Read Laughs, Corpses... and a Little Romance Page 20

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  I’ve worked for my dad ever since I left school. Frankly, I couldn’t wait to finish school, sitting around in the classroom all day listening to the teacher droning on and on, when I wanted to be outside mucking around. It wasn’t that I couldn’t understand geography and history and stuff like that, but I just couldn’t see the point of remembering it all, and I still can’t, it’s never earned me a single cent extra. Mind you arithmetic, now that’s something everybody should learn, otherwise how can you work out change and make sure you aren’t being ripped off? For some reason we learnt a bit of French too, and that sometimes comes in handy to impress the girls. After school I was the leader of our gang. We used to play games like football, cricket and cops and robbers, and we had great times round town, in the bush, and along the river. Dad said I couldn’t go swimming in the river, it was too dangerous, but I went in anyway. We puffed our first cigarettes at eleven; one of the gang pinched them from his dad. I started going out on Annabelle almost as soon as I could walk, and by the time I was twelve I was already collecting the fares and even doing a little bit of steering, so when I left school and went to work for dad full time I already knew what to do.

  I get pretty bored, doing the same job all the time, but it’s steady cash in my pocket, and it’s better than sitting in an office all day, with fluoro lights and no fresh air. Dad says the river is never the same two days running, but you could fool me; there’s hardly any action on this river at all, just locals in their runabouts and on the weekends a few yachts and expensive cruisers. What I need is a bit of excitement. Some day I would just love to head off down the river and out to sea, and maybe turn south to Sydney, or north to Surfers Paradise, somewhere where there’s a bit of life and lots of girls. Surfers has got the Casino and bars and nightlife and exotic dancers and fabulous things to do. Our town doesn’t even have a cinema.

  Next time I saw Zilga I made use of my new Internet knowledge. “Can you get broadband on your phone over here?” “Yes, I use a broadband mobile phone connection, but sometimes I don’t get a good signal. I’m zinking of switching to a satellite connection instead”. “Ah yes” I said, trying to sound knowledgeable “that makes sense to me”. Next trip I asked Zilga why he picked that spot for his business. “For low house prices, and for security. Some of my pieces are very valuable and people might be tempted to try and steal zem. Zere is, alas, a ready market for stolen fine art to private collectors who don’t ask too many questions, and Australia has a bad reputation for zat sort of zing. Zere is no road in here so anybody trying to steal from me must come by boat and tie up to zis jetty, and I have alarms and strong safe.”

  I thought about all this. The idea of doing business all over the world from a house up the river was new to me. I told dad about it. The poor old codger didn’t know anything about the Internet of course, so I had to explain it all to him. “Zilga says some of the paintings we’re carrying are very valuable.” Dad said. “Well I gathered that from the security guards that delivered that crate last week. I hope he’s got them insured, because our insurance sure as hell won’t cover them.”

  A dark thought entered my brain. “I wonder if he’s all legitimate and above board?” “What do you mean?” “How do we know the goods we’re carrying aren’t pinched? He told me there’s a ready market for stolen stuff. Maybe the real reason he’s got his place up here is so the cops can’t watch him. It would be a good place to hide stolen stuff for a bit till the cops stop looking.” “Stop imagining things, you’re seeing a crime where there isn’t one. You’ve got absolutely no reason to be suspicious. Zilga seems a very honest man to me, and don’t forget he’s our best customer.”

  Still I couldn’t help wondering. When I was in the office on my own I called the police information number, and told the girl on the other end that I might have some information about stolen fine art stuff. She connected me through to some place called the Fine Arts Felony Squad and a Detective Constable John Fowler picked up the phone. He seemed a nice friendly bloke. I told him all about Zilga Marzetsky’s operation, and how I thought he might be handling stolen paintings and stuff, and about the crates coming and going. “Have you any evidence at all that he isn’t completely legitimate?” he asked. “Well no, not really, it just seems suspicious to me. I think he moved up here on the river so you guys can’t watch him.” “Just a minute.” I heard him tapping away on his computer keyboard. “Well we have nothing on him. He’s registered as a dealer in fine arts. There’s nothing here to justify an investigation.” “Can’t you tap his phone or somethin’?” “No, we can’t do that unless we have some evidence of criminal activity, and all you’ve just given me is suspicions." "Isn’t there anything you can do ?” “No there isn’t, just forget it, and don’t let’s have any ‘accidentally’ opened crates either.” Well, that shut me up! There was nothing more I could do, so I had to let it go.