The Big Smoke. Jason Nahrung
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bloody spook. Got his fingers in more pies than we do. Could he get the assassin in?'
'The question is, would he want to?'
She was quiet then, just the sound of them drawing in breath and exhaling smoke, and the exhaust fan. If she was feeling the weight of the new day breaking outside, she gave no sign.
Reece leaned forward to ash his cigarette. He noticed a folder on her desk, the heading, and caught her eye.
'Fronds: the new casino at Coolum,' she confirmed. 'We're handling security, naturally.'
'I liked Coolum, back in the day. Quiet.'
'It won't be once this gets going.' She indicated the folder with her cigarette. 'The council's already jockeying to see who claims grazing rights.'
By council she meant Maximilian's board of department heads and favoured vassals, each doing their bit to ensure his empire ran smoothly. The actual municipal council would've had little say in the matter, once Maximilian had made up his mind about the development. Money talks, especially when backed up by the promise of immortality and the more mundane threats of early death and financial ruin. Big business, immortal style; gave the futures market a whole new meaning.
'I'm surprised anyone would want to leave Brisbane.'
'Come on, Reece. An hour out of town, away from the Old Man's gaze, and all those hopeless, desperate losers chasing a promise that's unlikely to ever happen. Throw in backpackers and holidaymakers and the entire Sunshine Coast to nibble on; it's a bloody smorgasbord.'
He gave a nod, conceding, as she analysed him, green-eyed, through the smoke. 'The Old Man does like his casinos. Casinos and brothels.' Both gave perfect exposure to powerful men with secrets to keep, as well as losers no one would miss should they get an offer they couldn't refuse. 'Who's the frontrunner?'
'The Toffs, maybe. Campbell thinks it'll shore up their support. Give us a few more inroads into the finance world.'
'You don't want it?'
'And give up all this?' She slipped the folder into a drawer and locked it. 'You ever think maybe Danica was right?'
'How's that?'
'We don't belong anymore. We shouldn't even try; just slip away, under the surface.'
'Could you do that?'
She dug out a folder from a tray and passed it to him. 'What do you know about this chap?'
He flicked through the papers, paused at a head-and-shoulders shot of a young man in a VSS uniform. 'I heard about it. Briggs, private, one of yours. Head cut off, hands and feet removed.'
'ID'd by DNA. Found among what's left of the mangroves under the expressway. Crabs had taken a nibble; fish too, maybe.'
'Just before the Debacle,' Reece said, noting the estimated day of death.
'Check the picture of his back. What does that suggest to you?'
He dug through the glossies until he found the photo: the mottled, pale skin, an ulcer-type wound on the right shoulder blade. He held it up to the light. 'A patch of skin taken off? A tattoo?'
'Tell me again about your interest in the Needle.'
He paused, studied the image. Couldn't fault her intelligence gathering. Couldn't see any point denying what she already knew. 'You think Briggs leaked the information about Jasmine Turner setting up shop out west to the Needle. Then was silenced by whoever told him in the first place, because no way could a VSS private know about it off his own bat.'
'Leaving me with the shit sandwich.'
Reece sat up straight, handed back the file, ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. The room had become quite cold. 'Why are you showing me this, Madam Marshall?'
'He should've watched his back.' A tight grimace at her word play. 'I think there's something in that for all of us. You'd better run along, Reece. You don't want to be late for your reorientation.'
He got as far as the door when she said, 'And perhaps it might be best if you keep me in the loop on this Matheson case. I'd like to know I've got a wolf at my door before he eats the baby.'
TWELVE
Kevin pulled the Monaro to a halt in a car park atop a bluff. It wasn't yet eight, but he felt as if the night had lasted a month already. Through a screen of pine and gum trees, he could see the ocean, dark and ominous and palely ruffled. A timber pier stretched out like a bony arm, sickly yellow in the electric wash of its lights. The swollen moon hung high over the water.
The only vehicle in the car park was a motor home covered in graffiti. A blond teenager in a trench coat lounged against the Winnebago's wall, smoking; light showed behind the vehicle's curtained windows.
Mel got out and popped the seat forward to let Greaser scramble after her. Blondie knocked on the Winnebago's door, then flicked his cigarette away as Kevin locked the car.
Mel led him over, saying, 'Argent, this is Kevin. The Needle's expecting us.'
The boy stared at Kevin, eyes showing silver. He opened the door. A teenage girl stood there, submachine gun pointed at them. She lowered it when she saw Mel. A silver tattoo — some creature's scaly tail — curled down her left side from under the ragged hem of her short singlet to disappear into her cut-off shorts. Another sliver snaked up her throat, vanishing behind her ear. Like the boy, she wore her peroxided hair short. Her eyes reflected a mercury sheen — contacts, Kevin realised. He was willing to bet they were both red-eyes.
Herbal scents floated out from behind the girl; there was the smell of antiseptic and a trace of blood. Kevin steadied himself, pushing away the recent blood memories from Ambrose and Mel.
This was the vehicle he'd seen in Greaser's blood; this was the Needle's mobile base. Finally.
Argent patted Kevin down, then said, 'He's in the back.'
'We'll wait,' Mel said, and the girl said she would put the kettle on, and showed Mel and Greaser to a cosy dining area up the front before pointing Kevin toward a curtain closing off the rear.
He was acutely aware of being unarmed as he pushed the cloth aside to reveal a couch similar to a dentist's chair, complete with overhead light. There was a basin and a UV microwave thing. A bank of shallow drawers labelled in print too fine to read at this distance.
His focus was on the man sitting on a wheeled stool behind a narrow bench. He wore scruffy blue jeans and sneakers. Green-glowing eyes blinked at Kevin, from the shadow of a voluminous hoodie, and changed to frosty blue.
The man pushed a takeaway meal to one side. Fresh blood scent tweaked Kevin's hunger.
'Sit.' A thin hand, the fingernails glinting like mica, pointed to a plastic chair.
Kevin sat. 'You're the Needle?'
'And you're Kevin Matheson, mechanic extraordinaire.'
'Not any more.'
'Who referred you to me?'
'No one, really. There was a guy mentioned you. Bhagwan. Up Rocky way.'
'I know of him.'
'He said you told him Jasmine Turner was setting up out west.'
'Did he?'
'Not in so many words, but that was the gist.'
'Ah, the gist. And what else did he intimate?'
'It means you know someone inside the VS operation; someone well connected, who could help me.'
The Needle leaned forward, as though bringing Kevin into focus. The movement offered a better view of the man's face, the suggestion of criss-crossing scars on nose, forehead and cheeks; of thin lips and sharp-tipped teeth; an appearance rattish and avaricious. Kevin could imagine that pointed nose twitching, those eyes blinking, the claws preening whiskers as he weighed the amount of cheese to be gained against the obvious risk of the