BECKER Read online

  Becker © 2021 Gordon Reid

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in Australia

  Cover design by Shawline Publishing Group Pty Ltd

  First Printing: Sept 2021

  Shawline Publishing Group Pty Ltd

  www.shawlinepublishing.com.au

  Paperback ISBN- 9781922594624

  Ebook ISBN- 9781922594617

  For Amanda

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 1

  When she called, the dog began to bark. She was on the back porch and the dog was with Becker and the two kids at the creek. They were her kids, a girl and a boy. Becker hadn’t heard what she’d said, she being a woman, who never raised her voice, even in anger. A gentle woman with a kindly smile. A lovely wife, you couldn’t ask for better. He began walking up to her, some fifty yards. The dog was a young kelpie, very playful, very noisy. He began to follow, but the boy called him and threw a stick, so the dog stopped, undecided.

  Half way up, Becker tried again. ‘Robyn? What did you say?’ She answered, something about a visitor. The dog barked again, then whined, one short cry, as if worried. As if it sensed trouble. Or loss. Or bewilderment. Hard to say with a dog. But something was going to happen. The dog knew it, the way birds are said to know there is going to be an earthquake. It was October 1995.

  He was close enough now. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘There is someone to see you, Harry.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘An old man. He says you are his brother.’

  ‘I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘I know, Harry.’ She shrugged. ‘He sounds like an Italian.’

  ‘An Italian?’

  ‘You’d better speak to him.’

  Becker reached her, waiting on the porch. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Out front, holding onto a post.’ She meant a verandah post.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He looks exhausted.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  She opened the screen door for him. ‘Alfredo.’

  ‘Alfredo?’

  ‘That’s what he said, Alfredo.’

  Becker went cold. He’d thought he’d never see Alfredo Scarafini again. He’d last seen him at the funeral in Canberra, when they’d buried his sister, Evelyn Crowley. The Italian’s sister, not Becker’s. He was rattled for a few seconds, his heart jumping. Alfredo was the Mafia. But Alfredo was stupid, he talked too much. That’s why people were looking for him. People from Melbourne, the kind who never tell you they are coming.

  Becker walked into the house. It was one of those old, simple designs you found all over Australia years ago, both in the towns and in the bush. Looking from the front, a corridor ran right down the middle—on the left-hand side three bedrooms, on the right a living room, a large kitchen, in which they also dined, a bathroom and toilet all in one and finally a laundry by the back door. A seven-roomed house, if you call a laundry a room. It was a deep laundry, with a big cupboard at the end. For storage, but not very secure. Anyone could break in.

  He walked through, while Robyn went down to the creek—nominally to keep an eye on the kids, but not to overhear. That would have been impolite. In her opinion, nosy wives were the worst kind. Usually wrecked their own marriages. She knew things had happened he did not want to talk about, but the past is always following you. Like a hungry dog, only a few paces behind. She had her own past and never complained about others having pasts they did not want to talk about.

  He stepped onto the front verandah, his heart going bang, bang, bang. A man was hanging onto a post with one hand, a foot on a step. In the other hand was a cigarette. Behind him was the peppercorn tree, big and old and twisted and ugly. Beyond the tree was the stock-rail fence and out there in the wide world was the highway, heavy trucks thundering past. Then a big four-wheel drive pulling a caravan. Then two utilities, each with a dog on the back, barking at nothing.

  ‘What do you want, Alfredo?’

  ‘You know me. We brother.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  The Italian looked tired, sick and afraid.

  ‘We got talk. Things they bad, you know.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  ‘Too bad for you, my frien’, you don’ help brother.’

  ‘You’re not my brother.’

  ‘You my brother. We got have some talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  The old man didn’t answer. He wasn’t really old—only ten years older than Evelyn, but he’d looked bad at her funeral. That was only five months ago, but he looked much worse now.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Becker said. He pointed to one of the outdoor chairs.

  ‘Not here, no. Somebody—’ He was panting. He was scared, you could see. ‘We go in house,’ he said.

  Alfredo was bad news. The police had been looking for him since that trouble in Canberra—not to charge him with anything, but to look after him, put him into protective custody, get him to talk, do a deal. Before someone else found him. To shut him up.

  ‘You don’t want to be seen?’

  The old man mumbled something, eyes cast down. It was obvious he was on the run.

  ‘How’d you know where to find me?’

  ‘I ask ’round. You not hard find.’

  No, Becker thought, not hard at all. No doubt the Italian community knew exactly where he was. He could have been killed any time since he’d left Canberra. Maybe someone had decided he wasn’t important enough. Not worth the price of a bullet.

  He didn’t want Robyn to see him. She’d ask questions. He’d have to explain. Then his whole world would come tumbling down.

  ‘All right, come in. But get rid of that cigarette first.’

  The Italian did so the way he had done at the funeral. Dropped it onto the gravel, then gently toed it in with a shoe, a black shoe. In Canberra it had been shiny. Now it was grey like Alfredo himself, like his eyes—grey, worn out. On the run eyes.

  Becker opened the front screen door and showed him into the living room. He fell onto a couch packed with soft, fluffy cushions—something Robyn had found in a fabrics store in Wagga. She was always buying stuff for the
place. Not junk, mind you. Nothing fussy or finicky. Delighted to live in a house like this. Old-fashioned, reconditioned. A smart, historic homestead called Nil Desperandum on one square mile of top-class farmland fifteen kilometres west of Wagga Wagga.

  Becker waited. His heart was still going. He told himself he had to relax, but that made it go faster.

  Alfredo sat, holding his stick and his hat, staring out the window at the front gate. His breathing was bad—short and shallow and wheezing. Probably had emphysema, lung cancer too. The way he smoked, non-stop. His mouth hung open, teeth yellow and uneven and of little use now. No doubt his gums were rotten. He needed a good dentist.

  ‘Who’s chasing you, Alfredo?’

  ‘Some fella,’ he said.

  ‘What fella?’

  ‘Young fella on bike.’

  ‘A motorbike?’

  ‘Yes, red bike, big bike.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Alfredo shrugged.

  ‘What’s he look like?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Some people, they say he asking.’

  ‘Asking about you?’

  No reply.

  ‘Where was this?’

  Alfredo coughed. ‘Griffith.’

  ‘In Griffith?’

  Again, no answer. Becker was surprised. Griffith was the last place in Australia for an Italian on the run. It was full of Italians. But who else would have him? A man who’d tried to be a big man with the Mafia down in Melbourne. And had talked too much. Walking up and down Sydney Road, Brunswick, with his chest stuck out, telling everyone he was a big man now. He was in the Mafia, so you’d better look out. All because he’d told them about a top man in a top bank, who was laundering mob money for a fee. And his sister was married to that man. Now Evelyn was dead, for talking to a cop. If you’re in, you’re in for life. You never talk. Or, if you do, you’re dead. It was as simple as that.

  ‘Can I get you something? Brandy? Whiskey?’

  ‘No, no, my frien’—’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He thought about it. ‘My sister, you love her, eh?’

  ‘You mean Evelyn?’

  ‘Evalina, we call her. She good girl, everybody love her.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before.’

  ‘She help me. She got money, lotsa money. You got her money, eh?’

  ‘Half of it.’

  ‘Half? She no give to me nothing, her brother.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  ‘Who get other half?’

  ‘Christine’s adoptive parents.’

  ‘Christine?’

  ‘The daughter she had to give up seventeen years ago.’

  Alfredo thought about this, panting. He did not like it. He had to get money, fast. Someone was going to kill him. ‘You got money, you help me like brother.’

  ‘Evelyn was not your sister and you’re not my brother.’

  ‘She my sister.’

  ‘She was your cousin, she told me.’

  ‘No, no, he my sister, I know. You love her, you go bed with her. In my country that mean you brother.’

  Becker waited. The back door opened, then footsteps in the hall. Robyn looked in. ‘Hello? Tea, anyone?’

  He waved at her to go away, well away. So she withdrew. Outside, he heard her speaking to the kids near the house. Gradually the voices faded. Alfredo sighed. It was more like a long, drawn-out gasp. At last, he breathed in.

  ‘She my sister,’ he said again.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My father, her father.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He have her mother, Eva.’

  ‘Your father had sex with Evelyn’s mother?’

  ‘Yes, Antonio he write for Ennio take her to Napoli, put her on ship for Australia. They arrive one night, ship go next day. That night he take her to hotel near ship. That night he go in her room and he have her.’

  ‘Jesus, you mean he raped his own brother’s fiancé?’ Becker thought about it. This explained something about Evelyn, although he was not sure what. ‘Evelyn was born in Australia,’ he said. ‘You came later.’

  ‘Si, Eva, she gravida she arrive.’

  ‘Gravida?’

  ‘What you say, preg—’

  ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘Si, pregnant.’

  ‘Did Antonio know this?’

  ‘No, she make him have her first night. She so much ashame. Eight month, she have baby.’

  ‘And that was Evelyn?’

  ‘Si, Evalina, we call her.’

  ‘So Ennio was her father? Who was also your father?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Antonio, he got job Shepparton. He put fruit in tins, you know. Then after a while, they come down.’

  ‘To Melbourne?’

  ‘Si, everybody set up shop Sydney Road, Brunswick. Have good time we think. But Eva, one day she jump in fron’ tram.’

  ‘A tram?’

  ‘She get hit, awful.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Everybody rush out, too horrible for to look.’

  ‘She did it deliberately?’

  ‘Si, deliberate. She no want live wi’ Ennio, work wi’ him. She frighten’ alla time.’

  Becker did not ask why. It was pretty obvious. Quite possibly, she’d dreamed of killing him. But she could not, not her husband’s brother. His big brother.

  ‘How old was Evelyn?’

  ‘Seven, eight, I think. She go school. Antonio, he love her, he adore her. She beautiful gel, speak beautiful. Every day he take her school an’ every afternoon he bring her home. St Margaret Mary, Mitchell Street. Then, she get more bigger, he send her Loreto Toorak, you know? For boarder. Very nice school, very nice gels. Come home weekend.’

  Becker shook his head. Now he understood Evelyn better. She was the child of a graceful and loving mother and a brutal pig of a rapist. Maybe that was why Evelyn, if the circumstances were right, could kill. For three or four seconds I wanted him dead, she had said. I deliberately pushed him over. I murdered him. She’d been referring to a man in Melbourne who had done her wrong. Would not marry her when she told him that she was pregnant. She had the child, that was Christine.

  ‘What do you want, Alfredo?’

  ‘Gotta get out.’

  ‘Of Australia?’

  ‘Go somewhere, maybe America, maybe Argentina.’

  ‘You’ve got friends there?’

  ‘Some people help.’

  Becker thought about it. This man was not going anywhere—not to America or Argentina or wherever Italians on the run hoped to find sanctuary. He was going to die soon. Or, if he didn’t die, he would be a cot case, breathing from an oxygen mask. Alfredo Scarafini was a cheap crook, a liar and an ignorant, grasping peasant. He and his evil father had used Evelyn years ago, when they’d deceived a young bank manager in Melbourne. If they’d not done that, this peasant wouldn’t be in a mess now, on the run from the mob. He was disgusting, and yet he was human to some degree. Back in Canberra, he’d tried to save Evelyn. And she would have helped him.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Hun’red thousan’ dollar.’

  ‘One-hundred-thousand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’ll set you up?’

  ‘Get me there, maybe hospital, maybe quiet life. Me, I no old man. Maybe I get better.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘Eh?’ The Italian tried to sit up straight. He looked directly at Becker, but failed. His eyes could not quite make it. ‘You help? You put me on plane?’

  Becker did not reply. It would be worth one-hundred-thousand dollars to get rid of him, but getting him to
Sydney and putting him on an aircraft would be hard enough. A passport? Alfredo was probably on a wanted list. As soon as his mugshot popped up on a screen, bells would start ringing.

  ‘When do you want the money?’

  ‘Maybe today? You go in bank an’ get money. You drive Sydney?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. Got a bank account?’

  ‘Yes, si.’

  ‘Credit card?’

  ‘Si, I got card.’

  ‘I’ll put the money in your account today. Then I’ll put you on a plane in Wagga. You’ll have to look after yourself in Sydney. Okay?’

  The old man, who was not an old man, thought about it. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Can you drive so far? To Wagga?’

  ‘Got no car. Fella bring me this place. Got loada stuff for Wagga.’

  ‘A truckie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s the fella now?’

  ‘He go on. He got tomato, lettuce, avocado.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll drive you. Got a passport?’

  ‘One I got Griffith. Cost lotta money.’

  ‘A false one? They might pick it up at the airport.’

  ‘I take risk.’

  ‘The police want to talk to you.’

  ‘I never talk.’

  ‘Why don’t you give yourself up? They’ll offer you immunity, if you tell them everything you know about the bank. How you controlled that poor bastard, the manager. I know, I was a cop once. They’d want to know how Crowley was moving the money out?’

  Alfredo did not answer, but his eyes did. They said no.

  Becker tried again.

  ‘Do a deal with the police, they’ll love you. They’ll get you out of the country under a false name. The Carabinieri know all about you. They’ll protect you if you go back to Italy.

  ‘No, no—’ He was shaking his head. ‘They kill me I talk, some people.’

  ‘Looks like they’re going to kill you anyway.’

  No response. This wreck was not going far. Probably wouldn’t make it to Los Angeles or New York or wherever he was going. Might not make it even to Sydney.

  ‘You should be in hospital, Alfredo.’

  ‘No, no hospital. They look hospital.’

  ‘Yeah, we look hospital,’ a voice said.

  It came from the hall. A skinny kid was standing there wearing a black leather jacket, the kind bikies wore. He was holding a steel-grey helmet in one hand and a Browning automatic in the other. It was a .32 automatic with fitted silencer screwed on. He looked no more than fifteen or sixteen, but he must have been older. Evelyn had said that Giancarlo had been shot by a kid on a motorbike. In Sydney Road, Brunswick, of all places—in broad daylight. As quick and cheeky and cheery as that.