Blindside Read online

  He was enjoying his freedom—the idea of it, the fact that he could wander down the street to the corner shop to buy cigarettes and a newspaper, the PM edition of the Herald Sun, and exchange brief pleasantries with the shopkeeper. People were so damn civil. On the way back a man with a small white dog on a leash smiled and wished him good evening. There had been a heavy shower, and steam wafted up from the pavement. It felt good to be alive—and free. No screws slapping nightsticks against their thighs, no pig swill served up as food, no electric fences and razor wire, clanging cell doors, lights out and then the tortured sounds of men jacking off in the privacy only darkness provided. No more being caged up all day and night with psychotics and desperate, drug-addicted lowlifes. He was noticing wholesale change, too: the city skyline, which seemed to have been swallowed up by glass-sheathed towers, including the casino/hotel complex that soared over everything on the revamped Southbank; the cars, which—like the glass towers—all looked the same, sleek and futuristic; clothes, cafes, apartments, every damn thing. Even the trams and trains were different. People were younger, fitter and better dressed than they used to be, and most of them had a mobile phone. Everywhere he looked there was evidence of new prosperity and vast amounts invested in property development. It was as if, in the last eleven years, the floodgates had opened and washed away the old drab face of the capital, transforming it into a more glamorous one.

  But not here,not in the precious enclave of East Melbourne. In this neighbourhood, early evening sunlight slanted onto the stately homes and solid apartment blocks like rare gold. Even the air smelled special: it was the scent of spring blooms, fresh-washed bitumen and above all money—lots of old money. That was something he thought he could relate to.

  He was sitting in a plush leather lounge chair reading the paper with a Heineken long-neck on the table beside him while Jo watched the Channel 10 five o’clock news on the Grundig wide-screen digital TV. It was no more than background noise—his attention had been claimed by a short item on page 5.

  Fears Held For Missing Hiker

  By Brian Croft

  19 September 2003

  Police and Emergency Services volunteers commenced a full-scale search this morning for a man believed to be lost in rugged bush country near Buzzards Hut, in the state’s northeast. The missing man, Bernard Walsh, was last seen on Tuesday night at the Scotchman’s Reef cabins, where he was staying. It is believed he set out hiking early yesterday, and has not been seen since. Sergeant Ken Swabey, coordinating the search, said today that grave fears were held for Mr Walsh’s safety.

  ‘We understand he was quite well equipped for a daytime hike, when conditions are reasonable, but spending the night in sub-zero temperatures in rugged, mountainous country like this is a different story. Apparently he is a former police officer and an experienced bushwalker, so he may have been able to survive last night, but if we don’t find him by nightfall today his chances obviously diminish rapidly.’

  Mr Walsh’s car, a recent-model Ford Falcon, was found parked on a dirt road outside Buzzards Hut, from where he apparently began hiking in heavily wooded country. His exact plans are not known, as he was travelling alone. Speaking from their home in Melbourne, Mr Walsh’s wife Rae said she did not know where her husband had gone.

  ‘He left on Monday night without telling me his plans. It is not unusual—he often takes off on his own without explanation. But I can’t imagine Bernard ever being in difficulties. He is such a capable man. It’s unusual that he has vanished like this, but I’m sure he is all right.’

  ‘Look at this,’ Jo was saying.

  Shaun looked up from the paper. On the screen was a chopper flying over dense, mountainous bush country. A reporter sitting inside it was telling the viewers that searchers had so far found no sign of Bernard Walsh, the 60-year-old retired police officer who had disappeared.‘A search of his car failed to turn up any useful information,’ he shouted against the chopper noise.‘No-one knows where he intended hiking or when he planned to return. It’s freezing cold and raining at the moment down there, and snow threatens. Police say the overnight temperature will fall to around 7 below zero, so if he’s not found in the next few hours it doesn’t look good.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Jo said. ‘He went missing when we were there. And he was staying in those cabins—Scotchman’s Reef.’

  ‘Apparently,’ Shaun said. He was looking fixedly at the screen, not her—but her eyes were on him and he knew it— felt it.

  ‘Do you know this guy?’ she said softly, significantly, and sipped from her cut-glass goblet of white wine.

  Now he had to look at her, and as soon as he did so it was as if he had revealed a full hand of cards. Concealment was not an option now. But . . . how best to play it?

  ‘I did know him,’ he said. ‘Slightly. A long time ago.’

  Again she sipped, still watching him—waiting for more. Shaun was thinking it through, his brain racing, trying to see ahead, weighing up alternatives . . .

  And then it hit him.

  If he was serious about her—and he believed he was—he would have to spill everything: the whole, sorry saga.

  There could be no half-measures. He had to trust her— wanted to trust her. What was the point of being rich and lonely?

  She watched him with patience, her face still, expressionless, waiting for him to arrive at the moment independently. He felt as if it were a test. If he lied to her now, it was all over.

  ‘When you picked me up outside the hotel,’ she said,‘you were . . . dirty. How come?’

  He drank from the Heineken bottle, set it down and leaned forward in his seat. Leather squeaked.

  ‘I was dirty, wasn’t I?’ he said.

  ‘And you’d been exerting yourself. You were physically spent. As if you’d been . . . working, climbing, or doing some hard labour.’

  ‘That’s right. I was. I had been.’

  ‘Did you know he—this Bernard Walsh—was staying at the same cabins?’

  ‘No.’ Shake of the head.

  Truth was transparent—anyhow she seemed to accept that answer. But why wasn’t he keen to tell her more?

  ‘You were a cop, weren’t you?’ she said.

  Clever girl. ‘Guilty. How’d you work that one out?’

  ‘From the tattoo—the crossed pistols. It means something special, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well done. Should’ve been a goddamn cop yourself.’

  She nodded, still thinking. Seemingly she was in no hurry to unwrap the intrigue surrounding him, as if it were a parlour game. Now it was her move again.‘So is there anything you’d like to share with me? I mean . . . only if you want to. I don’t mean to pry.’

  There it was. The matter was now at hand, and a big decision was called for. Crossroads lay before him. He’d been there before, read the signposts, made life-changing choices— only to find out too late that he’d taken the wrong turning.

  And now?

  Now it was different. He was older, smarter. Firmly in the driver’s seat.

  He wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. And sooner or later you have to trust someone. Who better than the female form of himself?

  Fuck it. Confession time.

  He drained the Heineken bottle and said, ‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’

  She could hear him coming back up the stairs several minutes later—laboring, as if he were carrying something heavy. When he walked in with an old, rusted chest, an ancient model with cracked leather straps, she didn’t say anything, didn’t move.

  He set it down heavily on the floor, and knelt. She could see the padlock had been recently snapped apart.

  ‘Show and tell time,’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ she said in her cool, noncommittal way. Sitting in a Queen Anne-style chair she held one of his Luckies between her fingers, and now she drew deeply on it. He watched the thick smoke plume from her mouth, and then raised the lid.

  Joanna didn’t say anything. Her face ga
ve nothing away as she stared at the contents of the old chest. There was simply no reaction—it might have been empty.

  He was prepared to wait, as she had been. This moment would decide everything.

  Thirty seconds passed before she exhaled more smoke and said softly, ‘Holy. Fucking. Christ.’

  Shaun knelt with his hands resting on his thighs. He didn’t speak—there was nothing to say yet.

  ‘How much is it?’ she said, eyes fixed on the tightly packed wads of currency, all fifties and hundreds, that three-quarter filled the chest.

  ‘Two point eight million,’ he said. ‘And some loose change.’

  In time she tore her eyes away from the spectacle of so much cold cash and met his gaze.

  Shaun said,‘Do you think there’d be a decent bottle of red wine in that banker’s cellar?’

  ‘I’m certain of it,’ she said.‘How about French? As I told you, he has a second to none collection of premium vintage.’

  ‘Bring it up,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you a story.’

  ‘This is going to be some story, right?’

  ‘Uh huh. It’s never been told before, either.’

  ‘Could take more than one bottle of wine.’

  He smiled at last—it was the first crack in her cool, self-assured façade, the first sign she was entering into the contract. ‘Could take a dozen. Maybe even the rest of your life,’ he said.

  5

  A good day in Carlton—after noontime, Lygon Street: dappled spring sunshine filtering through the heavily leafed plane trees onto the pavement, plenty of strollers, office slaves out for lunch, babes, regular denizens of the famous strip. Stan Petrakos felt at ease here. This was his turf, he was known by all the main players—restaurant and cafe owners, hairdressers, Percy Jones down at Percy’s Bar and Bistro. One of the most important things in life was to be known, recognised—have heads turn in the street and hear the whispers: ‘Look—Stan Petrakos.’

  Stan Petrakos—cock of the walk: cruising the strip in his vintage Dino Ferrari, the red one with the STAN 1 tag. The car was nearly as recognisable as he was.

  Lunchtime, and Stan was ready to eat. He’d got up late and had no breakfast—just coffee and cigarettes. His stomach was growling like the Ferrari motor on a cold morning. He had on the sapphire-black wraparound Ray-Bans, the blue-and-white loose-fitting tracksuit in crushed parachute silk, brand-new orange-and-white Fila cross-trainers. On his hairy chest and shoulders around a kilo and a half of fine gold chains and a couple of shark’s teeth set in gold nuggets the size of his little fingernails. The jewellery matched Stan’s own teeth, which were seventy-five percent precious metal. He was feeling a bit seedy from a long night at his favourite nightclub—Joe Micek’s rave venue, Trader Joe’s—but the first drink would fix that. Always did. There was something else troubling his mind, however, that no amount of beer would fix—a longstanding matter that crackled and spat like wires shorting out in the back of his skull. It was a message from the past, pointing the way to his future. This was all carved in stone—immutable and inescapable, and it was why he’d gone out and got smashed at Joe’s. It was why he got smashed routinely, sniffed marching powder and sucked down the green Mitsubishi pills, raved all night, punched heads in lavatories and pushed along the Ferrari, clocking 220 km/h on one occasion, according to the police report.

  He swung by the restaurant strip just south of Faraday Street, where the effusive greeters proliferated, urging passersby into their establishments. Stan knew them all by name. Even though he was of Greek origin and they were Italian, he had developed a close rapport with these people, and they more or less spoke the same language. When they saw Stan coming they made way, welcomed him heartily, offered him the best table in the place. It didn’t occur to Stan that they did the same for everyone. Cigarette lighters were conjured the instant he slid a Marlboro between his lips. They treated him with respect, as if he were a capo—a man of importance who could arrange for problems to go away. This reputation stemmed largely from an episode going back a few years—a restaurateur was stressing about this longstanding local hardman, Lou Galvano, doing the biz in his place, actually moving product and receiving cash for all and sundry to witness. This was bad for business. But after a visit from Stan at his rat-hole, Galvano suddenly saw fit to take an extended holiday overseas, and hadn’t been sighted since. That cemented Stan’s place in the world—at least in his own mind.

  Today it was Gianni Palmieri’s Ristorante D’alla Umbria, an old-fashioned, upscale eatery in which the waiters wore long white aprons so stiff with starch you could crack eggs on them. Upstairs was the oak-panelled room with the silver service, cut-glass crystal and candelabra, where Stan sometimes dined. It was modelled on the more famous Grossi Florentino in town, but wasn’t quite as chic or expensive. All the waiters were middle-aged or ancient—they looked like superannuated Mafia factotums. They were slow, they spoke little English, they smelled of tobacco and hair oil, they didn’t smile—but they produced top food and wines. Gianni Palmieri was a Lygon Street patriarch with a polished, severe countenance; his smile was that of a contract killer pulling on the black gloves. Stan was starving as Gianni showed him to his table on the terrace, sunshine streaming in, people walking past, glancing his way and whispering to each other.

  He threw his Ferrari keyring, phone and cigarettes on the table and leaned back, stretching his muscles and cracking a few stiff joints. Soon an aged and Brilliantined waiter brought him a chilled Peroni beer and a tall pilsener glass from the refrigerator. With a slightly trembling hand he poured the amber fluid, dipped his head and withdrew—almost backwards, as if Stan were royalty. Beautiful—fucking ace.

  He took a long pull of the Peroni then, seeing Gianni cruising by, nonchalantly slid a cigarette into his mouth. Gianni was there in an eyeblink, lighter at the ready. There was a slight breeze, and Stan cupped the flame as he leaned into it.

  ‘Thank you, Gianni,’ he said, exhaling smoke at the same time.

  Gianni nodded once, and smiled his grave executioner’s smile. ‘Pleasure, Mr Stan—nice to see you again. How is business? Good?’

  It was a standard question, nothing more than a formality: a Lygon Street ritual. Gianni had only the vaguest notion of what Mr Stan’s ‘business’ might entail, and no interest at all, but that didn’t matter. It was a code word, a conversation-opener.

  ‘Business is just fine, Gianni,’ he said. ‘Please, sit down.’

  But Gianni was already shaking his head, as Stan knew he would. Gianni never sat with the customers. ‘Too busy, unfortunately. I have a new chef starting today.’

  ‘Oh? What happened to . . . what was his name again?’ Stan had no idea, had never known the man’s name.

  ‘Tim. He’s opening his own place at the casino. Good chefs—they all do that eventually. Because they can cook they think they can run a restaurant. Crazy—they must be crazy. If you could only have a restaurant with no chef—that would be perfect.’ He waved dismissively and departed.

  ‘Crazy,’ Stan said to himself.‘Crazy, man. Cra-zy.’He drank more Peroni, set down the glass, pushed up the shades with his stumpy forefinger as he noticed a stunningly gorgeous straw blonde stroll into the restaurant. Early twenties,solarium-tanned skin,nice upturned tits. Neat little shades.Professional-looking: expensive outfit, black Gucci handbag, laptop computer slung over her shoulder. She glanced in Stan’s general direction, saw nothing of interest,then the ancient Brilliantined waiter showed her to a table on the other side of the terrace. Stan lowered his shades and picked up the menu as her boyfriend came in. He was a bleach-blond surfer-boy in a fancy charcoal suit and patterned silk vest—fucking stockbroker or something.

  Stan Petrakos was no conventional chick magnet, although he did possess an animalistic charm in certain quarters— fetishistic women who fancied a taste of the lash or a split lip prior to orgasm. He was ugly-attractive in a way that defied definition, and his features seemed to change according to his mood. Never
for him the gallery or cocktail circuit—not with a scarred, pitted face and neck from severe acne, the squat, boxy body shape courtesy of his father’s genes and the chronic dead man’s breath he’d suffered all his life due to his complete neglect of oral hygiene. For that reason he always carried a pack or two of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers, on his person and in the Ferrari. At thirty-seven years of age his tightly curled black hair was racing backwards like a fucking grass fire, although the rest of his torso—including his back—was as thick with it as a baboon’s. This, he learned early, was a definite no-no babewise—one look at his furry birthday suit and they were fucking gone. At one stage he’d thought seriously about having it all removed by electrolysis, but now it didn’t bother him. To cover the galloping baldness he wore his hair close-cropped, a number two, which revealed several jagged white scars on his cranium from various physical encounters. He wore a pencil-thin beard all the way around his jawline, connecting with a meticulously razored moustache; rows of rings pierced his ears and brows and a tattoo of a star with a fist punching through it hid behind his left ear.

  He was perusing the menu, trying to choose between the roasted split bird—poussin—and the veal shanks, when his miniature phone chirruped.

  ‘Ye-ah.’

  ‘Hi. How’re you doin’, Wolfman.’

  Stan’s gal-pal—Suzen Christopher. Or, as she spelled it now, Cristofa.

  ‘Doin’ good. Even better soon with some food inside of me.’

  ‘Whereabouts are you?’

  ‘I’m at the Umbria, on Lygon. You know it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘We been there, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. What’re you doin’ now?’

  ‘Matter of fact I’m . . . actually I’m just painting my toenails. Metallic green.’

  ‘Well . . . whyn’t you get your butt into gear and come and have a bite of lunch?’ Suzen lived in Fitzroy—she could be there in ten minutes.