Shore Leave Page 4

  Pascoe didn’t know how the new generation was being raised, but when he was a kid, a boy’s capacity to explode from zero to a hundred in a matter of seconds was required learning. Until young men mastered the necessary coolness of temperament that came with experience, it was always considered better that they learn how to overwhelm an opponent.

  Pascoe had been that young man, but he’d matured out of it. He’d learned that fighting was a cold art, like calligraphy or flower arranging. Meditation had taught him many things about himself, and one of them was that he’d wasted an enormous amount of energy maintaining that explosive simmer throughout his childhood, teens and early manhood. It was exhausting and futile, when set against the clarity of mind that a trained fighter managed even in the heat of a life-and-death struggle. The Zen-trained samurai had it right – Bushido – the way of the warrior. Every time a man lost his temper to win a battle he was closer to losing the war against himself – the only war that really mattered.

  Pascoe took backstreets, pausing twice to enter a quiet driveway and take a hit off the oxygen bottle. It was only a twenty-minute walk to the southern end of South Terrace, but he spaced it to an hour. The women’s trousers he wore pinched at his ankles, and the backpack was heavy. It was a long shot, but as soon as he rounded into Harbour Street he saw that it’d paid off.

  Des Ryan’s old worker’s cottage was still there, five houses up from the Davilak Hotel. The sight of Ryan’s house near the hotel cheered him. Pascoe had grown up in the Davilak, running errands for Con Murphy, the pub’s resident SP bookie, watching the fights that spilt out onto the terrace so regularly that you could set your clock to ten minutes before the six o’clock swill. Sometimes the fights were between two men, and sometimes twenty, stopping traffic and the tram service that ran down to South Beach. Sometimes Pascoe and Des Ryan would leap into the fray, throw a few punches and run off laughing.

  The stables at the head of the street were gone, replaced with a small park. When Pascoe had grown too big to be a jockey, he’d hoped to be a trainer, but that dream never eventuated. Instead, he graduated to petty crime and helping Des Ryan’s father with his sly-grog operation among the brothels of Bannister Street. The Ryans were a big family in the Fremantle racing, sly-grog and gambling games, but there was Des Ryan’s house, looking just as run-down as it always did. Piled on the porch was the same rusting BP sign, the same milk crate full of old horseshoes and the same spider webs in the sash-window frames – like the past nineteen years hadn’t happened.

  Pascoe opened the creaking gate and stepped onto the porch. The front door was open. Inside, he could hear a transistor radio tuned to the racing channel. He put his face to the flyscreen and could smell bacon and cabbage. It looked like he was in luck.

  9.

  Swann presented his thumb. The American MD pricked it with a needle, then squeezed out a thorn of blood onto a glass specimen plate.

  ‘Done.’

  The navy doctor’s name was Maria Gonzalez. She had a small round face with almond-shaped eyes, and she hummed while readying the plate under the microscope. Swann had already been CT-scanned. The celluloid images were clipped onto a white glass projector above the doctor’s head. Even from Swann’s position on the bed he could see the dozens of shotgun pellets still in his shoulders, neck and jaw. There were dozens more scattered through his chest and lower back.

  Swann had assumed that after his shooting the surgeons had removed all of the pellets, but Dr Gonzalez had told him that removing each pellet wasn’t the norm, at least in the US. It was also unusual to Swann that there were pellets in his back and chest. He’d been shot from behind and above, and the fortunately distant blast had sprayed his head, neck and shoulders. He asked her, and Dr Gonzalez told him that it was common for pellets to migrate through the body. She described her first job interning in a Chicago public hospital ER unit before she’d joined up, where such gunshot wounds were common.

  It was Webb who’d suggested Swann see the resident shift doctor of the Carl Vinson. Webb had invited Swann onto the aircraft carrier, to shout him lunch in the officers’ galley, but Swann was only three feet up the gangway when he’d hurled into the blue harbour waters.

  ‘Worst case of sea legs I’ve ever seen,’ Webb joked, before guiding Swann down through the Minotaur maze that was the ship’s lower decks. Even with half of the crew on shore leave, the corridors were crowded with sailors, marines, pilots and officers going about their business. Webb had stopped outside the brightly lit doorway that led into the hospital ward. A young white sailor sat in a chair holding his bloodied head, eyes avoiding Webb’s glare, reeking of booze.

  ‘Even navy hospitals have waiting rooms, as you can see. But you can come through with me, Frank.’

  The regular hospital smell of soap and rubbing alcohol had made Swann’s stomach churn, but he didn’t have long to wait. Dr Gonzalez emerged from a nearby office. She was short, even with her bun of black hair and elevated shoes. She shook Swann’s hand as Webb described his previous shooting and slow recovery, his recent symptoms of fatigue, nausea, vomiting and abdominal pain. Both Webb and Dr Gonzalez seemed to know what was going on, even if Swann didn’t. Dr Gonzalez nodded at each of the symptoms, as though Webb were describing a common cold. Webb joked to her that Swann was his specially appointed deputy sheriff while the Vinson was in port, and that because Swann’s Australian doctors didn’t know what was wrong with him, he’d like Dr Gonzalez to run some tests. He asked the doctor to call when she had results, because meanwhile he had to follow up on an AWOL sailor.

  ‘Take care, Frank. Our facilities here are better than most hospitals on land. I’ll bring you back a sandwich. Doc.’

  Dr Gonzalez gave Webb the peace sign. She had moved to Swann and stuck her fingers into his throat glands, watching his reaction, which was to pull away and retch. She then took a sample of his blood.

  ‘The symptoms are getting worse, or staying the same?’

  ‘Getting worse. What’s your call, doctor?’

  ‘My call?’

  ‘If you were a betting person?’

  She smiled. ‘That wouldn’t be a fair bet. I’m pretty certain of a diagnosis, but we’ll have to wait for spectrometer analysis of your blood, which needs to be sent to a lab stateside.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll get it done here. In the meantime …’

  ‘As you wish. I can confirm my suspicions by looking at your blood under the electron microscope, but you’ll need that spectrometry done if my suspicions are correct, to get the definitive picture.’

  Dr Gonzalez went to a broad desk, shifted aside some test tubes and a steel-cased centrifuge before flicking a switch. The largest machine on the desk, which looked like a space-age coffee machine, came to life with a low murmur that for some reason made Swann even more nervous.

  ‘They keep you busy in here?’

  Dr Gonzalez’s smile told Swann that she’d picked up on his nerves. He felt like a kid in the VD clinic for the first time, sweating on the results, except that in this case he was beginning to fear the worst. Was it his liver, gone into terminal decline? Swann’s stepfather Brian had died of liver failure after copping a beating, and when it came on, the end was fast – six weeks from diagnosis to death – and his symptoms prior to the beating had been the same. Like his stepfather, Swann too had been an alcoholic throughout his thirties, struggling to cope with a detective’s workload, internal copper politics, a failing marriage and a young family. The truth of course was that he hadn’t coped.

  Dr Gonzalez nodded, smiling wryly as she loaded the slide containing Swann’s blood into the machine. ‘Yes. Despite regulations, we get plenty of workplace accidents. Strained backs, wounds that require operations. Sometimes the men fight, as you’d expect. Long hours and cramped quarters. And then there’s shore leave, our busiest time. Traffic accidents, muggings, the contraction of tropical illnesses, bar fights and venereal disease.’

  The doctor stopped talking a
s she slipped on her reading glasses, sat astride a low stool, leaned over a brightly lit panel. Swann wanted to keep making conversation, but suspected that he’d get no reply. Dr Gonzalez tweaked a few dials and nodded, looked back at the panel and jotted notes on a yellow pad.

  ‘If you’d come here, Deputy Sheriff. Look over my shoulder.’

  Swann did as he was told. The level of detail was incredible. On the screen was a rectangle full of red spheres, squashed on one side, resembling cushions that’d been sat on. Transparent white shapes that looked like jellyfish.

  Dr Gonzalez pressed a button that took a photograph of the image. She began to count the transparent white shapes, dabbing the tip of her pencil onto the screen as she counted.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘The bloodwork of a very sick man, I’m afraid.’

  Swann’s heart sank.

  ‘You see those red blood cells with stippled blue shades and even worse, blue dots? You’ll notice that one in about every dozen cells is so coloured. That is evidence of severe lead poisoning. Like I say, this isn’t a precise reading of levels, but what’s in front of me confirms that diagnosis. Your white cell count is way higher than it should be, too.’

  Now Swann understood. He remembered Webb’s and the doctor’s knowing looks earlier, as the doctor examined his healed wounds. The CT image and evidence of dozens of shotgun pellets still in his body.

  ‘My doctor told me that lead pellets missed during the operation wouldn’t cause long-term damage.’

  Dr Gonzalez pressed another button and a printer whirred on a desk behind them. ‘Your doctor was correct. Generally, the body heals over bullets and pellets with a form of internal scar tissue, sealing them off from the bloodstream, but that’s only in muscles.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, most likely, that some of the pellets penetrated a blood vessel or an internal organ. Lead pellets are soft enough to deform upon contact, and because they’re small can be passed through the body, settling in organs where they break down and become diffused, ultimately poisoning the bones. The long-term consequences are often fatal, I’m afraid.’

  There, she’d said it. Even though the doctor’s bedside manner throughout their meeting had indicated bad news, it still came as a shock. She pushed away her stool and looked up at him. Hers were eyes that’d seen plenty. Swann knew those eyes because he had them too. A doctor, like a copper, having to relay the worst kind of news, to a terminally ill patient, or a dead child’s mother and father.

  ‘Please, Frank, sit down on the bed. This is serious, but it’s also reasonably common … at least in the US.’

  Swann did as he was asked. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Strangely, perversely, at that moment he felt fine. No nausea, or pain. He was in shock.

  When he finally spoke, his words came from a long way off. ‘Is there anything –?’

  ‘Yes, there is, fortunately. You need to begin immediate chelation therapy. It’s a substance taken orally or by injection that bonds to the lead, and is passed out of the body by natural means. You’re very lucky to have caught this early.’

  Swann didn’t quite understand. ‘You mean that this … chelation therapy, can cure the poisoning? Entirely?’

  Dr Gonzalez nodded. ‘Yes, although you’ll need to manage it for many years. Regular tests. Monthly, then yearly. It’s possible for lead poisoning to occur in gunshot victims, even decades after the initial trauma. The good news is that you’ve only been sick for a few months. Any damage to your organs or bones is likely to be minor, although potentially significant depending upon underlying factors, such as heart, liver or lung disease. You seem reasonably healthy otherwise, based on the standard indicators – blood pressure, heart rate et cetera.’

  Swann hadn’t noticed, but Webb was there in the doorway, listening; a plastic-wrapped sandwich in his hand. He shared a look with the doctor that told Swann they were more than friends.

  Swann stood, and wrapped the doctor in a hug. ‘Thanks, doc. I owe you one. And you too, Webb.’

  Webb smiled, but there was strain in it. ‘That’s good, Frank. Because …’

  Webb looked at Dr Gonzalez again. She understood, and went about her business, placing the printed photograph of Swann’s bloodwork into a manila envelope. When she’d finished, she handed it to Swann and wished him well. Webb stood in the doorway, his eyes saying that he was the bearer of bad news.

  10.

  Devon Smith nursed his beer and watched the police come and go. He’d arrived at the pub early to scope for exits and suspicious-looking drinkers among the dozen men seated at the stick. They had the look of regulars familiar to dive-bars everywhere: middle-aged and lonely, with doughy complexions and soft muscles.

  The pub had a quiet atmosphere, even though Devon suspected that it was busier than usual because of all the police. They were mostly detectives in neutral-coloured suits, boring ties and cheap functional shoes. Nothing like the narcotics and vice detectives who worked the Gaslamp district of San Diego – with their gangster flair and loud voices – part of the street theatre of the area he called home. Smith could easily imagine the local detectives seated at the bar alongside the local drinkers, who were barely energised by the police presence, eyes darting from their beers when they thought it was safe to look.

  There was a uniformed officer at the foot of the stairs, which led up to what was presumably a boarding house for wet-brains. The cop was a big blond unit, wide across the shoulders with paws the size of baseball mitts. He was a fine example of Aryan manhood, although his blue cotton uniform was also on the plain side, and made him look like an oversized boy scout. At a holster on his belt was a six-shot .38 S&W revolver, another point of difference. Last year, the police at home had all switched to the Glock 17, a lightweight mostly polymer pistol with a large magazine and no external safety or hammer – meaning a fast draw and easy repeat firing. Smith imagined himself in a shootout with the policeman. His Glock versus the Aussie cop’s S&W. Smith would prevail because of the Austrian pistol’s safe-action feature, and also because the cop had probably only fired his weapon down at a gun range, unlike Smith. The thought made Smith happy. He’d have to work that into his sales-pitch – the fact that with a Glock in your hand the local police were outgunned.

  Smith had no idea what the police were doing upstairs and he didn’t care. He hadn’t been off the Vinson since Yemen, having had his shore leave revoked for the most recent port of call in Mombasa, Kenya. The black sailors taking leave in Mombasa had been thrilled at the thought of banging whores of their own kind, and hadn’t shut up about it when they got back from the bars and cathouses in what looked another sweaty and stinking port. Fremantle, however, looked more like Smith’s kind of place – clean and mostly blue-collar white. On his way from the Vinson to the Seaview Hotel, he’d seen a few examples of the local blacks, all of them poor looking and some of them clearly homeless, hanging around a soup kitchen. To Devon Smith that was another tick on the positive side of the ledger – a sign that the Aussies had their social pyramid the right way up, unlike what was happening back at home.

  Devon Smith looked at his cheap-ass watch, a fake Rolex bought in Yemen. The biker was due in ten minutes. Devon hoped that Barry Brown wouldn’t be put off by the presence of police in the bar. They looked like they were leaving anyway, one detective in a beige suit and tan tie with a ginger moustache carrying a fingerprint kit in a plastic suitcase. There were no other sailors in the bar at this hour despite the brothel across the road. Smith checked himself in the mirror behind the bottom-shelf spirits – Jim Beam and Jameson, Beefeater gin and Smirnoff vodka. Something called Stone’s green ginger wine, and Brandavino. Captain Morgan rum.

  Smith wasn’t in uniform, despite the regulations. He’d worn his summer whites off the Vinson but changed in a toilet block at the edge of a park, stowed the uniform in a haversack.

  Smith straightened the collar on his freshly ironed Fred Perry polo, which showed off his
tattoos. His father had become a member of the California Aryan Brotherhood in San Quentin back in the sixties, and had brought Devon up in the life. Devon hadn’t been to prison himself, so wasn’t officially entitled to wear the shamrock, Celtic cross or the numerals 88, but they’d both figured that it was a matter of time. Devon’s father had done the tattooing himself, a trade he’d learnt while locked up. It was Devon’s father who’d made contact with the Aussie biker when he learned that Devon was going out on the Carl Vinson. The meet was difficult to organise, done by letters and aerograms. It was made more complicated by the fact that a shit-heel sailor like Devon wasn’t informed of the Vinson’s route on its world tour, let alone the possible dates and duration of his arrival. But a meet had been arranged and Devon received a name and phone number to call. He’d dropped the twenty-cent piece from a public phone in the same park where he’d changed into his civvies of polo shirt, khaki Dickies trousers and Converse high-tops. The voice that answered was male, and middle-aged, the Australian accent broad and deep.

  Smith looked around at the drinkers a final time, wondering if one of them was his man. None of them looked likely, although it was hard to tell – his father, for example, had gone to seed because of the beer and crank. There were a couple of Mediterranean types which he could discount, and the white men looked too weak-chinned and hokey.

  Smith looked to his watch again. The final policeman had left and the bartender reappeared: a fat Slav-looking thing with a sweaty face and monobrow. Smith followed the man’s eyes as a shadow fell across him. He heard the voice, and turned in his seat.

  11.

  Webb dialled in the zoom of his Minolta, waiting for an opportunity. They were parked in a picnic ground on a rise above the Canning River. Beneath them on the river’s edge, three homicide detectives walked the riverbank while two forensic staff in white jumpsuits and waders stood thigh-deep in the water, largely hidden behind a clump of reeds. The teacoloured water was barely ruffled by the wind. Pelicans floated further out and cormorants sat drying their wings on guano-basted pylons. To their left was the nearest headland, the choke point straddled by the Mount Henry Bridge, loud with commuter traffic.