Dead Point Part 23

'New management,' he said. 'New staff.'

'What?'

'Sold.'

'As of when?'

'Pardon?'

'When did this happen?'

He held up his hands. 'Temp, mate, can't help you there.'

I got up and went to the kitchen door.

'Hey,' said the man at the coffee machine.

I ignored him, looked in. No Enzio. A small fat man was at the stove. He sensed me, turned his head.

'What?' he said.

'Enzio?'

'Who?'

'The cook.'

'Dunno.' He looked away. 'Ask the manager.'

Behind me, the big man said, 'Staff only, mate.'

I didn't look at him, went back to my table, picked up my paper, made for the door. The waiter said loudly, 'Hang on, coffee's not free.'

I turned, he was close. 'That isn't coffee,' I said with venom.

'Lettim go,' said the big man, back behind the counter.

I looked at him.

'p.i.s.s off. See ya, buddy. Go somewhere else.'

Walking away, holding a course, the flow of the aimed and the aimless breaking around me, I was compelled to look back. The sign-writer was sc.r.a.ping at the name Meaker's on the window.

A chilling sense of fate's impudence came over me. How could there be no Meaker's in Brunswick Street? How could it simply be taken away?

Hooted at, I crossed the street and went into a place I didn't know, barn-like, atmosphere of a school staffroom. It had once been a social club. Macedonian? Portuguese? I couldn't remember. The coffee was awful, I was too bemused to care, left most of it, wandered back to the office.

I saw him from a long way off, leaning against the wall next to my door. He saw me too but he looked away, smoked his cigarette, studied the sky, clear today, some high cloud. I was metres away before he turned his head to me.

Enzio, clean-shaven, in a black suit, white shirt, dark-blue tie.

'Jack,' he said.

'What the f.u.c.k's going on?'

He took a last drag on his cigarette, ground it savagely underfoot. 'The b.a.s.t.a.r.d Willis sold.'

Neil Willis had owned Meaker's for about fifteen years. He also owned two wedding reception caverns out in the suburbs and his stewardship of Meaker's consisted of hiring a succession of untrained managers and scrutinising the takings at night. Enzio was the only constant, and so the cook had always ended up grumpily showing the managers how to run the place.

I unlocked the door and we went in. I took my seat. Enzio stood.

'Sit down,' I said.

He sat, shifted around in the chair, crossed legs, uncrossed.

'What's this suit business?' I'd never seen him in a suit.

He frowned. 'I'm comin to see a lawyer. You dress proper.'

I understood.

'Smoke?'

'Smoke.'

I fetched the ashtray from the sink in the back room. He lit up, exploded smoke.

'Tell me,' I said. 'Tell me.' I closed my eyes.

'Tuesday, Willis come in, business sold, new boss come in tomorrow. No worries about jobs, he says. Bloke wants all staff to stay.'

He took a deep drag, spoke through smoke. 'Yesterday, the c.u.n.t come in. I know straight away, I look at the c.u.n.t and I know. Before lunch, sacks Helen. Carmel he sack at the door, says she's late. Martina, she's going off, he tells her, customers complain, pick up your pay tomorrow. Closing time, he come in the kitchen, it's me and the boy cleaning up, he says he's looked at the books, there's stealing going on in the kitchen.'

Enzio looked away, looked at my degree certificate on the wall, took a moment to compose himself.

'Fourteen years, Jack,' he said, still studying the wall. 'Steal?' A catch in the voice. 'Like I steal from my mother?'

'I know.' I wanted to give him a pat.

We sat in silence, contemplating ourselves, our histories at Meaker's, perfidy, the callousness of people. But I was coming out of shock, cruising past resentment. Revenge and compensation were now in mind. This was a natural progression and I had some training in it.

'What's the offer?' I said.

'He says, the p.r.i.c.k, he's got the money in his hand, he says four weeks' pay I give you, lucky you get anything. Don't like it, I get the cops, you can tell them who you sold all the stuff to.'

'Take it?'

Enzio put his head back, looked at me over his cheekbones, over lines of spiky hairs that survived his shave, a p.r.i.c.kly frontier.

'I spit on him,' he said.

Our eyes held for a moment.

'Right. You in the union?'

He shook his head. 'No. Willis wouldn't have the union.'

This wasn't going to be effortless for someone who'd spent most of his legal career in the criminal courts. I might actually have to find out something about employment law. Either that or I farmed this out. Tempting.

But how could I farm out Enzio?

'Okay,' I said. 'We've got no choice but to nail the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

I got out a yellow pad. I'd bought four dozen yellow pads when the stationer in Smith Street went under. 'Now tell me again what happened. Slowly.'

When we'd finished, I went out with him. The day was turning foul, the wind was sharp against the cheek, coming down the street, chasing bits of litter, harrying them like a bully.

'So,' said Enzio. 'You fix it?'

'I'll fix it.'

We shook hands. I watched him go. At the corner, he felt my eyes, turned his head, smiled, raised a hand. I did the same.

Oh, Lord, why hast thou anointed me the fixer of all things? And why hast thou ordained this in a cold season in which too many things need fixing?

There were moments when I wished I could go somewhere quiet and ask sensible questions like these. My office wasn't the place because the phone was ringing. It was Drew.

'What is it with you?' he said. 'You no sooner take an interest in someone and bad things happen to them.' He didn't have to say the name. I knew.

'Who?'

'Alan Bergh. Found dead in his car at the airport. Execution-style killing, says the paper. Three shots in the head from a .22.' Someone was knocking at the door. I knew who it was. My day for being knowing.

They sat in the client chairs, a soft-looking big man with a moustache, a younger man with a long horse face. Agents Mallia and Bartholomew, Federal Police.

'Let me understand this clearly,' said Mallia. 'You asked this Vietnamese gentleman...'

'I have no idea whether he's a gentleman,' I said. 'Do you?'

'Manner of speech.'

'Offensive manner of speech, if I may say so.'

Mallia coughed, looked at Bartholomew, who ran a hand over his head bristles.

'If you say so,' Mallia said. 'You asked him a lot of questions about Bergh?'

'No,' I said. 'I'll say it again. Clearly. I was interested in using the services of Mr Bergh's company. He wasn't in, so I spoke to Mr Ngo. I asked him if he knew when Mr Bergh would be back or where he could be contacted.'

'He says you didn't know what Coresecure did, what its business was.'

'That's a misunderstanding. I asked him how much he knew about Coresecure. At that point, I thought he might have some involvement with the company.'

Equine-faced Bartholomew thought he'd chip in. 'You wanted to use Bergh's services. What for?'

'What for?'

'Yes. What for?' He developed a smile, as if he'd been clever.

'Security.'

'Security for?'

'Nothing in particular. Security in general. I wanted a feeling of security. I've always wanted to feel secure. What about you?'

The smile departed.

Mallia stroked his moustache, then, carefully, scratched the arranged hairs on his head. 'You're probably not aware of the powers conferred upon us by-'

I said, 'I'm perfectly aware of them, agent. If you're taking that route, my lawyer can be here in minutes. He's a lawyer's lawyer.'

Mallia shook his head. 'Appreciate your co-operation, that's all, Mr Irish. The man's dead, you were at his office the day before, you'll understand-'

'Why's this a federal matter?'

'I can't disclose that sort of information.' He looked at his large hands, bunches of hair on the first joints. 'How did Coresecure come to your attention?'

'I'd seen the name on the door.'

'In the area a lot?'

'My work takes me everywhere.'

'Yes.' Mallia raised himself from the chair. Bartholomew followed his lead.

'You're not unknown to us, Mr Irish,' said Mallia, attempting to give me the narrowed eye.

'Nor your agency to me, Agent Mallia,' I said. 'And I can tell you I've derived very little pleasure from the acquaintanceship.'

I didn't rise to see them out.

At the door, Mallia turned. 'Have a good day,' he said. 'Give my regards to His Honour.'

Things were quiet at The Green Hill, no-one braving the elements out front and only one customer in Down the Pub. Dieter the barman wasn't on this morning, in his place a young woman in the establishment's dark-green livery.