There were a few Nongs working on their bikes in the shadows of the clubhouse walls, but one by one they stood and wiped their mitts on oily rags, began to give Swann the slow handclap. Swann had been buzzed in almost as soon as he pulled in front of the clubhouse gates painted with the skull and double piston symbol of The Nongs.
The handclapping continued on his walk to the clubhouse bar and offices, and included a few unlikely bows and doffing of imaginary hats. The Nongs were clapping him because they believed that he’d almost single-handedly destroyed their main rivals, the Junkyard Dogs, in a shootout those five years ago. A detective inspector, Ben Hogan, had been killed in the same shootout, and those Dogs who weren’t wiped out in the gunfire were cleaned out by Hogan’s colleagues following his funeral. Fitted up and locked away or exiled interstate, never to return. Some had just gone missing. That Swann carried Junkyard Dog buckshot in his body was well known, as reported in the papers at the time. The Nongs had swooped in and taken over most of the Dogs’ financial infrastructure: the tattoo parlours, bike shops, hotels, speed labs and grow houses. The Dogs endured as a one-precenter club, but their membership had shrunk to fewer than a dozen men.
The truth was that Swann was so injured by the shotgun blast on the Kwinana Freeway that he’d only played a small part in the shootout, but The Nongs and in particular their president, Gus Riley, didn’t need to know that. Riley, like most people in their world, also believed that thirteen years ago Swann had gunned down the head of the CIB, Donald Casey – another false belief that had served Swann well.
The door to the clubhouse bar and offices was opened by Gus Riley himself. His red hair was combed wet and his goatee beard was trimmed.
‘Never seen you so cleaned up,’ Swann said as he was led into the bar, pointed to a table. Gus Riley read Swann’s face, took the comment as genuine, and decided to share. ‘Things are looking up, Swanny. I’ve been wearing lounge suits, meeting with banks. With the opening of the new casino, the Italians are moving out of Northbridge, looking for the next Noah’s ark.’
‘Which is?’
‘International operations. Closer ties to the old country, the old families. Instead of laundering money at their gaming tables, they’re reinvesting it overseas. Cocaine into Europe, mainly, I hear. Big new market that they’re determined to own. Leaves us clear to move into the stripper and nightclub scene in Northbridge. Licence to print money, mate.’
‘… and launder it.’
Riley shrugged, took his seat, turned to the young woman at the bar and pointed to the table.
‘Not for me,’ Swann said.
‘Was wondering. You’ve lost weight. Cancer, or has your liver finally blown up? You used to drink the Jameson like water.’
It was Swann’s turn to share. ‘Lead poisoning. Those dozens of pellets still in my body, breaking down.’
Riley whistled. ‘Didn’t know that could happen, Swanny.’
‘Me neither. Took a Yank doctor to diagnose it.’
‘Makes sense. Now, why you here? I won’t ask what you’re doing with the Yanks, though I can guess. Hope they catch the nigger bastard.’
It was like that with Riley. Just when you thought you were talking to someone reasonable …
‘I’m here about an ex–Junkyard Dog, name of Ralph Cord. Was kicked out of the Dogs, sent down for assault. Just got out of Fremantle.’
‘Yeah, I know of Ralph. We looked at him for a while. Why you askin?’
‘He was a witness to something, possibly. Cops haven’t been able to interview him, so …’
‘… he’s not wanted?’
‘No, he’s not. Is he with you? I heard he refused to hand his patch back to the Dogs. Figured the only way he’d survive three years in Freo Prison is if he was protected.’
‘We looked at him, like I say. Gave him protection for a few months, but no affiliation. Just wanted to see how he went. We watched him pretty close. He was a good earner for the Dogs, and we thought –’
‘Earning how?’
Riley took a cigar from his denim vest, already guillotined. Put flame to it and huffed, smiling behind the grey smoke. ‘Guns and ammo.’
‘Alright. So you watched him swim the goldfish bowl. You take him on?’
Riley shook his head. ‘Nah. We put him through his paces. He bridged up ok, when threatened. Was staunch with the screws. Did his time like a man.’
‘But?’
‘Yeah, the but. The guy’s no good. A psycho, but not in a good way. Didn’t know he was being watched. Kept trying to play one of us against the other, if you know what I mean. Not for any advantage, though, which is a skillset I admire. Just for his own amusement. When we figured him out, we cut him loose.’
Swann thought about that. ‘How’d he make it through then? He find new brothers?’
‘I’d have to ask.’ Riley turned to the young woman wiping glasses. ‘Bethany, Darryl here?’
Bethany got the rabbit-in-headlights look.
‘Fuck me, Bethany. Go and fuckin look for him.’
Riley turned the cigar on the edge of the table, peeling ash. ‘The strippers. They aren’t the brightest. We get ’em to do a shift here a week, remind ’em of who they work for. But Darryl, he’s your man.’
‘She looks like she knows him. Doesn’t like him.’
Riley laughed. ‘Well, the Dazzler just got out of Freo too. He’s makin up for lost time, shall we say.’
‘Right.’ Swann stood, turned to Bethany, who was nearly at the door. ‘Bethany, don’t worry about it.’
She paused with her hand on the doorknob. Swann’s not the voice of her employer. Riley stood and pushed in his chair.
‘It’s alright, girl. Back to drying glasses.’
‘When Darryl surfaces,’ Swann said, ‘let me know. I want to –’
The phone behind the bar rang. Bethany rushed to it, relief on her face. She picked up and pointed to Riley, who smiled, the look of a man expecting good news, more good news.
Swann took a step to the door, but Riley put up a hand. Swann watched the confidence on his face drain away, replaced by a flush of red anger, rising from his neck to his cheeks. The thing about redheads, Swann thought, watching Riley’s face fill with blood – there’s always fire with the smoke.
Bethany stood clear as Riley began smashing the receiver on the bar top.