Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(49)
‘Friends of yours, are they Charlie?’
Berlin figured Fred must have walked across the lawn to join them, because he hadn’t heard him approach. The fact the old bloke was wearing carpet slippers would have helped.
‘Just having a bit of chat here, Fred, you should go back inside.’
‘You should probably listen to Charlie here, old-timer,’ Merv said. ‘Pop back inside and turn on the TV.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘One of those lunchtime shows for the ladies should be on soon enough.’
Fred shook his head. ‘Don’t have a TV. I prefer to tinker in my shed. I just wanted to show Charlie my latest invention.’
That was the moment Berlin noticed the length of iron water pipe in Fred’s hand.
Barry stepped forward, reaching for the pipe. ‘Listen, granddad, you don’t want to -OW! Jesus, f*ck me!’
Berlin was impressed. Fred was still pretty fast for an old bloke. The pipe had come out and down on the back of Barry’s outstretched hand so fast he’d almost missed it. Barry was bending over, doubled up in pain, shaking his right hand and swearing softly.
‘Now, let’s all calm down, shall we boys?’ Merv had his coat pulled back on the left side, showing the butt of a pistol in a leather shoulder holster.
Fred Monkford stepped forward, fronting him. The two men were almost nose to nose. ‘I’ll calm down just as soon as you two get to buggery off my nature strip.’
Barry had straightened up and was awkwardly turning to reach under the left side of his own jacket with his good left hand. Merv looked across at him and shook his head.
‘Leave it, Baz. We should probably get you to hospital and have that looked at. Bloody thing might be broken.’
Barry was waving his hand slowly up and down like he was trying to flick water off it. Berlin could already see a nasty bluish bruise spreading rapidly under the skin on the back of his hand.
Merv turned back and smiled at Fred. It was the same cold smile he’d given Berlin. ‘Old bloke here’s got a swing like Bradman.’
Fred didn’t seem inclined to accept the compliment. ‘Too bad if it is broken. You’re going to have to pull out your mate’s cock any time he needs to take a piss. Although I reckon you two probably have your hands on each other’s cocks on a regular basis.’
Berlin saw the tension in Merv’s jaw and the way his hands had balled up tightly into hard fists. Fred had taken a lot of punches in his time but the last one was a long while back. Berlin took the water pipe from the older man. ‘Let’s let it go, eh mate, they’re just leaving.’
The two men got into the Vauxhall. Barry, still swearing, settled into the passenger side of the front bench seat. He had the injured hand now tucked up into his left armpit and his eyes were squeezed shut from the pain. The Vauxhall’s engine started easily, settling quickly into a low rumble. Berlin walked around to the driver’s window.
‘You two didn’t have a word with a young copper named Roberts recently, by any chance? Say, last Saturday night?’
Merv was adjusting the car radio. He seemed uninterested in Berlin’s question. ‘Can’t say the name is familiar, but we’re very busy boys these days. I’d need to consult my notes but it doesn’t ring any bells. And Saturday night we were at a grand final piss-up, as I recall.’ He leaned his arm on the car door and looked up at Berlin. ‘I’ll tell you this for free, though, Charlie: you might think you’re a tough bugger, and the old bloke too, but you’re a couple of bloody creampuffs compared to the people you’re messing with. And this is Australia, mate, remember that. Hanging about with bloody foreigners might not be in your best interest. People who matter are paying attention.’
Berlin leaned in closer to the window. ‘You come back and bother the old bloke, or my family or any of my friends again, and I’ll find you and I’ll hurt you, both of you. I’ll hurt you bad, you got that?’
Merv glanced across to the passenger side of the car where Baz was curled up, nursing his wounded hand. ‘Sounds like a tough guy, doesn’t he Baz? Considering he lets an old bloke do his fighting for him.’ He turned back to Berlin. ‘Talk is cheap, DS Berlin, and like my old Sunday-school teacher used to say, when a bloke’s up to his neck in the shit it’s probably a good time for him to think about keeping his bloody mouth shut.’
The pressure of his grip on the water pipe had turned Berlin’s knuckles white. ‘Jesus Christ’, he said, ‘is everyone in Special Branch a prick like you?’
Merv smiled. ‘That’s right, Charlie. That’s what makes us special.’
He slipped the Vauxhall into gear and gunned the engine. As the car pulled away from the kerb a sharp burr on the tip of the steel pipe in Berlin’s hand tore a line in the shiny paintwork, right down to bare metal. The deep gouge ran from the driver’s door handle all the way back to the brightly chromed tail-light fitting.
THIRTY-TWO
Rebecca and the car were both gone when Berlin got home from Fred’s place with the pistol. A note on the table said she was in the city till the afternoon. She planned to pick up the kids from school on her way home, which he considered a stroke of luck. He could do what he needed to do and have the gun safely hidden away before anyone got back.
Berlin and Rebecca and the pistol had all connected at the same moment ten years back in the railways paymaster’s office in Wodonga, just hours after a violent armed robbery had torn the place apart. Berlin had found the paymaster’s Browning abandoned amongst the mess on the floor, and as he picked it up and dropped it into his coat pocket, a flashbulb had temporarily blinded him. That was his introduction to Rebecca.