The Washington Club

by Peter Corris

  I went first to the office in Darlinghurst to check the mail, faxes and telephone messages. Various small things I’d neglected since taking on the Fleischman case were threatening to get away from me and I spent a little time trying to get on top of them. This involved a few calls and faxes from me, nothing too strenuous. I was operating on about half physical and mental strength and not capable of doing any more. There was a message to call Frank Parker. I deliberated, decided, got myself a glass of wine and made the call.

  ‘Ah, Cliff. Thanks for calling. Have you acted on the information?’

  ‘I have, yes.’

  Relief entered his voice. ‘Well, there haven’t been any waves so you must have been discreet.’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Making any progress?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘Still being discreet. Something you might be interested in—your old mate Haitch Henderson’s dead.’

  Is this a trap? Have they found some connection? I forced myself to sound only mildly interested, tiredness helped. ‘Yeh, natural causes?’

  ‘You could say that. He was shot through the chest out at Rooty Hill where his son Noel keeps his spare Citroens and some of his stash. Looks as if Haitch got in the way of something.’

  ‘He’s no great loss. I’ve been chasing all over the countryside, Frank. I’m bushed. Gotta go.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll get in some tennis when you recover.’

  ‘Right.’ I hung up. Usually Frank and I were pretty even. The way I felt now, I’d be lucky to take a game off him.

  I drove on automatic pilot until I reached Glebe. Work had just about finished on the apartment block where Glebe Point Road meets Broadway. They’d torn down the old building that had elegantly wrapped itself in a curve around the corner, leaving only the facade, and had dug a deep hole and thrown up the usual concrete interior. The work had disrupted traffic and created a lot of dust and I’d been sceptical about the result, but I had to admit to being impressed. University Hall looked like a pretty good place to live, with views across Victoria Park and the amenities of Glebe Point Road right outside. That’s provided the flats were double-glazed. I wondered about the price and the wisdom of living in a flat rather than a house, especially as I didn’t have a cat anymore. Off-street parking would be a plus.

  At home, I collected the newspaper from the front step and spared the front garden a glance. A disgrace. What had happened to the bob-a-job Boy Scouts who used to take care of these things for a busy man? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a Boy Scout of any description in a long time. The bob-a-job types were probably washing windscreens at intersections.

  The Nissan looked good. A little dusty which suited it. When I thought about how much it was costing me I regretted not getting some more money out of Miss Mudlark. I stripped off my clothes, showered and wandered around the house with a towel around my waist and a glass of white in my hand. I was tired but still a bit wound up from all the activity and I needed to come down before I could sleep. No messages of significance on the answering machine, nothing important in the mail. I looked at the threadbare carpet, scuffed lino tiles and battered fridge and tried to imagine Claudia here. Tried to imagine her in one of her silk blouses and slinky pants with Gucci shoes and Fabergé wristwatch. Impossible. The thought depressed me and I took myself and another glass of wine up to the bedroom where the decor wasn’t any better but the room could at least be made dark. I pulled the curtains across, cunningly arranging them so a shaft of light fell at the head of the bed.

  I got into bed, pulled up the sheet and selected Letters from Jack London from the pile of books. I’d bought it sight unseen from Nicholas Pounder’s catalogue because London’s White Fang and The Jacket were among my favourite books as a kid. I took a big drink in honour of Jack, who took a few big ones himself, and opened the book. Eighteen-year-old Jack’s first letter was to the editor of a magazine offering him an article he’d written on his small boat trip in the Yukon. The editor sent London’s letter back to him with the annotation: ‘Interest in Alaska has subsided to an amazing degree. Then, again, so much has been written that I do not think it would pay us to buy your story.’ I hoped he remembered that later when Jack was getting paid a dollar a word. I read a few more letters, mostly London complaining about not being understood. That matters when you’re eighteen. I finished the wine, dropped the book and the shutters came down hard.

  I dreamed I had a dog named Prince, German Shepherd-Kelpie cross. I’ve never had a dog but if I did it’d be like Prince—lean and wolfish, super-fit, a go-all-day kind of dog. I was throwing sticks into the water at Maroubra and he was swimming out for them and surfing back in. Great dog. Then he disappeared under a wave and didn’t come up. I howled and rushed into the water, swam out, dived for him, still howling . . .

  The phone woke me. I stumbled down the stairs while my spiel was playing and snatched it up when I heard Claudia’s voice.

  ‘I phoned earlier,’ she said. ‘You must have been out.’

  The light was blinking. ‘No, I was here. Dead to the world. What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly five. You sound funny. Are you all right?’

  ‘Bad dream. How’ve things been going over there?’

  ‘Okay. The staff weren’t nasty at all. I think they think I killed him but they don’t seem too upset about it. Julius wasn’t a good employer. I’ve actually been having some fun bundling up his clothes for the Smith Family. What d’you think I should do with his golf clubs?’

  ‘Good ones?’

  ‘The best, I should think, and scarcely touched. He hated the game, because he wasn’t good at it the way he was with most things.’

  ‘I’ve got a mate who plays. I’ll ask him. They could make a prize for a junior competition or something. Have you met Gatellari?’

  ‘Yes, he’s here. He’s very reassuring. I’m going to stay the night, Cliff. I went through a lot of bad stuff here and I want to sort of exorcise it. One night should be enough. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yup. Did you have the swim?”

  ‘Yes I did. It was terrific.’ She sounded almost bubbly just for an instant there, then she sobered quickly. ‘I found the Katz books too. They’re quite dreadful but I suppose you’ll want to see them?’

  I had a flash of Claudia swimming in a twenty-metre chlorinated sandstone pool, landscaped, maybe with a waterfall, and the house seemed shabbier than ever.

  ‘Cliff?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, still waking up. Are you sure you’ll be all right there tonight? No ghosts?’ I was wondering: Where had she fucked Van Kep?

  ‘Yes, I’m quite sure. Mrs Lindquist is going to cook us something and I’ll be asleep by nine I think.’

  Fleischman, Van Kep, Gatellari, Lindquist, the place was a bloody United Nations. Where were the Lees and the Hardys? I struggled to throw off the feelings of jealousy, envy, regret—whatever the hell they were. I had no claims on anyone and the only good thing about that was that no one had any claims on me. ‘There’s a service for Cy at the Sydney Chevra Kadisha tomorrow at ten,’ I said. ‘I’m going.’

  ‘I’d like to come with you.’

  Just those few words dispelled almost all of the murk. ‘That’d be good,’ I said. ‘Get Gatellari to drive you. Have him earn his money.’

  ‘I was brought up an atheist. I’ve never been to a Jewish service of any kind. Where is it held?’

  I’d been to a few Jewish funerals and I told her.

  ‘What do you wear?’

  ‘Black,’ I said.

  25

  At nine-fifteen the next morning, after listening anxiously to the weather report, I phoned Craig Bolton at the police palace. I told him that I was going to Cy’s funeral service and I inquired if the police had made any progress with the investigation into who had killed him. It seemed like the natural thing to do and Bolton took it that way. He said they hadn’t made any progress at all. Cy had made mincemeat of a few police witnesses and
prosecutors in his time and I had to wonder how much shoulder was being put to the wheel. Still playing the part, I allowed the suggestion to enter into my comments. Bolton took offence and shut me out. I thought that Cy would have been pleased by my subtlety, but that didn’t make me feel any better about the morning or the future without him.

  I went out into the back courtyard—a fancy name for the badly laid bricks and struggling plants—and sniffed the air. Radio weather forecasts have to be checked against the reality. The sky was clear and the day was certainly going to heat up fast. I had a lightweight navy blue suit, but a suit is a suit, and in Sydney the uniform of jacket, buttoned-up shirt and tie is appropriate to about six weeks of the year, not in December. I packed a change of clothes—drill trousers, short-sleeved shirt, gun-concealing poplin jacket—into one bag and my tennis gear into another. Nothing fancy—a mid-size Wilson racquet, ‘Close the 3rd Runway’ T-shirt, shorts and socks, peaked cap, well-worn Adidas cross-trainers, sunblock. Todd baby or the Washington Club could supply the balls.

  The Sydney Chevra Kadisha is an ugly, liver brick building squeezed onto a triangular block between Oxford and Wallis Streets in Woollahra. The best thing about it is Centennial Park over the road. The place was built in the 1950s when nobody seemed to have any taste, and its combination of angles and curves simply doesn’t work. Sign of the times, the high-set, long, narrow windows on the Oxford Street side are covered in wire mesh; the windows and doors on the other side are barred.

  I parked in Wallis Street and walked up past the big and small houses, all of which would fetch big figures on the real estate market. There were a few people milling about, dark-suited men like me and women wearing hats. I didn’t know any of them and none of them knew me. Most of Cy’s socialising was done professionally or with members of his wife’s family. He was an only child. Fact was, Cy’s wife Naomi didn’t like me. She thought I was a bad influence on Cy because I’d once brought him home drunk. That’s another story.

  Gatellari’s sober, maroon Commodore drew up and Claudia got out. She was wearing a pants suit in a deep olive green that looked almost black, with a hat the same colour and matching accessories. She managed to look suitably funereal and coolly elegant at the same time. She surprised me by leaning forward and kissing my cheek. I felt a surge of lust as I touched her arm and bent down to talk to Gattelari through the car window.

  ‘Anything to report, mate?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. This is a good gig, Mr Hardy. I don’t mind staying in that house one bit.’

  ‘Call me Cliff. Enjoy it while you can. Mrs Fleischman might want to go back there after this. I’m not sure. Just stick with her, please.’

  The mourners started to move and Claudia and I joined in the flow. There were kippahs and more beards than you’d normally expect, but otherwise it was a standard funeral crowd behaving in the standard way, stamping out cigarettes, trying not to talk too loudly, suppressing coughs, staring at the ground. I saw Leon Stratton a bit ahead of us and caught a glimpse of Miss Mudlark and another woman from Cy’s office. Stratton inclined his head to Claudia and ignored me. I had the inappropriate thought that I was going to have to look elsewhere for a new lawyer.

  We trooped into the room where the ceremony was to be conducted and I closed down the way I always did. I knew the casket would be open and that people would file past it and I wanted no part of it. I’d seen him dead already with the blood on him and getting on me and I didn’t need to see him again. I registered almost nothing of the proceedings: a rabbi spoke, then several men I didn’t know. I didn’t listen. It’s always bullshit. Who can speak the truth about a man at such a time? The truth is more likely to be something about his drinking habits, or his sexual fantasies, or his sporting aspirations than any of the rubbish that comes out.

  I could see Naomi, in black, rail thin, with grief expressed in every line of her body, and Cy’s son and daughter with their partners and children up near the casket. Shoulders were shaking and I wasn’t far from crying myself. I looked sideways and was amazed to see Claudia totally immersed in the whole thing. She was looking around at the trappings, staring at the people, craning forward to hear what was being said.

  I let my mind wander and I found myself thinking of old Paddy White and the way he’d arranged to have himself disposed of—by cremation, and his partner Manoly Lasceris privately to scatter the ashes in Centennial Park across the way. I knew Jews didn’t cremate and that it wasn’t on, but I couldn’t help thinking that the private and personal way was more to the point than the ceremonial style. Such thoughts, of course, tend to circle back and I thought about who might do the job for me—scatter the ashes on Blackwattle Bay. Offhand, I couldn’t think of a candidate.

  I was still in a kind of daze when the service ended and Claudia had to grip my arm to get my attention as we filed out.

  ‘What now?’ she said.

  ‘Now nothing.’ I realised how harsh my voice sounded and I tried to soften it. ‘They’ll be going out to Rookwood now and then to the house where they huddle for quite a while. Days. It’s not like a wake or anything. I’m not going.’

  ‘Why not?’

  We were out on the street again and people were heading towards their cars. ‘Naomi doesn’t like me. She wouldn’t want me there. And I’ve got things to do.’

  She fished for her sunglasses in her bag and put them on against the bright light. ‘That seems a bit insensitive.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  A woman broke from the pack and approached us. She was about Claudia’s age, a good deal heavier but handsome and forceful.

  ‘Claudia Rosen,’ she said. ‘I’m Ruth Simon. Goldman now. Remember, from Fort Street?’

  ‘God, yes. I do remember you. Hello, Ruth. I . . . Why are you . . .?’

  ‘Cy was my cousin. Lovely man. This is all dreadful.’ She let her handbag slip up her arm and put both hands on Claudia’s shoulders. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m married to a lawyer. I’m sure you had nothing to do with what happened to your husband.’

  ‘Thank you, Ruth. This is Cliff Hardy. He was helping Mr Sackville with my defence.’

  Mrs Goldman looked me over critically. She knew the suit was an off-the-peg job and that the shirt was from the bargain basement. Her smile and nod were wary. She had nothing to say to me but she gave the impression of wanting to spirit Claudia away for a month or so. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard Claudia mention any friends apart from the woman with the house at Bluefin Bay. Suddenly, in her smart clothes and expensive sunglasses, she looked lonely. Mrs Goldman was the antidote to that.

  ‘You’re coming to Rookwood and to the house?’ she said.

  Claudia looked at me. ‘No, I . . .’

  ‘You must! We’ve got so much to talk about. You should meet some of these people. They can help you.’

  Claudia flared. ‘How?’

  Mrs Goldman backed off a fraction but she was remorseless and a good observer. ‘These are your people. I’ve got a car here. If Mr Hardy isn’t going to the cemetery you can come with me.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  I could tell she wanted to go quite as much as I didn’t want to. ‘I’ll have a word to the driver, Claudia,’ I said quickly, ‘and I’ll be in touch later. Nice to have met you, Mrs Goldman.’

  The hearse and two limousines with family members inside emerged from the bowels of the building and set off on Cy’s last trip. I moved away to where Gatellari was stopped with his engine running. ‘She’s going out to Rookwood with that woman she’s with now. Little drive for you, Vinnie. Then they’ll be off to Neutral Bay. Keep as close to her as you can.’

  ‘Right.’

  I watched as Ruth Goldman steered Claudia towards a silver grey Mercedes which pulled smoothly out into the funeral procession. Gatellari let a few more cars go by before he joined in.

  One of the calls I had made the day before, when Claudia and I were driving back from the peninsula, had
been to Clive Borrow, a friend who was a life member of the White City tennis club. He had no trouble identifying the left-hander named Todd I’d seen at the Washington Club. Todd Rattray, several times a semi-finalist in the club championship, a former policeman, now a security consultant. I spun a tale about needing to get some practice against a double-fisted leftie for a game I had coming up involving serious money. Clive is a gambler and I knew the story would play with him. He gave me Rattray’s mobile number and I had called him, used the same story and Clive’s name, and lined up a game at the Washington Club. Easy. I called myself Warwick Lee, the oldest ploy in the book—my father’s first name and my mother’s maiden name. If he phoned Clive to check on me it wouldn’t matter—Clive knows what a slippery customer I am.

  As I drove towards Northbridge I tried not to think about Claudia. I wanted to focus on what I was trying to do—get inside the Washington Club (avoiding Mrs Kent and Anton Van Kep at all costs), and try the key on C20. I was expecting it to be Wilson Katz’s locker but that was as far as my thinking went. Surprise me, I thought. But I couldn’t get the image of Claudia, entranced inside the Chevra Kadisha, responding to Ruth Goldman’s warmth and urgency, out of my head. I crossed the bridge and usually the sight of the war between the water and the buildings can distract and please me, but not this time. I gave up and allowed my thoughts to drift out to Rookwood, where I’d been more times than I cared to remember to see people being put in the ground. Some of them I was happy to see go, others not. I knew how much I would miss Cy, and for a long time, but my mental pictures were all of Claudia in her dark olive suit with the black hair escaping from under her hat.