Dragons at the Party (12 page)

Malone again hesitated: policemen should never make promises. But he could not make Rimmer’s position untenable: he did too much good work for that. “I promise, Jack. All I want is to talk
to
him.”

Rimmer stood up. “Stay here.”

Malone sat and waited, poured himself a second cup of tea. He wondered how Clements was doing out in the sweat-bath of the car, suffering the aggressive stares of the young Aborigines. He looked around the kitchen, saw the crude posters but didn’t examine them. Some of them were violent in their demands, but he doubted that Jack Rimmer believed in them.

Rimmer was back in ten minutes with Dallas Pinjarri. The latter came into the kitchen, slumped down on a chair and shoved his legs out; the pose was so theatrically belligerent that Malone wanted to laugh. But he had experienced the same attitude from young white punks: rebels now got their image from TV just like politicians.

“I wouldn’t of come if it hadn’t been for Jack.”

“I’m grateful to him,” said Malone and nodded his thanks to Rimmer. “Relax, Dallas, this isn’t a bust. All I want is some information.”

Dallas Pinjarri came of a generation whose mothers had named their children, black and white, after American movie stars or American cities. At one time, Malone had remarked, the entire forward packs of Sydney rugby league teams seemed to be made up of Garys, Waynes and Carys; one had to dig to the bottom of a ruck to find a Fred or Clarrie. But the next generation would be worse: Malone shuddered at the ghastly thought of Jons, Jasons and Justins running on to a football field. Dallas had done his best to restore the balance by changing his name from Smith to Pinjarri.

“Have you had any contact with a man named Miguel Seville?”

Pinjarri’s eyes flicked towards the newspapers on the couch, but his face remained set. “The guy in this morning’s papers? Why would I know anything about him?”

“We know he came out to see your crowd two years ago.” It never hurt to sound positive.

Pinjarri laughed, but Malone caught the uneasy note in it. “What good would he do us? We wouldn’t want him. Why d’you think he’d be contacting us now?”

“Possibly to buy a gun from you.”

Pinjarri
straightened up, shook his head. “That’s it, you’re trying to fucking bust me. I’m not selling no gun—I dunno this guy from Adam . . .”

“You could be in bigger trouble than just selling a gun, Dallas. You’ve read what this feller’s up to—”

“You got no proof of that. It’s just like you bastards, laying something on him before you got any proof—you dunno he’s even in the country—”

“How do you know we don’t?” Malone knew now that he had the Aborigine worried. “An accessory before the fact of assassination—that wouldn’t help the rest of your mob, would it?” He looked at Rimmer. “Talk some sense into him, Jack.”

Rimmer, leaning against the kitchen sink, shrugged. “I been trying to do that for months. He never listens to me, do you, Dallas? Wake up, son. You’re gunna get your arse pushed in on this one if you play stupid.”

But Pinjarri was stubborn. “I dunno the guy.”

Malone sat a moment staring at the young Aborigine. Then he sighed and stood up. “Righto, Dallas. Just remember—when we do bust you for this, I tried to help you. Thanks, Jack. I think your job’s harder than mine.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that, Inspector. Only the pay’s different.”

Malone grinned. “I’m the right colour, Jack. Take care.”

He looked once more at Pinjarri, hoping for a last-minute change of heart; but there was none. The young Aborigine was staring out the kitchen window at the tiny yard: he saw nothing, Malone was sure of that. His stubbornness, his total distrust of the police jacketed him in an attitude that would eventually bring him to disaster. For a moment Malone felt sorry for him, but it lasted only a moment: pity, they had told him years ago, should never be part of a policeman’s equipment. They had been wrong, of course, but he had learned to use it sparingly.

He went out into the street, climbed into the car and felt the sweat start on him immediately. “Any trouble?”

Clements
looked out at the dark young men lounging against the veranda railings of Rimmer’s house. “Why do we bother with ‘em? Why don’t we just round ‘em all up and send ‘em back to the bush. They’d be happier there.”

“Let’s go, Russ.” He didn’t want Clements’ remarks overheard. The big man’s heart probably wasn’t racist, just his tongue. It was the tongue, however, other people’s tongues, that caused half a policeman’s problems. He’d lost count of the number of murders that had begun with verbal abuse. “Maybe they don’t like the bush any more than you do.”

Clements nodded, unconvinced. “You get anything out of Pinjarri?”

“Nothing. But I’ll bet he’s had contact with Seville. I want him watched.”

He looked sideways at the big man and Clements raised his thick eyebrows in shock. “Who, me? In this heat? Ah Christ, Scobie, let’s call up some young joker—”

“You’re it, Russ—you’re younger than me. There’s no time to call in anyone else—I need a tail on him
now
. Pull up.” Clements pulled the car into the kerb. “Now’s your chance to prove you’re a better black tracker than any of the blacks.”

“I can remember when you and I were mates, Inspector,” said Clements, getting out of the car.

“It’s the rank, Sergeant. It’s always breaking up beautiful friendships. Good luck, Russ. Ring me at the office in an hour. I’ll have some young fellers to relieve you by then.”

He watched Clements go back to the corner of the street, stand there a moment, then disappear. He slid over into the driver’s seat and drove the car back into the city. He felt the trail to Seville was warming up, though it would be Clements who would be feeling the heat the most. He turned on the air-conditioning and was surprised it was working. It was a good omen.

II

“You’ve made it just that much tougher for us to catch this man,” said Commissioner Leeds.

“Tough titty, John,” said the Premier, “I had my reasons.”

I’m sure you did, thought Leeds. Politicians, particularly ones like Hans Vanderberg, never did
anything
without a reason. The voters might never understand the reasons, but that did not matter. Though in this case the voters might understand: The Dutchman had never made any secret of his enmity for Phil Norval.

“This country’s in a helluva state, John,” the Premier went on. “The celebrations don’t mean a thing. Anything that will get rid of that crowd in Canberra will be good for the country. I’m doing it for Australia,” he said and tried to look full of patriotism. But he was only a quarter-full of it and the emptiness showed.

Leeds tried not to throw up. “It would be a feather in our cap, the State’s, if we managed to catch Seville. The rest of the world has been chasing him for ten years.”

“That would be fine if you coppers were running for office. But you’re not. I’m the one who’s got an election this year. I got to get up to all the skulbuggery I can.” He looked at his political secretary and grinned evilly. “But Roger here tells me I’m a dead certain to get back in.”

“Skulduggery, certainty,” Ladbroke whispered under his breath. He sometimes dreamed of going to Britain and working for a British Prime Minister: they always sounded so articulate and literate. But maybe they wouldn’t appreciate his skills in skulduggery, or skulbuggery, whatever you called it; and he knew he would miss the opportunities to practise it. He loved the bear-pit of this State’s politics. He said aloud, “They’re moving the Timoris out of Kirribilli House this afternoon.”

“That’s news to me,” said Leeds.

“Where’s he going?” said Vanderberg.

“He’s moving over to Russell Hickbed’s place at Point Piper. They’ve had trouble finding a place for him, nothing’s on offer around the harbour.”

“Hickbed, eh?” The Dutchman spun his chair round and looked out the window. He could see Point Piper from here, a finger of silvertail residences poking out from the south shore of the harbour. He imagined he could see Hickbed’s mansion, though he had only seen pictures of it; he had certainly never been invited to visit. It was within shooting distance, he would bring up the field guns tomorrow. “I wonder how much of a hand he’s got in the pie? I wouldn’t trust him if I could throw him far.”

Ladbroke
didn’t attempt to translate that. “We’ve got nothing definite, but he and Madame Timori are supposed to be business partners.”

“Are you going to pass on to us all the dirt you dig up?” said Leeds, and felt dirty asking such a thing.

The Premier swung his chair round to face Leeds. “That’ll depend, John. You don’t want to get mixed up in anything political, do you? All you fellers have got to do is catch this Seville.”

“You’ve practically ruined our chances of that.”

“Then he may go home without taking another crack at Timori,” said Ladbroke, and Vanderberg nodded.

“If he does, then we may be stuck with the Timoris for ever. You won’t like that, will you?”

“If I can bring down Phil Norval, the Timoris won’t stay,” said The Dutchman. “I’ll see to that, my word I will.”

“There’s one item Jack Phillips and Don Clary have dug up,” said Ladbroke and smiled as if he might next lick his lips: fat on gossip, he fed on it. “There was a donation of fifty thousand dollars to Phil Norval’s last campaign fund. The cheque came from a company called Da Gama Exploration. The principal shareholder is D.R. O’Reilly. Delvina Rose O’Reilly.”

The Dutchman clapped his hands: he looked like an ugly schoolboy who had at last seen the school well ablaze. “Oh, I hope they don’t kill Timori! Not till I can bury Phil Norval in the manure heap!”

III

Precisely at eleven o’clock Seville phoned Dallas Pinjarri. He was not being Swiss, but himself, the Argentinian. He had learned from experience that punctuality was essential in the trade of terrorism. The bomb that went off too early or too late never did anyone any good.

Pinjarri picked up the phone after it had rung only once; he must have been standing right by it. “That you, Mick?”

Seville
wished Australians were not so familiar, so matey, to borrow one of their own expressions. “Did you get the package?”

“Sure, I got it here. But . . .”

“But what?”

“The pigs are on to you. I was quizzed by one of ‘em this morning, about an hour ago, a guy named Inspector Malone. He asked me if I was gunna supply you with a gun.”

Seville pushed open the door of the public phone-box; he suddenly felt very warm. Or at least he was sweating, something unusual for him. “Are they watching you?”

“I dunno. I can send someone out to look.”

“Do that. Stay by the phone. I’ll call at eleven-twenty.”

He hung up and stepped out into the heat of the Rozelle street. A young girl brushed by him and went into the box; she dialled a number, then settled herself against the glass wall of the box for a chat. She lit up a cigarette and stared out through the glass at him as if challenging him to move on and leave her to her privacy.

Seville looked at his watch, then decided to go for a short walk; he did not want to remain in the one place long enough to be observed and perhaps later identified. He could feel uneasiness weakening him like a virus: too much was going wrong with this assignment. He was not himself; but it was not the Swiss disguise that had altered him. Perhaps he had been at the game too long, perhaps it was the environment; everyone blamed the environment these days for all their ills. He was lost in these drab, sunburned streets where everyone looked so casual and unafraid. He felt more at home in terror-stricken Beirut.

He stopped in at a newsagent’s and bought a paper. The Timoris were still page one material, though they were not the lead story. He had no feelings about Timori, his corruption and his downfall. He was totally cynical about men in general; some were just worse than others. He was, however, intrigued by Madame Timori: one met so few successful evil women. He had watched her on television and she had sexually stimulated him. Love-making for him had always been a risk, a gamble with betrayal; he worked
on
the principle that there were two places where a man was always vulnerable to attack, in bed and in the bath. On top of Madame Timori was one of the most vulnerable places he could think of.

He walked back to the phone-box. The girl was still on the phone, one leg propped up against the wall opposite her, the box’s air thick with cigarette smoke. He looked at his watch: 11.18. He waited a minute, then tapped on the door. The girl took no notice of him: he could hear her chatter: “Nah, you know what he’s like, at it all the time. I dunno where I’d be if I wasn’t pinching Mum’s pills . . .” He knocked again and she glared at him, poking out her tongue. It occurred to him only then that she could have been no more than fourteen or fifteen, a child.

He opened the door, smelled the smoke and the heat. “May I use the phone, please?”

“Get stuffed,” she said.

He felt the knife-sheath rub against his calf. “My mother’s very ill. I’m trying to call the doctor—”

“Why didn’t you say so? I gotta go, Shirl, see youse t’night.” She came out of the box. “What’s the time?”

“Eleven-twenty,” he said and stepped into the suffocating box, closing the door in her face. He dialled and Pinjarri answered on the first ring. “Well?”

“There’s a pig up at the end of the street and we think there is another down the other way. What do I do? I just as soon forget all about it, Mick.”

“You don’t want the five thousand?” He stared through the glass at the young girl; she was listening to the conversation, waiting to hear if he’d got the doctor. He lowered his voice. “Is the item dismantled and in a bag?”

“Yeah, nobody’d know what’s in it unless I was picked up.” There was silence for a moment, then: “Have you got the five grand on you?”

“No. Don’t you trust me?”

“What if they pick you up after I’ve delivered the gun to you? What’s in it for us then, eh?”

“I can give you a deposit of a thousand dollars in traveller’s cheques, American dollars. The rest
I’
ll see comes to you in a bank draft.” He would have to be careful with his money if this job dragged on. He had expected to be on his way back to Damascus by now, “You need the money, Mr. Pinjarri. You told me so. Trust me.”