by Peter Corris
‘Jesus,’ Tania said as she took it in. ‘Whose idea was this?’
‘Probably a committee and based on a study of the sort of thing that most numbs the mind.’
She shot me a look. ‘Liz said you weren’t dumb.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry, that sounded patronising. I just . . .’
‘You just expect someone in my trade to be thick, physically good, but thick.’
‘I said I was sorry.’
‘It’s okay. What we do is, we get some chips and have a bit of a play. Then I drift around and take a look at this and that.’
‘Is your plan really that vague?’
‘No, I’ve got a miniature camera and I’m going to take pictures of who she’s with—if she shows. Have to be careful. It’s not something the management’d like. D’you know how to play blackjack?’
‘I’ve seen the Bond movies. How does a girl get a drink?’
Strange to say, we really got into it. We placed our drink orders with the circulating waiters and lined up at the blackjack tables and roulette wheels over the next hour and a half. I won and she lost, then she won and I lost. Way it goes. Tania struck up a conversation with another woman and they went off to play the pokies. I drew the line at that. I did it a bit in the old days when you could kid yourself pulling the lever took skill, but the button pressing doesn’t do anything for me.
As I moved around, I registered the security guys trying not to be registrable in their smart suits and short haircuts. One or two of them looked me over closely, but I kept checking back with Tania and they evidently decided I was harmless. I helped the impression along by acting as though the drink was getting to me whereas in fact I was going very slowly on spritzers. The crowd built up steadily so that by midnight the noise and the smoke and the joy and despair were at a high level, and that’s when Wendy Jones made her entrance.
No other word for it. She sailed in with a big, dinner suited guy on either side. She’d got the hair tamed and turned to platinum. Her red dress was short and tight and low-cut and the white silk jacket wasn’t designed to conceal anything. Light bounced off the jewels in her teeth when she smiled and she smiled a lot. They ordered drinks, loaded up with chips, and headed for a black-jack table. Palming the camera and mostly hidden by one of the Parthenon-type pillars, I got off a few shots of the threesome.
I kept behind them after that and hung around on the fringes of a group that formed around a roulette wheel Wendy had evidently decided to make her own. She installed herself with one of her retainers sitting beside her while the other stood at her back. She had a full glass of champagne and a packet of cigarettes and a lighter to hand. Her piles of chips wouldn’t have disgraced Kerry Packer. She started to play and people started to watch and follow her because she was betting and winning big. The game is essentially boring, only the money makes it interesting, and the more money, the more interesting it gets.
I began to wonder why Wendy hadn’t opted for the high roller rooms where the sort of cash she was laying out now was more acceptable. Then it became clear. From what I’d been told, the gambling in those rooms is cold and clinical, almost mathematical. No audience, no performance, no drama. That wasn’t Wendy’s style. She played to the crowd, smiling broadly with her glinting teeth when she won and ordering more bubbly, and groaning and seeking sympathy when she lost. It was a good show and the casino wouldn’t object as long as she didn’t raise the stakes too high, because the people playing off her were mostly losing.
With her chips piled high, a fresh cigarette alight and a full glass to hand, the time came for her to make an important bet. There was a lull, almost as if the whirring pokies had fallen silent for a second, the muzak had died and the glasses had stopped clinking. The guy standing behind Wendy spoke loudly, as though the background noise was still high.
‘Lay it on, Wendy!’
The croupier called for bets, Wendy slid her chips forward, the wheel spun, the noise mounted again, but I was frozen back in that momentary lull. The voice I’d heard was the one that had come from behind me that morning, accompanying the bite of the sawn-off shotgun behind my ear.
18
I located Tania at one of the banks of poker machines. She was smoking, playing her machine but also deep in conversation with the woman I’d seen her with earlier. I eased between them.
‘’lo, Cliff. How’s it going?’ Her smile was wide, her voice was loud, she was on the way to being drunk.
‘Tania, you’ve been terrific but you’re going to have to make your own way home.’
‘You’re dumping me. You get your pictures?’
‘Shush. Yes, it’s going okay. It’s just the way things have worked out. I can’t tell you more than that. Sorry.’
‘’s all right.’
‘Have you got the taxi fare?’
‘Have I got taxi fare? I’ve been winning here, haven’t I, Jude?’ She leaned back to look around me. ‘Cliff, this is Jude.’
Jude was lean and dark, Aboriginal. She flashed white teeth at me and laughed. ‘Hi, Cliff.’
I said hello and kissed Tania’s cheek. She didn’t pull away and she’d barely paused in her button pressing throughout the conversation. Jude whooped as a shower of coins cascaded into her tray. ‘Hey, Cliff, stick around, you’re bringing me luck.’
‘Quit while you’re ahead.’
‘He’s no fun, Tania.’
I headed back to where the serious gambling was going on.
Wendy’s party had moved to another table and the crowd had moved with them. I kept my distance, but the signs were she was still making waves. I worked my way around until I could get a frontal view of the man I was privately calling Shottie. He was close to 190 centimetres and a hundred kilos with long, dark hair in a short ponytail. Some flab but not much, sideburns. He moved to catch hold of a waiter, and my identification of him was confirmed; just as you can identify footballers and tennis players in action on television before you see their faces, his movement stamped him as the man I’d seen jogging down the fairway in Wollongong.
I scouted around for somewhere I could lure him to, to isolate him. The toilets wouldn’t do; there were bound to be surveillance cameras. Likewise any of the doors leading to administrative areas. I wondered about the fire stairs, but they seemed to be the special concern of a security guy whose eyes never left the door. It looked as if the car park was the only possibility and there was a certain irony in that.
It was a tricky manoeuvre. I wanted him to spot me and think I hadn’t noticed. But I also wanted to see exactly what he did. I thought it out and made my move. Shottie was getting bored with the roulette and was looking over towards a blackjack table where the female dealer was a redhead. The uniform of white shirt, black trousers and vest suited her creamy complexion and statuesque figure. Shottie had been drinking solidly and the redhead was getting to him in a big way. I drifted past his field of vision, timing it precisely. I mimed raising my glass and fingering the few chips in my hand, but the mirror to my right let me keep him well in sight.
He saw me and reacted by emptying his glass and bending down to mutter something to the other guy attending Wendy. I caught the conspiratorial nod and then I lost visual contact as I moved beyond the mirror. I picked it up seconds later in another reflection as I went towards the exit. Shottie was coming after me at a fast clip, but this time I was ready for him and he didn’t know it. And he was drunk or close to it and I wasn’t. He was younger and bigger, but I fancied my chances.
I swerved and went to the nearest cage to redeem my chips. It gave me a chance to confirm that he was on my trail. I put the notes in my wallet, took out my keys and, weaving just a little, jiggled them as I walked. I went out past the sprouting water and down the ramp leading to the escalator to the car park. I was well ahead of him, stepping off at the bottom, at a guess, just as he stepped on. I crouched behind a pillar. He came at a fair clip down the escalator and was a fraction off balance when he
hit bottom. I made a fist around the keys and, with my weight moving forward, drove a right into his kidneys. The breath went out of him and he sagged. I kicked his right knee into hyper-extension and he yelled and went down hard. His head bounced on the concrete and his flailing left arm cracked against the pillar.
Pumped up, I dragged him behind the pillar and held him from behind with his right arm up behind his back. He was young, heavily muscled and strong. He resisted as much as he could but he was winded and hurting in too many places.
‘Give it up,’ I said close to his ear.
‘Fuck you.’
I wrenched the arm and dislocated his shoulder. ‘Want to try for the other one?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, who put you on to me with the shotgun?’
‘Fuck you.’
I increased the pressure. ‘What was that?’
‘You’d better do the other arm,’ he said through clenched teeth, ‘because if I tell you anything I’m dead anyway.’
‘Can’t argue with that.’ Keeping the good arm tightly locked, I reached inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet. His driver’s licence identified him as Matthew Lonsdale with an address in Wollongong. I unshipped my mobile and dialled a number.
‘I want to leave a message for Detective Inspector Farrow.’
‘Can I have your name, sir?’
‘No. Tell Farrow he should look for a man named Matthew Lonsdale in connection with the murder of Adam MacPherson.’ I read Lonsdale’s address off his licence.
‘Farrow should go to that address now and he might find a sawn-off shotgun—’
Lonsdale wriggled frantically and I gave his battered arm a twist. ‘At present Lonsdale is in Sydney in the company of a woman named Wendy Jones who is staying at the Novotel on Darling Harbour.’
‘Sir, I request—’ ‘Lie there!’
‘Sir?’
‘Not you.’
I gave Lonsdale’s knee a tap with my foot, moved away and spoke the description and registration number of Wendy’s BMW into the phone in a low voice. I told the call monitor where Lonsdale was at present and cut the connection.
Lonsdale rolled onto his back and looked up at me enquiringly, his face twisted in pain and fear. I rubbed behind my ear where his shotgun had broken the skin. I showed him the spot of blood on my finger.
‘Remember this morning? I’d say we were even, but you probably wouldn’t agree. ’Course, I didn’t have to wade through a shitty creek.’
He stared up at me, expecting a kick or worse, but I walked away.
My attack on Lonsdale might not have been the smartest move to make, but at least I’d learned something. Wendy Jones was certainly a player in whatever was going on in the Illawarra, but she wasn’t the major player. Her behaviour suggested that she was out for a good time in the here and now, not a long-term planner. And Lonsdale’s statement that he’d be killed if he revealed who’d hired him to heavy me carried weight. Someone, somewhere, had a lot at stake.
But my actions had put me in the firing line for whoever that was and would also make me a target for the police. If I was going to be of any use to Elizabeth Farmer I had to stay clear of both those forces as best I could. Smartest way was to get home, pack a bag and find a bolthole. I had a mobile phone and a laptop computer for communication and allies of a sort in Aaron De Witt and Tom Purcell, the undercover guy. If I’d jarred something loose in the Wollongong operation they might help me identify it.
I shot a quick look back at Lonsdale. He’d struggled to his feet and immediately collapsed. I took the escalator down two levels to where I’d parked the Falcon. On the way I cursed myself for not checking whether he had a mobile phone. If he had, his mate could be on the way. I roared up the ramps and got clear of the car park as fast as I could. I made the Glebe Island Bridge in good time and not too soon because I saw the blue lights and heard the sirens of cop cars heading for the casino.
I relaxed when I got clear of Darling Harbour and that was a mistake because I opted for the wrong lane and got caught in a traffic snarl on Victoria Road. A bus had hit a car and the traffic was banked up to the Rozelle turn off. Like a few other drivers, I attempted to work my way around the jam. Too many with the same idea. The traffic thickened and almost stopped. Still some movement, but so slow.
By the time I got back on track I’d lost almost half an hour and was starting to wonder how long the cops and the Wollongong interest would take to track me home. I had no choice but to get there. I needed the equipment, including the .38. I approached carefully, taking the lane behind my street first and then circling round to make a pass in front of my house. Nothing untoward. I came around again and parked a few metres away from my usual spot, which happened to be empty.
Most of the alcohol and adrenalin had drained away by this time and I was feeling edgy but under control. I left the car unlocked and strode towards the front gate, pushed it open and surged to the front door. My foot caught on something and I fell, only saving myself by grabbing at what had tripped me.
‘Cliff, oh, Cliff, you must help me.’
19
Marisha Karatsky and I clutched each other, fighting for balance. She’d been sitting on the step and I’d blundered into her in the dark.
‘Marisha, what the hell . . . ?’
‘Don’t be angry. I can explain everything. But you must help me. He’s going to take her away.’
She was clinging to me with a strength I wouldn’t have expected. She wore dark clothes, helping to explain why I hadn’t seen her. I wasn’t as much in control as I’d thought—coming down, but still in a heightened state of alertness and apprehension after what had happened at the casino, and the smell and feel of her confused me. I found myself holding her, drawing her close to me.
‘Oh, Cliff . . .’
I wanted to forget all about runaway teenagers, and Swedish pimps and cops and men with shotguns, and take her inside and carry her up the stairs. I fought the feeling down.
‘Marisha, it’s dangerous here. There’re things going on. I can’t explain. I have to grab some stuff and leave.’
There was no way she was going to allow it. She gripped my arm and her fingers bit hard. ‘Together. We go together and then you can help me.’
I didn’t have time to argue. With her still holding on, I made it to the door, opened it and lurched inside.
‘This has to be quick,’ I said. ‘The police are probably on their way and other people who’ll try to kill me. If you stay with me you’re in the same kind of trouble.’
‘I’ll stay.’
‘Keep out of the doorway then. I’m collecting stuff. You can go through to the next room and the kitchen and grab anything you want. Two minutes!’
I went up the stairs three at a time and into the bedroom. I collected some clothes and stuffed them in an oversized tennis bag. From the spare room the laptop went into the bag along with the Smith & Wesson from a locked drawer. I went back down and grabbed things from the bathroom. Marisha was standing in the kitchen drinking wine from a tumbler.
‘We’ve gotta go,’ I said.
She shoved the corked bottle into her big shoulder bag and followed me to the door without a word. I left lights burning, activated the alarm and closed the door.
‘Have you got a car?’
She shook her head and I propelled her towards the Falcon. She slid into the seat. I slung my bag into the back and took off.
‘Where are we going, Cliff ?’
‘I haven’t worked that out yet. Just going.’
‘The police are after you?’
‘Not exactly. Can you keep quiet for a bit, Marisha? I have to think.’
‘You tell me to be quiet when my daughter’s life is in danger. Is your other business more important than that?’
I realised that I was driving poorly and aimlessly, a sure way to be spotted by the cops who certainly had my registration number. My usual point of refuge, the Rooftop Motel in Glebe, had closed do
wn. More redevelopment. I thought about the University Motor Inn—quiet and secluded in a one-way street, which was why it had appealed to Sallie-Anne Huckstepp and her lovers in days gone by. Bad idea. The cops would canvas motels within a few kilometres of my house as a matter of routine.
I turned onto Bridge Road, went past the old, defunct Children’s Hospital, and made the turn that would take me up to Annandale and Leichhardt. I was thinking about Wesley Scott’s gym on Norton Street and the flat nearby that Hank Bachelor, who’d worked for me on other cases, had recently rented. Still bad thinking. Both connections were too easily tracked. I lost concentration, almost stalled the car, and stopped outside a fast-food joint in Annandale. Marisha looked at me.
‘You’re hungry?’
‘No, I’m conflicted. Marisha, you’re an actor. Kristina’s an actor. You’re both very good, but I don’t think I can believe anything you say. You lied to me at the beginning and you’re probably lying now.’
‘Who have you been talking to?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘A woman named Karen Bach who knew your daughter at school . . . and after.’
‘I don’t know her. You believe her?’
‘I don’t know what to believe and I don’t think I care.’
She put her hand on my thigh. ‘You cared when we made love.’
‘I think you were using me. I think that’s what you do. What you’re doing now.’
She moved her hand away and pushed back against the seat, banging her head against the headrest. ‘All right. All right. Let the poor little junkie, hooker bitch die. What does it matter? And let her randy, reffo mother go mad. Who cares?’
