When I arrived a dozen bikes were in action. They were roaring, and there were at least fifty more lined up ready to roar. There was more leather and denim and greasy hair than at the Altamont Speedway in 1969, and a good scattering of what De Witt called civilians as well. Some long hairs, some baldies, some boozers, some pot heads. I was in my jeans and flannie and, having a heavy beard, I had a strong stubble sprouting. I also had a plastic-looped six pack. I got out of the car and began to wander around, swigging from a can and trying not to stumble over the discarded cans and bottles or slip on the oil slicks. There was no security that I could see. Again, De Witt seemed to have got it right. This was a no-go zone for the forces of law and order and respectability.
Within half an hour I was approached four times: twice by buyers and twice by sellers. I fended them off until I decided my presence would look suspicious. The fifth approach was from a man in leather pants, high-laced hiking boots and an Afghan jacket that looked to date back to the time when people wore Afghan jackets.
‘Lookin’ for something, dude?’ he said in an accent that might’ve been American. I had to lean down closer to hear him over the revving of the bikes.
‘Could be.’ I detached a can from the loop and handed it to him.
‘Thanks. Pills, pot or pussy?’
I laughed and he took me by the arm and led me to a shadowy spot behind an ancient Land Cruiser whose headlights were dimming.
‘What the fuck’re you doing here?’ he hissed.
‘What?’
‘You’re a cop. It sticks out like dog’s balls.’
‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘You’re in the way. Sorry, but I’ve gotta do this.’
He raised his can as if to drink from it and that’s the last movement I registered. What followed was a blur and a bump and the loud, flickering, petrol-smelling scene slipped away from me as I went down a long slope into a quiet, dark place.
14
When I came around I was sitting in the passenger seat of a Land Cruiser, seatbelt on, depleted six pack at my feet. As far as I could tell, nothing was broken and nothing hurt more than usual. The man in the Afghan jacket was sitting next to me, smoking. The smoke made me cough.
‘How d’you feel?’ The doubtful American accent was gone.
‘Shithouse, at being taken down so easily.’
‘You were off guard, Mr Hardy, and I’ve had the training. Sorry I took you for a cop, but you had the look. Too much of the look.’
‘So why…?’
‘Try to work it out.’
I looked him over and thought about it. Almost too good to be true, the way he looked, and the ease with which he’d handled me suggested intensive training.
‘Undercover?’
He shrugged. ‘You said it, not me.’
My wallet was sitting on the dashboard in front of me, lying open. I’d left it under the seat of the Mitsubishi. This
114
guy knew his business. When I was sure I could move, I looked out to right and left and then straight ahead. Blackness all around. I took the wallet, closed it and stuffed it in the pocket of my shirt.
‘Okay, you know who I am and I suppose I know what you’re doing, or what you suggest you’re doing. Undercover, sure. Easy to say. Trouble is, you’ve probably got no way of proving it.’
‘I could’ve turned you over to the bikies. They don’t make much distinction between private detectives and cops.’
Probably true. I leaned down and pulled a can from the loop. My finger was clumsy in the ring pull but I managed. The beer was still cold so not too much time had elapsed. Good detecting. Could’ve looked at my watch. The period of unconsciousness had scrambled me a little. I drank some more beer and he took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘So where do we go from here?’ I said.
‘Your car’s parked behind us. You piss off back to wherever you came from.’
‘Maybe we could help each other.’
‘I put in a call on you, mate. You tend to help yourself first and foremost.’
I drank some more beer to get rid of the metallic taste of the first swigs. The taste persisted. It felt as if I could taste my teeth although there’s no metal in them these days. Ceramic. ‘Private enterprise,’ I said. ‘Want a beer?’
He crushed out his smoke in the ashtray and accepted a can. His age was hard to guess under the stubble and with the hair. His fingernails were black-rimmed and he smelled of tobacco, marijuana and motor oil. He looked the real thing, semi-feral, but there was an edginess about him, an alertness under the grunge.
‘I’m investigating a suspicious death down here and there’s been a murder since. I-’
He made an impatient gesture after cracking the can. ‘I know what you’re doing. I told you I put in a call.’
‘To Barton in Bellambi or Farrow in Wollongong?’
He took a long drink and grinned. The beer, just having it in his hand, was relaxing him and I realised how tightly wound he’d been. Still was. ‘You’re not popular with either of ’em.’
‘Being popular’s not my go. I think there’s something big going on down here. Maybe it’s in the planning stage, but there’s some money on offer and I think Adam MacPherson’s murder’s got something to do with it. You must know he was dealing… supplying might be a better word. Supply suggests a source.’
‘They say you’re a talker, but I haven’t heard anything yet.’
He’d downed most of the can and slid a little lower in the seat. Earlier, he’d been darting looks out into the night. Fewer of them now.
‘Yes you have,’ I said. ‘You’re major crimes or drug squad. Maybe both. Probably with some Internal Affairs briefing as well. You know manufacture and distribution are being… facilitated down here.’ I pointed a finger out into the darkness, although whether in the right direction or not I had no idea. ‘That was a no-go zone within ten miles of the Wollongong CBD. Come on.’
‘Miles,’ he said.
‘Call me old fashioned.’
He swilled the can and lifted it to his ear to judge the amount left. A cautious drinker, or possibly an undercover technique. ‘Okay, say you have some idea of what might be going on. How can you help?’
I shook my head. ‘How you can you help me?’
‘Jesus, Hardy. Ten more minutes back there in that fuckin’ flannie with the swinging dick six pack and the ex-army strut and you’d have been bent over a Honda being asked questions with a bike chain.’
I had to laugh-partly acknowledgment of a truth, partly embarrassment. ‘I think if I can talk to a certain person I can get a bit further inside what might be going on. If you’re the shit-hot undercover guy you come across as, you just might know her.’
‘Try me.’
‘Wendy Jones.’
He emptied his can and crushed it, probably an obligatory gesture in the circles he’d been moving in. ‘I know her,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better have a proper talk. Where’re you staying?’
I told him and he said he’d get me back on a road I’d recognise and then follow me to the motel. Handed me my keys. I asked him how he managed to get my car to where it was without anyone asking questions.
‘Most of ’em are either too pissed to notice or too busy watching their bikes or their backs. You wouldn’t believe the fights that go on. Anyone noticing would most likely think I was stealing it. Give me a cheer. You all right to drive?’