Chapter 7.
Cliff Hanger
The sun was at full power at 6 a.m. the next morning, when it called me from sleep. As I threw off the scratchy, funky smelling blankets, I thought how wonderful it would be, to stay somewhere luxurious like the Hilton, for a night. Forget about that, girl! I admonished myself.
I rifled through my bags and took out the leather-bound book, which I had purloined from the dead man’s flat in Balmain yesterday, and I began to examine it. Essentially, it seemed to be a list of businesses connected with the Sciarra Outfit; which were mostly located throughout Sydney and Melbourne. These businesses consisted, mainly of: pizza shops, cafes, grog shops, fruit shops, car yards, transport and freight companies, and real estate agents. As I flicked through, I saw various names of contacts listed, sometimes with large amounts of money pencilled in long columns. I didn’t have time to look through these lists carefully, now, but, I had the general idea, and soon, I would pass this evidence on to Sargent Tiernan.
As I showered, I had a bird’s eye view of the back lane way, where I could see various drug deals and other illicit transactions taking place. Such shameless illegal conduct in public, in broad daylight, made me feel a bit despondent. As initially, I had got into policing with idealist thoughts of making the world a safer and better place. That seemed a long time ago now.
The black trousers and simple blue t-shirt fitted comfortably, but were in no way glamorous, which was good, as I didn’t want to stand out. I pushed my own hair under the long, black wig and tied it back with a bit of string that I had found in the ramshackle, bedside drawer. Now I was ready to leave and face the new day, and what it would bring. I had been debating, though, whether I should stay at this pub for another night, but then, I decided that it wouldn’t be wise.
The eggs and toast that I ate at a little café, which I stumbled upon, as I made my way toward the Surry Hills Police Centre, were delicious. The owner was a very friendly drag queen, named Rhonda, who also happened to be a former lawyer, and sometime hip hop artist. As I ate, she regaled me with amusing and shocking stories, about her many friends and acquaintances; she had been superbly entertaining and diverting, and so, when I stepped back outside into the gritty air and recalled my mission and predicament, it was like falling to earth, from a long way up.
But being reminded of my situation, made me step back inside the café and ask Rhonda if she knew of a place that I could store my suitcase for the day.
‘Sweetie! You can put that unattractive baggage in my shed out the back. But please, next time, get something a bit more fashionable when you purchase travelling accessories. You know: something pink and sparkly’.
It was certainly a small shed, but it was neat and clean. Rhonda handed me the key and said, ‘I trust you sweetie, so don’t let me down’.
I nodded. I felt the same way.
Nonchalantly, I strolled past the Surry Hills Police Centre, avoiding as I did so, looking up toward my office on the top floor. The police centre, is a massive, brutalist structure, which is so imposing, so cold and so authoritarian looking, that many viewing the building for the first time, feel that they have landed in a North Korea. Indeed, the building seemed to look over the character filled, Victorian, terrace houses of Surry Hills, with a hard, cynical and jaundiced eye. Like Panoptes, the giant from Greek mythology, with a hundred eyes.
I kept walking until I came to a set of traffic lights, where a group of joggers were waiting for the ‘walk’ sign, so that they could cross the road. I took out a cigarette, even though I had vowed to stop, as I needed an excuse to linger about here. The lights changed, and the joggers bounded across the road, as the waiting traffic steadily built up again.
By the time I had half-finished my smoke, a group of mothers’ and fathers’ with strollers and prams, were pressing the button to stop the flow of cars. The lights changed, and the group began to trundle across the road, chatting idly, and looking at phones. I saw the Holden Commodore, came to stop behind a fifth waiting car, I bolted over, opened the door and jumped inside.
‘Hello’, I said cheerily.
Agent John Johnson laughed, then smiled, and said with a wink of the eye, ‘what a pleasant morning surprise….I’m not sure about the hair, though!’
Without another word, Johnson, drove past the Police Centre and up to Oxford Street, where he turned right; then out along Anzac Parade. He picked up some coffee and Lebanese cakes from Randwick, and then continued on, through the seething mass of the morning traffic, until we came to Bronte, where the car squeezed through narrow roads, and tight corners. The car came to rest, outside Waverly Cemetery, which sits on the cliffs, overlooking the vast Pacific Ocean.
The wind hit me like a live thing as I stepped from the car; it whipped the black hair of my wig, from side to side, and plastered my clothes against my body. But it was invigorating, reflecting my turbulent feelings.
Walking around the car, Johnson grabbed my hand and we walked like two love birds into the cemetery, with its soaring stone, grave markers and beautiful funerary monuments, set against the blue sky, and ocean. We walked past aging urns, crumbling crosses and weeping angels; melancholy and beautiful in their decay and stopped near the edge of the cliffs, and looked out at the seemingly endless ocean.
‘I’ve found a book which lists front businesses associated with the Sciarra Outfit’, I said, getting right down to business. ‘I’ve only skimmed the list, but soon I’ll send it along to Sargent Tiernan; so I don’t put those thugs on your trail’.
Then, I said, this bloke I polished off seems to have frequented a massage parlour in the Eastern Suburbs called, Angel’s Place. I think…. I don’t know……it might be important’. I handed Johnson a paper with the phone number and other names and numbers that I had found on the dead man’s mobile phone.
‘How have you been?’ Johnson asked, staring at me with those blue eyes, and seeming to ignore my business-like tone.
‘It hasn’t been the most relaxing few days’, I laughed dryly, ‘but I’m OK’.
We drank our coffee and ate the sweet and sticky cakes, just standing and looking out to sea. Then, Johnson lowered his brow and looked serious, and said, ‘what’s your next move? And what do you want me to do?’
Before I could reply, I felt the barrel of a gun hit me in the back. I flicked my eyes to the side and I could see that Agent Johnson seemed to be similarly afflicted. He looked angry, and I hoped he wouldn’t do anything rash.
‘The boss is very upset’, a slightly accented voice said from behind me, as he pushed the gun harder into my back’. He then he hissed in my ear, very close, ‘si cagna muto’, which didn’t sound very friendly.
‘Now it looks like you’ve got your boyfriend here in trouble too….of course, it would be lonely to die alone’, said a deeper voice coming from behind Johnson.
‘How’d you find us?’ Agent Johnson asked, buying for time.
‘A simple tracking device on your boyfriend’s car’, returned the deeper voice. ‘Not very smart were you?’
‘No, Johnson replied, as he widened his eyes at me.
At the same time, we swiftly jumped sideways, out of range of the guns. Without thinking, I found myself performing a running somersault toward the edge of the cliff, where, without a backward glance, I leapt straight out off the cliff. I brought my hands over my head, and pointed my toes and plummeted through the cold air for what seemed like years, until I hit the water like a bomb. Immediately, upon smashing into the freezing, hard water, I stretched out my arms and legs, and arched my back, to stop my body from plunging too deep.
As I rose upwards, I felt a rip pulling me out to sea. I began to swim strongly parallel to the shore, in the hope of escaping the rip. But waves kept coming and ducking me under, and I was becoming tired. So, I floated for a while, to conserve my energy. I rode along with the waves, in the frigid water and watched the gulls circling, and calling to one another. They seemed oblivious to me.
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I felt very alone in the world, and yet, strangely calm. I played a film of my life, in my brain and thought about mum and dad, who were both lost to me: dad, because he died of alcoholism, and mum, because, she had married another man, and had another family, and a new life. Mum and I had drifted apart, and now, there seemed to be no room or place for me in her world.
Eventually, the rip turned in a great arc and I was able to swim back to shore, but in a quite different place to where I had jumped in. And, I’d lost my wig. I checked the zip-up pocket of my trousers; I still had my key to Rhonda’s shed. Good.
I dragged myself up onto the sand, and lay down in the sun to dry for a while. I wondered what had happened to Agent Johnson. I hoped he was still alive.