The demise of Brett Ratten sent shockwaves through the AFL’s underworld. In a dark corner of a café in Ascot Vale, three wizened old men sipped lattes and spoke in hushed tones. The contract had been executed. The coach had been terminated. Order had been restored.
‘He was my trusted lieutenant and I loved him,’ Steve Kernahan said. ‘But he had to go.’
Greg Swann leant forward, elbows on the table. ‘He was sent to the Gold Coast with specific instructions,’ he said. ‘It was a walk in job.’ Swann looked sideways at Kernahan then at the other man at the table, Andrew Demetriou, the capo di tutti capi, the boss of the bosses.
‘He blew it,’ Demetriou said without emotion.
Kernahan sipped the latte. ‘I feel like we’ve got blood on our hands, don’t worry about that,’ he said.
Demetriou smiled glibly. ‘That’s what happens when you execute someone. If you’re smart you can do it without getting bloody.’
Kernahan accepted the rebuke. ‘It was a tough call, a harsh call, an each-way call,’ he said. ‘But I stand by the decision.’
‘Real power must be taken,’ Swann said.
There was silence at the table for a moment as a waiter appeared carrying a plate of donuts with blood red icing. He put the plate on the marble table. One the waiter was gone it was Kernahan who broke the silence.
‘Andrew, we need to reclaim the power. We haven’t won a premiership in seventeen years. That’s got to change. We’ve come to visit you today to tell you there may be more bloodshed.’
Demetriou broke off a piece of donut and licked the blood red icing. ‘If anything in this life is certain, if history has taught us anything, it is that you can kill anyone.’
‘And you don’t object?’ Swann asked. He picked up a donut.
Demetriou smirked and liked icing from his lips. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What was the last thing Ratten said?’
Kernahan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Eyes wide, he looked at Swann for help. Swann stayed silent. ‘That’s not something I want to-‘
Demetriou slapped the table. ‘Goddamn you,’ he yelled. ‘Why can’t you give me a straight answer anymore?’
Swann almost choked on his donut. Kernahan’s jaw dropped open. He took a moment to compose himself. ‘He knew it was coming,’ he said.
‘I didn’t ask that,’ Demetriou said. ‘I asked you what his last words were and that is what you will tell me.’
Kernahan sighed slowly, so it didn’t appear disrespectful. ‘He said the club has been ruthless in its quest for success and that’s one of its great strengths as a footy club.’
Demetriou nodded. ‘What else.’
‘He knew what went wrong. He said at the end of the day we didn’t play finals and that was our objective.’ Kernahan looked at the donut on the plate, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were pained. ‘The last thing he said was dark moments came into my head, knowing that was a loss we should not have had.’
‘And that was it,’ Demetriou said?
Kernahan nodded.
‘Did you get rid of the assistants?’
‘They’re playing cards with the negotiator,’ Swann said. ‘He’s letting them win, they’re happy.’
Demetriou glared at Swann. ‘You’re keeping them alive?’
‘I don’t feel we have to wipe everybody out,’ Swann said. ‘Just our enemies. Ratten turned on us. He promised us finals and he lied.
‘Are you going to get Mick Malthouse,’ Demetriou asked Swann.
‘We’ll try, but there was bad blood between him and Ratten. He spat right in Ratten’s face.’
Demetriou shrugged. ‘Mick has been dying from the same heart attack for the last twenty years but he thinks he’s going to live forever and he wanted Ratten out.’
‘Malthouse is taking hostages,’ Kernahan said. ‘Travis Cloke is nowhere to be found, not on the football field or off it.’
Demetriou gave an impatient wave of his right hand. ‘Let me worry about Cloke.’
Kernahan and Swann shared an uncertain glance.
‘Are you going to get Malthouse?’ Demetriou asked again.
‘What about Cloke,’ Swann said.
‘He’s at my house practicing his goal kicking in the back yard,’ Demetriou said. ‘Some people will pay a lot of money for that information, but then Carlton would lose a president and CEO instead of gaining a coach and a power forward.
Swann and Kernahan were silent. The capo di tutti capi was angry. He didn’t make threats without purpose.
‘Now, are you going to get Malthouse,’ Demetriou said.
‘We’ll ask him,’ Kernahan said.
‘Make him an offer he can’t refuse,’ Demetriou said. He pushed back from the table and got up. ‘Malthouse is waiting in the car outside,’ he said. ‘I’ll send him in.’
Kernahan and Swann stood. They kissed Demetriou’s hand and thanked him.
The waiter came back to the table. Kernahan ordered three lattes. ‘I remember the old days,’ he said sadly. ‘When Carlton was the envy of all other clubs.’ He shook his head. ‘One by one all our old friends are gone. Death, natural or not, prison or deported to other clubs.’
‘Those were the great old days, you know,’ Swann said.
‘And we were like the Roman Empire,’ Kernahan said. ‘Carlton was like the Roman Empire.’
The voice was soft yet forceful. ‘It once was,’ Mick Malthouse said.
Swann and Kernahan flinched. They hadn’t seen or heard Malthouse arrive.
Malthouse took off the fedora and his overcoat. He sat down, folded the overcoat and put it on the seat beside him. ‘I heard you want to talk to me.’
‘We need a coach,’ Swann said.
Malthouse lifted the mug and sipped the latte. ‘I can do that,’ he said.
‘What are your terms,’ Kernahan said.
‘What can you offer me?’ Malthouse said.
‘A latte and donut,’ Swann said, smiling.
Malthouse didn’t find any humour. ‘Let me tell you something about Carlton.’ He pinched a tiny piece of fluff from the fedora then brushed it with his fingers. ‘There was this kid I grew up with. He was younger than me. Sorta looked up to me, you know. We started playing footy at the same time, worked our way out of the street. Things were good, we made the most of it. During the seventies he played in a grand final but missed out on a premiership. In 1980 I was lucky enough to play in a premiership with Richmond.
Malthouse smiled. His voice was soft. ‘As much as anyone, I loved him and trusted him. Later on he had an idea to build a football club out of a derelict piece of land north of the city. That kid’s name was Denis Pagan and the football club he reinvented was North Melbourne.’
Swann and Kernahan stared raptly at Malthouse.
‘This was a great man, a man of vision and guts,’ Malthouse said. ‘He won two premierships with North Melbourne and there isn’t even a plaque or a signpost or a statue of him at Arden Street. Later on he went to coach Carlton and did the best he could for five years.’
Malthouse touched his right eye, took a deep breath and made a gun out of his right hand. ‘Someone put a bullet through his contract. No one knows who gave the order. When I heard it, I wasn’t angry. I knew Denis, I knew he was head-strong, talking loud, saying stupid things about his game plan. So when his contract was terminated, I let it go.’ Malthouse tapped the table with his thumb. ‘And I said to myself, this is the business we’ve chosen. Coaches get terminated all the time. I didn’t ask who gave the order, because it had nothing to do with business.’
Kernahan and Swann were silent. Malthouse composed himself. ‘I’m going to take a piss,’ he said. ‘When I return, if there’s four million on the table I’ll know I have a partner for three years. If the money isn’t there, I’ll know I don’t.’
He got up and walked to the men’s room.
‘We need to pay him,’ Swann said. ‘You’re the president, so give the order.’
Kernahan sat back. ‘I’ve got to get this right,’ he said. ‘If I do and we don’t play finals I’ll be damned. If I get someone else and we don’t play finals I’ll be damned too.’
‘That’s why you’re president,’ Swann said. ‘It’s your call.’
Kernahan took the phone from his pocket to call Jeanne Pratt. The phone rang three times before she answered. ‘Hi Jeanne, it’s Steve.’
Those were the last words Kernahan ever spoke. It was Swann that shot him point blank, one bullet in the neck, one in the head. Kernahan crumpled to the floor, a pathetic slurry of a president, the phone still to his ear.
Malthouse walked slowly across the café and stood over the corpse. He bent down and gently prised the phone from Kernahan’s fingers.
‘Hi Jeanne,’ he said. ‘It’s Mick. It’s done.’
‘Win a premiership for Carlton you punk bastard,’ Jeanne said. ‘Or I’ll kill you too.’
Malthouse disconnected the call. ‘Leave the gun,’ he said to Swann. ‘Take the donut.’
Swann dropped the gun and picked up the plate carrying the donut. Malthouse put on his overcoat and fedora then grabbed the donut. He took a bite.
‘I don’t like violence Swann,’ he said. ‘I’m a businessman. Blood is a big expense.’ He licked blood red icing from his fingers.
