Peter Temple - Black Tide

In the late autumn, down windy streets raining yellow oak and elm leaves, I went to George Armits funeral. It was a small affair. Almost everyone George had known was dead. Many of them were dead because George had had them killed.

My occasional employer and I sat in my old Studebaker Lark a little way down from the church. When the first mourners came out, mostly men in raven suits, Cyril Wootton said, Most relieved lot Ive seen since the plane out of Vietnam. Still, they wont sleep easy till the ground subsides. May I be told why were here?

Your blokes mates in deep to the Armits, I said.

Howd you find that out?

Anyone could find that out. Wade through sewage for a week, thats all it takes. George liked him. Hed be dead otherwise.

Two big men, sallow, black hair, moustaches, came out, followed by two women.

The sons, Con and Little George Armit, I said. Cons wifes the thin one.

Well, said Wootton. The other one appears to have shoplifted watermelons and put them down the front of her dress.

Con and Little George and the wives lined up, backs to us, each with wife to the right. Con put his right hand on his thin wifes shoulder. His left hand moved around slowly and squeezed his brothers wifes high right buttock.

Racked with grief, I said.

Reflex action, Wootton said. Armits have been in the fruit business for many years.

Heres George.

The box had a hard black sheen, a perfect match for the Mercedes hearse. It was carried by six young men, tanned, even height, thick necks, could have been a surfboat crew.

Relying on professionals to the end, I see, Wootton said.

When George was in place, the mourners made for their cars.

Well, that wasnt exactly paydirt, old sausage, Wootton said. Youve brought me out here in this appalling conveyance, this hot rod, for sweet bugger all.

Somewhere Tonys going to pay his respects. In so deep, hes got no choice, I said. Strong on respect, the Armits. If hes not here, the bastards last chance is to arselick the boys at the cemetery.

Im paying you for your time, Wootton said. Whos paying me for mine?

Believe me, if I could do this without your presence, I would.

The priest came around the corner in a white turbo Saab, its Michelins giving a plump little squeal of pleasure. He looked at us as he passed, a nightclub-owners pale face, cigarette tilted upward in the mouth, mobile phone at his ear.

I started the Stud and did a U-turn. A block down the street, I looked right and saw the car. A Hertz car. I turned first left, left again and parked behind the church.

Im going in to say a little prayer, I said, opening the door. Keep an eye on the back gate.

Spoken like an officer, Wootton said.

Still rankles, doesnt it, corporal.

Sergeant.

Id known Wootton since Vietnam. Hed been in stores, stealing more goods than he dispensed.

The church door was open. Inside, the blood of the martyrs fell from the stained-glass windows and lay in pink patches. The air smelled of incense, stale vase water and brass polish.

I didnt see him at first. There was a row of pillars across the church and he was sitting in front of the one nearest the wall to my right: man in his early forties, crew cut blond hair, little folds of tanned fat over his collar.

I walked across and stopped behind him. Hello Tony.

Tony Ulasewicz didnt look at me, didnt say anything.

Brendan sends his regards, I said.

Silence.

Remember Brendan? Brendan OGrady. From Reservoir? From school? Your best man? Your friend? That Brendan.

Tony sniffed loudly. Whadda you want? He shot his left cuff and looked at his watch, a big black divers watch.

Me? I dont want anything. Brendan, he wants you to tell a lawyer where he was on the night of February 11 at 11.26 p.m.

Tony looked at me, shrugged. He had a small scar above his left eyebrow, like a worm under the skin. Dunno what youre saying.

The two hookers, Tony, I said. Sylvia and Carlette? Out there in that fancy hotel in Marysville. You and Brendan and Jim Beam and the hookers. Chatting, reading magazines. Just when some person unknown was shooting Frank Zakia in his driveway in Camberwell. With a .22 pistol. Many times.

Know nothing about that, said Tony, getting up. Gotta go.

I put a hand on his shoulder, a meaty shoulder. He resisted, I leaned, he sat.

Tony, I said, Brendans going down big time. Franks wife IDd him, not a doubt in her mind. She knows him. He was in the house three days before, arguing with Frank. Now Brendan says he couldnt have been the one topped Frank because at that moment he was off with you, screwing hookers in Marysville. But youre gone, the hookers are gone, hotel doesnt know if it was you and Brendan or the Pope and Elvis in the room. Plus the cops find the .22 in Brendans office. Plus Brendans got more form than Phar Lap.

Tonys chin slowly moved down to meet his collarbone.

Brendans going, Tony, I said. And blokes in there are waiting for him. Death penalty, that would be easier. Nicer even.

Tonys shoulders went weak. He tilted at the waist until his forehead rested on the pew in front.

Cant, he said, voice spitty. Fucking cant.

Why? Hes your mate.

People want him. Hes owed big, three hundred grand, more, three-fifty, I dont know. He put the weight on them, they want him gone.

Franks wife? The ID?

Bullshit. Bitch wanted Frank done. In it over her tits.

Hows that?

Fucking. True fucking love fucking. Shes rooting a bloke, his brother owes Bren. This way, they top Frank, she gets Franks money. Then theres about eighty grand belongs to Bren. Frank was hanging on to it. Bitch gets that too. And Bren goes in, close that gate, hes history, everyones happy.

And you?

Tony looked up at me, sniffed again. I live, he said. I fucking live.

You know Frank was going to get it?

He shook his head. No fucking way.

I took my hand off his shoulder. Brendan says, Tell Tony Im still his mate. I know hes under the gun. He shouldve told me. Tell him, he does the right thing now, its forgotten. Ill look after him.

Tony sighed, a desperate, drawn-out sound. Brens a dangerous bloke, he said.

Silence. The light in the stained-glass windows was dimming, shadows growing everywhere, the sort of cold only churches can harbour coming up from the flagstone floor.

He says he knows how the Armits fit. Hell settle them, take the push off.

Tony tried a laugh, ended up coughing. Jesus, he said when it stopped. Fucking smokes. Bren got the fucking vaguest what it costs to get the Armits off my back?

One-sixty.

Tonys head came around, eyebrows up. He knows that?

I nodded.

He sucked his teeth, hissing noise. Whered he hear that?

I told him.

He studied me. Well, he said, fucked if I know where you got that. Anyway. Bren walks on the Frank thing, its not over.

Bren knows that. He says he can handle these people. He also says to tell you hes got people who still owe him favours. That is, if you feel you cant tell the truth about where he was.

Tony suddenly found the back of his right hand interesting, freckled back of hand. After a while, he said, Howd yknow Id be here?

Not an interesting question, I said. The question you want to ask, Tony, is this: Am I better off square with the Armits and onside with Bren or one-sixty deep and offside with Bren?

He looked at me, parts of his face moving, fingers moving. Fuck, he said, you think about it, Im a prick. Tell Bren I know Im a prick. Know him since I was eight. His mum made me playlunch. Hes my mate. Im a prick. Okay. What do you do when youre a prick?

The man whos looking out for Brens interests, hes outside. And we need the hookers.

Tony stood up and moved his shoulders, rubbed his jaw. We walked down the side aisle towards the door.