by Peter Corris
‘So, what’ve you got in mind?’
The look of relief that came across her strong, handsome face made it worthwhile saying something I hadn’t intended to say.
‘Apparently he’s got some sort of twelve-hour pass. I’ve agreed to be at home at nine to say hello to him. The kids’ll be up at six for the tree and the presents and then they’ll be off to the pageant. I want you to be there when he arrives. He can think what he likes. It’s just a ploy for him. He’ll go off and get drunk and with any luck they’ll put him back where he belongs. I’ll get a divorce and move somewhere.’
“Won’t he expect to see the children?’
‘They’ll stay at their friends’ place and sleep over. He never showed any interest in them before-except as things to shout at and give an occasional whack.’
‘You’re not going to this pageant?’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not the deal. They’re going to video it and the kids want me to see the final edited version. That’s what’s real to them these days, isn’t it?’
‘I haven’t got any children. I wouldn’t know. And after he goes, then what?’
‘I don’t trust him. I’ll need you to stay with me the rest of the day, until 9 o’clock or whatever.’
She’d told me that she’d given up being a clothes horse after she’d had the twins and that she’d qualified as a computer programmer after Ronnie went inside. She was a freelance-desktop publishers called her in to trouble-shoot for them. It was interesting and paid well. She said that to convince me I’d get paid. It did more than that-it told me she was bright and steady and to be taken seriously. I liked her.
‘I’m due to have lunch with some people. A senior policeman as it happens. You could come with me.’
She looked at me, no doubt taking in the greying hair, the crow’s feet, the broken nose. I could only hope she was seeing the sense of humour, the sterling integrity.
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she said.
I was at her house in Rozelle at eight-thirty on Christmas morning. I’d seen three kids on their new Christmas bikes and was feeling cheerful. The house was a weatherboard double-fronter that had recently had a coat of paint. It sat on a wider block with more space in front and back than at my place in Glebe, but then you couldn’t see the water the way you can by standing on my back fence. I prowled around in professional fashion and was satisfied that there were only four ways an intruder could approach from.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Fran said when she opened the door.
I said the same and presented her with a bunch of flowers.
‘A prop?’
‘As you like. You’ll be interested to hear that your house is a security nightmare.’
The morning was warm and she looked good in a short white dress that left her strong brown arms bare. I wore chinos and a short-sleeved shirt. I had a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 in the pocket of my linen jacket. I stepped inside onto polished boards with light flooding in from enlarged windows. There was an old-fashioned coat and hat stand by the door. I hung my jacket up and arranged it so I could stand in the doorway and reach the gun.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No gun.’
‘Probably not.’
She nodded and looked away.
Ronnie arrived in a taxi at ten-fifteen. As he opened the gate and came up the path Fran opened the door and I got a good look at him. Some men bloat in prison, others build their bodies. Ronnie had done the weights. He was about my height, a bit over six feet, but he’d bulked up above the waist. He wore tight white jeans and a denim shirt that couldn’t close around his thick neck-not that it mattered because he had the shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist.
I glanced at Fran. She was staring at the man bouncing up the path as if she was a Billy Graham convert about to accept salvation. Then he grinned and I felt her go tense beside me.
‘Ugh,’ she whispered. ‘Steroids.’
He bounded up, pulling off a pair of sunglasses. He squinted, saw Fran, then me.
She stuck out her hand. ‘Hi, Ronnie.’
He stopped dead, just out of hand-shaking range. He was handsome, with dark hair and regular features, but his iron-pumping had given him a slightly pin-headed look.
‘Who’s this?’ he growled.
‘Cliff,’ Fran said, touching my arm but leaving me a clear reach to the gun. ‘This is Ronnie Phillips, my former husband.’
‘Still your bloody husband.’
‘Not for long.’
‘You fuckin’ bitch.’ He made a fist and stepped forward. I moved up past Fran. That pleased him-something to hit. He’d probably been wanting to do it since his first bench press. But he was slow; the looping right came at me but I had all the time in the world to deliver a short jolt to his bulging left bicep. I hit the spot just right. He yelped and the intended punch became a grab at the arm which dangled, the fingers in spasm.
‘Visit’s over, Ronald,’ I said. ‘On your way.’
He wanted to have another go but that kind of punch leaves an arm pretty well useless for a couple of minutes and he wasn’t silly enough to think he could take me with one hand.
‘You bitch.’
‘You’re repeating yourself,’ I said. ‘But if you like we can stand here and chat for a bit while Fran calls the cops. I can tell them that you threatened her.’
The bounce had gone out of him; only the bastardly was left. He made a show of staring into my eyes before he covered his with the shades. He flexed the left hand, quick recovery. Then he turned and went down the path. He kicked the gate shut behind him and it swayed with the force of the kick.
‘Petty,’ I said.
Fran’s hand was on my shoulder. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ she said.
The house had a comfortable feel, even with the possibility of the return of Ron. We had a couple of glasses of wine and I took a few turns around the block, just checking. Fran made a salad and we got to talking in an easy way as if we’d met more than just twice. The Christmas tree in the corner of the living room was properly decorated and the wrapping paper scattered around it indicated that the twins, Paul and Harriet, had had a good deal of loot. (I had presents for Frank and Hilde and would get some from them. I’d got a book in the mail from my sister and that was my lot.)
We talked, I admired her garden which was mostly herbs, vegetables and fruit trees-my idea of a garden. Fran phoned the Lane household where the kids were staying and was told that everything was going fine and they were looking forward to her dropping in.
‘They’re a bit dull,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to come in. I’ll be quick.’
She changed into loose white pants and a blue silk blouse and looked good. I drove to Drummoyne and admired her as she walked away from the car. No sign of Ronnie. I listened to the radio and tried to remember who’d won the four grand-slam tennis titles that year and the runners-up in the mens and women’s singles. It was a typical slice of a private detective’s day- waiting and killing time.
Fran smelled slightly of brandy when she got back into the car. She kissed me on the cheek and I could have taken a bit more of that.
‘Boring for you.’
‘Worth it now. Kids okay?’
‘Fine. I’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow morning. Do your friends know you’ll have company?’
‘They don’t, but they’ll be pleased.’
We set off with quite a few unasked questions in the air. I had the presents on the back seat-a bottle of Scotch for Frank, gardening gloves and shears for Hilde and a six-pack of the priciest tennis balls on the market for young Cliff who was doing well in a junior tennis development program. Fran said she felt bad about not having a gift so we stopped at a Bondi pub, had a drink and she bought a bottle of champagne.
‘So he’s a good cop, this Frank?’ Fran said.
‘The best. He’s quiet but you’ll like him. Don’t worry, they’re easy people to get on with. Like you.’
‘Do we tell them what we’re really doing today?
’
‘Up to you.’
‘Let’s not.’
Everything went well at the Parkers. Cliff was off playing tennis and Fran and Hilde talked about kids and how independent they were these days. Frank and I had beer and chablis while the women drank champagne. The lunch was good and we’d just about finished when a bleeper sounded in the living room.
‘Oh, shit,’ Fran said. ‘Sorry, I left my mobile number where the kids are, just in case. Harriet acts up.’ She got up quickly and went to her bag.
I heard the sharp intake of breath and was moving quickly towards her when I heard her shriek.
‘No! Oh God no!’
Her face, which was tanned and had had some extra colour in it from the wine, turned white; her lips were moving soundlessly.
‘What?’ I said.
‘It’s Ronnie. He’s taken the kids.’
Frank was beside me. ‘Fran, can I…?’
‘No!’ she shouted. She grabbed her bag, pushed past us and ran for the door. I followed, ignoring Frank’s protest. Fran dashed into the street and was heading nowhere, looking around frantically.
I grabbed her arm. ‘What’s happening? Let me help. Frank can help too.’
‘No. He says I have to go home. He’s ringing every hour. No police. Oh God, he must be mad.’
I unlocked the car, bundled her in and was off before Frank reached his front gate. I’d had too much to drink to be driving but I could feel myself sobering up by the second. Fran told me what the Lanes had told her: Phillips had walked in, threatened the adults with a tyre lever, picked up the twins and announced that he was taking them away. He’d ring Fran on the hour and she’d better talk to him if she wanted to see the children again.
‘He must have followed us to the Lanes,’ Fran said. ‘You should have seen him.’
I concentrated on driving, keeping up a good speed but staying out of trouble. She was right. His arriving at her place in a taxi had thrown me. I should have realised that for a man like Ronnie any street is full of available cars. Car theft, offering menaces, abduction-it was desperate stuff that would finish his parole chances. Not a comforting thought, also a puzzling one. Why had he blown his stack?
‘Hurry,’ Fran said. ‘We’ve only got twelve minutes.’
All the rapport between us had gone. I didn’t answer and concentrated on driving and thinking. Where could Ronnie have gone with two distressed kids? How many options would he have, a few hours out of gaol? We reached Fran’s street with a couple of minutes to spare. I pulled up fifty metres from the house. She swore at me, yanked open the door and ran. I got the. 38 and eased out of the car quietly. The earlier recce now came in handy. I went down the side path of the unoccupied house next to Fran’s, into the backyard and over the fence.
I approached the back door trying to remember what sort of a lock it had, whether or not there was a screen door. I needn’t have bothered. The screen door wire had been ripped and the back door jemmied open. I went through into the closed-in verandah behind the kitchen. I could hear children crying and shouting from inside the house. No need for tip-toes. I went through the kitchen into the passage. The crying was coming from the girl’s room; I could hear her brother trying to soothe her.
‘You’ve terrified my kids,’ Fran hissed.
‘They’re my kids, too. I’ve got a right to see them.’
‘They’re not your kids.’
‘What?’
‘I said they’re not yours. Thank Christ.’
The sound of a slap, then a choked cry ending in a kind of laugh. Ronnie was standing over Fran, who was slumped onto the couch.
‘You’ve screwed up again, Ronnie. You’d better run. If they catch you they’ll put you away for good.’
‘I’ll kill youse all.’
I heard the booze in the voice; I saw the carving knife. I moved up, gripped the pistol by the barrel and hit him as hard as I could behind the ear with the butt. He jerked half-around; I hit him again and felt his skull crack. He dropped the knife and fell awkwardly with his weight coming down hard on a buckled knee. The ligaments tore like ripped silk.
‘Oh, god,’ Fran said. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘Good. That’s what I wanted you to think.’
Then it was cops, cops and more cops, along with an ambulance for Ronnie and paramedics to treat Fran’s bruises and the twisted arm Harriet had suffered when Ronnie had grabbed her. Eventually they all went away and Fran got the kids calmed and into bed. I phoned Frank and put things right there. Fran found a half-full bottle of Johnny Walker red and poured two stiff ones.
‘I owe you an explanation,’ she said.
One of my knuckles was swollen where it had made contact with Ronnie’s head and my arm was slightly jarred. I flexed both and drank some Scotch. ‘I think you do.’
‘I didn’t know whether I wanted him back or not. I hadn’t seen him for a year. Then he started writing these letters… I just wasn’t sure.
‘I thought Paul needed a father. He was showing some signs. Shit, I just wanted to see him again and try to work out if I could take him back.’
‘I was insurance. Just in case he got rough.’
‘Sort of. He used to be crazy jealous. It was one of the worst things. He swore he’d got over it. That he wasn’t like that any more. Well, he was just the same and worse. I loathed him on sight, all that pumped up macho look. But I never dreamed he’d go after the kids. I’m sorry, Cliff.’
I believed her about the kids; about the rest of it I didn’t know. Were they Ronnie’s children? I finished the drink and stood up. ‘Bad Christmas for the kids.’
‘I’ll make it up to them next year.’
Can you? I thought. Maybe.
Meeting at Mascot
I got drunk at Glen Withers’ wedding and I got drunk pretty often after that without needing any excuse. I was late coming into the office more days than not, couldn’t quite manage to return calls and cope with a hangover at the same time, and business began to suffer. I botched a summons-serving or two and that avenue of funds started to dry up. I was irritable, couldn’t be bothered eating properly and lost weight. The cat left and didn’t come back. There were days when I neglected to shower and shave, neglected to eat and the only thing I didn’t neglect to do was find something to drink by mid-morning.
It was getting towards 11 o’clock and I was congratulating myself on not yet having had a drink, wondering if I could last until noon and doubting it, when a man walked into my office. I disliked him on sight which is a sign of the way I was feeling. He was middle-height with a bulging beer gut, a high colour and not much sandy hair brushed across a pink scalp. His flabby face was scraped clean and he’d put on an after-shave that smelled like over-ripe pineapples. He wore a light blue summer suit with a white shirt, no tie, and he’d let the lapels of his shirt creep out a bit as if he really wished he was back in the Seventies when shirts were opened wide over jacket lapels. He had the gold necklace to fit that style.
He took off his sunglasses and stared at me with pale, piggy eyes. ‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘The private detective?’
I remembered that the filing card I use for a nameplate on the door had fallen off and I hadn’t done anything about it. I thought about denying it, saying that Hardy had moved out and that I was the new tenant, but I couldn’t summon the energy. ‘Right,’ I said and left it at that.
His eyes darted around the room. It was Tuesday and I hadn’t been in since Thursday. A layer of dust covered the filing cabinets, battered desk and client’s chair. When spruced up the decor can have a kind of rough charm; today it looked like stuff left over from a garage sale. He slapped the chair with a newspaper he was carrying and sat down. ‘I’m Rex Hindle. I’ve got a job for you.’
Emotions warred in me. As I say, I disliked the look of him. I also disliked the look of myself. I had two days’ growth sprouting, not a pretty sight with all the grey among the black, and I hadn’t been near soap or a comb in a wh
ile. Anyone who’d want to hire me in that condition wasn’t likely to be anyone I’d want to work for. On the other hand, among the junk on my desk were several pressing bills and an over-the-limit credit card statement. I couldn’t afford to be choosy, not right off the bat, anyway. Suddenly I wanted the drink badly and I briefly considered telling him to piss off and tapping the cask. Practicality, tinged with caution, won.
‘There are certain kinds of things I don’t do, Mr Hindle. Despite appearances.’
‘Have to admit I’m fuckin’ surprised. I was told you were pretty sharp.’
Now pride took over. I sat up straighter and gave him a keen-eyed look. ‘I’ve been undercover for a while.’ I scratched my chin. ‘This is all a front.’
He nodded. ‘So, you’re busy?’
I shook my head and wished I hadn’t. I needed the drink and three or four Panadols. ‘It’s finished. I’ll be cleaning myself up later. This place too. How can I help you?’
‘You do bodyguarding?’
‘Sometimes. It depends.’
‘I have to go to the airport and meet a couple of guys coming over from the fuckin’ Philippines. They don’t like me and I don’t like them, but we have to talk. I’ve got some businesses there and things need sorting out. We’ll go to the bar, talk and that’s it. But I need to show them I’m not some sucker they can push around.’
It sounded manageable but I wasn’t some sucker either. ‘What sort of businesses?’
‘What?’
‘What sort of business are you in, in the Philippines?’
‘Ferries. I own a couple of ferries. Real fuckin’ money-spinners when everything’s right.’
‘What’s wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m looking to hire you for a couple of hours, Hardy, not tell you the story of my life. Yes or no?’
‘When is this?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Plane gets in at ten.’
‘What sort of business are you in here?’
