by Peter Corris
Fay wore Montefiore’s jacket over her stripper’s outfit and she glided into the back seat of the car, pulling him in after her. She told me where to go and then they started whispering. I was surprised to hear her speaking French. There was more to Fay than I’d thought. Half a kilometre short of where we were heading she told me to pull up.
‘Right here,’ she said.
I stopped. You don’t argue with a blonde stripper who speaks French. ‘Why?’
‘Old Jay here’s a bullshitter from way back. You’re not going to pay him twenty-five grand, are you?’
‘Not quite.’
‘How much? Really’
‘Like I said, depending on your information and the photo, maybe twenty.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Mr Detective-’
‘Fay!’
‘Shut up, Jay. It’s twenty down and twenty when we get to Australia.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘You want the name of the guy?’
‘Sure.’
‘I know it and a good bit more. Twenty in Sydney town and you get the lot.’
I swivelled around to look at her and she stared me straight in the eyes with her baby blues. Maybe contacts, but it made no difference. She was serious and she knew what she was doing. I couldn’t help wondering if she knew more about the Master business than she was letting on. I told myself it could be useful to have her in Sydney, but maybe that was rationalisation. She had me over a barrel and she knew it.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But Jarrod said you might be pissing off as soon as you got back to Australia.’
‘Uh-uh. We’ll stick around. I can smell the money in this.’
Clearly, she’d be calling the shots. I started the engine. ‘Can we get this moving now?’
I heard her kiss Montefiore somewhere; at a guess, on the cheek. She was a card player. ‘We’re almost there, boys.’
Fay lived in a flat above a couple of up-market shops a kilometre or two back from the beach on one of the main arteries that wound its way towards the centre of town. She pointed to a spot on the street where I could park.
‘Nothing off-street?’ I said. ‘Where’s your spot?’
‘Up you,’ she said as she slid out. ‘If I had enough money for a car d’you reckon I’d be tit-swinging here? We share this place. Roxy’s screwing Carmel, sort of
‘Jesus,’ Montefiore said.
‘Get over it, Jay. We all have to get along as best we can. What did kicking and belting people ever get you?’
He surprised me then by spinning slowly and slapping her quite hard. ‘Respect,’ he said.
She took it. She liked it. ‘One more thing,’ she said as she caressed the contact spot. ‘Jay’s talked to Reg Penny. He’s waiting for the rest of your fuckin’ money and now he’s waiting for us. I’m packing a bag and we’re off. Right?’
I had to admire her, but I had one more question. ‘Who owns the Salon de Fun?’
‘Who d’you reckon?’ Montefiore said.
And the answer became obvious as we walked down the path towards the steps leading up to Fay’s flat. A figure loomed up out of the shadows that was solid, not shadowy. Sione.
12
Fay went straight to work. She slipped the jacket from her shoulders and marched up to Sione, all ‘teeth and tits’ as Mike Carlton said of Rose Hancock.
‘Why, Sione, what’re you doing here?’
She distracted him just long enough. Montefiore was right behind her, but he didn’t go into his kick-boxing routine. He reached into the overnight bag and took out a pistol which he pointed at the bridge of the Polynesian’s wide nose.
‘Want something, cunt?’
‘You.’
‘Not this time.’
Montefiore had had the time and space to get nicely balanced and sighted. He feinted with his left and Sione’s eyes followed it just long enough for Montefiore to crack him across the temple with the solid weight of the pistol. He caught him sweetly and the big man went down in a heap. Montefiore kicked him viciously in the ribs and he didn’t move. He swung his foot back again but I stopped him.
‘That’ll do it. A cracked rib can puncture something else and you’re up for murder. Let’s get on with it.’
Fay was ahead of me. She dashed up the steps, worked her key and was into the flat in seconds. Montefiore followed and I stayed with Sione after making sure he had a strong pulse. There were only two other flats in the block and no activity around as the night got going. It wasn’t a place where old folks sat around watching what went on.
It seemed longer, but it was probably only a couple of minutes until they came down the steps. Fay was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers and carrying a bag, and somehow she seemed all the more formidable without the glitz.
‘I’m burning my bridges here, Cliffy’ she said. ‘You better have that fuckin’ money’
‘He’s got it,’ Montefiore said. He was suddenly very confident and almost relaxed, carrying his bag in one hand and the pistol in the other. I had both hands free and I’d never have a better chance. I moved quickly, gripped the gun hand and twisted hard and down, slamming his fingers against the metal of the steps. The gun fell away and I grabbed it after one bounce. A Smith amp; Wesson. 38 revolver. Good gun, knew it well. Oiled and loaded.
‘You dumb fuck!’ Fay shouted.
‘Shut up! This can all go down okay for you, but I’ll be buggered if it’s going to happen with this thing floating around. Get him in the car. We’ll drive to the dock. You’ll get your money and I’ll take it from there.’
Montefiore hated losing face in front of her but I hoped he could tell I’d use the gun if I had to. He gave it a few beats and I sweated.
‘She can run you, Jay, if you like,’ I said. ‘But she’s not going to run this whole bloody thing.’
‘Fuck you,’ Fay said.
I patted the money belt. I was sure Montefiore knew about it and that he’d told her while they were whispering in the back seat. I held the pistol steady. ‘Jay?’
‘You win, Hardy.’
‘Keep it cool and we all win. I’ll stick to the deal. Get him to the car and you can drive, Fay.’
She said something uncomplimentary I couldn’t quite catch, but that’s how it worked. We manhandled the unconscious Polynesian into the car. Fay, tightly strung, drove with me beside her and Montefiore and Sione in the back. She drove well and we were at the marina in quick time. I told Montefiore to fetch Penny.
‘He wants his money too. Fay stays here.’
‘Smart bastard, aren’t you?’ Fay said as Montefiore walked away with a bit of a limp.
‘Fay,’ I said, ‘I hate to think how differently you would’ve choreographed this.’
She smiled her showgirl smile. ‘You’re right. Very duffrent.’
There was a certain amount of activity going on at the marina but nothing about what we were doing would attract attention. Penny and Montefiore returned and I got out of the car keeping the pistol held low.
‘I told you to be careful,’ Penny said. ‘I told you he looked like a goer.’
Fay climbed out and stood beside Montefiore. ‘You still haven’t got the photo.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Let’s be sensible about this. You want your money and I want the photo and to go in peace.’
‘You wouldn’t shoot here,’ Montefiore said.
‘Right. So do I just chuck it in the water?’
‘Shit, no,’ Montefiore yelped.
‘Might not be a bad idea,’ Penny said.
‘Shut the fuck up, you two,’ Fay said. ‘I think he’s trying to play it straight.’
I undid my shirt and lifted the flaps on several of the pockets of the money belt. I’d taken the precaution of putting precise amounts together in the compartments so I knew how much was where. I fished out the equivalent of four thousand and laid it on the bonnet of the car. ‘That’s yours, Reg. Nine all up.’
‘You said ten.’
/> ‘There’s a deduction for cooking up some scheme with Jay here to take me down.’
Penny shrugged and grabbed the money. I focused on Fay, who’d lit a cigarette. ‘Photo.’
She produced it from the hip pocket of her jeans and smoothed it between her fingers.
‘Show me.’
She held it up so that it caught the light. I could see a clear male image against a light background. ‘Okay. What about twenty for you for the photo and the name and you walk away from these pricks here and now?’
I heard Montefiore gasp and Penny give a low, emphysemic chuckle.
Fay dropped her cigarette and stood on it. ‘No.’
‘Fair enough. Fifteen for the photo and twenty-five for the name and the other info in Sydney’
‘What’s this?’ Penny said.
‘Shut up.’ Fay slid the Polaroid across the bonnet and I did the same with the bundles of notes. She scooped them up and handed them to Montefiore.
‘We’re almost there,’ I said, putting the photo in my shirt pocket. ‘Got the boat ready, Reg?’
Penny nodded.
I gestured for them to move away and they obeyed, even though they knew I wouldn’t use the gun. Guns are like that.
It was airless and warm down there in the port, and with the activity around the marina diminishing, our cluster would soon look noticeable. I was tired and stressed and sweating and wouldn’t be able to keep this level of concentration up much longer. Also, I didn’t know how close Sione might be to regaining consciousness.
I opened the driver’s door and made sure Fay hadn’t palmed the ignition keys. Sione hadn’t moved. I nodded to Fay.
Best I could do. Dry-mouthed I said, ‘See you in Sydney.’
‘The gun,’ Montefiore said.
I opened the cylinder, spilled the shells into my hand and tossed them to Penny. I flipped the pistol towards Montefiore and didn’t care whether either of them made catches or not. I started the engine and drove slowly away.
There really wasn’t much to think about. I drove to the hotel, parked as close to reception as I could and brought one of the flunkeys out to attend to Sione. While they were moving him and fussing about, I shifted the car. I raced up to my room, phoned the airport and was able to get on a plane leaving for Fiji in an hour and a half. I packed and quit the place with my bag slung over my shoulder, using the side steps, keeping out of sight. I figured Pascal Rivages could shout me a couple of breakfasts and a dinner.
The run to the airport was smooth at that time of night and I made it in forty-five minutes. I explained that I had to get to Fiji quickly and that my travel insurance would take care of the forfeited Noumea-Sydney flight. They looked me over fairly carefully and I sweated a bit, wondering how far Rivages’ influence ran. Not far enough evidently, or he hadn’t been put in the picture yet, because I caught the plane with a couple of minutes to spare.
The plane was half full and I had an empty seat next to me. My shirt was a damp rag and my feet hurt. The money belt itched. I took it off and stuffed it in my bag. I took my shoes off and spread myself, trying to relax after the high-adrenaline couple of hours I’d been through. I didn’t think about Lorraine or Stewart Master, just about getting myself levelled out. It was a no-frills flight, no free French plonk this time. I made do with a couple of furtive, nerve-calming nips from the scotch in my cabin luggage.
I got out the Maugham stories and settled into a couple of my favourites-’Red’ and ‘The Fall of Edward Barnard’. Below me the mighty Pacific ocean was a blank stretch of nothing and when I’d calmed down I wondered how Jay and Fay and Reg were getting along out there on the good ship You Beaut.
13
With air fares, accommodation, expenses, my daily rates and what I’d paid Reg Penny and Jarrod Montefiore in Pacific francs, Lorraine Master had already shelled out a good deal in her husband’s cause. I wanted to give her a full accounting by email plus an online copy of the photograph supplied by Fay Lewis, and a report on what I’d learned so far. All very cyber savvy, but the intrusive message on my computer suggested this would be very unsafe. Instead I phoned and stressed security. She was appreciative and issued an invitation to a business meeting over dinner at her home. Tomorrow night, which would make it two nights since I got home. Where were Jarrod and Fay? I wondered. Still at sea? I had no idea how long it’d take to sail from Noumea to Vila or even if that’s where they’d gone. How good were Penny’s engines and equipment now? How had Fay played her cards, and what about that. 38?
Somehow, I had a feeling that before too long I’d meet up with Fay, at least, but how, where and when were anybody’s guess. I made up for my misses at the Sunrise Surf’s fitness gym by putting in two hard sessions at the Redgum. Even Wesley Scott commented on my dedication as I was leaving.
‘You going to get serious, Cliff?’
‘Semi-serious.’
‘No such thing.’
‘I know. Peter Lo been in?’
‘Of course. Now there’s serious.’
‘He’s young. I’ve had so many injuries over the years, a lot of places tweak and squawk.’
‘Excuses, man, just excuses.’ He glanced at the Air Calin bag I’d dumped my gym stuff in. ‘Enjoy it over there? I guess not. No tan to speak of.’
‘Work.’
He said something in rapid French. Maybe it was to do with Jacques and work and play but it was too quick for me to catch. That’s Wesley. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear him discussing Nietzsche in German.
Double Bay houses with water views probably start at around three million. Lorraine Master’s place wasn’t Paradis sur Mer, but it didn’t seem to lack anything you might need. It was white, two-storey with a two-car garage, swimming pool, manicured garden and a view out over Seven Shillings Beach only partially interrupted by foliage and other buildings.
The wide driveway was closed by a high iron gate with a smaller entrance gate next to it. I parked in the street and buzzed.
‘Cliff?’
‘Yes.’
‘Push.’
I did and the gate swung in. Cliff? I thought as I walked up a paved path to the front of the house. The garden beds were covered with some kind of straw and the trees and shrubs all looked healthy. Between the beds and under the trees was a low maintenance ground cover. I reflected that my front garden could look like this on a much smaller scale if I had a few grand to spend on it.
I went up a set of steps onto a tiled porch and got the button-pressing finger to work again. Butler? I thought. Filipina maid?
Lorraine Master opened the heavy interior door and released the catch on the solid security screen. She beckoned me in and then used the spare hand to invite me to shake. She was wearing a plain dress with a high neck and loose sleeves. Light blue. Suited her colouring. She had a small amount of jewellery about-neck chain, earrings-but it was unobtrusive and therefore probably cost a bomb. Her hand was dry and warm and I was reluctant to let it go. We went down a hallway, skirted a staircase and entered a room that murmured taste, money and comfort-things that don’t always go together. Chairs upholstered in blue, pale grey carpet, well-filled bookshelves, track lighting and a drinks trolley.
‘I’m going to have a g’n t,’ she said. ‘You?’
‘The same. Thanks.’
‘Sit down. What’s that you’ve got?’
I was holding a manilla folder with all the dope I hadn’t been prepared to send online. I put in on the arm of the chair and settled down beside it. ‘It’s what you’ve paid for, so far. There’s more to come.’
The level of Bombay gin rose to a commendable height in the glass. She dropped in a slice of lemon, two ice cubes and held up the tonic inquiringly. I put my thumb and forefinger the right distance apart and she poured.
‘More information or more money?’
‘Both.’
‘Okay.’ She held out the glass and I had to reach to take it. I liked her style-classy and considerate, but not too considerate.
‘Where’re the kids?’
We did a quick silent toast. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Do you like kids?’
‘I don’t know many. Like some, not others.’
She sat and took a solid swig of a drink that looked to be about half the strength of mine. ‘Ours are okay. They’re upstairs. We’ve got an au pair. Why don’t you drink your drink and let me read the report? I can’t cook so I sent out for some food. Nothing special. We can discuss the details and whatever there is to discuss while we eat.’
I did as she’d done-extended the folder so that she had to lean forward from her chair to take it. She was the sort of woman you had to play those games with, otherwise, she’d have you in the back court all the time and you’d never make it to the net. The drink was just right for temperature, mix and punch and I sat back and enjoyed it while she read. I also enjoyed looking at her over the rim of the glass. Her skin glowed, her hair shone and her bones were well-covered. Whatever you’ve been up to, Stewart, I thought, you couldn’t have expected her to wait ten years.
She read rapidly, flicking back to confirm things or lodge them in her memory, names perhaps. She was through it in a few minutes and then spent nearly half that long studying the photograph. She tapped the pages back together and pinned the photo back where it had been.
‘Very professional,’ she said. ‘Let’s eat.’
We went through to a dining room with a teak table that looked something like the one Paul Keating bought for the Lodge. It was set for two places with a bottle of red wine standing by.
‘I thought you’d be a meat man,’ she said, ‘so I ordered in some stuff from the Balkan. You know it?’
‘I do. Great place. Haven’t been there for a while. Still going strong?’
‘Sure is. Wouldn’t mind a percentage.’ She picked up a waiter’s friend style corkscrew and handed it to me. ‘Open the wine while I bring in the food. Freshen your drink if you like.’
I did both things. I could hear sounds from the kitchen-microwaving, a fridge door, the rattle of plates. She came back with a stack of plates and a couple of steaming bowls on a tray, set them down and went back for more. After another trip we sat down to a spread of oysters in the shell, skewered meat with vegetables and rice, breadsticks and side dishes of spiced sausages and various sauces and dips I couldn’t name. The solid gins had relaxed me and the wine was smooth and fruity. We both dug in for a minute or two and then she looked across at me with a forkful held ready.
