‘What’s the connection?’
‘Hotel’s part-owner of the carpark. Guest parkin. Carpark employs three blokes on eight-hour shifts, hotel provides security. In theory. This fella, he worked there eighteen months.’
‘The name again?’
‘Rick Chaffee. Two complaints about extra Ks appearin on the clock while he was there. One bloke from Adelaide had a logbook, he reckoned someone took his Discovery for a 200K spin.’
Cam edged out for a look, came back in. He was wearing Western District casual attire today, navyblue brushed-cotton shirt, heavy moleskin trousers, short riding boots. ‘On the day, this Chaffee, his story is he was on the phone, he thought he recognised the driver of the Land Cruiser, let him out without checkin ID. Honest mistake.’
‘They buy that?’
Cam shrugged. ‘What can you prove? Sacked him. Cops run the tape over him, the hotel bloke says. No form to speak of, some kid stuff in WA, he’s a WA boy, Mangoup, Banjoup, one of those up towns, they got hundreds. Plus he’s got an assault when he was a bouncer in King Street.’
He was steering with his fingertips, head back, index fingers tapping to the music, soft Harry Connick. ‘Worth a yarn, I reckon.’
‘If the bloke’s in this,’ I said, ‘it’ll take more than a yarn.’
Cam’s dark eyes lay on me for a moment.
I went back to reading the Age. The story at the bottom of page one was headlined: Call for Cannon Ridge tender probe.
It opened: The State Government was last night urged to hold an inquiry into the tendering process that awarded a 100-year lease on the Cannon Ridge snowfield and a mini-casino licence to a company associated with Melbourne’s millionaire Cundall family.
The company, Anaxan Holdings, has a glittering list of shareholders, including some of Australia’s Top 100 richest. A spokesman for shortlisted rival bidder WRG Resorts told a press conference yesterday that WRG has evidence that Anaxan knew details of all tenders before the vital second round of bidding.
The Minister for Development, Tony DiAmato, said WRG Resorts had not approached him. ‘I have no idea what they’re talking about. The previous government awarded this tender. We fought the whole idea of a private snowfield and another casino, everyone knows that. But it’s done, it’s history.’
Cam said, ‘I read that stuff you sent me. The Saint’s big with your crim tatt artist.’
I folded the paper. ‘That’s what my bloke said. Use half the phone book.’
I’d sent him the yellow A4 envelope left for me at Meaker’s, sent it by express courier, fat and silent Mr Cripps behind the wheel of his burnished 1976 Holden.
‘It’s down here,’ said Cam.
We turned right off the Hume, drove through a light industrial area, bricks, concrete products, pipes, turned left and went a long way, to the end of an unpaved road. Ahead, a sign on a wavy corrugated-iron fence was falling over. It said, no punctuation, Denver Garden amp; Building Supplies Plants Sand Soil Gravel Pavers Sleepers. The gate was half-open, drawn back until its sagging tip dug into the ground.
Cam nosed around it, parked in front of a long cement-sheet building, flat-roofed, meagre shelter over the door, one small window. Beside the door, three bags of cement had solidified, fused. We got out.
To the left of the gate was what remained of the Plants division of the business: a copse of birch trees in black plastic root bags, leaning inward, touching, dead; a conifer fallen over but indomitable, roots broken through the seams of the plastic bag and penetrating the packed soil; a row of concrete pots growing couch grass in abundance; some sad roses clinging to life, sparse leaves spotted with yellow.
The sound of a machine came from beyond the building. We walked around, passed an old pale-blue Valiant, buffed up, saw an expanse of dark, wet, rutted ground, big concrete pens holding gravel and sand, mulch, compost, other dark substances, everything untidy, spilling out of the enclosures, crushed into the ground.
The machine was a mid-sized lifter and it was moving rocks from one part of the yard to another, television-sized rocks for adding character to small, flat blocks in the outer suburbs.
We walked towards it and the driver saw us coming, the light glinted on his dark glasses as he looked our way, kept on going to his new pile, dumped the load with a crash, reversed the machine, gunned it back to the mother lode, took the bucket down, stuck it in with a ghastly screech, lifted, rocks falling out, swung around, went back, lifted the bucket to dump.
We were close, in the noise. The man turned his head towards us. Cam raised a hand, palm outward.
Bucket poised, the man cut the motor. He was big, no neck or chin to speak of, peaked cap too small for his long hair, tiny nose, arms like sewer pipes, belly hanging over a wide leather belt.
‘Yah?’
‘Rick Chaffee,’ said Cam. It wasn’t a question.
‘Want somethin?’ The man’s voice was reedy, not congruous with the body.
‘Few words about the parking garage.’
‘What?’
‘Curtin parking garage. You worked there.’
‘Jacks?’
‘No.’
‘I’m workin here,’ the man said. ‘Busy.’
‘Be a good idea to talk to us,’ Cam said.
‘Yah. Why’s that?’
‘You could be in trouble.’
Chaffee shook his head. ‘Not cops?’
‘No.’
He swivelled in his seat, stood up on the platform of the machine, towered over us, our heads at his knee-level. ‘What’s your name?’ he said to Cam.
‘Bruce,’ said Cam.
Chaffee drew on his sinuses, not an engaging sound, and spat to Cam’s right.
‘Bruce’s not a coon name,’ Chaffee said. ‘You look like you got a bit of coon in you.’
Cam turned his head to me, eyes full of resignation. ‘Far as I’m concerned,’ he said quietly, ‘you stayed in the car.’
‘We should leave,’ I said, more than uneasy, much, much more. ‘There are other ways.’
‘Won’t take long,’ Cam said. ‘Since we’re here.’
He turned back to Chaffee. ‘All I want to do is ask you about the Curtin carpark.’ Pause. ‘Mr Chaffee.’
Chaffee put a hand into an armpit, scratched. ‘Busy, boong, fuck off.’
Cam looked down, shook his head, coiled, sprang, hooked his right arm around Chaffee’s knees, pulled the big man out of the machine with one twisting movement, brought him over his head and dumped him.
Chaffee made a sound like a kicked dog as he hit the wet ground. He rolled over, balled himself, he was no stranger to being kicked, would try to grab the foot, the leg.
Cam stood back. ‘Get up, Ricko,’ he said, ordinary tone. ‘I’m in a good mood.’
Chaffee got up, wary of a surprise, but when he was on his feet, I could see he liked this turn of events. ‘Hey,’ he said, taking off the dark glasses, throwing them to one side, his eyes flicking to me. ‘Hey, no reason to fucken do that, really fucken stupid. Fucken boong stupid.’
Cam took a step closer, inside the range of the big arms, his hands at shoulder height, loose fists. He was as tall as Chaffee but 20 kilograms lighter. Chaffee put his head to one side.
‘Cocky fucken boong,’ he said, then grabbed at Cam’s shirtfront, lunging, forehead dropped for the butt.
Cam went forward, into the lunge, his right hand travelled upward no more than 10 centimetres, a corkscrewing fist that made contact with Chaffee’s nose, brought the man’s head up, opened his eyes wide with pain, his arms falling to his sides, cap falling off.
Cam took another pace, in close, hit him again, the same short, twisting punch, this time high in Chaffee’s chest, in the left collarbone. I thought I heard it break.
Chaffee went down, on one knee, both hands at his nose, blood running through his fingers. Cam put his hand in the man’s hair, pulled him forward, dragged him across the muddy, rutted ground, Chaffee moaning, not resisting.