punched the lighter, took a cigarette from Dove, dropped his window a centimetre or two. Dove lit their smokes with the glowingcoil. They smoked in silence for a while, but nicotine loosens the tongue.
‘Do a lot of this?’ said Cashin.
Dove turned his head. Cashin could only see the whites of his eyes. ‘Of what?’
‘Be the Aboriginal representative.’
‘This is a favour for Villani. He says he’s been leaned on about the Bobby Walshe connection. I quit the feds because I didn’t want to be a showpiece boong cop.’
‘I was in primary school with Bobby Walshe,’ said Cashin and regretted it.
‘I thought he grew up on the Daunt Setttlement.’
‘No school there then. The kids came to Kenmare.’
‘So you know him?’
‘He wouldn’t remember me. He might remember my cousin. Bern. They teamed up on kids called them names.’
Why did I start this, thought Cashin? To ingratiate myself with this man?
A long silence, no sound from the engine. Cashin touched the pedal and the motor growled.
‘What kind of names?’ said Dove.
‘Boong. Coon. That kind of thing.’
More silence. Dove’s cigarette glowed. ‘Why’d they call your cousin that?’
‘His mum’s Aboriginal. My Aunty Stella. She’s from the Daunt.’
‘What, so you’re a boong-in-law.’
‘Yeah. Sort of.’
In the hospital, he had begun to think about how he’d never stood with his Doogue cousins, with Bobby Walshe and the other kids from the Daunt when the whites called them boongs, coons, niggers. He’d walked away. No one was calling him names, it wasn’t his business. He remembered telling his dad about the fights. Mick Cashin was working on the tractor, the old Massey Ferguson, big fingers winding out sparkplugs. ‘You don’t have to do anything till they’re losing,’ he said. ‘Then you better get in, kick some heads. Do the right thing. Your mum’s family.’
By the time his Aunty Stella took him in, no one called any Doogue kid anything. They didn’t need help from anyone. They were big and you didn’t get one: they came as a team.
Cashin watched the main road. A vehicle crossed. No move by the Cruiser. Not the one. He put on the wipers. The rain was getting harder. Now was the time to call this thing off, you couldn’t do stuff like this in a cloudburst.
Another vehicle flicked by.
Glare of taillights on. Hopgood moving.
‘Here we go,’ said Cashin.
IT WAS raining heavily, the Falcon’s wipers weren’t up to it.
Hopgood didn’t hesitate at the junction, swung right.
Cashin followed, couldn’t see much.
They were at fifty, eighty, ninety, a hundred, the Falcon went flat, it couldn’t do more than that, something wrong.
He felt a front wheel wobble, thought he’d lose control, slowed.
Hopgood’s taillights were gone into the sodden night.
This wasn’t smart, this wasn’t the way to do it.
‘Get Hopgood,’ said Cashin. ‘This is bullshit.’
Dove took the handset. ‘Sandwich two for Sandwich one, receiving me. Over.’
No reply.
Golding’s Smash Repairs on the left, neon sign a red smear in the wet night. Car one, group three, Preston and KD, they would have pulled out, they would be ahead of the ute now, closing on the traffic lights.
‘Abandon,’ said Cashin. ‘Tell him.’
‘Sandwich one, abandon, abandon, received? Please roger that.’
Four vehicles, speeding in the rain on a pitch-black night.
The lights would be red. Preston would stop.
The ute would stop behind him. Three kids in a twincab. Tired from a long trip. Yawning. Thinking of home and bed. Were they Bourgoyne’s attackers? At least one of them would know who took the watch off the old man’s wrist.
‘I say again, abandon, abandon,’ Dove said. ‘Roger that, roger that.’
‘Say again, Sandwich two, can’t hear you.’
Coming up to the last bend, driving rain, the Lambing Street intersection coming up. Cashin couldn’t see anything except the yellow glow of street lights beyond.
‘Sandwich
‘Do a lot of this?’ said Cashin.
Dove turned his head. Cashin could only see the whites of his eyes. ‘Of what?’
‘Be the Aboriginal representative.’
‘This is a favour for Villani. He says he’s been leaned on about the Bobby Walshe connection. I quit the feds because I didn’t want to be a showpiece boong cop.’
‘I was in primary school with Bobby Walshe,’ said Cashin and regretted it.
‘I thought he grew up on the Daunt Setttlement.’
‘No school there then. The kids came to Kenmare.’
‘So you know him?’
‘He wouldn’t remember me. He might remember my cousin. Bern. They teamed up on kids called them names.’
Why did I start this, thought Cashin? To ingratiate myself with this man?
A long silence, no sound from the engine. Cashin touched the pedal and the motor growled.
‘What kind of names?’ said Dove.
‘Boong. Coon. That kind of thing.’
More silence. Dove’s cigarette glowed. ‘Why’d they call your cousin that?’
‘His mum’s Aboriginal. My Aunty Stella. She’s from the Daunt.’
‘What, so you’re a boong-in-law.’
‘Yeah. Sort of.’
In the hospital, he had begun to think about how he’d never stood with his Doogue cousins, with Bobby Walshe and the other kids from the Daunt when the whites called them boongs, coons, niggers. He’d walked away. No one was calling him names, it wasn’t his business. He remembered telling his dad about the fights. Mick Cashin was working on the tractor, the old Massey Ferguson, big fingers winding out sparkplugs. ‘You don’t have to do anything till they’re losing,’ he said. ‘Then you better get in, kick some heads. Do the right thing. Your mum’s family.’
By the time his Aunty Stella took him in, no one called any Doogue kid anything. They didn’t need help from anyone. They were big and you didn’t get one: they came as a team.
Cashin watched the main road. A vehicle crossed. No move by the Cruiser. Not the one. He put on the wipers. The rain was getting harder. Now was the time to call this thing off, you couldn’t do stuff like this in a cloudburst.
Another vehicle flicked by.
Glare of taillights on. Hopgood moving.
‘Here we go,’ said Cashin.
IT WAS raining heavily, the Falcon’s wipers weren’t up to it.
Hopgood didn’t hesitate at the junction, swung right.
Cashin followed, couldn’t see much.
They were at fifty, eighty, ninety, a hundred, the Falcon went flat, it couldn’t do more than that, something wrong.
He felt a front wheel wobble, thought he’d lose control, slowed.
Hopgood’s taillights were gone into the sodden night.
This wasn’t smart, this wasn’t the way to do it.
‘Get Hopgood,’ said Cashin. ‘This is bullshit.’
Dove took the handset. ‘Sandwich two for Sandwich one, receiving me. Over.’
No reply.
Golding’s Smash Repairs on the left, neon sign a red smear in the wet night. Car one, group three, Preston and KD, they would have pulled out, they would be ahead of the ute now, closing on the traffic lights.
‘Abandon,’ said Cashin. ‘Tell him.’
‘Sandwich one, abandon, abandon, received? Please roger that.’
Four vehicles, speeding in the rain on a pitch-black night.
The lights would be red. Preston would stop.
The ute would stop behind him. Three kids in a twincab. Tired from a long trip. Yawning. Thinking of home and bed. Were they Bourgoyne’s attackers? At least one of them would know who took the watch off the old man’s wrist.
‘I say again, abandon, abandon,’ Dove said. ‘Roger that, roger that.’
‘Say again, Sandwich two, can’t hear you.’
Coming up to the last bend, driving rain, the Lambing Street intersection coming up. Cashin couldn’t see anything except the yellow glow of street lights beyond.
‘Sandwich
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