After the kidnapper had called, we all had breakfast and discussed what else we needed to do before tomorrow. There wasn’t a whole lot we could do. Big Oakie had to get the rest of the cash. That wouldn’t take him long. He figured he’d have it all by early morning and Tiny and Kevin were going to go along and lend a hand. As for me, well, I had a small shopping list of things to get together. Around nine we went our separate ways, agreeing to meet up again at Oakie’s place early on Saturday morning.
My old VW Transporter van was parked outside where I’d left it. It was getting on in years and looked a little out of place among the prestige cars in leafy Mont Albert Road. I’d first bought it when I’d taken up surfing years ago. The advantages of storing boards and changing into a wetsuit on a cold morning inside a van far outweigh the attractions of some sporty little coupe. Besides, I’d had some treasured surfing treks up and down the east coast in that VDub. So I’d stuck with the old bus even though I could probably afford the repayments on something newer. But I was a long way from any surf breaks. Here in safe, prosperous Balwyn, mothers were driving their kids from big houses with lush gardens to expensive private schools. Except this neighbourhood didn’t seem quite so safe any more.
Before I could turn the key in the ignition, my mobile rang. It was Kate.
‘Hi, Punter. It’s me. I need to talk to you about a horse I’m buying into. Can you check it out for me, tell me what you think?’
Hardly anyone calls me by my first name, especially exgirlfriends. Kate was a crime reporter with The Age. A more unlikely looking crime journalist you’d be hard-pressed to find. She was a slim brunette somewhere in her late twenties, which made her several years younger than me. She had ocean-blue eyes and a waist slim enough to clasp both hands around when you made love to her. I knew, I’d managed it once before and I’d been trying for a repeat performance over the past couple of years without any luck. We’d made the mistake of having sex on our first date. Well, I didn’t think it was a mistake. I still thought about it. A lot.
We’d met at one of those Derby Eve Balls where everyone drinks too much champagne and swaps tables with everyone else. I ended up on hers and I never left. Except to take her home, where we fucked each other greedily for what was left of the night. The next day she told me it was a mistake. She’d broken up with her boyfriend, had decided to get even with the first available male, whatever. Cut a long story, she wouldn’t even meet with me for three months after that. And dating me again wasn’t on her agenda. It wasn’t for want of trying on my part.
Kate was an avid racegoer, so I managed to see her at the track most Saturdays. I would sidle up to her nonchalantly in the mounting yard as she watched the horses and pretend it was a coincidence. I would drop by ever so casually to the second-floor members’ bar, which I knew she and her girlfriends frequented at Caulfield races. And I wasn’t short on handing tips to her in the betting ring, something I was loath to do for anyone else. I still asked her out on a regular basis, but there’s only so many knock-backs a guy can take before the ego starts to protest; says enough is enough.
She said she just wanted us to be friends. Female talk for no intimate relationship, no sex. Or, in my case, no more sex. Why? I didn’t know. I didn’t think she ever got back with her ex again. At least, I hadn’t seen him around at the races with her. He was some senior media manager, held a steady job, unlike me whose weekly wage depended on picking winners. That might have been part of Kate’s less than enthusiastic attitude towards a long-term relationship with me. She said she’d rather be involved with someone more stable. And of course she trotted that line out about not being ready to commit because she was focused on her career. Well, maybe. I was sure she’d had other relationships since that night. I knew I had, but none that I thought about as much.
Fortunately we shared another bonding experience that held us together other than our brief one-night fling. A year or so back, I’d got involved in uncovering a drug racket. The kingpin of the whole operation was actually a wealthy client in my father’s stable – a respectable, well-connected businessman who was the last person you’d expect to be running a major drug ring. Kate started digging up the guy’s background for me, and before we knew it, we were both in it up to our necks. It had very nearly cost us our lives; one night we decided to snoop around and see if we could get some proof of the operation down at their warehouse. Talk about stupidity. They caught us in the act and how we escaped and got out alive without being thrown down the Blowhole is still a mystery to me. Kate eventually won a Walkley for her story on the exposé. Now, if I heard anything at the track which might involve the sort of story she writes, I’d pass it on to her. And if she wanted to find out something she’d occasionally call me. But her calls to me were usually strictly business, so I was surprised to hear her talking about horses.
‘Did I hear you right, you’re buying into a horse?’
‘Uh-huh. Me and my gal pals are sharing a tried horse to race in the country cups. Isn’t that a hoot! We’ll have a ball. What do you think?’
What did I think? I thought anybody who owned a horse was crazy. I make my living from betting on them, so I should know. But betting on them was one thing, owning them was another. Racehorses are the most fickle creatures on the planet. They can injure themselves in a moment. Run through a fence, bow a tendon or just be plain slow. The odds of a horse even making it to the track are against you. Winning races and enough prize money to pay the training bills is another matter altogether. Yet, nearly twenty thousand foals are born each year in Australia and somehow manage to find homes with owners with starry-eyed dreams. It seemed like Kate was going to join the club.
‘How about you give me three thousand dollars every month for the next twelve months and I’ll see if I can back a winner for you instead. That way you’ll save on the training fees that will end up going down the gurgler.’
‘You’re such a cynic. Especially for someone who earns his wages from the track. Besides, there’s ten of us in it so I will only be risking three hundred a month. That’s only one pair of shoes a month.’
Got to love her logic. ‘That’s just the training fees. What about the purchase price?’
‘We’re not buying, we’re leasing it.’
Kate had a disarming way of arguing her case. I’d seen her in action when she’d been on reporting assignments. She broke down your argument with logic and facts that left you with nothing else to do but agree with her.
‘Well, what’s the horse then, what’s it done?’
‘That’s what I want you to check up for me, Punter. You’ve got all your racing software and formguides going back to when Archer won the Cup. Figured you could tell me a little about his background. Goes by the name of Romaro Boy.’
I’d never heard of it and told her so with a contemptuous scoff.
‘It comes from South Australia, so it’s probably not on your radar,’ was her quick comeback. ‘Our trainer saw it in a paddock when he was inspecting some yearlings and agreed to take it on.’
‘And who is your trainer?’
‘Sheamus O’Reilly.’
Interesting choice, I thought. Kate was in for a roller-coaster ride. O’Reilly was considered a brilliant but erratic perfectionist who regularly blasted anyone within shouting distance with tirades of abuse if they hadn’t met his impossibly high standards or had disobeyed instructions. Stable staff, jockeys, vets and even owners were not immune to his temper tantrums. It was a wonder he retained any jockeys at all, the way he lambasted them in the mounting yard after a poor ride. Even my own father, a top trainer himself and a notoriously hard marker of jockeys, reckoned O’Reilly was his own worst enemy. But as regularly as he fired riders and staff, or owners sacked him, he seemed to replace them all easily enough. They simply couldn’t ignore his wonderful strike rate, especially with horses he’d taken over from other stables. Mediocre trainers feared losing their horses to him, and for good reason too, as he’d inevitably improve them. Horses that had nothing but noughts next to their name would suddenly come good and win several races on the trot. Oh he could train all right, but you got the whole package with him, including the box of fireworks that could go off at any time.
‘O’Reilly, huh? You can pick them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’ Nothing that I wanted to debate further on the phone with her. ‘Okay, I’ll look up the form for you and tell you what I think.’
‘Great! Can you let me know before Sunday? We’ve got to go around to the stables to inspect him. In fact, why don’t you come and inspect him with us?’
‘Okay. I gotta go.’
‘You all right?’
‘Fine, why?’
‘You just sound a bit distracted or something.’
Risky business conversing with Kate. She had a journalist’s sixth sense if you’re holding anything back. But if she got even a sniff of the business about Big Oakie’s daughter, it would be all over the papers like a rash. So I told her vaguely that I’d been helping a friend sort out a personal problem. Well, that much was true. I said goodbye and rang off with a promise that I’d see what I could find out about Romaro Boy.
The salesman looked dumbfounded that I was even considering any another brand. I’m not a particularly good liar, but I mentioned a couple of other fleet management systems I’d seen in the Yellow Pages. I’d spun him some yarn about wanting to keep better control over my mythical courier company. Told him my drivers were taking the mickey out of me, I was losing clients and my costs were heading north. Did he have a simple tracking device I could buy?
That started him up. ‘Look, I’ll level with you, mate, what you need to keep tabs on your couriers is our D Tracker model, it’s the best around.’
‘D Tracker?’
‘Yeah, driver tracking, GPS software. Perfect for keeping check on your couriers in real time. Mate, this’ll allow you to see how they perform against schedules, show them on a map right until they arrive at the client’s destination. Even show where the lazy bastards are parked for lunch when they claim they’re caught in traffic. What sort of fleet you running anyway – bicycles, vans, motorbikes?’
‘Mmm . . . a combination of vehicles, I guess.’
‘Well, whatever you use, this’ll do the job. This gear even shows the current route, the driving time, ignition on/off, harsh braking or speed violations.’
‘I don’t think I really need all that information. I’m just after something that I can attach to a car or courier satchel that will show me where they are.’
He was disappointed I didn’t want all the bells and whistles, but he obliged me by pulling out another demonstration model from the shelf.
‘This is the entry-level model, but it’ll do the trick if you don’t want the frills.’ He held up a small plastic card about the size of a credit card, but slightly thicker. ‘Slip the magnetic tag onto the engine registration plate, log on to the website with your user name and password and track it from the software on your computer. Long as you got an internet connection, you’re in business.’
‘Does it have to operate from inside a car’s engine?’
‘No. You can slip it anywhere. Just that most operators don’t want their drivers knowing exactly where it is so’s they can’t tamper with it. It would work if you kept it in the dash. Or even a courier’s bag.’
I said I’d take it, pulled out a roll and paid him in cash. He said if ever I changed my mind about getting the advanced model I could come back and exchange it.
‘Never can trust those couriers,’ he said. ‘They’ll rob you blind.’
I did some more shopping before lunchtime. Next stop was a Rebel Sports outlet at the Chadstone shopping centre. I got lost immediately in a maze of aisles before a pimply youth in tracksuit pants and a Rebel Sports T-shirt asked me enthusiastically if I needed help.
‘How about directions to where the backpacks are.’
‘First aisle past cricket bats in the outdoor section,’ he said. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’
There was a bewildering array of packs to choose from. My youthful assistant pointed them all out to me. ‘Camping packs, travel and hybrid packs. Day and hike packs. We got most sizes. What did you want to use it for?’
‘Er, bit of a general-purpose pack, if you know what I mean.’
I doubted he’d have a category for my particular need. I ended up choosing a large capacity hiker-pro model, with more pockets and flaps than I would know what to do with. But, importantly, it would hold a large bundle of cash and it was bright yellow.
‘Anything else I can help you with?’
‘How about a matching colour singlet and shorts to go with it?’
I don’t know what the kid made of my all-yellow colour requests, but he didn’t bat an eyelid and located what I wanted. When I found my size he asked me once more if there was anything else I needed.
‘Um, actually there is one more thing. A cap, a baseball cap. You sell those?’
He nodded agreeably and led me over to the back wall, where literally dozens of the things were on display.
‘There you go, sir. Lots of different colours, including . . . yellow ones.’
Around lunchtime, I stopped for a muffin and a coffee in the food court and made a call to Oakie to see if there had been any more news. He seemed to snatch at the phone like a rabbit trap springing shut.
‘No,’ he said, sounding tense. ‘Nothing since this morning. I got the rest of the money sorted, though. Kevin and Tiny are with me now. How ’bout you, you get the special pack and things he wanted?’
‘Yes. Picked it all up from Rebel Sport.’
‘Let me know how much it is and I’ll fix you up.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘No!’ said Oakie, the strain showing in his voice. ‘I said I’ll fix you up and I will.’
He must have sensed his overreaction because he apologised straightaway.
‘Oh fuck, I’m sorry, Punter. I’m goin’ to fuckin’ pieces, aren’t I? I don’t know how I’m gonna get through this thing.’
‘You’re doing okay, Oakie. Just hang in there and we’ll get Michelle back soon.’
‘You think so, you really think so?’
‘It’ll be okay. Really.’
Mid-afternoon found me back at my flat studying form for tomorrow’s Caulfield races. It’s a cosy little art deco; an upstairs pad in a small block opposite Scotch College on the Hawthorn hill. That style of apartment is hard to find these days; they’ve mostly been torn down by developers looking to cram thirty flats on a block where there used to be eight. Mine’s got a covered verandah front and back, and downstairs I even have a lock-up garage for all my surfing gear. Inside, the high ceilings keep it cool in summer and the open fireplace can take almost any size of log I care to heap on it in the colder months. It had been a battle to find the deposit for the flat and the mortgage wasn’t cheap, but it was my place and I loved it and no one could kick me out.
I had my Best Bets open and was logged on to the online form service on my computer. I had a race replay ready to watch on the big screen and on my desk were a bunch of speed maps I’d been doodling with, showing which horses would lead or get left behind. It’s what I do every Friday, only I wasn’t making a very good fist of it today. I looked through a couple more race fields, more out of habit than interest, before finally tossing the formguide aside. There didn’t seem to be much point. Tomorrow, I’d be doing anything but betting.
I got up and made a cup of tea in the kitchen. Outside, the drizzle had started up again; typical August weather. It seemed to have been hanging around forever, wouldn’t go away. Mrs Givan, my downstairs neighbour, had darted outside to retrieve her washing before it got soaked. No matter the time of day or night, you could always count on her to be doing a load or putting it out or fetching it in again.
Chan, my Burmese cat, stared up at me from the sofa, sensing my restlessness. He let out a comforting chirp as if reading my mind. Sometimes I thought he could. He jumped up on my lap and I stroked him between the ears, his favourite treat other than food. Mmm . . . that’s good, he purred at me.
I thought about Big Oakie and Veronica and how worried they must be. And I wondered how the delivery of the ransom would go down tomorrow. But, more than anything, I thought of Michelle and what she must be going through. Helpless, hidden away and scared shitless in some dark room somewhere. Or maybe worse. I didn’t want to think about it, I couldn’t. Veronica was right; whilst there was hope, there was a way. Had to stay positive.
Around five thirty I took a shower and freshened up. By the time I’d fed Chan and tidied things up a bit around the flat, it was time to go to Gino’s.
I’d been going to Gino’s to buy his pizzas since I was a teenager. It had become a sort of weekly institution for me. Except, of course, that old man Gino no longer made the pizzas. He’d sold out and retired. It was my place now.
A while ago I came into a windfall. It wasn’t exactly the type that you could put into a term deposit or declare to the tax office, if you get my meaning. It was a bundle of cash that had originated from a drug deal gone wrong, mixed up in the case Kate and I had become involved in. I’m not into that scene at all, far from it. In the wash-up, I was the unlikely person left with a bag of readies that people had stopped looking for. My problem was what to do with it. I figured I needed a safe place to park the money and thought Gino’s Pizza could supplement my meagre punting income during the wet winter months when I hardly had a bet for weeks at a time.
Old man Gino had accepted my offer, an offer sweetened by it all being in cash. I don’t know how many jockeys he thought I’d bribed to raise that sort of money. Gino was one of your deeply suspicious Italian punters who thought every jockey born was in the employ of the bookmakers. In all the years I’d swapped racing stories with Gino, I’d never changed his mind about that. When he lost, it was because the race was fixed or a jockey had pulled one up. It was hopeless trying to explain otherwise. When I eventually swapped my cash for his shop, Gino had touched his nose and nodded his head knowingly. It confirmed everything he’d ever suspected. In his best bastardised English he’d said, ‘I knew all along you make-a money from races. Is true, huh? You pay da jockey boys and dey tell you what gonna win, huh?’
Useless to deny it. So I’d nodded solemnly and put up with one final sermon on dishonest riders and evil bookmakers.
As well as the purchase price, I’d spent a sizeable amount on renovations to the shop. There were the French doors I’d installed at the front, so that we could put tables out on the footpath. That had involved a long fight with the local council to get permission, but we’d won in the end. And inside we’d put a bar along the side wall when we’d been granted a liquor licence. Needless to say, I’d gotten rid of the old chairs and tables Gino had kept since the sixties and replaced them all with funky furniture I’d bought at Ikea and op shops. The interior was certainly more warm and inviting today than it had been when I’d taken the place over. Although I was still only breaking even, at least I had finished the renovations and the drain on my cash had ceased.
Billy, my manager, gave me a grin when he saw me walk in.
‘G’day, Punter. Got a tip for tomorrow?’
‘Yeah. Find a horse that can swim. It’s going to be a bog.’
I’d met Billy years ago when I was a strapper. He’d been an apprentice jockey with my father, before weight had finished his riding career. Since then, he’d floated in and out of hospitality jobs before ending up at Gino’s, and worked as everything from dishwasher to chief cook. A more enthusiastic and honest person you would never find. Now he was the proud licensee. When I’d bought the place, I didn’t want to advertise that I’d come into money, in case anyone from the drug syndicate ever got word of it. So I gave Billy a share in the business and his name on the sign above the door. He was the only one who knew I had a financial interest in it. We met up once a week to go through the books together, but we were careful not to discuss business openly whenever I was at Gino’s. Apart from my usual table by the back of the kitchen wall, I was just a regular customer as far as anyone was concerned.
‘Track’ll be that wet, huh?’
Melbourne’s race tracks were never rated fast in August. Tomorrow’s Caulfield meeting wasn’t going to be an exception either. It had rained persistently for the past month and been cold with it too, giving the grass little time to dry out. Last weekend’s Sandown meeting had been a washout; they’d called it off after only three races. And it seemed a certainty that tomorrow they would be racing on a very heavy track. I don’t normally bet when conditions are like that, and I’d seen nothing in the formguide that afternoon that would change my mind. Besides, I had other duties lined up for tomorrow.
‘Track wet, don’t bet. That’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow.’
‘They oughta stick a roof over the place like they do the footy stadium. The usual?’ he asked.
I didn’t have to read a menu to know what I wanted. I nodded a reply.
Billy showed me to my table by the back wall and made us both a cappuccino. He got one of the casual staff to make up my pizza and then he joined me at the table.
We were well away from the two staff manning the counter, so I asked him, ‘Been a good week?’
He nodded enthusiastically at me over the top of his cup. ‘Nothing like cold weather to bring ’em in. Fair dinkum, if it rained for another month I wouldn’t complain.’
When my pizza was ready, the young guy working the ovens brought it over and placed it in the middle of the table with a flourish and a cheery ‘Enjoy!’
‘You ever ordered anything else but a Seafood Delight? We got other stuff on the menu, you know,’ said Billy.
‘I’m a man of simple tastes. But maybe I should expand my horizons.’
Billy shook his head. We both knew that next week I’d order up the same pizza I’d been having forever.
‘Hey,’ he said, standing up, ‘I better get back to work. Still on to catch up Monday?’
‘You bet. See you then, Billy.’
I ate the rest of my pizza and sat back in my chair watching the staff bustling about. They were a happy bunch; Billy had selected them wisely. There was a girl called Erica behind the bar. She’d been there about three months, a student I thought Billy had said she was. Always appeared busy with a tea towel, wiping benches or cleaning glasses. I liked seeing that. The young guy who had served my pizza, Stephen, was whistling away and cracking jokes while he juggled checking the ovens and answering the phones. There were a couple of customers ordering takeaway at the counter. But it was still too early yet for the regular dine-in customers. They would start to trickle in over the next hour or so.
I was feeling really positive about Gino’s and how it had come on over the past few months. The renovations were all done, and with any luck, the business would start to grow under Billy’s management and I might even be able to pay myself a wage soon.
My mobile rang and quickly snapped me back into reality. It was Big Oakie.
‘It’s him, Punter. He just called up a minute ago.’
‘What did he say, is everything okay? We still set for one o’clock tomorrow?’
‘No. Change of plan.’
‘Whatta you mean?’
‘He’s changed the time and place. We go tonight, in two hours.’