Kick Back

Nine

Andreis Bauer spent the morning reporting to the Sydney outfit and by three o’clock he was in the arrivals hall at Melbourne Airport again. He could see his luggage revolving on the Ansett carousel but he walked by it, stopped at the public telephone next to the Men’s, and called Ivan Younger. He faced away from the wall. Guard your back, the first rule in this game. He listened to the ringing tone and looked bleakly out at the hall. He was slight and wiry. He had bloodless lips and pale skin that seemed to be stretched over a frame of sharp bones. He scowled at a blow-waved Greek loading luggage onto a trolley.

Ivan Younger came onto the line, saying, ‘Bargain City,’ in that high voice of his.

Bauer said, ‘That shift supervisor at Calamity Jane’s-what is her name?’

‘The one skimming the profits? Ellie.’

‘What time does she come on duty?’

‘She does four to midnight,’ Younger said. ‘Listen, what did Sydney say? Are they pissed off?’

‘They are not happy,’ Bauer said. ‘They say you don’t run a tight ship, your profits are down.’

‘Come on,’ Younger said, aggrieved. ‘What about those slags Ken Sala runs for me, Cher and Simone? You can’t say that’s not profitable.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Bauer said. ‘If you are careless enough to let one of your staff skim off our profits, you are careless enough to let everyone do it.’

‘Says them,’ Ivan said. ‘Come on, Bauer, it won’t happen again. I’ll waste the bitch.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Bauer said. ‘I will talk to her this afternoon.’

There was a pause while Younger absorbed this. Bauer watched the swinging door to the Men’s. There had been times when he’d used toilet cubicles for his hits. The mark was most vulnerable then, his trousers around his ankles. The cleanest way was a silenced.22 fired just above the hairline, but a guy had once reared up at him and he’d been forced to punch the guy, knocking his nasal bone back into his brain.

Ivan Younger was talking again. ‘You’re the boss. But like I said before, if you could take Sugar along with you, he’d learn something, so we wouldn’t have to hassle you in future.’

Bauer shrugged at a passing clergyman. ‘So long as he keeps out of the way. Tell him my place, four o’clock.’

He hung up and collected his overnight bag and got into a Silver Top. The driver was Asian. That didn’t surprise him, you found them everywhere. ‘St Kilda,’ he said.

On the Tullamarine Freeway he watched the scenery, the satellite industries that cluster around airports everywhere, the miles of tiled roofs stretching to the city skyline, the gloomy clouds caught at the tops of the high city buildings. He asked, as if he were visiting the place, ‘Where’s the action in Melbourne?’ He called it research. He minded several Melbourne operations now, and whenever he was in a taxi he liked to ask background questions, taxi drivers being well-known for having a finger on the pulse.

‘Depends,’ the driver said, ‘but you’re starting at the right place. Most people try St Kilda first.’

Not much accent. Probably been sponging here for years. ‘Depends on what?’ Bauer said.

‘You want a girl? Little boys? A game? A club? Things to put in your body?’

Smart-arse. ‘What about all of the above?’ Bauer said. ‘I hear you people are good at things like that.’

‘My people,’ the taxi driver said. ‘Who would they be?’

‘Don’t get smart,’ Bauer said.

‘Look, I don’t have to take you anywhere,’ the taxi driver said. He slowed the taxi and edged into the emergency stopping lane on the approach to the Bell Street exit. ‘This all right? No charge.’

The driver was small, skinny, the kind with a mop of black hair flopping over black-rimmed glasses. Nothing to him, Bauer thought, but maybe he fancies himself in unarmed combat. He rested his arm along the back of the seat and let his hand drop to the driver’s neck. He felt for the pressure points with his fingers and began to squeeze. With his other hand he steered the taxi as it began to slow. The driver’s eyes rolled back. His body began to droop.

By now they were almost stationary. The driver’s foot was no longer on the accelerator. Bauer released his hold and, still steering, slapped the driver’s cheek and whistled piercingly in his ear. When the taxi was motionless he moved the gear lever into Park.

He opened the window. The air was very cold. The driver recovered, shaking his head. ‘You bastard,’ he said.

‘You feel a little dizzy,’ Bauer said, ‘but the sensations are coming back to your fingers, correct? You can see and hear and breathe again.’ He reached forward and turned off the taxi radio. ‘You will not call your base about this. Now, let us begin again. Where is the action in Melbourne. I want the names of places. Think carefully, now.’

‘I don’t know,’ the driver said. ‘I am part-time only’

Bauer shook his head in disgust. ‘You’re a student? I suppose the government is supporting you? I suppose you will stay on when your visa expires? You make me sick.’ He sat back and pointed ahead. ‘Go. St Kilda.’

He appeared to go to sleep. The driver eased back into traffic and drove across the city. Where Fitzroy Street meets the Esplanade in St Kilda, Bauer said, ‘I will walk now.’

He paid the fare and an extra twenty dollars, saying, ‘You won’t be following this up. You’ll take the money and keep quiet.’ He reached into the back seat for his bag, got out, and stood waiting on the footpath.

The driver sat, the engine idling. Then he opened his door, stood half in and half out of the taxi, and called shrilly to Bauer, at roof level, ‘Your sister sleeps with black men.’

He jerked back into the driver’s seat and sped away in the direction of Luna Park.

Bauer shrugged. ‘Haven’t got a sister.’

He drew the strap of his bag over one shoulder and walked back along Fitzroy Street. Palm trees, lawns and buildings on the other side of the street, Italian bistros, ice-cream parlours, adult bookshops and local residents on this side. Junkies and drunks blinking in the wintry sun.

He turned into a side street and began the climb to his walled-in house. He didn’t like living in St Kilda, but he had no choice. The Sydney outfit wanted him close to their Melbourne interests, their clubs and other front operations, their pushers and pinball parlours. Not that he had to do much, just make sure people like Ivan Younger didn’t have their fingers in the till, put the frights on if someone played up, fly to Sydney with the weekly take.

The worst part was working with trash. He found Sugarfoot Younger waiting outside the front gate, his fleshy face perplexed by Placida’s squawk on the intercom.