‘Eating with us, guys?’ said the waiter, come from nowhere.
‘PJ,’ said Villani. ‘That’s your name?’
He didn’t look at the man, looked at the long-haired woman, she parted her lips, red as the rose beside Ma Quirk’s gate.
‘Certainly is,’ said the waiter.
Villani turned on him the full stare. ‘Two more, PJ. But not the nine glasses to the bottle.’
Lips licked, glasses collected. ‘Two Cold Hills coming up. Sir.’
The waiter left, he caught the women’s eyes and he made a small gesture with his hips.
‘I love it when you turn up the charm,’ said Dance.
‘The tape’s where?’
‘DPP.’
‘She’s the only witness to the taping?’
‘As I understand it,’ said Dance.
‘Video allegations of a man now dead about events fifteen years ago. Man saying he committed perjury then, now wants justice for Quirk.’
Dance looked at a palm, long fingers, deep lines. ‘They reopen, it’s not about justice. It’s politics.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I talked to a man who talked to a man knows the AG by sight. The word is DiPalma won’t reopen. But the Libs come in, they can skin a whole cage of furry animals at once. Cops in general, the old culture, corruption, Crucible. And Vick. They hate Vick. You, on the other hand, you’ll be collateral. No one hates you much. Just a select few. Like Searle.’
‘Add this waiter,’ said Villani.
‘Loves you, pants on fire. So fucking butch. We need serious thought.’
The waiter arrived. He landed glasses. ‘Brimming, sirs,’ he said. He put down a plate of six butterflied sardines, crumbed, grilled. ‘Enjoy.’
They watched him go.
‘Free food,’ said Villani. ‘That’s like the old days, that’s what I miss.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Dance. ‘I hear you were grazing on the little Wagyu burgers, Mr Barry’s showpony at Persius. Chatting to Max Hendry, our beloved Mr Cameron, world’s richest ex-cop.’
‘He’s lonely, Barry,’ said Villani.
‘Not the way I hear it.’
‘No?’
‘Ms Cathy Wynn gives comfort.’
‘What? Barry and Searle?’ said Villani.
‘No, not Searle. Searle’s an enabler. The boy tells me Ms Mellish wants Barry for El Supremo. Had him over at the house in Brighton for the little chat, meet the bluebloods.’
‘Swapping playlunch with Searle now?’
‘He tells me stuff. I don’t know why.’
‘To keep being your little friend.’
Dance fed himself a sardine, added olives, chewed for a while. ‘Let’s be clear what the position is,’ he said. ‘Shake one of us loose, we all get blown away. Lovett was a deranged person on the way out talking complete shit.’
‘That’s what it seems,’ said Villani, not easy.
‘It is so exactly. Something else. You remember Lovett tried to stiff me and Vick, that’s a year ago. Hundred grand or he leaves a shitbomb.’
Villani couldn’t look at Dance, he finished the wine, eyed the last stiff fishlet. ‘Want this?’
‘No.’
Villani ate the sardine, crunchy, hint of chilli.
‘Did I tell you then?’ said Dance. ‘I thought I did.’
‘Don’t quite remember that.’
‘Well, think about it,’ said Dance. ‘Dwell on it.’
The moment of their eyes.
‘Life’s short enough, Stevo,’ Dance said, ‘without two dead pricks fucking up what we’ve got left. We do what we have to, right?’
‘I see the force of that,’ said Villani.
Dance’s eyes flicked the room, he emptied his glass. ‘Up for it, this japanoid sheila,’ he said. ‘The place in Docklands, the sumo bed, the spa. Pity I’m so fucking pressed. Need a piss. You?’
‘No. Cameras in there.’
Villani watched Dance go, the women watched him, a long frame, held himself like Bob Villani, stick up his arse. He found the waiter’s eyes and made the sign. The man swept across.
‘Please be our guests, sir. You and Mr Dance.’
A worm moved under Villani’s scalp. ‘Thank you but no,’ he said. He found two twenties. ‘Change to the guide dogs.’
Dance returned. They went out. At his car, Dance offered a smoke. They stood, the traffic zipping metres away. It was dusk at ground level now, the light was yellow stained-glass panes between the buildings.
‘So the Mellish bitch,’ Dance said. ‘She needs to grasp something. You don’t make three senior officers walk the plank, then it’s back to the captain’s cabin for a fucking G and T.’
‘No?’
‘No. The officers will take HMS fucking Liberal Party down with them.’
‘I’m the man to tell her?’
‘Mr Barry. He needs to tell them he wants a clean slate. Ground Zero. Not putting on a backpack loaded with ancient shit. Heritage issues. That kind of thing.’
Villani’s mobile.
‘Boss,’ said Dove. ‘A bloke wants to talk to you. Just you, he won’t come in. He says he can do it now.’
‘About what?’
‘Prosilio. The girl.’
He saw Dance arc his half-smoked cigarette into the traffic, it hit a taxi wheel, sparked like a metal grinder.
‘Tell him the Somerset in Smith Street, half an hour,’ said Villani. ‘Pick me up across from the Grenville Hotel, that’s South Yarra. Both addresses in Melbourne. Reckon you can find them?’
‘Up all night studying Melways. Boss.’
Dance said, ‘Your old man okay?’
‘Good, yeah. Up there waiting for death by fire.’
‘Top bloke, Bob,’ said Dance. ‘Wish I’d had a dad like that.’
THE PUB wasn’t crowded, a dozen or so drinkers at the long bar, a few sad cases, a game of pool in progress. A man in a grey suit came in from the toilets and looked around the room, uneasy, black-framed glasses, not a pub drinker. He was in his thirties, ordinary height, balding neatly.
Villani lifted his beer, stood back. Their eyes met, the man’s mouth twitched, he walked around the pool table, found his beer bottle on the counter, came up.
‘Are you…’
‘The man who wants to talk to me,’ said Villani. ‘Let’s stand at the window.’
They went to the alcove, Villani made sure the man was facing outward so Dove could get a clear view of him.
‘I didn’t think this would happen,’ said the man. He had a snub nose, cupid lips, some older women would find him attractive, some men too.
‘What?’
‘You coming out to meet me.’
Villani drank beer. ‘We take things seriously,’ he said. ‘Also we take serious revenge on people who fuck with us.’
The man smiled, a smile that wanted to be confident. ‘I didn’t want to talk to underlings,’ he said. ‘I’m no stranger to the bureaucracy.’
‘Talk about what?’ ‘Confidentiality guaranteed?’
‘You’re a bloke in a pub, never seen you before,’ said Villani. ‘What’s your name?’
The man touched his upper lip, he hadn’t thought about this. ‘Need my name?’
Villani closed his eyes for a few seconds.
‘Okay. Don Phipps, that’s my name. But I don’t want my name attached to this.’
‘If you’re not involved in anything, that’s not a problem.’
‘I’m not. I worked for the state government, an advisor to Stuart Koenig, the infrastructure minister. Until last week.’
‘Yes?’
Phipps had a sip from his bottle. ‘Something happened about two weeks ago.’
‘Yes?’
‘I stayed at work late to finish a briefing paper for Stuart, it was a rush job, we were facing questions in parliament the next day. I thought I’d drop the brief at his place in Kew, he’s got a townhouse he stays at during the week. Put it in the mailbox, it’s a secure box, and ring him in the morning so he could have a look at it over breakfast.’
‘Love suspense,’ said Villani.
‘Sorry. Well, I had to park across the street down from the house and walk up and I was near the front gate when it opened and a woman came out.’