Inlet Boys Page 2

  Reggie had the habit of jumping out of his seat whenever someone entered his office.

  I placed his coffee on a small free space on his desk. ‘Morning, Sunshine.’

  He took the cup and swiped his smartphone with his left hand as he took a sip. ‘Jesus wept.’

  ‘What’s going on, Reg?’

  ‘The wife dragged me to this baby shower yesterday. Have you seen these fucking things? Do you know what they did? After an hour chatting about baby clothes and outfits, they decided it was time to play a party game. They got these diapers, about ten diapers, right? They melted a spoonful of chocolate into the diaper so it looked like.... You know what I’m saying, right? Then they passed the diaper around, and they had to smell the chocolate and try and guess the flavour of the chocolate.’

  His face creased up and he stuck his tongue out. ‘Is that fucked up or what?’

  I shrugged. ‘Did you have a go?’

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’

  I laughed.

  ‘By the way, Reg, we call them ‘nappies’.’

  ‘Right. ‘Nappies’.’

  ‘Reggie, something’s come up. My uncle wants me to look into something. It’ll be off the books. I figure it’ll take five days. Tops.’

  ‘Matty, we’ve got fifty-eight open claims. I can’t have you running off on your own.’

  I had trouble with Reggie in the early days. He had the tenacity, either by ignorance or through malevolence, to forget my fortnightly pay. On the first occurrence, I forgave what could’ve been an honest oversight. When my second pay didn’t materialise, negotiations ended when I had Reggie against the wall, my elbow wedged firmly against his neck. Since then, we’ve been on even terms, and the pay’s been consistent.

  He had a point, though. I was leaving him in the lurch.

  ‘What if I close one of O’Donnell’s cases?’ I said.

  Garrick O’Donnell, a freelance investigator working out of the same office, worked hard at avoiding work, and his cases tended towards the violent.

  Reggie raised his eyebrows. ‘Sure. Okay. How about the Frank Brodie case?’

  I sucked air in through my teeth. ‘Frank Brodie, ex-bikie member of the Comancheros who fell out of the gang and tried to go legit. Claiming compensation for a back injury that rings falser than a politician’s promise. Is that the one?’

  ‘That’s the one. His case file is with Centrelink, but they can’t suspend his compensation payment unless we provide something to the insurer. Garrick says he can’t find Brodie’s property.’

  ‘Is Brodie still at Robertson?’

  Reggie nodded. Robertson was an hour and a half round trip.

  ‘Tell you what, Reg, if you give me a week off, I’ll close the Brodie case today.’

  Reggie checked his watch and scratched his smooth cheek. I’d proved good to my word with Reggie, but the American in him liked hanging it over me.

  ‘Catch the prick on video, okay? I need it wrapped up before Fair Trading comes back to me with injunctions.’

  ‘Take a breath. I’ll get it done.’

  My office was the smallest one at the far end. I didn’t mind that it had no windows or a door. The small rectangle of carpet consisted of a standard desk and four filing cabinets. I grabbed my camera bag, laptop, and a flash drive, then went into O’Donnell’s office space, found Brodie’s file, and made my way out to my car.

  At that moment, I thought about the line from Dirty Harry, in which the young fresh-faced partner asks Clint Eastwood’s Harry Callahan, ‘Why do they call you Dirty Harry?’ Callahan replies, ‘Because I get every dirty job that comes along.’

  ***

  I headed south through Albion Park, took the turn at Jamberoo, and crossed open plains until the road plunged into the familiar rainforest of Macquarie Pass. I slowed to forty, negotiated the steep hairpin turns, and wound my window down to let the fresh smell of the rainforest waft in.

  I came out at the top of the escarpment and drove into Robertson, home of The Big Potato, at just after eleven. Using the address details in the case file, I found Brodie’s property, which, contrary to O’Donnell’s claim, had been easy. Located on the western boundary of Robertson village, it consisted of rural land with a homestead dumped into the middle of it, accessible via a long dirt driveway, via a cattle crossing.

  In worker’s compensation cases, I’d come to the realisation that some people can be either morally deficient or ethically corrupt. Frank Brodie possessed both iniquities, claiming a large sum of money against a Mum and Dad business for alleged injuries to his back when a delivery of goods went awry and allegedly landed on top of him. His claim had placed their honest business in serious jeopardy.

  I parked half a kilometre past the property, got out, and opened the tonneau that covered the ute tray—an advantage to the utility coupe that often came in handy. I pulled out my canvas camera bag, connected the two hundred-millimetre zoom lens to my camera body, grabbed a bottle of water from a small esky, and walked back along the road until I reached the perimeter of Brodie’s property. I found a shady spot in a natural culvert off the road, which provided ample coverage thanks to a spreading lantana bush.

  I lay down and connected my camera to a mini-tripod that had a built-in, foldout resting arm for the lens, and swept the property from left to right. I remained in that position for half an hour.

  A figure emerged from the house, possessing a balding pate, tattoos, and long ginger beard that matched a photo I’d seen of Frank Brodie. He went to work on a Holden ute—bending over the engine bay, lifting tool boxes—doing all the things he wouldn’t be doing if he had a prolapsed disc.

  I adjusted the focus and started filming.

  He worked for over an hour, until he wiped his hands and went back inside the house.

  I got up and packed my things away, and caught movement on my left.

  The large figure of Brodie came around from behind the lantana with a sour look on his face, and swung high.

  I dodged it and gave him a swift hard jab to the stomach.

  He exhaled and his momentum gave way.

  I put in two quick punches to the ear, which does more damage to the head than it does to the fist.

  He dropped to the ground, clutched his head and swore.

  I slung the camera bag over my shoulder. ‘You move well for a bloke with severe back injuries.’

  Brodie just sat and looked winded.

  I went back to my car and immediately backed the video files to my laptop, and a separate flash drive. I looked back as Brodie ambled back onto his property.

  He cast one despondent look in my direction and kept going.

  The drive back to Cash & Messenger proved uneventful. Reggie wasn’t there, so I left the flash drive on his keyboard, then went into O’Donnell’s makeshift office. I placed Brodie’s file on the desk, wrote ‘Closed’ on a Post It note, and stuck it to the front.

  Up yours, you Irish fuck knuckle.

  Chapter 3

  On Saturday, I drove to my ex-wife’s house in Warilla, a small suburb that fringed the steel works in Port Kembla, and knocked on the front door.

  She opened it dressed like the anime character Sailor Moon, and struck a provocative pose. ‘Hi, boofhead. What do you think? Whipped it up in three hours.’

  ‘Impressive, Dee. Is this for Supernova?’

  We hugged and the smell of her hair took me back, as it always did, to the first time I hugged her at the front of the Hoyts cinemas on George Street, fourteen years previous. I felt the blue fabric on her right collar.

  ‘Nice colours. I like the laureates.’ I always did my best to fudge an opinion when it came to Dee’s creations. Kowalski’s and fashion didn’t mix. My shaved baldhead, and consistently black ensemble attested to that.

  She showed me in, and when my eleven-year-old daughter Alice spotted me from the kitchen, she squealed and ran into my arms. ‘Dad!’

  We hugged and rocked from side to side, a uni
que by-product of the Kowalski DNA. Alice also inherited my mawkishness, my height, my stubbornness, and my eye for detail. Sometimes I imagined her growing up to be a forensic scientist.

  She pulled back and I felt a pang of alarm; the crown of her head stood level to my shoulder. She wore a cosplay costume, albeit one I didn’t recognise. Dee had relaxed rules when it came to clothes. Alice’s love for all things Manga definitely came from her mother’s side.

  ‘Listen, sweetie, I won’t be able to come around next weekend.’ I said. ‘I’ve got something on. Sorry, gorgeous.’

  To my surprise, she shrugged. ‘That’s okay. What’s going on?’

  I went into the kitchen and surreptitiously glanced around. At least three days’ worth of plates and saucepans littered the sink. Streaks of juice stained the breakfast bench, blackened grime encased the stovetop, and the splattered oil stains on the tile backsplash reminded me of a Jackson Pollock painting.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute, sweetie.’ I ran the hot water and organised the various piles into greasy and non-greasy.

  Dee joined me in the kitchen and removed a tea towel from the handle on the oven. ‘Just leave it. I was going to do it after dinner.’

  ‘Sure. And what were you going to eat off? Saucepan lids?’

  Dee’s partner, Brad, appeared from the hallway carrying an empty coffee mug and wearing a Comic Con tee shirt. A bookish academic, Brad never struck me as the handiest of handymen. It wasn’t unusual for Dee to text me when the taps needed new washers or when the pilot light under the hot water system blew out. I kept him in the corner of my eye and he smiled and winked at me.

  ‘How you going, boofhead?’ I put the plug in the sink and squirted a good dollop of dishwashing liquid into the water.

  Brad shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. ‘Uh, hi Matt. How are you?’

  I looked up and met his eyes. ‘I’m very good, Brad, and how are you?’

  ‘Yeah. Good. Fine.’ He nodded for a longer time than was necessary, then turned on his heel and skulked back down the hallway with his coffee mug.

  I felt a nudge from Dee.

  ‘Don’t be mean,’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t being mean. I looked him in the eye and I acknowledged him. It’s his prerogative how he responds.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Alice opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Coke, then took out a glass.

  I stopped her before she poured. ‘Use this glass.’ I washed one and put it in the drying rack.

  Dee dried it and passed it to Alice.

  ‘Are you working on any cases, Dad?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes—a murder case.’

  ‘No shit?’ Dee said.

  Alice shot her a frown. ‘Mum. Language.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The sink filled up, I turned the tap off and placed half a dozen glasses into the foamy water. ‘Do you remember Zio Fausto?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ Dee turned to Alice. ‘He affectionately called me Hippy Lady.’

  ‘Well,’ I continued. ‘His nephew was killed down at Sussex Inlet last week.’

  ‘Shit, Matt,’ Dee murmured. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Alice turned her head and bulged her eyes at her mother.

  Dee gave Alice an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, honey bun. I’ll chuck a dollar in the swear jar.’

  Alice said, ‘It’s two bucks for the ‘s’ word.’

  Dee poked her tongue out.

  Alice said, ‘Dad, did I know him?’

  ‘No, sweetie, Rob was older than you. My side of the family didn’t have much to do with Zio’s brother’s side of the family. Zio asked me, in not so many words, to look into it, just to see if I could turn anything up.’

  Dee said, ‘Yeah, but a murder, Matt? You don’t just go out and ‘see what you can turn up’. Isn’t that what the police do, or the detectives or something?’

  I nodded. ‘You know my family doesn’t really believe in what I do.’

  Dee dried the inside of a glass and remained silent. She placed it in an overhead cupboard and left the door open.

  ‘Are you even licenced to investigate a murder?’

  ‘It isn’t what I’m trained for, which I think is one of the reasons why I took this on. Insurance work is like watching paint dry, Dee. Not that I’m glad Rob is dead. Of course, I’m not. I think I needed something to keep my mind ticking over. This might sound stupid, but in some ways, I feel indebted to my uncle.’

  Dee remained silently judgmental.

  With each visit, I became more and more aware that I no longer contributed in any great way to their intuitive tribe, and felt clumsy in my efforts to fit in. It didn’t help that, for whatever reason, I felt a general disconnect from humanity, which only compounded my feeling of segregation from both Dee and Alice.

  Alice filled her glass with Coke, returned the bottle to the fridge, and emptied the glass in three gulps. When she put her head back to get the last dregs, her shirt rode up, and I noticed more puppy fat around her waist.

  ‘Dad, are you staying for a while?’

  I looked at Dee and she gave me a ‘sure why not’ look.

  ‘I’ll stick around for a little bit if it’s all right with your mum.’

  ‘Cool.’

  She went to run off, then stopped, turned, picked up her glass, rinsed it in the sink next to me, and passed it to Dee to dry. She then ran and fetched her iPad from the couch.

  When she returned, she showed me the screen. ‘Can you download this app on your phone? It’s this new game called Guess Who. We each pick a person and then we have to guess who the other person is, okay?’

  I grinned. ‘No worries. I’ll do it as soon as I’m finished here.’

  Alice disappeared, and I dumped a plate into the rack. ‘I don’t want Alice drinking Coke.’ I said.

  Dee snatched the plate. ‘It’s only sometimes.’

  ‘I’m just saying. Childhood obesity is on the rise—’

  ‘I know. I hear it every time I turn on the TV.’

  ‘And would it kill you to clean up around here?’

  ‘Matt, just don’t.’

  I took a deep breath and we both fell silent for a while.

  Dee picked up a plate and wiped it swiftly. ‘I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get Alice off the Coke if you get off my back about my lack of housekeeping skills.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘You can be a real boofhead sometimes, you know?’

  ‘I can be an arsehole too.’

  ‘No one’s doubting that.’

  We finally finished the washing up after two sink loads, then Dee went and occupied herself in her sewing room while I went to the lounge room.

  Alice sat on the couch with her tablet, her legs curled under her, trying to act nonchalant, even though she’d clearly overheard our argument.

  I playfully grabbed her ankle, tickled her foot, and sat at the opposite end of the couch.

  ‘All right,’ I said as I took out my phone and checked that it was turned on. ‘What’s this app called?’

  She stepped me through the download and we synched our devices via Bluetooth.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘See how’s there twenty faces? You pick a face, then I pick a face. You can be player one, and you can go first. We have to ask questions and find out which face you’ve picked. Okay? Ready? Go!’

  I loved the novelty of playing the old board game electronically. I made Alice laugh a few times, and that always thrilled me. Witnessing the nitty gritty daily life of the troika of Alice, Dee, and Brad made me yearn for a life of domesticity that I envied. I felt the outsider—the ins and outs of my child’s life forever contained within these walls. Parenting is the most rewarding thing I’ve ever felt, and the hardest. I doubt myself every day.

  After we played a few rounds, Alice said, ‘Hey, Dad, I’ve been practising the flip.’

  I eyed her mockingly. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘Come in the backyard. I’
ll show you.’

  I followed her out through the sliding door, and we took up positions on the lawn, facing each other.

  She came in quickly and accurately. She gripped my wrist, levered my weight, and although she didn’t flip me over she managed to lift me off the ground an inch, before collapsing on the grass out of breath.

  She sighed. ‘I’m not very good at it.’

  ‘Yes, you are. I’m genuinely impressed.’

  ‘Brad’s helped me with my core strength.’

  I nodded and felt another wedge come between us, a reminder that we spent more time apart than we did together.

  Dee appeared at the doorway. ‘Sorry. Alice has a playdate with Maddi. I was supposed to take her over. I completely forgot.’

  Alice gripped my arm and we made pouty sad faces at each other. She walked me back inside.

  I quickly ransacked the chocolate jar in the kitchen for a Flake, and Dee met us at the front door.

  ‘Don’t feel bad,’ Dee said. ‘Just call ahead next time. Okay?’

  ‘Will do. Have fun, ‘Lady A’.’

  I hugged Alice and she clutched me tight

  ‘Love you,’ she said. ‘See you in two weekends?’

  ‘Absolutely. Can’t wait. We’ll do something. I’ll pick you up at eight.’ I threw a chocolate into my mouth. ‘Ate. Get it?’

  Alice’s face went slack.

  ‘Never mind, Alice—bad Dad jokes.......’

  I let myself out, got into the ute, and started to pull out.

  Alice stood in the doorway waving.

  I waved back, and honked the horn all the way to the end of the street. I tried to stifle the empty, hollow sadness that crawled into my stomach, telling me there were only so many days that Alice would still want to play Guess Who? with her Dad.