‘I was parked down Chapel Street. We walked together, I had my arm around her. When we got to the car, I went to my side and she went around to the other side and then she ran away.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘She looked at me and she said, Mum, I can’t come home, and she ran off, around the corner.’
‘You follow her?’
‘I got in the car and drove around the corner. She was gone, she could have been hiding.’
‘Tell them at the station?’
‘They said they’d put out an alert for her.’
‘What the hell have we done to deserve this?’ Villani got out his mobile, walked through the house into the back yard, stood in the gloom, made two calls.
Laurie was in the kitchen. ‘Anything?’ she said.
‘Everybody’s looking for her. If she’s walking around, they’ll find her.’
‘What?’ Corin in the door, in pyjamas.
‘I went to pick up Lizzie at St Kilda police station,’ said Laurie. ‘She ran away.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, half an hour ago.’
‘How long was she there?’
‘Hours,’ said Villani. ‘I had a lot on.’
‘Jesus, Dad, why didn’t you ring me? I’d have picked her up.’
‘Didn’t think a bit of reality would hurt her,’ said Villani.
‘You stupid bastard,’ said Laurie. ‘Call yourself a father?’
He felt no anger, just a variety of contempt. ‘Listen, if you didn’t spend half your life in Queensland fucking bloody cameramen, this wouldn’t have happened.’
Laurie turned to Corin, ‘Go to bed, darling.’
Corin looked at Villani, held up her hands, ‘Dad, I said I’d look after her.’
‘I know,’ said Villani. ‘I know.’
‘If they find her, wake me,’ Laurie said, disgust on her mouth. ‘If you can be bothered.’
Villani went to Tony’s room in the back yard, had to wrench the door. The room held the smell of a cigarette smoker’s kiss. He felt his way to the bed, clicked the lamp. The bulb fizzed, electrocuted itself. He took off his clothes, lay on the bed naked, chest tight.
Think about something else. The smoke, it dated from the night Vic Zable got it in the carpark at the Arts Centre, the day Cashin’s brother tried to kill himself. How long ago was that? Six, seven months? It was winter. Cashin slept in this room. But before that they drank two bottles of red, both given the smokes away, smoked most of a packet, talked about the job, life, the choices, the fuck-ups…
He woke, sat upright, no sense of place, put his feet on the floor.
Where?
He remembered, and he lowered his forehead into his hands, rubbed his eyes with his thumbpads.
It was 7.15. He went into the day, hot already. Laurie’s car was gone. Corin was gone, bed made. He showered, shaved, dressed, packed his bags, took everything he still wore, threw the rest in the big bin. Then he drove away, stopped at the milk bar to buy cigarettes.
‘Smoking again?’ said the owner. ‘Work getting ya?’
‘Not at all,’ said Villani. ‘Having so much fucking fun it makes me want to smoke.’
In the car, smoking, no joy in it, he rang Kiely’s mobile.
‘They get anywhere on IDing the second bloke?’
‘Not yet,’ said Kiely. ‘Got his prints from Kidd’s place.’
‘Shit,’ said Villani. ‘Anyway, someone gave Kidd up. So first we need to scope ourselves. Every last person who could have done that. All calls out from the time Tracy ID’d him. That’s home, wife, children, the girlfriend, the boyfriend, the lot. Put Burgess to work.’
Kiely coughed. ‘Ah, this’ll take a while.’
‘Of course it’ll take a while. Everything takes a fucking while.’ He felt Kiely’s hatred enter his ear like warm olive oil.
…two still unidentified men died when their car crashed and exploded on the Western Ring Road just after midnight this morning…
He headed for Essendon.
IN THE big dim corrugated-iron room, light from the dirty clerestory windows, people skipping, on the bags, in the ring, Villani warmed up shadowboxing at the mirror, no skipping, he could not do that, he could not bear the jolting of the flab. He went on to the speedball, the double-end bag. Stopping, he felt weak in his legs and arms, his hands and elbows and shoulder joints hurt.
He caught the eye of Les in the ring, big sparring gloves on the rope, a tall, white, tattooed kid was getting out, blotches on his arms.
‘C’mere,’ Les said, beckoned with a glove.
Villani went across the cracked concrete, it held the sweat of sixty years.
‘Where you bin?’ said Les. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Work,’ said Villani. ‘Work and sleep.’
‘Fucken tub of lard,’ said Les. ‘Lookit your legs, fucken cellulite.’
‘Just two, three kilos,’ said Villani. ‘Drop it any time I like.’
‘Get in here, drop it with me,’ said Les. ‘Let’s have a little touch-up, sixty-six next birthday, how’s that suit you? A bit young for you, cop bastard?’
If he invited you, you had to. Otherwise the place became less welcoming, you had to think about another gym, but there were no other gyms like Bombers except a place in Richmond that was even more clubby, it didn’t welcome refugees from Bombers.
Les’s amateur record was fifty-one fights, thirty-eight wins, a lightweight, eleven TKOs, he never knocked out a single man, he didn’t have the punch, but no one ever knocked him out either. He was a no-nonsense fighter, he wasn’t a dancing fool or a slapper. In the pros, his career was short: eleven and four, lost his last three, knocked out twice in a row. The second time, he woke up in the ambulance. And he then showed that he wasn’t stupid. He gave it away and began another life: a stablehand, track rider, assistant gym manager, trainer, up at four, bed by nine.
Villani put on a headguard, approached the ring, bugger mouthguard, he wasn’t going to be hit in the mouth.
Les pointed at his mouth. ‘Got the falsies now? Don’t need teeth?’
Villani went to his bag, found the guard, God knew what germs it harboured.
Once, in the early days, he watched Les sparring with a man thirty kilos heavier, a full head and shoulders taller, a North Melbourne football star, a man who fancied himself as a fighter, now a legend, you heard him on the radio talking about the good old days, how tough it was, the blokes he’d flattened. Les was hitting him at will, not hard, stinging him. The man lost control, the red mist, forgot about boxing and went for Les, tried to grab him. Les moved back, stood flatfooted. He hit the man in the face two or three times, then in the ribs, both hands, four or five punches so fast you couldn’t distinguish them.
The man dropped his arms, sagged, staggered away trying to breathe, hung onto the rope to keep upright, dry-retched.
‘Don’t open up like that, mate,’ said Les, ‘somebody’ll hurt you.’ He beckoned to his next partner.
In the ring now, Villani went straight for the small lean man, Les had contempt for any messing about, had no time for circling and waving. ‘Save that for when you’re in the shit,’ he said.
Les stood, perfect stance, thin white legs, little white socks, hands not moving, mouth running, watch me, watch me hands, jeez you’re lookin slow, sonny, so fucken slow, watch me…
They exchanged feints, Villani got caught in the face, not hard, get yer hands up, not fucken Ali, picked up his hands and took a left and a right in the bottom ribs, it hurt, Les started taking him right, not his good side, he never had a good side, he got a left hand in, Les blinked-hey, hey, hit an old man, typical fucken cop.
He met Xavier Dance at Bombers, he would have been nineteen then. Dance was a year or two older, a good boxer, stylish, but he had rushes of blood to the head, lost his concentration. Also he didn’t like being hurt. There was still cop boxing then, they fought for the cop title twice, one-all, Villani thought he’d done enough to win the second one. Matt Cameron, the boss of the Robbers, was there that night, he came around and said, ‘Ever think about the Robbers? You might be a handy bloke.’