White Dog (13 page)

No street names, no numbers I could see. I gave up and parked the Stud in the main street, a few doors down from the pub, the Balmoral, beyond the hairdressing salon and the milkbar.

I sat, tired, the back, in the neck, not keen to do anything, easy to rest my head against the door jamb, have a little sleep. A car, a swish. Minutes passed. I sat up, wiped the windscreen. A man wearing a Collingwood beanie on top of a pulled-down balaclava was approaching. Sinister, helmeted, an impoverished knight reduced to pushing a bicycle with a flat back tyre. The eyes in their apertures looked at me, the man veered from his path to get a closer look. Our eyes met. He looked away, looked again, moved along, looked back, stopped. I thought he was going to come back, knock on the window, ask me a question. He wouldn’t want anything, people didn’t beg in these towns. But he didn’t. He made a head and shoulder movement suggesting some inner shiver. Then two women came out of the pub, perhaps mother and daughter, both grown up too quickly, both in lurid pink tracksuits. The younger one was carrying a child on her hip, her arm hooked around its midriff. It screamed, drummed heels. She stuck her cigarette in her mouth, smacked the child’s face with a fluid forehand, said something to her companion, a slew of words.

I waited until they passed before getting out. It was a raw day, icy air smelling of wood fires and damp and turned earth. In the Balmoral bar, a sad place of fake wood, formica, split plastic seats extruding yellow foam, the smell was of fried onions, cigarette smoke and something chemical, carpet cleaner perhaps, sickly. There were five customers, an old woman at a table by herself, two wizened men at the bar, a man and a woman playing pool. She was shooting, leaning over the table and showing a roll of naked fat the colour of porridge above huge buttocks sausaged inside stretch pants.

I went to the bar. The barman was side-on to me, head tilted, listening to a small radio on the bottle shelf. I looked at my watch: the first race at Moe, first of four maidens, all hope and no pedigree. I didn’t bother him, turned my back and looked around, stopped short of the buttocks and came back along the photographs on the wall. Football teams.

‘Fuckin nag,’ said the barman.

The race was over. He had the long, choleric, dog-jowled face of an eighteenth-century hanging judge, all he needed was the horsehair wig to cover his moulted scalp.

‘Good-day,’ I said. ‘I’m having trouble finding street signs.’

‘Yeah?’ Eyes just red slits, weeping.

‘I’m looking for Eales Street.’

‘Yeah? Drinkin?’

‘No thanks. Just looking for help.’

‘Not the fuckin tourist bureau here, mate. Fuckin pub.’

He went off down the counter, turned right through a doorway. He had a limp.

‘Eales,’ said the nearest of the wizened men. ‘Say Eales?’

‘Yes. Eales.’

He gave me a good examination. ‘Bank,’ he said. He looked vaguely fishy, head rising to a point, no dip between forehead and broad nose, mouth lipless.

I registered. ‘No. It’s a family matter. No trouble involved.’

The man beyond him was leaning forward to look at me, alert eyes in a face like a thrashed golf ball. ‘Ballick, right?’ he said.

‘Right. Mrs Ballich.’ I said the name as he had.

The men looked at each other, nodded, pleased.

‘How did you know?’ I said.

They turned to me, Fish and Golfball.

‘The girls, not so?’ said Fish.

‘Janene,’ I said.

Golfball made a whistling sound. ‘Janene,’ he said. ‘She come in here one day, back from Melbin with this other sheila, this bloke, flash car. Big bloke, mind you. Like that Rocca.’

‘Soft,’ said Fish. ‘Soft. Wog. Had the wog look. Pissweak wogs. Wogs and Abos. No guts.’

‘Well, the wogs run, din they?’ said Golfball, eyes on me, waiting. ‘In the war.’

‘That’s possible,’ I said.

‘Like dogs,’ said Fish. ‘Bloody pathetic. Our fellas coulda shot em up the arseholes. Showed mercy they did. Up the arseholes, crawlin. Like dogs.’

‘So,’ I said, ‘Eales Street. Which one is that?’

Golfball waved to his left. ‘Last one,’ he said. ‘Last on the right. The young bitch gone off too now. Darwin, they say.’

‘Bloody good riddance,’ said Fish. ‘She’s a lowie, deadset. Pulled fellas like a bitch on heat, they come from bloody miles around, lizards damn near pokin out.’

‘All Abos and chinks,’ said Golfball. ‘Darwin. Me Uncle Ross was up there once. White man’s grave he used to say.’

‘Piss artist, your Uncle Ross,’ said Fish. ‘Still, hadda beat his liver to death with a stick.’ He eyed me. ‘Door open and engine goin, mate. Mary Ballick’s run outta roots in this town. She’d be hungry.’

The barman appeared, he’d had another drink in the back. ‘Still here?’ he said. ‘Still not fuckin drinkin?’

I took out a fifty-dollar note and put it on the counter. ‘These helpful gentlemen are a credit to your lovely town,’ I said.

He looked at the money, frowned.

I beckoned. He hesitated, came closer. I looked into his eyes of red. ‘Give them whatever they’re drinking, judge,’ I said. ‘And don’t keep the change. Clear to you?’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

It took me two minutes to get to Mary Ballich’s house, a weatherboard standing behind a wire fence on a bare block, nothing growing except couch grass and weeds and moss and fuzzy grey mould on hundreds of dog turds. The house’s white paint was almost gone, the naked wood turned grey. Smoke lisped from a brick chimney that had lost most of its mortar and would fall down in a high wind one day soon, some soot-blackened bricks would go through the rusted corrugated iron, through the lath and plaster ceiling.

An old orange Corolla with a savage list to starboard stood in front of a fibreboard garage it had never called home.

I parked outside the front gate, half open, leaning, its hinge post broken at the base, and got out.

The rain had stopped but the wind had picked up, coming over the featureless green undulations with a whooing sound that acted on the brain the way organ dirges did. I went up the cracked concrete, stepped up to the verandah, avoiding a collapsed plank. The verandah felt unsteady, nails loose in rain-eroded boards. I stood before a screen door with holes in the flywire of the upper panels. They had the look of holes punched – drink and testosterone holes. I opened the door and the dents in the front door said mine was not an unreasonable assumption.

I could hear the television inside. I knocked, knocked again, less politely. After a while, I hit the door a few times with four knuckles and waited. It opened.

‘Yeah?’ A woman, short, plump, face pink with new makeup.

‘Mrs Ballich?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Jack Irish. I spoke to you …’

‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘Didn’t think you’d be early.’

In the passage, we shook hands. She was in the last phase of pretty, doll-like, a small nose, rosebud lips.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, smoke and alcohol and mint toothpaste on her breath. ‘Back room’s warm, almost bloody warm, this fucking place.’

I followed her, walking on nylon carpet, feeling the sag of the floorboards. Down there in the underfloor, the stumps would be rotten, the air would smell of decaying wood, damp earth, of fluids leached through carpet and underfelt, there would be chewed bones and the skeletons of small creatures. It would be icy cold, cold a hundred sunless years in the making.

The back room had been two rooms once, the kitchen and something else, floors not level. Knocking out a wall left gaps, patched with whatever came to hand. A fire was burning in the kitchen hearth, logs smouldering, more smoke than heat. The curtains were drawn, two overhead lights on, one a pink plastic chandelier.

‘Whole fucking day to warm up,’ said Mary Ballich. She picked up a remote control from a chair, pressed several buttons before the television died. ‘Fire goes out, place’s a fucking freezer inside ten minutes. Start again next day. Sit down, have a seat.’

I had the choice of a squat leather chair, its arms folded and held down with buckles, and an old office chair. I sat on the office chair. Mary went to a counter, a two-litre cask of wine on it, wet circle on the carpet below the nozzle. She showed me a glass, half full, yellow liquid in a Vegemite container given a second life.

‘Little heartstarter,’ she said. ‘Shit, I slept so fucking bad, I can’t tell you. Take a wine?’

‘A small one,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

She found another Vegemite glass for me, filled it from the tap. I got up to take it from her.

‘Cheers,’ she said and went back to get hers, lit a cigarette, offered me the pack. I shook my head. She sat down on the yellow leather couch. It sighed.

‘A lawyer,’ she said. ‘Didn’t get the other bit.’

‘I’m acting for someone in a criminal matter. Janene’s name came up as a possible witness. I found out she was a missing person, so I rang all the Ballichs in the book.’

‘Witness?’

‘She might know something that would help our client.’

‘Can’t help if she’s missin, can she?’

‘No. But we might be able to help look for her. That would be up to you.’

‘Well, the cops done fuck-all. Not interested, don’t give a shit.’

‘You reported her missing in January 1995,’ I said. ‘That’s a long time ago.’

‘Yeah. Look around, another bloody year’s gone.’

‘How did you know she was missing?’

‘Didn’t answer the phone. Got a bit toey. Then I get a call from the real estate agency, they reckon she’s done a runner, left all her stuff behind.’

I tried the wine, wet my lips with it. Sweet, a strong smell of acetone. ‘Runner from what?’

‘This unit in St Kilda. We went up to Melbin, got the stuff.’

‘Janene was in touch regularly?’

‘Well, nah. I used to ring her. Sometimes ya need a talk.’ She inhaled deeply, blew smoke out of the corner of her small mouth. ‘Sometimes ya need a few bucks too. What’s the good of bloody kids they can’t help ya out, that’s what I say. Things I bloody went through for em, you don’t want to know. Don’t want to know.’

‘Janene had a job?’

‘Model,’ she said. ‘She was a model.’ She drank half her glass of sweet yellow wine. ‘There’s a photo over there.’ She pointed.

I crossed to the back wall, to two photographs hanging between the curtains.

‘Top one,’ said Mary. ‘That’s her. Other one’s Marie, my little one.’

They were both studio portraits, full length. I could see nothing of Mary Ballich in either of them. At about eighteen, Janene Ballich had a waif look, long fair hair, big eyes, long legs made longer in a little black dress by the photographer’s upward angle. Her sister was about fifteen when the picture was taken, dark, big-mouthed, a look in her eyes that said she would only be a certain kind of teacher’s pet.

I went back to my chair. ‘Tough business, modelling,’ I said, looking at Mary.

She looked back, pulled a face. Deep lines appeared between her eyes. ‘Yeah, well, she done a bit of escort on the side. Like between modellin jobs, y’know.’ She finished her wine and got up for more. ‘How’s ya glass?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

She filled hers to the brim, spilled a little on the carpet, drank some before journeying back to the sighing couch.

‘So, did she have an agency for bookings?’ I said.

‘Nah, Wayne done that. He was like her agent.’

‘Wayne?’

‘Wayne Dilthey. He come here with her once. Stuck on her, I reckon, the cuntstruck look, pardon me. They come in his Porsche. Grey one. Whole fucking street come out.’

I took out my notebook and guessed at the spelling, there wasn’t any point in asking. ‘Any idea of when you last spoke to Janene?’

Mary had a sip, blinked at me. Now I noticed the marks on either side of her nose. She was short-sighted and she didn’t want to be seen in glasses. ‘November,’ she said. ‘My birthday’s the twelfth of November. I was really pissed off, no fucking prezzie, not even a call. I give her a ring, get the message fucking thing. Next morning she rings, all sorry, sorry, sorry. Some crap about her friend in hospital, always a bullshit story to give you, Jan. From when she was little. Jay Bailey, she used to call herself. Didn’t like her name.’

‘November 13, 1994, that’s the last time she was on the phone?’

‘To me. The other time, I was at the pub with my fren. The bloke livin here, he was here, pissed half off his brain as per usual, she give him a message.’

‘Saying what?’

‘Fuck knows,’ she said. ‘The turkey tole me the next day, he can’t remember nothin. Reckons she was upset, that’s all, the fucking spagbrain.’

The smoke was getting to my throat. I had some wine – alcohol, sugar, acetone – the stuff could knock out any complaint. ‘Any idea when that was?’

‘Yeah. December 4.’

My throat felt better. The stomach would be the next problem. ‘You remember that?’

‘Nah. The cop said.’

‘What cop was that?’

‘Cop come here. He had the calls she made.’

‘That was after you reported Janene missing?’

She was lighting another cigarette. ‘Nah. Just before Christmas. Didn’t know she was missin then, thought she was just bein her usual mongrel. He come about her mobile, reckoned someone pinched it, he was checkin the calls.’

Her glass was empty. She showed it to me, I shook my head. She got a refill, spilled more from the tap this time, spilled some on her front when she sat down. It was going to be a short day indoors. Short out and much shorter in.

‘Married?’ she said.

‘I’ve been married.’

‘Kids?’

‘One.’

She looked at me, nodding.

‘Give you his name, the cop?’ I said.

She frowned, waved her cigarette. ‘Well, it’s gone. Ugly bloke, tell you that, the dark glasses, these big bumps over his eyes. How’s ya drink?’

I finished my glass. ‘Driving,’ I said. ‘Can’t take a chance.’

She gave me a good stare, blinking, pulled at her top between the breasts with her cigarette hand, pulled it away from her body. ‘Could stay over,’ she said. ‘Get an early start in the mornin.’

‘That’s tempting,’ I said. ‘Would you have a picture of Janene I could borrow? I’ll copy it, send it back.’