BECKER Page 4

  When Becker walked in, Chook was sitting at a table near the front window, holding a beer. Didn’t move or change her expression when she saw him, not a flicker. She was not a chicken, far from it. She was a senior constable, who’d worked mainly in witness protection when Becker had known her in Canberra. Dressed now more or less in her working gear—leather jacket, t-shirt, blue jeans, hair pulled back, not in a ponytail this time, but in a knot at the base of her skull. Hair the same pale gold—the kind you’d expect to go white pretty soon. Footwear different, however. Instead of police work boots, she was wearing motor-cycle boots. She was very tall, and had broad shoulders, slim hips and no noticeable breasts. Looked more like a male truck driver than a woman—the kind you might see driving a road train across the backblocks of Queensland, a hundred sheep up behind. She had everything a truckie would have—except the suntan, the dick and the tattoos. She was called Chook because of the common mispronunciation of her family name, Babchuk, which in Ukraine is pronounced Babchuck, not chook. She hated the nickname and often threatened to shoot anyone who called her Chook, but she never did. At first sight you would have thought her a hard-faced bitch you’d never want to know. But Chook was all right, once you got to know her. Full name was Anastacia Babchuk, which she knew was a mouthful, so normally she went by Stacey Babchuck.

  She lifted her glass in a casual sort of salute.

  ‘What can I get you, Harry?’

  ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Just a Hahn.’

  He’d never had Hahn beer, but he said the same. She raised a hand and a girl in an apron wiping another table came over. ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘Another Hahn, honey,’ Chook said, ‘and don’t spill it this time.’

  The girl quivered. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m terribly sorry. It’s my first day.’

  Anastacia nodded, her eyes following the girl. She was so fresh-faced she looked no more than sixteen, but must have been at least eighteen. You could not employ anyone under eighteen in a place that sold liquor. It was the law.

  Becker was amused. ‘She thinks you are a man,’ he said.

  ‘She wouldn’t be the first,’ Chook said.

  She had a mannish sort of voice, not exactly male, but like the voice a young man might have if he had a sore throat. Not much tone to it, but hard and sharp and clear enough.

  ‘How’d you get here?’ he asked.

  ‘Rode,’ she said, taking a sip. ‘On the hog.’

  ‘Hog?’

  ‘Harley, on my way to Melbourne.’

  ‘Business again?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Personal.’

  ‘Anything to do with—’

  Becker could not quite say it. He looked around, but they were well out of earshot. There were only a few other drinkers in the room, plus the pretty girl and the barman filling their glasses.

  ‘You could say that.’

  Becker was afraid, although neither was saying anything that could later be pinned on them.

  ‘You don’t mean—’

  The girl came back with the beers balanced on a small silver tray. Very carefully, she set them down, glasses full to the brim, topped with foam. Did not spill a drop this time. She looked up at Stacey, waiting. The big cop nodded. The girl smiled. It was a sweet smile, anxious to please. They waited for her to depart.

  ‘You don’t mean it?’

  ‘I mean it.’

  Becker was shocked. Chook would not leave it alone. He didn’t want to get involved, but he was involved if not legally then morally. He owed her one. Without her, his marriage would be ruined. If Robyn knew what had really happened at the farm, she’d be horrified—a woman like her, incapable of thinking ill of anyone.

  ‘You aren’t going to—?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You mean get one of them?’

  Nodded again.

  ‘Jesus, Stacey!’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it a long time.’

  ‘You mean terminating?’

  He looked around. The girl was now quite near, looking out of a window, perhaps hoping to see someone. Chook’s lips moved, as if saying ‘yeah’ again, but no sound came out. Becker didn’t know what to say except to whisper, ‘Don’t do it. For Christ’s sake, don’t do it!’

  ‘Just one, the capo dei capi as they call him, the big chief.’

  ‘The fat man? The one who was there when they shot Vince?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘This bloke called Terracini?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘He’s the capo? Down in Melbourne?’

  Babchuk shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Why isn’t he behind bars? You’ve got his card. Buster found it by the lake. That puts him there, where they killed Torrence.’

  ‘He says someone stole it.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘And Adams won’t talk?’

  ‘Not in a thousand years.’

  Adams had been the cop who’d killed Torrence. Actually, the cop who’d pulled the trigger. He was at the lake in Canberra with Torrence and the fat man. Torrence wanted more money for spying on Evelyn Crowley. But the fat man thought he’d become a liability. Asking too much and knowing too much. So, the fat man had given Adams the nod and Adams had gone behind Torrence and shot him in the back and then in the head—just to make sure. Then had pushed him into the lake, late at night. The Mafia had wanted to know what Mrs Crowley was going to do. She was talking to an ex-cop named Becker. Was she telling him what was going on at the Royal Bank? Where her husband was a big noise. Through which they were laundering millions, sending it to Italy. But where in Italy? That’s what the police had wanted to know. So did the Carabinieri in Rome. From the police’s point of view, the problem had been to get someone to talk before the Mafia woke up that they were being watched. As it had turned out, Evelyn had known next to nothing. But they killed her none the less.

  ‘And you’re going to kill him? Terracini?’

  ‘If he turns out to be the one.’

  ‘You think he ordered the hit on Evelyn?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I know where to find him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘South Yarra.’

  ‘What’s he do?’

  ‘Runs a lingerie shop in Chapel Street, Prahran.’

  ‘A lingerie shop?’

  ‘Who’d have thought of that? The Mafia running a lingerie shop? It’s a perfect cover.’

  ‘Jesus, Chook.’

  ‘His wife does the selling and he does the books. Which leaves him plenty of time for other interests.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘One of them’s an import business in South Melbourne.’

  ‘Importing tomato cans from Italy—full of coke, I suppose?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Becker’s heart was wriggling. ‘Ah, Jesus, Stacey!’

  ‘He killed Evelyn too, remember.’

  The girl had gone back to the bar.

  Becker leaned forward, whispering: ‘Let it go. You don’t know what you’d be up against! Look, Evelyn told me, it’s not one bloke, it’s a whole family, maybe more than one family. There’d be too many. You can’t kill ’em all. And anyway, the Melbourne cops’d soon see a pattern. Or someone would talk, suggesting who might be doing it. For revenge, you hear? It’s too fucking obvious.’

  Babchuk had been drinking while he’d made his little speech. She took her time, put down the glass and thought about it.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said, ‘even if I do die.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  The girl ran to the window again, looked out. Then hurried back
to the bar. Babchuk watched her all the way. ‘I was like that once,’ she said, ‘young and innocent. Not pretty, nothing much at all. A tearaway, couldn’t get on with my folks. Then, after Mum died, I ran away, only eighteen. Ganged up with some bikies down in Melbourne. I was a bikie’s moll, riding up back, hanging onto his cock for dear life. Yeah, I was fucked stupid some nights, and not always by the same bloke. I was mad, high on drugs and booze and Christ knows what else, for a year or two.’

  She was fiddling with the empty glass.

  The girl came over. ‘Can I get you something else?’

  ‘Not for me, honey.’ She looked at Becker, who shook his head.

  The girl danced away, again running to the window, again disappointed.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I tried to run away with another guy. He wasn’t a piece of shit like the others. In fact, he was a cop.’

  ‘Working undercover?’

  ‘Yeah, a new guy named Red. Must have had another name, but I never heard it.’ She glanced out the window. ‘I think I was in love with him, as much as I could have been in love with any man then. We didn’t have sex. I couldn’t then, I was as sick as a dog. He told me to get out, there was going to be a raid. But they shot him, the others I mean. They must have woken up to him. I broke down. The cops came, State and Federal, a joint operation. They grabbed me, sent me to hospital, the Austin in Heidelburg. Pumped be full of anti-biotics, but that did not work, not completely. They didn’t want to operate, but they did. It was touch and go, so a specialist told me. Then I got over it, slowly but surely. After two weeks at the Austin, a man came to see me. He was the one who’d led the raid. I was pretty scared, but he said nothing would happen to me, if I helped them. So I helped them. Told them everything I knew.’

  She drank some Hahn. He waited.

  ‘I had a private room at the Austin. They took it all down, everything I said on tape. I was there nearly four weeks, then they took me to a place in Greensborough for people who’d suffered heavy trauma. Weened me off drugs—except the occasional joint, but that’s only for professional reasons. To get people talking, like having a beer.

  ‘One day, the guy who’d rescued me came in and said I was coming along fine. The doctors were pleased with me. The commissioner was pleased with me. Because of me they’d been able to break the ring. Two million dollars’ worth of coke at street level had been seized. Plus, thousands in cash and a lot of weapons, some of them really nasty, like assault rifles and machine pistols. I said, “What’s going to become of me now?” He looked at me for a while, sort of smiling. Then he said he’d like me to meet someone.

  ‘He went out and came back with an old man wearing a very good suit and a polka-dot bow tie and grey hair brushed straight back without a part. He had a dark-grey little moustache and looked like a very old Errol Flynn.

  “You’ve done a splendid job, my dear,” he said.

  “Everyone is thrilled. How about joining us?”

  “The cops?” I said.

  “The Federal Police,” he said.

  “You’ll be quite safe. Part of a family.”’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘Astonished, but that’s what I wanted, a family.’

  She was gazing at nothing. Or everything in her life. As she’d been speaking, she’d been tapping her glass on the table.

  The girl appeared again, pushed by the barman. ‘You’re sure you won’t have another?’

  They looked at each other. The poor kid, she was trying. ‘A Jack Daniels,’ Becker said, ‘on the rocks.’

  ‘And you, sir?’

  She was addressing Babchuk, who’d been about to decline. After all, she had to ride to Melbourne today, but changed her mind. ‘Make mine a Jack too,’ she said. ‘No rocks.’

  The girl dashed off.

  They had a couple of whiskeys, tossing them down. Becker checked his watch. It was ten to twelve. ‘I have to go,’ he said.

  ‘So do I,’ she said.

  Chook stood up, picking up her helmet. It had been sitting on the floor on the other side.

  Becker paid for both and they walked out. ‘Where’s your bike?’

  ‘Up here a bit.’

  He hoped she’d forgotten about the Smith and Wesson, but she had not. Chook went to the Harley, opened a saddlebag and pulled out a fat parcel, not big but heavy. Becker took it, alarmed. Something bad would come of this. It was a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38, a Police Special, barrel only two inches. Easy to draw and fire quickly, but reliable only up to about ten yards—if you were lucky. As she’d bent, her jacket had opened. Becker saw the butt of the Colt .38 under her left arm. The automatic with which she’d killed the kid. She caught him looking, said nothing. But she smiled.

  ‘You don’t like guns, Harry?’

  ‘It reminds me too much of Canberra.’

  ‘Yeah? Everything reminds me of Canberra.’

  He knew what she meant. Polly had been her partner. They’d been detailed to protect him and Evelyn until the Feds could get them out of Canberra. But they had failed. Polly was dead and so was Evelyn. One great operational fuck-up if ever there was one.

  ‘And this—’ She pulled a folded form from a pocket in her jacket. ‘This is for you to sign and post back to Canberra. To prove you received it.’

  Chook put on her helmet, then extended a hand. She had a grip like a pipe wrench.

  ‘So long, Harry,’ she said.

  Then stepped onto the big, black bike and pressed a button. Immediately the engine sprang into life, began to purr sweetly, discreetly. He watched. She was a good woman, but revengeful, scary. Taking the law into her own hands. Yet he admired her, a braver human than he would ever be.

  ‘Have a good trip,’ he said.

  Anastacia Babchuk had a chiselled sort of face, long narrow eyes when she smiled. High cheekbones, something Asiatic about them. And her nose, it was square cut, like a small hatchet. Her eyes were disconcerting. Unnaturally blue, bright, shining. Made you feel that something not quite human was watching you. Becker didn’t know much about Ukrainians, but thought they were some sort of Slavs in eastern Europe, who’d had a bad time during the war. Everyone had a bad time in any sort of war, he knew. His father had been killed in Vietnam.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ she said.

  Then she was gone.

  He went to the BMW and stowed the parcel in the boot. When he closed it, a woman said: ‘Excuse me.’ It was a parking inspector, the woman who’d caught him on his first day back in Wagga. That had been outside the Gumnut cafe, this was outside the Hovell.

  ‘I haven’t been here an hour,’ he said.

  She pointed at a sign over his head. ‘It says quite clearly, No Parking Loading Zone.’

  ‘Loading zone?’

  ‘This is where they deliver the barrels,’ she said.

  She was a fine figure of a woman, certainly not the kind to argue with. Quite handsome in her smart uniform. She raised her pen and pad, looking at his NSW plate. ‘So, you’re one of us now? I’m not letting you off this time.’

  He was going to protest, but what did it matter about a few dollars fine? After all, he was probably the richest man in the district in terms of ready cash, if only people knew. But they would never know. They must never know about Evelyn.

  Just then, the girl ran out. ‘Mum, Mum, I’ve been watching out for you. I got the job!’ Then she saw Becker. ‘I was right, wasn’t I, sir?’

  ‘Didn’t spill a drop,’ he said.

  ‘All right,’ her mother said, ‘but next time you won’t be so lucky.’

  Chapter 5

  The first thing Becker had to do was hide the revolver, but he had no idea where. Any place he chose in the house would certainly be discovered by Robyn, who spent much of her days polishing and cleaning and putting things
away. Worse, it might well be found by one of the children, or both. Even if he did find a place to hide it, he might need it in a hurry. He could hide it in the machinery shed or even dig a hole among the trees. And it would be tragic if his family, under threat of death, he couldn’t remember which tree. He tended to hang onto it, still loaded. He vacillated, wanted to keep it ready at hand, and yet wanted to get rid of it. Robyn would ask why he had a revolver. What was he afraid of? He’d have to tell her some lie, as he’d already lied about the mysterious woman at the kitchen window that day.

  Becker walked down to the Gumnut cafe. Usually, when in town, they had lunch at the Gumnut. They were already seated when he arrived, looking pre-occupied and worried, as if something bad had happened, or was about to happen.

  ‘Beat you to it, didn’t we, kids?’ she’d said brightly, almost adoringly. She thought he was the most splendid of men, the right age, only three years older than she, and well-mannered. And, being a retired policeman, was in many ways a man of the world, a world she did not know, but was anxious to hear about. She was always waiting for him to say something about his past. But all he’d said was he’d been married. He’d been in the police force, he’d taken a bullet in the line of duty. And he’d been paid off. None of which was untrue, but he did not tell her about the other things. And never mentioned Evelyn.

  ‘Harry?’

  He was thinking of something, she knew. He was always thinking of something, like a man who had done something of which he should have been proud but wasn’t, like a man who’d been to war and never wanted to talk about it. Her father was like that. No-one mentioned the war.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, what?’

  They were sitting in the corner, where he’d been when she’d spotted him on that day months ago, eating a chicken and mushroom pie, thoughtfully looking out the window at nothing. And she’d gone in and said nervously, because she was full of shame for having stood him up back in Canberra, Excuse me, are you Harry Becker?