourne, the same as you.”

“There's about three million people come from Melbourne. We dunno most of 'em. What sorta shit are youse trying to lay on us?”

“How come you can run for union office with a criminal record? You've done time, right?”

“I been rehabilitated,” said White, and beside him a slow grin spread across The Dwarf's baby face. “My probation officer got me a second chance.”

“Who's your probation officer?”

“He's dead,” said White, and the smile on The Dwarf's face was now fixed like a scar. “The poor bugger just give up and died. I got word only a week ago. He come from Melbourne, too, one of the three million.”

The heat and White's insolence were getting to Malone; but he kept the lid on himself. “We want you, we can always get you through the WLU, right?”

“Next month I'll be the secretary, sitting right there in the offices. Drop in. You won't be welcome, but drop in anyway.”

Malone got back into the car and Clements went round to get in on the other side. He paused and looked across the pale grey glare of the roof at The Dwarf. “You running for office, too?”

The giant widened his grin. “Nah, I'm just Snow's campaign manager. I'll help count the votes when they come in.”

“Is there gunna be any need for that? I thought bastards like you would have the votes already counted.”

As they drove away Clements looked as if he might snap the steering wheel with his furious hands. “Jesus, how are they let run loose?”

“You heard the man. Rehabilitation. It's bullshit, of course, but they're getting away with it. But I don't want us getting mixed up in union politics, we've got enough on our hands. What d'you think? You think they had anything to do with Scungy's murder?”

“
I dunno. The Dwarf looks big enough to have carted Scungy into your place under one arm. But you notice his feet? Tiny, at least for his size. Wayne Murrow said the heel-print in the lawn in your side passage was that of a big shoe, he guessed it might've been a size eleven or twelve. It was hard to tell whether Snow White has big feet. He was wearing the sorta boots builders' labourers wear, they always look big.”

As so often in the past, Malone was grateful for his offsider's eye for detail. “What else did you notice?”

“Those containers where they came out from. They were all marked with red triangles—that means it's dangerous cargo. I remember from the days when I was with Pillage, There are three classes, marked by numbers. Class One would be explosives, ammo, whisky—”

“Whisky?”

“Sure. It's been known to blow up. Maybe I'm over-suspicious, just because they're crims. But why would they be marking containers with yellow chalk, which was what they were doing, when the containers have already been unloaded?”

“Maybe they were marking them for the delivery trucks?”

“Unless they've changed the system, the tally clerks do that. Neither of those guys is a tally clerk. In the old days when I worked on Pillage, before containers were used, stuff used to disappear off the wharves like a magical act. Whisky was always a target because it was easy to get rid of once it was outside. A shonky pub owner would buy a case half-price and both him and the bloke who'd swiped it would be happy. Think of the profit, you pinch a container full of it. If the containers are full of explosives or ammo cargo, that's a heist I'd rather not think about.”

“If Scungy knew they were pinching that sort of stuff, he'd never have told me. He hated giving me any information, even about the drug racket—I had to lean on him. He wasn't a natural-born nark.”

“So what d'you think? They found out he was working for you and got rid of him”

“Maybe. Probably. I'm just puzzled why they chose to do it with a needle in his bum. That doesn't look their style. They'd do him with a gun or an iron bar, they're the sort who like the look of
blood.”

“If either of them did it, why use the same MO on the Kissen woman? You think he, Snow White or The Dwarf, got kinky and thinks he's discovered a new way of bumping off people? I seem to remember they kill each other off with curare in the Amazon jungle, but it's be new to Sydney.”

They drove up through the city and over to Palmer Street. Only when they got there did Malone realize that Sally Kissen had lived within half a dozen blocks of Scungy Grime. Clement parked in a lane off the busy street, which carried a steady stream of fast-moving traffic towards the Cahill Expressway and the Harbour Bridge. Palmer Street had been named after the shipping merchant who had built up the surrounding area. Long after his death the street had become famous for its brothels and sly-grog shops, two sources of income the merchant had overlooked. The pace of the city and progress had now put paid to those businesses: the prostitutes now worked William Street, just up the road, but they saluted the flag of history by renting rooms in houses like Sally Kissen's.

The Crime Scene tapes had been removed from the front of the house, but a uniformed policeman stood in the meagre shade of the front verandah. “Anyone inside?” Malone asked.

“Two girls,” said the policeman. “They claim they're just boarders, but I've seen 'em up the road, on the game.”

Malone and Clements went through the narrow hallway and into the living room. Sally Kissen would have won no prizes from
House and Garden
as a decorator; the room seemed to have been furnished from stalls at the Annual Kitsch Fair. There was a purple-and-red-striped lounge suite; a brass-topped coffee table and two brass sidetables; a 1920s drinks cabinet that opened out to show a mirrored back and, Malone guessed, probably played a musical fanfare; and a Persian rug that looked as if it might have come from a Teheran rubbish dump. There were two paintings on the walls of female nudes, painted, it seemed, by a misogynistic artist. The final touch, which Malone couldn't bring himself to believe, was three bright orange plaster ducks flying up one wall to the high blue yonder of the peeling ceiling. Sally Kissen had had either wacky taste or a wacky sense of humour.

The two girls sitting in the living room, drinking coffee and munching cookies, went with the
room.
One had hair so red her head looked as if it were on fire; the other had bleached hers bone-white. They were in black tights and green shirts, open down to the waist and with the sleeves rolled down. They wore no make-up and they looked plain and pale. One had to look twice to see that both of them actually had good features, but the game and their habit had blurred the edges. The rolled-down sleeves told Malone they were probably junkies.

“Those bickies Iced Vo-Vos?” he said.

“Yeah.” The redhead nodded, her spiky hair shivering; it was like watching a flame quivering in a breeze. “They was Sally's favourites. Waddia wanna know? We know nothing—we told the other guys that. You just come back to do the heavy on us.”

“Where were you the night before last?” Malone sat down in one of the purple and red chairs. He noticed that at least the room was clean; Sally Kissen had been a good housekeeper.

“Out,” said the blonde. Her hair was long, brushed back and hanging down her back. She had a better voice than the other girl, not as harsh and with the vowels more rounded. “We were at a party, we didn't get home till six yesterday morning.”

“You've got witnesses who'll back you up?”

The girls looked at each other; then the blonde said, “No, I don't suppose so. They were boys down from the country.”

“Clients?” said Clements. The blonde nodded and he went on, “Was the party at some hotel?”

“Yes.” The blonde was the intelligent one and the redhead seemed content to let her do the talking. “Look, we had nothing to do with this. It's upsetting enough to know Sally is dead. We don't even know why she died.”

Malone told her.

“You mean she was
murdered?”
The redhead sat with her mouth open, a biscuit crumb on her bottom lip.

“We're not saying you had anything to do with it—we're just trying to clear it up. What are your names?”

The
redhead blinked, licked the crumb from her lip. “I'm Tuesday Streep.”

“Ava Redgrave,” said the blonde.

“You ever been in movies? You look familiar.”

“Just art films,” The blonde smiled, a mistake, since she had a lower front tooth missing. But she had a sense of humour and Malone wondered what she thought of Sally Kissen's taste, “I don't think they'd be your cup of tea.”

“No. I like Bugs Bunny.”

Clements went upstairs to look at the actual scene of the crime and Malone stayed with the girls, accepting an Iced Vo-Vo when Tuesday passed him the plate, but declining a cup of coffee. “Did Mrs. Kissen have any regular male visitors?”

“We dunno, honest.” Tuesday, satisfied that Malone was not going to book them, was prepared to be more forthcoming. “She never really liked to admit to us she was on the game. She was funny, in a way.”

“She was a snob, believe it or not,” said Ava. “She said she'd never worked the streets, like we do.”