Free Shooting Star by Peter Temple

shook my head.
    ‘That would be it,’ he said. ‘Dandenong. Right.’ He listened, wrote numbers on the napkin, shut down the mobile, closed the flap, gave it back to me. ‘You see gloves, you think boxer, pugilist. A literal mind, best suited to mundane tasks like killing people.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘The key,’ he said. ‘The heraldic key.’

WE PARKED on the stained tarmac apron of a firm called Dollakeen Kitchens in the light industrial area of Dandenong, a part of Greater Melbourne that doesn’t get mentioned in the newspaper suggestions for ten fun places to go on a Sunday. Orlovsky chose Dollakeen because its front gate was open and telephone inquiries had no number for it.
    I was reading the paper and Orlovsky was leaning against the driver’s door smoking one of his stolen Camels when the vehicle drove in the entrance and pulled up on his side, a few metres away.
    The driver got out and walked around, came between the vehicles, a young man in a silky tracksuit, medium height, big shoulders and a bodybuilder’s neck. I got out and stretched, walked around and leaned against the driver’s door.
    ‘G’day,’ the man said. ‘My old man tell youse I need some ID before I open anythin? Like somethin with the business name on it, somethin like that.’
    ‘Sure,’ said Orlovsky, putting his right hand into his jacket. ‘And your name is…?’
    ‘Craig Boxer,’ said the man. ‘Boxer Locks.’
    Orlovsky was close to him, side-on, getting closer. ‘Craig,’ he said, looking into his inside pocket. ‘Now what have we here. Wallet…ah.’
    He brought his right hand out of his jacket, nothing in it, fingers half-closed, punched Craig Boxer under the nose with the heel of his hand. Boxer made a noise, a yelping sound, fell backwards against the yellow Ford van, rocking it. As he was bringing up his hands to the blood pouring from his nose, Orlovsky kicked his legs out from under him. Craig hit the tarmac hard, banging his head against the van. Blood went out from him in an arc.
    In the van, I could see the little gloves hanging from the rearview mirror. They were swinging.
    ‘Fuck,’ said Craig, through his hands. He sounded like someone with a bad cold. A bad cold and a bad nosebleed.
    ‘That’s a little hello from the Carson family,’ I said. ‘Anne’s family.’
    Craig was trying to get up. He took one hand from his face, put it on the ground, put some weight on it.
    Orlovsky kicked him just above the elbow, not very hard. Craig’s arm went behind him and he screamed in pain and fell over sideways.
    ‘Don’t move,’ Orlovsky said. He walked around the body carefully and put his left foot on Craig’s head. ‘Just answer when you’re spoken to.’
    ‘Where’s Anne?’ I said.
    Blood was pooling under Craig’s head. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Jesus, fuck.’
    ‘Anne’s missing,’ I said. ‘She’s been kidnapped. But you’d know that, Craig.’
    ‘No,’ he said, visible eye showing lots of white. ‘No, fuck no.’
    ‘Fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. Fucked and kidnapped by you,’ I said.
    ‘Christ, fuck, no.’ He had good clotting power. The blood flow had stopped.
    ‘No?’ said Orlovsky. He ground Craig’s face into the tarmac, into his own blood, with his sole. ‘No? Did I hear you say no?’
    ‘Said she was seventeen,’ Craig said from under Orlovsky’s shoe. ‘Christ, I’m sorry.’
    ‘Kidnapping,’ I said. ‘You’re going to be in the papers, Craig. On TV. Go to jail for ever. Where’s Anne?’
    ‘Don’t know,’ he said, eye rolling. ‘Dropped her on Thursday, was gonna pick her up Tuesday. Jesus, I don’t know, please.’
    I didn’t say anything for a while. Quiet place on a Sunday, the Dandenong light industrial area, just the even murmur of traffic on the Princes Highway, somewhere a yard dog barking.
    ‘I’m going to ask you once more, Craig,’ I said. ‘If I don’t like the answer, the man standing on you is going to kick your head off. It’ll take