Shooting Star

12

We parked on the stained tarmac apron of a firm called Dollakeen Kitchens in the light industrial area of Dandenong, a part of Greater Melbourne that doesn’t get mentioned in the newspaper suggestions for ten fun places to go on a Sunday. Orlovsky chose Dollakeen because its front gate was open and telephone inquiries had no number for it.

I was reading the paper and Orlovsky was leaning against the driver’s door smoking one of his stolen Camels when the vehicle drove in the entrance and pulled up on his side, a few metres away.

The driver got out and walked around, came between the vehicles, a young man in a silky tracksuit, medium height, big shoulders and a bodybuilder’s neck. I got out and stretched, walked around and leaned against the driver’s door.

‘G’day,’ the man said. ‘My old man tell youse I need some ID before I open anythin? Like somethin with the business name on it, somethin like that.’

‘Sure,’ said Orlovsky, putting his right hand into his jacket. ‘And your name is…?’

‘Craig Boxer,’ said the man. ‘Boxer Locks.’

Orlovsky was close to him, side-on, getting closer. ‘Craig,’ he said, looking into his inside pocket. ‘Now what have we here. Wallet…ah.’

He brought his right hand out of his jacket, nothing in it, fingers half-closed, punched Craig Boxer under the nose with the heel of his hand. Boxer made a noise, a yelping sound, fell backwards against the yellow Ford van, rocking it. As he was bringing up his hands to the blood pouring from his nose, Orlovsky kicked his legs out from under him. Craig hit the tarmac hard, banging his head against the van. Blood went out from him in an arc.

In the van, I could see the little gloves hanging from the rearview mirror. They were swinging.

‘Fuck,’ said Craig, through his hands. He sounded like someone with a bad cold. A bad cold and a bad nosebleed.

‘That’s a little hello from the Carson family,’ I said. ‘Anne’s family.’

Craig was trying to get up. He took one hand from his face, put it on the ground, put some weight on it.

Orlovsky kicked him just above the elbow, not very hard. Craig’s arm went behind him and he screamed in pain and fell over sideways.

‘Don’t move,’ Orlovsky said. He walked around the body carefully and put his left foot on Craig’s head. ‘Just answer when you’re spoken to.’

‘Where’s Anne?’ I said.

Blood was pooling under Craig’s head. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Jesus, fuck.’

‘Anne’s missing,’ I said. ‘She’s been kidnapped. But you’d know that, Craig.’

‘No,’ he said, visible eye showing lots of white. ‘No, fuck no.’

‘Fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. Fucked and kidnapped by you,’ I said.

‘Christ, fuck, no.’ He had good clotting power. The blood flow had stopped.

‘No?’ said Orlovsky. He ground Craig’s face into the tarmac, into his own blood, with his sole. ‘No? Did I hear you say no?’

‘Said she was seventeen,’ Craig said from under Orlovsky’s shoe. ‘Christ, I’m sorry.’

‘Kidnapping,’ I said. ‘You’re going to be in the papers, Craig. On TV. Go to jail for ever. Where’s Anne?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said, eye rolling. ‘Dropped her on Thursday, was gonna pick her up Tuesday. Jesus, I don’t know, please.’

I didn’t say anything for a while. Quiet place on a Sunday, the Dandenong light industrial area, just the even murmur of traffic on the Princes Highway, somewhere a yard dog barking.

‘I’m going to ask you once more, Craig,’ I said. ‘If I don’t like the answer, the man standing on you is going to kick your head off. It’ll take a coupla kicks but he’ll get there.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Where’s Anne?’

‘Swear to God my witness don’t know. Please. Went around the corner in Armadale, that’s…’

‘She phone you, Craig? Get any calls from her?’

‘No, no, no calls, just pick her up Tuesday and Thursday.’

Orlovsky was grinding him again, grinding him but looking at me and shaking his head in sorrow.

‘Nothing, done nothing, no calls, I swear, oh Jesus…’

I nodded at Orlovsky. He took his foot off the man, stepped back. ‘Sit up, Craig,’ I said. ‘Lean against the van.’

For a moment, he was too scared to move. Then he raised himself fearfully to his hands and knees, turned his face towards me. The right side and his neck and chest were dark with blood and bits of grit and grime were pressed into his skin.

‘Sit back,’ I said.

He sat back, torso rigid, hands to his face, looking at Orlovsky in fear.

‘Craig,’ I said, ‘I don’t think you kidnapped Anne. I think all you’re guilty of is screwing an under-age girl. From a rich family. That’s naughty but it’s only going to get you two, three years’ jail. Sex offender, young, some bloke’ll make you his girl. You know what they like to do? After you blow them, they piss in your mouth. It’s a power thing. Use your mouth for a toilet. Stand back and aim. Make you swallow, how’s that?’

He closed his eyes. ‘Seventeen, I swear to almighty God she told me that. Never touched her otherwise, never, never, my old man’d kill me.’

‘Where’d you drop her, Craig, on Thursday?’

‘Revesdale Street, park in the loading zone outside the florist there. She goes up the street, down the lane.’

‘Lane?’

His nose was swelling rapidly. ‘Like a lane near the end, service lane? For the shops.’

‘Why’d she do that? Go down the lane?’

Craig hawked. I looked away, heard him spit. ‘There’s a door into the music place, saves goin round the corner.’

‘That day, see anything unusual? Notice anything?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, y’know, we were sort of sayin goodbye… kissin, I don’t…’ His eyes flicked to Orlovsky. ‘Didn’t know she was fifteen, I swear.’

‘Anything unusual?’

‘No, she got out, come around to my side, she’s always lookin around.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Reckons she could be watched. Her family. Paranoid, she says. Like she sees this bloke, she goes, second time, that could be a Carson spy only he’s not bad lookin.’

‘She saw someone twice. In Revesdale Street?’

‘Yeah. Just a bloke, not even lookin at us.’

‘Where in the street?’

‘The other side, further down.’

‘Opposite the lane?’

He frowned, hawked again. I closed my eyes.

‘Suppose. Yeah.’

‘This’s on Thursday? The second time?’

‘Nah. Tuesday she said that.’

‘You didn’t see him on Thursday?’

‘Nah. Like I was in a hurry Thursday. Job in Noble Park, my old man’s on the mobile, we didn’t…’ He stopped. ‘Just dropped her, like. Had to get back. I swear…’

I straightened up, went over and stood above him. Between fingertips, I took a few hairs on his scalp, a small clump, twisted them, pulled. ‘Tell your mates about all this, Craig?’

He winced, shook his head, found that too painful. ‘Never said a word, Jesus, never told anyone. I’m engaged, her family’ll murder me.’

I didn’t say anything, looked around, weighed and measured the quality of the moment: three men on a strip of stained concrete, mournful wind worrying at the tin buildings around us, making them creak and whine and croon and speak of failure and loneliness, and this one man so scared that he could evacuate his bowels at any moment.

All these things reminded me of why I’d thought I would be happier growing things.

I let go of the twist of hair, put my hand under the man’s chin, cupped it. ‘Craig,’ I said, ‘don’t go away, don’t say a word to anyone about today.’

Relief in his eyes.

‘Look at me.’

He couldn’t look up at me, just sniffed and said, ‘Not a word, I swear, I promise you.’

‘Do that, your lovely bride-to-be’s family won’t have to murder you. Why’s that?’

He nodded, eyes closed.

On the way back, in the sluggish highway traffic, I said, not looking at Orlovsky, ‘Arsehole skills. Not too rusty, are they?’

He took a long time to answer, lit another stolen Camel, one of the last. ‘The difference between us,’ he said, ‘is that I’m just doing this for the money. You’re another matter entirely.’