by Peter Corris
‘Mountain wrote a note on a slip of paper and stuck it to a postcard. I thought he might have pecked it out in a shop but these cost a mint; they don’t leave demo models around.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Mountain’s got a traveller’s typewriter, expensive one. Means he expects to be writing.’
‘He’s a writer, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, but he was totally blocked. He was obsessed with writing a novel; he couldn’t write it and it was eating at him. Right?’
Holmes nodded. ‘One of his obsessions.’
‘If he was actually writing this book, would that make a difference to him, to his behaviour?’
‘Conceivably. If it went well it could absorb him, calm him down. If it went badly it could push him in any direction.’
‘What if it went well and he managed to stay off the grog?’
‘That’s unlikely. Alcohol is one of his favourite, I might say most cherished, obsessions. And in case you think you’ve opened me up, I’d point out that Mountain is on the public record about that.’
‘Mm. But just say he was sober and writing well?’
He put the capable-looking hands on the desk and examined them as if he’d never seen them before. Then he looked at his watch.
‘I’ve got an appointment. I expected you to be some dim summons server, Hardy. I can see that you are not.’ He smiled and put a lot of warmth in it; the smile and the voice together would bowl over most women and a lot of men. ‘In fact I think you have a genuine interest in human character which is quite an unusual thing to have. So I will take a chance with you. This is a complete shot in the dark, but I’d say that if Mountain managed to achieve the sort of self-control you’re talking about he would be capable of extraordinary things-a great novel, a terrible crime. Almost anything.’
I stood up and he stood too. We were about the same height as we faced each other over the antique desk. I guessed he would get a lot of transference from his patients-that process where the progressing patient imagines that he or she is in love with the analyst. Hilde used to say that it happened a bit with dentists, too. It wasn’t a problem I’d had to contend with. He came around the desk to see me out and we shook hands again.
I couldn’t resist it; he was just too comfortable and secure for my liking. ‘Did you know that Mountain kept notes on his sessions with you, Doctor? He analysed you, spotted a few weaknesses too.’
His grizzled, pepper-and-salt eyebrows shot up and he looked positively pleased. ‘Really! How interesting. But I can’t say I’m at all surprised. I recommended just such an activity as part of his therapy.’
14
I didn’t see the woman in the jodhpurs on my way out, but I did recognise Dr Holmes’ next patient as I passed through the gate a little ahead of him. Anyone who watched television or read the tabloids would know him from his talk show, where he smiled equally broadly at beauty queens with impoverished vocabularies and RSL officials emotionally arrested in 1945. He was never heard to voice an opinion and was known for his unflappability. He looked pretty flapped now as he advanced towards Holmes’ doorway, as if he was about to melt under the strain of all that affability. I greeted him by his Christian name and he shot me a look as haunted as any ever dreamed of by Edgar Allan Poe.
I drove to my office where the only thing happening was the gathering of dust. On the way back to my car I stopped in at the tattoo parlour on the ground floor, to try out the descriptions of my car park playmates on Primo Tomasetti. Primo has a photographic memory for the faces that sit on top of the bodies he tattoos.
There was no hum coming from the shop, which meant that Primo wasn’t working. I knew he’d either be dozing or sketching designs for tattoos, designs that would always owe a lot to Goya and William Blake. I pushed aside the curtain and saw him hunched over his cartridge paper with a crayon held in his thick fingers moving rapidly in bold strokes.
‘Where d’you get your inspiration from?’ I said.
Primo looked up and grinned. ‘It’s in the blood.’ He scratched at his wiry black hair and brushed the shoulder of the white lab coat he wore over a pink shirt. I once told him he should put a row of ballpoints in the pocket of the coat and he’d look like Ben Casey, but, like everyone under forty, he’s never heard of Ben Casey. ‘My grandfather was the greatest document forger in World War I.’
‘On which side?’
Primo scratched some more. ‘I never bothered to ask. Does it matter?’
‘Not for World War 1 it doesn’t. Look, Primo, I ran into two unfriendly guys the other day-one big, flabby, bit slow, the other was smaller, dark with a bitter look, like he’d gone straight from the orphanage to Long Bay. Ferrety-looking. Any ideas? They seemed like a team.’
‘Hard to say. Cliff.’ He put. down the crayon. ‘Can’t place the flabby one, he sounds like ten cops I know. What’s a ferret?’
‘Small animal they put down holes to flush out rabbits.’
He picked up the crayon and a rabbit appeared on the paper.
‘That’s fascinating. What happens next?’
‘You shoot the rabbits when they come out or wring their necks. I had an uncle used to do it. He’d ride for miles on his bike and he’d always bring back a bag of rabbits.’
‘Did he bring back the ferrets?’
‘Yeah, in a cage on the back of the bike.’
‘What did he send down after the ferrets to get them out of the hole?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Strange place, this Australia. Weird customs. Okay, a guy who looks like he could go down holes after rabbits. That sounds a bit like Carl Peroni.’
‘He didn’t look Italian.’
‘Not all Italians look like Al Pacino. Some in the north look like Robert Redford. It sounds like him is all I’m saying.’
‘Where does he hang out?’
‘Mostly in a coffee place with a pool room called the Venezia. Off Crown Street, you know it?’
‘I think so, yeah. Thanks, Primo.’
‘Hang on, Cliff. I’d go very quietly there if I was you.’
‘I’m known for my tact.’
‘Seriously.’
‘I’m not. planning to bust the Mafia, mate. I’m just going to show the flag, show that I know who works for who and how to find them.’
‘What good would that do?’
‘Always helps to be positive-attack the net.’
‘Attack the net. Is that how they catch the ferrets?’
‘No, that’s tennis. If I find out how they catch the ferrets I’ll let you know, seeing you’re so interested.’
‘You could ask you uncle.’
‘He’s been dead for twenty years.’
Primo starting hatching in a section of his drawing. ‘That probably means his ferrets are dead, too.’
Being mono-lingual, I’ll give the last word any day to a man who can make a joke in his second language. Besides, doing that usually makes people happy to talk to you again and Primo was a first-class source.
It was after five, getting towards wine or gin time rather than coffee time, but I wandered down to the Venezia anyway. It was a nice afternoon for a walk, or would have been sixty years ago when my rabbitto uncle was a boy. Now the traffic was banked up in William Street right back to the tunnel. The air was thick with fumes from idling engines; the case for lead free petrol seemed urgent. I was wearing a white shirt, dark pants and my Italian shoes; I could play a fair game of pool but my Italian was non-existent beyond una cappuccino molto caldo, per favore. The Venezia has two entrances, one on one street and the other around the corner which is occupied by a florist. From the steady twenty-four-hours-a day, 365-days-a-week trade the Venezia did, you’d have thought they could’ve bought out the florist and expanded, but maybe the florist didn’t have a price. I wandered in at Crown Street, bought my coffee and went through pinball and video game purgatory to the pool room. You could buy coffee in there and something stronger if you had th
e right look about you. All four tables were in operation and the couple of nests of tables and chairs were crammed full of men talking, sipping and smoking; no women. I leaned against the counter and watched a player run a series of balls into the pockets. He had the expert’s simultaneous total concentration and relaxation-whether he’d have grace under pressure was another question.
I finished the coffee and ordered another. The man serving it wore long sideburns that covered his cheeks to within a centimetre of his nostrils. He wasn’t busy but he seemed determined to give me the minimum attention he could get away with. I fumbled for money and counted it slowly to extend his attention span.
‘Do you know Carl Peroni by any chance?’ I compared a dull dollar coin to a shiny ten cent piece.
‘Carl? Yes.’ His fingers obviously itched to pull the right money from my handful of coins.
‘Expect him in tonight?’
His shrug sketched the coastline of the Bay of Naples in a single movement. I got out a ball point pen and flicked it; I really had his attention now.
‘Got a bit of paper? I want to leave him a message.’
He pushed a cardboard coaster across the counter towards me. I gave him the right money for the coffee and added the dull dollar. On the coaster I wrote: ‘Enjoyed our meeting in the car park, Carl. We must do it again sometime.’ I added my name and the office phone number. The counter man craned forward to read it. I pushed it across.
‘Give it to him, will you? And buy him a coffee.’
He looked out into the cigarette fug; the air was as blue as in William street and we had the noise of the mechanical and electronic machines instead of the cars. ‘Could be in later,’ he said.
‘I’m busy. It’s not important.’ I finished the short black in a gulp and walked out. The florist was just closing; I stood on the pavement and watched him pull the street displays in and tidy the shop. He was a tall, thin, middle-aged man wearing a dust coat and a bow tie. He whistled while he worked. I remembered that it was one of the many complaints of Cyn, my ex-wife, that I never bought her flowers. It was true, I hadn’t. I tried to a couple of times after she first mentioned it, but I could never feel right about doing it. I wondered what Dr Holmes would make of that.
I’d given Erica Fong a key to my place before sending her off to stay at Bill Mountain’s house with Max. I was glad that she’d used it and glad she was asleep on my couch. I was in the lonely mood my work sometimes brings, a feeling that other people are only contacts, sources of information or problems, and I needed to talk to someone who was more than that.
She was sleeping quietly with her straight hair all spikey and her head resting on a pillow she’d made of an expensive-looking leather coat. One hand, the nicotine-stained one, was under her head and the other was curled in a tight fist as if she was ready to throw a punch the instant she woke up.
Two bottles of duty-free Scotch poked out of the big overnight bag by the couch. I guessed that at least one of the bottles was for me so I took it out to the kitchen, got rid of all the cardboard and wrapping and poured a hefty slug of it over Australian ice. I had a mouthful to make sure the stuff had travelled okay, and then took the bottle, some ice and another glass back to the front room.
She didn’t look travel-stained and I suppose that’s one of the advantages of being small. An airline seat, especially a first class one, would allow enough room for reading, eating and drinking, and isometric exercises. A brush of the teeth, nothing to shave, and you’re right. Erica was wearing fashionably baggy pants and a loose cotton top. Her espadrilles were on the floor and I noticed that she had the shapely feet only small women have. There was a carton of Benson amp; Hedges cigarettes in the bag and another open on the arm of the couch. I had to conclude that either she wasn’t a woman of her word or she hadn’t brought Bill Mountain back with her.
She stirred briefly and came awake quickly. She sat up, stretched and reached for the cigarettes. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I just got in. I dropped off.’
‘You’re entitled, flying however many miles it is in however few hours.’ I held up the Scotch and she nodded. I made her a drink while she inhaled and exhaled as if that’s what life was all about. When she had tried her drink she looked at me gravely.
‘I didn’t find him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I spent Dad’s money like a lunatic just getting around. Everything costs the earth…’ She broke off the travel chat for more alcohol and nicotine and when she spoke again the worry line was like a small fold on her forehead. ‘It looks bad, Cliff. I don’t suppose you…?’
I shook my head.
‘I bought a bottle of Scotch for you and one for him, just in case.’
‘He’s stopped drinking.’
‘He’s what? How d’you know?’
‘I saw his sister in Melbourne.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s doing some crazy things.’
‘Like?’
She finished her cigarette and lost interest in her drink. She tucked her legs up under her and folded her arms and looked like a sad Oriental statue. ‘It’s weird, let me tell you,’ she said. ‘I went to Nice, flew there with just one change. I can’t speak any bloody French but I showed the taxi driver the postcard and he took me to the hotel. It’s inn by this amazing woman with long black hair and diamond rings. She speaks good English and she’s got a big dog, a Doberman. We big-dog people get along. Well, I had a photo of Bill and I showed it to her and she said he’d stayed there for a couple of days. He’d arrived from Marseilles.’
‘What was he doing in Marseilles?’
‘I think he was buying heroin.’
‘Jesus. Why d’you think that?’
‘Madame at the hotel-she said she saw Bill down at the beach sitting in a chair talking to a bloke. She says this bloke is a well-known Marseilles heroin dealer. They set the deal up in Marseilles and deliver in Nice. Don’t ask me why. They have all these chairs lined up on this concrete promenade…’
‘I’ve seen it in the movies.’
‘It’s lovely, and you could talk privately there. I mean, not be overheard. Oh God, Cliff, he’s never had anything to do with hard drugs. I’m sure of that.’
‘I don’t think he’d be in it to play around with the stuff himself. Go on, what else did you find out?’
‘He talked to Madame a bit, in French. He speaks good French- she said it was good, and they don’t go in for that sort of praise much, the French. I said sil voo play and got laughed at. Anyway, he went to Antibes and a place called Cap Ferrat. Want to know why?’
I thought about it while I worked on my whisky. I was getting ready to take over her abandoned one too. Cap Ferrat-easy-Somerset Maugham lived there for years. Antibes-something to do with Picasso? Then I remembered the paperbacks in Mountain’s study-the foot or so of orange-covered Penguin editions of Graham Greene. Graham Greene lived in Antibes.
‘Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene,’ I said. ‘He went to look at their houses.’
She almost dropped the new cigarette she was fiddling with. ‘That’s right! That’s right!’ She lit the cigarette and didn’t protest when I took over her whisky. ‘How did you know that?’
I waved her smoke away airily. ‘Nothing to it; you say Aries you mean Van Gogh, you say La Jolla you mean Raymond Chandler.’
She looked at me through the haze. ‘You are like him, that’s the sort of trick he could do.’
‘Go on. He went to look at a couple of writers’ houses. Then what?’
‘Then nothing. He told Madame that’s what he was doing. He watched TV with her and he fucked her.’
‘She said so?’
‘No, but I could tell, just from the way she looked, the way she said things. I could tell. That’s my trick.’
‘Useful too. Does that change anything for you?’
‘No.’
‘Pity.’
‘Why?’
‘I told you he went to see his sister. She’s
a pretty hopeless sort of case. Scared of everything. He certainly didn’t give her any comfort.’
‘He’s not the sort of man who gives comfort, he gives energy and interest. Bit like you again.’
I coughed. ‘Thanks.’
She got up off the couch and crossed to my chair. I could see her small breasts moving under the loose shirt and I wanted to touch them. She crouched in front of me.
‘Touch.’
I touched. She took my hands away, lifted her shirt and spread my fingers and palms over her naked breasts. She was warm and when I bent down to kiss her she opened her mouth and locked on to me fiercely.
In bed she was enthusiastic and experienced. She slithered around, changing positions and exciting me with her small, hard body. She came in harsh, gasping spasms and I was only a moment behind her. I propped up and looked down at her creamy oval face with the perfect cheekbones and brown smiling lips.
‘Good?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
She squirmed out and pulled me down and went to sleep with her head on my shoulder. I went to sleep a little later when the sounds of the world that we’d blotted out started to filter back through to me. I knew that I’d been part of Erica Fong’s revenge on William Mountain, but I didn’t care.
15
She wasn’t in the bed when I woke up. I put on my old towelling dressing gown and went downstairs towards the smell of brewing coffee. She was in the kitchen, fully dressed except for shoes and smoking her first fag of the day. She jumped when she saw me in the doorway; her slept-on hair was spiky here and matted flat there, like badly cut grass. She ran her hand over her head nervously.
‘That was just…’
‘I know.’ I went over and kissed the top of her head. I smoothed down some of the spiky hair. ‘It’s all right, Erica. Probably very good for both of us. No harm done.’
She put one arm around me, turned her head, inhaled and blew a stream of smoke away from me. ‘Phew, thought it might be messy.’
‘No. Let’s have some coffee.’
