Dead Point Part 16

He smiled at me, excellent teeth. 'I'm very careful. Loosen your tie, unb.u.t.ton your shirt, cuffs too.'

You sensed a lack of trust in him.

When he was finished, he said, 'Come in.'

We went through a hallway decorated with oversize Grecian-style urns, down a pa.s.sage and into a sitting room the size of a four-car garage. It was full of white leather chairs and sofas and gla.s.s-topped tables holding heavy bowls of tortured coloured gla.s.s. On the wall above a fireplace hung a huge picture of a red rose lying on stone steps. The blowsy petals held perfectly rendered drops of dew the size of oranges.

Through the open French doors, you looked over a broad deck to where a boat was tied up, at least ten metres of gleaming white craft with a flying bridge. A man was working at the stern, kneeling on the deck, straightening up every few minutes to relieve his back.

'Welcome to my house.'

The man had come into the room from a door to the right of the French doors. He was in his fifties, heavily built, oiled silver hair combed back, wearing only striped shorts and boat shoes. His skin was the colour of fudge and his chest was grey-furred, like the belly of an old dog.

I put out a hand. 'Jack Irish.'

'Milan Filipovic.' He applied a challenging grip and I gave it back.

'Strong hand,' he said. 'Don't work behind a desk all the time, hey?'

'Thanks for seeing me,' I said.

'Not a problem, mate.'

Another man had come into the room, a younger man, strong looking, a bodybuilder, with dark hair cut short. He was in shorts, a golf shirt and boat shoes.

'Steve,' said Milan. 'He works for me.'

Steve didn't offer to shake hands, just smiled, another mouth of first-rate teeth. Something in the local water, perhaps, or a good cosmetic dentist.

'Hey,' said Milan, 'we're jus goin out on the boat, test the engines. Steve, ask that c.u.n.t if he's finished?'

Steve went out.

'This place, what you think? Nice, hey?'

'Very nice. Must be good to live on the water.'

'The best. Cost a f.u.c.ken bomb. What you reckon they want for management, upkeep, security, all that s.h.i.t?'

'Quite a bit.'

'Forty grand a year. How's that?'

'That's a lot, that's steep.'

He scratched his chest pelt. 'I told em, I don't need your f.u.c.ken security, look after myself. Little c.u.n.t says it's not an option.'

I watched Steve come back. His legs were too short for his torso.

'Ready,' he said.

'Pineapple juice,' said Milan, 'get a coupla litres.'

He led the way to the boat. We pa.s.sed the man who'd been working on it. 'She's ace, Mr Fil,' he said. 'Runnin smooth.'

'Good boy,' said Milan, patting him on the chest. 'Tell Denny I said cash.'

We were at the centre of a bay, a big expanse of water. The village's long curving boardwalk was on the right, two-storey boathouse-like buildings lining it, people sitting under market umbrellas. Perhaps forty other waterfront houses were in sight, most of them with boats tied up at their landings, big white muscle boats, here and there a yacht supplying some cla.s.s.

'Like it?' said Milan.

'Top spot,' I said.

'You gotta earn it.' He was first onto the boat.

Steve and the young man who'd searched me arrived, Steve carrying a big pitcher of yellow juice. The young man cast off, went up to the flying bridge, Steve went below.

'Take a seat,' said Milan, waving at the banquettes. They were gently scalloped into individual seats.

I sat down. He sat opposite me, his pectorals sagging, dark nipples peeping out of the dense hair like the noses of inquisitive forest creatures.

The engines fired, a satisfying sound, a growl that made the deck beneath my out-of-place leather soles vibrate. My searcher took the boat away from the landing, howling off at forty-five degrees from the land. In a few minutes, we were pa.s.sing through a broad opening to the sea, a dead calm sea, blue-black.

Milan got up, climbed the steps to the bridge, muscles showing in the big calves, said something to the helmsman, who throttled back the engines, settled on a modest cruising speed.

Back in his seat, Milan looked at me, opened his arms, palms upward, smiled. 'f.u.c.ken paradise, hey? Whatya think?'

I looked around. There wasn't much to see. An endless flat paddock of ocean, a boat here and there. 'Very close to it,' I said. 'You're a lucky man.'

He laughed, ran a hand over the oiled hair. 'Lucky? Jack, listen, mate, I come to this country with f.u.c.k-all, I work like a dog, anythin, mate, anythin, cleanin gully traps, that's what I did. Cleaned a gully trap?'

I shook my head. I had, actually, but this wasn't the moment to compare experiences.

'Yeah, well, don't talk lucky to me, mate. Qualified fitter and turner, you think I get a job? No way, they don't want a f.u.c.ken wog can't speak two words of English.'

Steve emerged with the pitcher of yellow juice and two heavy-bottomed tumblers. 'Yellow peril ready to go,' he said.

'Just a small one. I'm driving,' I said. It sounded lame.

Milan laughed as if I'd said something very entertaining. Steve poured two full gla.s.ses, handed me one.

'Pineapple and vodka,' said Milan. 'Good for you, builds up acid, cleans the bowel.'

He put back half his gla.s.s. 'No, mate, I'm just a f.u.c.ken Serb. n.o.body likes Serbs, right? Be fine if I was a Kosovar. Right? Remember that lot?'

I nodded.

'Everybody bleeding about f.u.c.ken Kosovars. Mate, they not even Christians. Christian country this, right? Those people are f.u.c.ken Arabs. Not from Europe. You see the women? Hide their f.u.c.ken faces. Got no pity, either. Kill children. Right, mate?'

I didn't say anything. What was there to say to six hundred years of breeding?

'So what's this Marco s.h.i.t?' he said. 'You NCA, Feds, what?'

I shook my head. 'I saw you mentioned in the newspaper. I've got a client who needs some information. That's it.'

Now he had a good laugh. I was becoming funnier every minute.

'Listen, you not from the Feds, okay, you give the Feds a message from me. Okay? Okay?'

'If they ask me, okay.'

'You tell those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, Jack, I tol em, they don't listen. They never gonna make this drugs stuff stick on me. I don't deal drugs, I never deal drugs, never will. Not interested. People come to me with offers all the time. I say no. That's right, Steve?'

'Right,' said Steve.

'Right. I'm not sayin I don't know some stupid people, they get involved in this s.h.i.t. Not sayin that. Everybody knows stupid people. You can have a stupid brother, how's that your blame, hey? But I tell them, keep away from me, keep that s.h.i.t away from me.' He leaned over, belly creases deepening. 'Jack, you think I'm such a dumb c.u.n.t I'm dealin while I've got the f.u.c.ken Feds on my f.u.c.ken hammer?'

'It wouldn't be smart, no,' I said.

'Tell em that, Jack, tell em. Tell em to get off my f.u.c.ken back. Adult entertainment, that's my business. That's f.u.c.ken all. And property, I got a bit of property. Plus a couple investments. All in the open.' He looked at Steve.

I said, 'Can I ask you about Marco Lucia?'

'You ready?' Milan said to Steve.

'Ready.' Steve went below and came back with a flat case. He opened it and took out a small machine-pistol and two long magazines. A magazine made a snick as it went into the b.u.t.t.

Milan took the pistol, showed it to me. 'Nice, hey? Ingram. Better than a Glock. Don't trust f.u.c.ken Austrians.'

Steve shouted something from the bow of the boat. We slowed to walking speed. A blow-up pool toy drifted by: a swan.

Milan stood up, went to the side and fired a short burst at it. The swan collapsed without a sound.

'And another thing, Jack.' Milan turned to me, took on a sad look, a man injured to his core. 'I'm hurt there's no grat.i.tude.'

'Grat.i.tude?'

'Grat.i.tude. What these p.r.i.c.ks in Sydney do when their fat boy gets in the s.h.i.t with wh.o.r.es? They come to Milan, that's what. I squeeze that c.u.n.t Papagos for them like a grape, end of problem. So where's the grat.i.tude?'

'You deserve more,' I said.

'f.u.c.ken right. You tell them, Jack.'

'Any time I get the chance. About Marco Lucia?'

A blow-up crocodile came by, followed by several big b.a.l.l.s, two ducks and Mickey Mouse. Milan went into a firing frenzy, changing magazines in mid-carnage. The objects deflated, slumped on the water.

'Marco,' I said.

Steve appeared. 'Hey, shootin,' he said.

'Pretty boy c.u.n.t,' said Milan. 'People say I topped Marco. Bulls.h.i.t. Wouldn't f.u.c.ken waste my time. Cut his c.o.c.k off, that's somethin else. Find him, I sew it up in his mouth.'

'Have to stick half down his f.u.c.ken throat,' said Steve. He laughed, showing his teeth.

'Gimme another drink. Jack, have another one.'

'No thanks. Why do they say you topped him?'

'He just f.u.c.ked off, no-one seen him, so they say he's dead, they point at me.'

'Why at you?'

Milan eyed me over the top of his gla.s.s, lowered it. 'Warm as p.i.s.s,' he said. 'More ice, Steve. Why?'

'Why do people point at you over Marco?'

'He did some work for me.'

'What kind of work was that?'

Steve was putting ice into Milan's gla.s.s with tongs.

'Just work,' said Milan. 'Things I give him to do.'

'Marco's dead,' I said.

Milan looked at Steve, eyes eloquent, looked at me. 'Says who?' he said.

'Drug overdose in Melbourne.'

Milan drank some pineapple juice. 'Melbourne,' he said, as if hearing the name of some remote cattle station. 'What's he doin in Melbourne?'

'Working as a part-time barman.'

I could see a huge powerboat coming our way at speed, foaming bow waves. It slowed, veered away to increase the distance between us when we pa.s.sed. Perhaps the idea was to lessen the risk of spilling Milan's drink.

The three men and a woman on board all waved. Milan moved a hand at them. 'Everybody knows Milan,' he said.

'Marco was calling himself Robbie Colburne,' I said.

Another exchange of looks.

'Robbie what?' said Milan.

'Colburne.'

'You sure the dead one's Marco?' said Milan.