The tell, p.15
The Tell, page 15
‘No, Jonjo,’ says Cooper. ‘We’re not.’
An image from a thousand years ago floats into my mind.
That little nervous tick on Fiji’s neck. The tell.
It all began right there. All this blood and pain. The four dead in the escape from the Coffin. Solo. Fiji in a coma. Carlo. Mac, let’s not forget Mac. The two injured goons at the cafe. The injured horses at the Sullivan stables. The burning of my house. The bombing at Randwick. It all started, for me, at least, back on that drive to see Dad at Deep Cut.
And everything that’s happened, every last drop of blood, has come down to money. Is that really what this pain, this war, is all about?
Even as I ask myself the question, I know the answer: of course it’s about money. It’s always about money. It will always be about money. Money, and the power it brings, has always been the Tanic motto – our god, our reason for existence. In a single shining, white-hot moment of absolute merciless clarity, I see the whole stinking mess laid bare.
My father is a monster.
Jonjo Sullivan is a monster.
Don Cooper is a monster.
And the people who feed off that dirty money are monsters too.
This has to stop.
Candy puts her arm around me as we watch this trio of monsters discuss exactly how they plan to own the city. We listen to the names that need payment, the people who need hurting and those who need rewarding. It’s like watching a disease discussing how best to kill the patient.
When Candy next glances at me, she looks surprised to see me smiling.
‘What?’ she says. ‘This isn’t funny.’
I check that the laptop is continuing to record the basement meeting. Everything has clicked into place with a clean simplicity.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m smiling because for the first time since this whole thing started I know exactly what to do.’
Despite the fact that it let me be close to Candy, it’s a relief to move out of the Cooper place. I’ve been getting more and more antsy since the night of the basement meeting.
Candy and Ids were called by the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation – the freakin’ anti-terror cops – the day after the bomb, and both had flatly denied being at Randwick. ASIO had some CCTV footage of three kids matching our description near the fire alarm shortly before the explosion, but I’m guessing the images don’t prove a thing. If they did, Ids and Candy wouldn’t have been back on the street anytime soon.
That said, I know it’s only Candy’s father being Don Cooper that is stopping ASIO from keeping her and Ids for some more heavy-duty questioning.
Still, it’s just a matter of time before the investigators come back and I don’t want to be tucked up in the Coopers’ attic like a Christmas present when they do. I need to find another base.
Candy’s out of the house when I leave, so I message her to let her know I’m going to stay at the Lenton Lane warehouse. I don’t say the address; just ‘LL’, on the off-chance her phone’s being bugged.
Despite my concerns about Solo’s warehouse being known to the cops, no-one seems to have touched it. It could be a risk staying there but it’s worth a go. Especially as everything I need to finish this business once and for all is right there.
I meet up with Ids on the bus to the airport.
He’s sitting on the seat in front, twisted around to face me, both of us keeping our heads down.
‘Still gonna do this?’ says Ids. ‘No second thoughts?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’ll tell you this for nothin’, Raze: you don’t do it, I’m doing it, bro. There’s no way this isn’t goin’ down!’
We grin at each other like maniacs. It might be crazy to do this but, man, it just feels so right. ‘You get much trouble?’ I ask. Ids doesn’t need to ask what I’m talking about.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he says. ‘They loved havin’ a Somali kid there to ask about a bomb. You could see their little eyes light up, bro.’ Ids is smiling, but I can tell he’s been given a real hard time.
‘You know they kept me in overnight?’
I nod.
‘Candy was there maybe two hours,’ says Ids. He holds up two fingers.
‘Maybe they just liked your warm personality.’
‘That musta been it.’ Ids jerks his chin at me. ‘Her dad came to get her.’
‘And?’
‘And nothin’. But he’s there picking up his daughter from an ASIO agent, dude. They’re questioning her about being at Randwick. You think he might think something’s up?’
‘Something is up.’ I say, suddenly glad I took the time to strip the cameras and mics from the Coopers’ house before leaving. I’d been weighing up the risks of just leaving them there, but the last thing we need is for Don Cooper to find out he’s been bugged. Candy’s going to face enough fallout as it is. I check my phone for a message, but there’s nothing.
‘Me neither,’ says Ids. ‘You think she’s okay?’
I make a face. ‘I hope so, Ids. You saw what he’s done to her before.’ I look out of the window. ‘I asked her to meet us there.’
‘You think she will?’
‘Put it this way: I hope she turns up and not her dad.’
The bus rumbles through the suburbs. As we near Lenton Lane, I glance toward the front of the bus and the driver’s eyes catch mine.
‘You’re getting paranoid, man,’ says Ids, following my thoughts. ‘There isn’t like, y’know, an APB out on us or nothin’.’
The central bus doors slide open with a sigh and we step down, squinting into the setting sun.
I watch the bus pull away and merge with the traffic. Maybe Ids is right. Maybe I am being paranoid. Better that than dead, I think.
‘APB?’ I say. ‘What’s an APB?’
Ids shrugs. ‘No idea, man. They always say that on TV. Access People’s Business? Automatic Person Bureau?’
‘Annoying Person Bashed.’ I play-punch Ids on the arm. ‘Stop wasting time. Come on.’
I wait for a gap in the cars and dart easily across the street, Ids right behind, fish in the stream. It feels good to be moving again in the current of the city; doing something instead of hiding.
We push through a gap in the derelict chain-link fence and head across the concrete towards the warehouse. There’s no sign of anybody on the estate.
‘Might as well be Mars,’ says Ids. He licks his lips and glances at me. I’ve got that dead-eye Tanic face on, but Ids knows I’m just as nervous as he is. And with good reason. If the cops are keeping an eye on the Lenton Lane warehouse, then we’re walking right into a trap.
The warehouse shadows shift as we reach the door and a familiar figure steps into view. Candy’s carrying a backpack and her hair is tied back tightly under a black baseball cap, revealing the bruises around her eyes. No sunnies. She looks tired, but there’s a clarity about her that I hadn’t noticed was gone until it came back. Candy Cooper is ready, that’s the only word for it.
‘You okay?’
She nods and raises her hand involuntarily touch her right cheek. ‘Yeah.’
Ids and I stare a minute, and Candy shakes her head. ‘He hasn’t done it again,’ she says, gesturing at her face. ‘If that’s what you mean. It just looks worse with my hair like this.’
‘You look fine,’ I say.
Candy pauses, her face set. ‘He found out, Raze.’
‘About what?’ I ask, but I already know.
‘Found your space in the loft. I don’t know what he was doing, but he found it. I heard him banging around and got out as quick as I could.’
She hesitates.
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ Ids says.
‘He lost it. I mean, completely lost it. Like, crazy lost it. He chased after me yelling, screaming. Shouting terrible things. He thinks we were –’
‘Thinks we were what?’ I say stupidly, and Ids shakes his head.
‘Take a wild guess,’ says Ids dryly, and I get it.
‘Oh,’ I say, feeling as dumb as a rock.
‘I really think he might try to kill you, Raze,’ says Candy. ‘No matter whose son you are.’
‘Does he know about this place?’ says Ids.
Candy shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. But he’s a cop, right? They find things out.’
‘And they know this place exists. Let’s get on with it,’ I say. ‘The last thing we need is your dad showing up.’
I punch in the combination, push open the reinforced steel door and wave them inside. As she passes, Candy leans in and kisses me briefly, but warmly, on the cheek.
‘Good to see you too, Raze,’ she whispers, her hand brushing the back of my neck. I smell that peppermint again and, for a moment, everything else fades to nothing. Ids rolls his eyes at us.
Candy puts her backpack down on the bonnet of the Lamborghini we smashed to pieces. I close the warehouse door and set the deadbolts.
Leaving Ids and Candy talking, I check the two other doors. Both the large roller door in the front and a never-used side door are bolted. As far as I can tell, no-one’s been in or out since we were here.
On the far edge of the shed, at the end of the row of expensive cars, I pull back a white protective sheet to reveal a gleaming black Mercedes minivan. The keys hang from the ignition. The Merc starts first time. I check it’s got fuel and switch the engine off.
‘We could just take off,’ says Ids. ‘Road trip.’
‘Up to Byron,’ says Candy. ‘Then carry on going, maybe.’
They’re smiling, but it’s a thought. A tempting one. Just drop off the map, another van of drifting backpackers doing the east coast. We could lose ourselves out there and forget all about this Tanic-Cooper-Sullivan mess. Become someone else. Run.
‘We could,’ I say.
‘Only messing with you, bro,’ says Ids. ‘This is MCT, remember? Too late to turn back now, hey?’
Candy looks at me.
‘Up to you, Tanic.’
‘We’re not running,’ I say. ‘Not yet.’
My phone vibrates. The caller ID is a number I don’t recognise, but I reckon it’s Dad. I decline the call and put the phone back in my pocket.
‘Problem?’ says Ids.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘We’d better go,’ says Candy. She’s in the back of the minivan, working on some connectors behind two of the four speakers we’ve hauled inside. The back of the Merc is a spaghetti mess of cables and electronics. Solo’s collection of DJ equipment has been cannibalised and placed inside the van. There’s barely space for Candy.
‘Candy’s right, man,’ says Ids. ‘Our phones might be pinging where we are. Like satellite tracking or something.’
‘It was my dad, not ASIO.’
‘You don’t know that.’ Candy steps out of the van and slides the door shut. ‘Besides, we’re finished.’ She looks at Ids. ‘Right?’
Ids nods. ‘Yeah, we’re done. I called ABC, told them to get a crew down there.’
‘You think they will?’ says Candy.
Ids shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter. Once this hits there’ll be no stopping it.’
‘We’re really gonna do this, aren’t we?’ I say. Candy opens the passenger door of the Merc and climbs inside. ‘Put it this way, Tanic,’ she says through the open window. ‘I’m doing it.’
‘Then I guess we have no choice.’ I turn to Ids. ‘You follow in the car, like we said, okay? Once we set up, the van will be staying put so we need that second vehicle. Don’t get lost, okay?’
‘I can’t take the Ferrari? Seems like a waste.’
‘Solo’s Ford,’ I say. ‘How far are you going to make it driving a Ferrari? The Ford’s bad enough, but still way less likely to get pulled over.’
Ids shrugs and walks to the Ford, the least flashy car of Solo’s collection. It’s a restored 1975 black Falcon XB GT with a white stripe across the bonnet and darkly tinted windows. ‘It’s not too shabby, I suppose,’ says Ids.
‘Can you actually drive?’ I say.
‘Guess we’ll find out.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Can you two stop talking cars and get moving?’ shouts Candy. ‘I’m getting a bad feeling about us being here.’
Ids bumps fists with me and gets behind the wheel of the Ford.
‘Remember, if we get pulled over, you carry on. If we can we’ll see you there.’
‘Same with me,’ says Ids. ‘And, let’s face it, I’m gonna be the one they pull.’
I head for the front of the warehouse and slide the metal door up. In the silence of the deserted industrial estate, the noise sounds like an explosion. It can’t be helped. If there’s anyone out there waiting, there’s nothing I can do now. But no-one comes out of the darkness. There’re no screams of get down, on the floor, now! No SWAT team.
No monsters.
The Ford’s engine rumbles into life. The car jerks forward and the tyres squeak on the polished concrete before Ids gets it right. He rolls past me and out into the night. I get into the Merc and drive it outside before jumping out and closing up the warehouse.
Back in the van, I look across at Candy. ‘Ready?’
She smiles. ‘Ready.’
At the first red light, just a couple of hundred metres from the warehouse, Candy jumps like she’s spilled hot coffee.
‘Oh my God!’ she shouts, and shrinks down in her seat.
‘What?’ I ask as the lights change. ‘What’s up?’
‘Go, go, go!’ She yells the words even as we move through the intersection. A black Audi sits at the lights, waiting to turn across our lane.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘calm down!’
Candy leans forward and peers into the wing mirror. Behind us, the black Audi swings left towards Lenton Lane. She blows out her cheeks.
‘What?’ I shout.
‘That black car? That was my father.’
I almost crash the van. ‘You’re kidding me!’
‘I wish.’ Candy cranes her neck to watch the Audi. We turn a corner and he’s out of sight.
‘It was him?’ I ask. ‘Definitely him?’
‘Yeah, it was. Absolutely.’ Candy’s voice shakes.
‘He see us?’
‘I don’t know. No. I don’t think so. But it was him.’
Her phone buzzes. Ids. ‘Yes, it was,’ she says into the phone, and closes the call.
‘Ids saw him too,’ she says as we come to another red light. ‘We only just got out, Raze. Two minutes later and . . .’
The lights take forever to change.
‘C’mon, c’mon,’ I mutter. When the red shifts to green I presses the accelerator too hard and the engine races.
‘Keep it steady,’ says Candy.
I get the van moving steadily and look in the wing mirror. No sign of Cooper. ‘What if he saw us?’
‘If he had, we wouldn’t be talking now, we’d be face down on the road.’ Candy points to a side road ahead. ‘Get off this street. We’ll go the long way round.’
I don’t argue. I turn right, Ids close behind. It feels safer on these side roads. Slower, but safer.
We keep to smaller roads as much as we can, but find ourselves locked in traffic when we reach George Street. We’re only a couple of kilometres from Circular Quay and, to my cop-sensitive eyes, the place is crawling with police.
‘Ids is still right there,’ says Candy, sensing my stress. She reaches over and pats his arm. ‘Everything’s nice and quiet. We’ll be good.’
Grateful, I squeeze Candy’s hand. Both of us are still vibrating from the shock of our close call with Don Cooper.
Five minutes of stop-start driving later, a street cop holds up a warning hand at a crossing. My heart races, but he’s only controlling traffic. I can’t see anything suspicious in the look he gives us. In the dark, with the headlights on, we’re shadows.
We keep moving.
‘There,’ says Candy, and points to a small street that cuts around the back of the shops and restaurants fronting the eastern side of Circular Quay. The street ends at a roundabout with a decorative fountain. I pull up in a space reserved for delivery vehicles, stop the engine and reach behind the seats for the two hi-vis jackets and hard hats stowed there. I hand one of each to Candy, along with a lanyard and clipboard.
‘Crim logic,’ I say. ‘You can go anywhere with a hi-vis jacket and a clipboard.’
We step out of the Merc as Ids pulls the Falcon into place behind us.
I hand Ids another hi-vis jacket and put a disabled badge in the window of the Falcon. It won’t work for long, but we only really need twenty minutes.
‘This gonna work?’ says Ids.
I hold up a plastic badge on a lanyard that says, ‘Event Contractor: Sydney Opera House’. ‘We’re going to find out soon, bro.’
A year back, I’d been to the Opera House with Solo. One of his flash mates was DJing at an event on the concourse. Solo and I came early to help him set up. Tonight, I head to the same security gate we used then.
The security at the gate consists of one middle-aged guy watching the footy on his phone. He looks up as we approach.
‘Performance delivery,’ I say. I hold up my badge, trying to look like I don’t care. And trying to I look and sound older than I feel.
‘What performance?’ says the security guard.
I shrug. ‘How do I know, mate? We’re just doing the sparks, yeah? Some opera thing got a problem and we got the call.’ I take out my phone. ‘You need to call my boss?’
The security guard shakes his head and returns to his game. ‘No-one tells me anything,’ he mutters. He presses a button and the boom gate lifts. I trot back to the Merc and, with Ids and Candy alongside me, drive slowly through the gate and onto the concourse.
We’re in.
I park the van so the nose points across the harbour towards the laughing clown mouth of Luna Park. The side door faces the Opera House. The area is thick with tourists, a few of them looking at us curiously. One guy lifts his phone and takes a photo. I try and blend in by looking up at the Opera House and scribbling nonsense on the clipboard.
