Arms Race by Nic Low Read Free Book Online

and weathered. His massive shoulders protrude from either side of
his seat. Next to him, Archie looks tiny. The old man’s barely five foot and all
sinew, wired tight like an old-time bantamweight boxer. He riffles the paperwork
with tattooed hands, one last time. His scowl is cast-iron with concentration.
    Relax, Uncle, Toff says. He speaks with the sharp, tumbling cadences of the Western
Desert. You can’t beat ’em?
    Archie looks up and cracks a grin, and puts the papers back in the glove box.
    Past the CBD, Toff swings the ute off St Kilda Road into the cool green of Kings
Domain. They crawl along the triumphal avenue with hazard lights winking, and on
up to the Shrine of Remembrance. The blunt stone monument squats above the city
like a misplaced Greek temple.
    Toff parks on the forecourt next to three other council utes. One’s got a small excavator
on the back. The shrine’s grey stone is a confusion of workers in high-vis vests,
setting up a safety perimeter. A hard-case woman in mirror shades hammers a white
planning sign into the lawn.
    Archie climbs down from the cab, and jams a foreman’s hardhat over his wiry grey
hair. He looks out across the glass spires of the city skyline, as if appraising
their value. Then he looks up at the shrine.
    All right, you mob, Archie calls. Let’s get to work!
    By the time the police arrive the paved forecourt and wide granite steps are a mess
of smashed rock. The excavator has piled the debris to one side, where a team of
workers sift the dirt with wire-mesh pans. A small crowd of onlookers has gathered
at the safety perimeter.
    A police cruiser pulls in beside the utes. Archie’s shoulders hunch tight. Toff
drops his sledgehammer and walks quickly over.
    Let me, he says.
    A sergeant and a constable step from the car. They look like they’re at the tail
end of a long night shift, their faces creased and tired.
    You with the council? the sergeant shouts. The percussion of jackhammers is relentless.
    Yeah, Toff yells.
    You the boss?
    I’m the spokesman.
    The policeman cups a hand to his ear. What?
    I’m the spokesman!
    Huh?
    You got a nice tan! Hang on. Toff signals the others to stop work, and soon a dusty
silence falls over the Domain. What’s the problem?
    We had reports of someone vandalising the shrine. But you’re council, right?
    Right, Toff says.
    What’re you doing? Maintenance?
    Not quite. Here. Toff points to the planning sign. He folds his thick arms across
his chest and waits with a half smile.
    The sergeant leans down and reads. His weary, businesslike expression ruptures with
surprise. He looks at Toff.
    You serious?
    Deadly.
    Mineral Exploration Licence?
    You got it. G-two-eighty. Eight weeks, eighty metres down, mining lease if we hit
pay dirt.
    Pay dirt? You mean you’re digging for—
    Toff grins. Gold.
    The sergeant runs a hand along his stubbled jaw. Right, he says. Gold. This is kind
of unusual. You got any paperwork?
    Sure, Toff says. I got a twenty-seven-F, all the back checks, an ECB and two double-o-fours.
You want them all?
    The sergeant shrugs. Toff ducks his bulk under the safety tape and retrieves the
papers from the ute. The sergeant reads in silence.
    Hang on a minute, he says. Land Council? You’re from the Aboriginal Land Council?
He looks sharply at Toff and the work gang at his back. Is this some kind of stunt?
    A small, mostly elderly crowd has drifted closer to listen. An unusually tall old
man in a blue blazer, a red poppy pinned to his lapel, hovers behind the sergeant.
He radiates distress like an old-fashioned bar heater. Activists, the man moans.
They’re activists.
    Toff ’s amber eyes are trenched deep in his fleshy face, but they’re shining. He’s
been waiting for this. He laughs. Were activists, he says. Now we’re the Aboriginal Land Council—of Minerals .
    The sergeant shakes his head. What’s your point? he says. What are your demands?
    No