Win, Lose or Draw

by Peter Corris

  South Botany was on a smaller scale than some of the other clubs and had a more practical air. The clubhouse was modest and the car park could have done with a bit of work. There was the usual flagpole with the Australian flag but as I parked my eye was caught by a huge anchor painted white and set on a cement plinth. The plaque revealed it to be a relic from a naval vessel I should have heard of, but hadn’t.

  I wandered around in the mild, breezy air without anyone taking any notice of me. Adjacent to the clubhouse there were a couple of shops, one dealing in sailing clothing and the other in boat hardware. There was a smallish jetty out into the water and off to one side were two slipways with yachts drawn up and being worked on. The couple of moorings beside the jetty were fully occupied but a scattering of other boats was moored twenty or so metres out into the little protective inlet. Dinghies bobbed astern of them or were drawn up and stowed on the decks. Altogether a perfect place for a discreet aquatic arrival. My survey confirmed the impression I’d had from the web that, from not-far-distant higher points, it’d be possible to watch with a pair of binoculars without being seen.

  I went into the hardware place, remembering it was called a ship’s chandler, and inspected some of the gear, most of which was as foreign to me as aeronautical equipment.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A young woman in jeans and a T-shirt bobbed up from behind the counter.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ I said. ‘Maybe in the future. I understand there are moorings for hire here.’

  ‘A few.’ She pointed out the window at the boats I’d seen. ‘They go pretty fast.’

  ‘It looks fairly full.’

  ‘There’s a few not taken, but they’d mostly be booked.’

  I thanked her and went back to the car. Although it was an ideal place for the Zaca to put in, it wasn’t right for a couple of men the size of Hank and an individual of Fonteyn’s appearance to hang about as a reception committee. We’d have to take advantage of the hiding places ourselves and dress the part.

  30

  I got a call from Fonteyn at 6.00 pm.

  His voice was tight with tension. ‘The Zaca’s twelve hours out.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Cancel everything you have on for the day and get some rest.’

  ‘As if I could.’

  ‘Try and be down there an hour earlier but not before that.

  I’ll meet you. Dress casually.’

  ‘D’you think I’d wear a suit?’

  ‘Mr Fonteyn, every one of us, Juliana included, is going to be on edge. We have to be cool and cooperative if this is going to work.’

  It’s not every day you get to dictate terms to a multimillionaire but he grunted some kind of assent and hung up. I’d drawn out a thousand dollars of his money as an inducement to Mick Mathieson if that was needed. Then I phoned Hank and went over the plan, such as it was, with him. I visited the gym, had a focaccia and a glass of wine at the Bar Napoli and went for a long walk to tire myself before going to bed but I slept badly, waking several times before the alarm went off.

  Hank collected me in his Kombi van. This would allow us to squat in the back in reasonable comfort and without attracting attention.

  Dawn was a good hour away. We took a position in the public car park that left us 150 metres, give or take, away from the South Botany clubhouse and slipway but with a clear view out into the mooring areas where boats were bobbing in water stirred up by currents and a slight breeze. The breeze had a cold edge. No view yet to speak of but a light on the clubhouse and distant street lamps gave an indication of what the scene would be when the sun came up. The forecast had promised a clear day with temperatures in the low twenties. We sat in the van drinking coffee from a thermos I’d brought and didn’t say anything.

  The sky lightened at about 5.30 and there was no sign of Fonteyn. Hank looked questioningly at me and I shrugged. With the light gathering strength, a few yachties who’d evidently spent the night on their boats emerged and started doing the things yachties do.

  A few minutes later a couple of gardeners showed up in a council vehicle. They parked well away from us and began offloading tools. Then two cars pulled into the clubhouse car park and I saw the woman I’d spoken to go to her shop. Two men got out of the other car. One went into the clubhouse and switched on more lights, the other unlocked the gate that secured the slipway and rolled it back. He stalked around, talking on his mobile phone. With so much activity going on I risked stepping down from the Kombi and looking around. It was 5.40. A figure emerged from the parkland, middle-sized, in dark clothes and wearing a cap. It paused to allow a couple of early joggers to pass and then approached me. It was Fonteyn.

  ‘Timing right?’ he said. ‘Discreet enough?’

  I nodded. At the Kombi I introduced him to Hank. Fonteyn took binoculars from his jacket pocket and slung them around his neck. Then he produced a flask and passed it around. We each had a slug of the strong, smooth spirit.

  ‘Now what?’ Fonteyn said.

  I said, ‘There’s probably enough activity about for us to get closer and take a good look. One at a time and then wander off.’

  Hank pointed to where a couple of pelicans had settled on the end of the small jetty. ‘Are you a birdwatcher, Mr Fonteyn?’ Hank said.

  ‘I can be today.’

  And that’s how we played it for over an hour.

  Day broke and the area around the clubhouse and on the slipway and in the water got busy. Good for not attracting attention to us but we became anxious as the time dragged on.

  ‘I don’t suppose anything is ever precise with yacht arrivals,’ I said.

  Fonteyn seemed the calmest of us and I wondered whether it was due to self-control or scepticism about our plan. With a man like him it was hard to tell.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Fonteyn said. ‘Too many variables—wind, use of engine, condition of the …’

  Hank had been on watch. He came hurrying back and handed his Canon binoculars to me. ‘You know what she looks like, Cliff,’ he said. ‘There’s something out there.’

  Fonteyn swung his binoculars forward. ‘I’ve seen the photographs. I’ll know.’

  ‘How long between when she comes into view and when she reaches the mooring?’ I said.

  Fonteyn was on the move. ‘Same question, same answer as before,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Too many variables.’ He moved quickly down into the best watching position and Hank and I fanned out behind him. We watched him scan the water, which had taken on a green tinge under the sun and was lapping at the shore and slipway in small waves. Fonteyn strolled back to us. ‘Have you got money for this man?’

  ‘I’ve got a thousand bucks of your money.’ I produced the bundle of notes and he took it.

  ‘I’ll match it. I’ll double it if I have to.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. I trained my glasses on the speck far out that was gradually increasing in size and definition.

  ‘Yes,’ Fonteyn said. ‘I’ll just have a word with someone in the club.’

  He strode to the steps and went up to the clubhouse, an assured figure, taking off his cap and patting down his hair.

  ‘He’ll smooth things,’ Hank said. ‘That guy knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘He fucked up his whole family,’ I said, ‘and I don’t think he’d agree with you, but he’s trying, he’s certainly trying.’

  We watched the Zaca draw closer; she appeared to zig and zag a few times and I suppose that was what was meant by tacking, but she came on steadily and in a stately fashion.

  ‘Nice boat,’ Hank said.

  ‘Nice price,’ I grunted. ‘I wonder how Harris managed to afford it.’

  ‘Drug money, I guess. Just as well you didn’t bring the cops in on this. They’d likely confiscate it as something bought with the proceeds of crime.’

  Eventually the yacht glided to a halt about 200 metres from the jetty and I saw a man go quickly into the cabin, then come out again and take a position on watch ov
er the side.

  ‘Anchor was on an electric switch,’ Hank said. ‘Classy.’

  I looked at him. ‘You didn’t tell me you knew about yachts.’

  Hank grinned. ‘I know bugger-all but I looked a few things up.’

  The man, in jeans and a sweater and wearing a beanie, did things with ropes and then paid another quick visit to the cabin. A dinghy held at the stern of the yacht slid down into the water.

  ‘Five gets you ten it’s got an outboard,’ Hank said.

  He was right. The sailor dropped down into the trailing dinghy; the motor started easily and the dinghy came briskly towards the jetty, its occupant skilfully avoiding the moored boats. He tied up and climbed onto the deck with some rolled-up papers in his hand.

  ‘What now?’ Hank said. ‘Intercept him?’

  I considered, then shook my head. ‘Let Fonteyn handle it.’

  31

  After what seemed like a long wait but was probably only a quarter of an hour, Fonteyn and the man who had to be Mick Mathieson emerged from the clubhouse and shook hands. Mathieson headed for the road beyond the park, working at his mobile phone as he went. Hank and I retreated to the Kombi and Fonteyn joined us there.

  ‘A reasonable enough chap,’ he said. ‘Relieved not to have to deal with Harris—no love lost there. But he was worried about what might lie in store until I … reassured him.’

  ‘And now?’ I said.

  Fonteyn took a deep breath and passed the flask around again. ‘They tell me inside that a young woman has been making enquiries about the yacht for a week or more. She comes jogging through the park at around eight o’clock.’

  ‘Description?’ I asked.

  ‘Tall, tanned with cropped hair and,’ he touched his left nostril and lower lip, ‘with rings, but fit, very fit.’

  We had almost an hour to wait and again it passed very slowly. A few minutes before eight Hank said quietly, ‘How do we handle it if she shows?’

  ‘She’ll get close enough to identify the yacht,’ I said. ‘She’ll know the dinghy is at the jetty and that’s where she’ll go. Fonteyn and I’ll brace her there and not give her time to untie the dinghy. She has two avenues of escape if that’s what she wants to do—to swim or to dodge us and run. If she swims I don’t know what the hell we do; if she gets past us you can restrain her, Hank. She’s underage, her father can give you the authority.’

  Fonteyn hated it but he nodded.

  She came at 8.15, a tall, lithe figure in a tracksuit and sneakers, moving like Cathy Freeman. Her short hair was dyed auburn. She stopped, performed a few stretches and looked out over the water. Fonteyn and I were twenty-five metres away off to the right and as she walked down the cement path towards the jetty we fell in behind her a couple of metres apart and apparently on our own business. She didn’t look behind her and as soon as she stepped onto the jetty we ran and were only a couple of metres from her when she spun around.

  ‘Juliana!’ Fonteyn shouted and then repeated the name in a harsh whisper.

  She turned to look out at the yacht and then turned back, balanced at her full imposing height.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ she said. ‘Nice to see you, I suppose.’

  ‘I … I …’ Fonteyn stuttered.

  We were now just beyond arm’s length from her and I could tell that Fonteyn wanted to reach out to her but something told him not to. Juliana looked at me.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Hardy, Ms Fonteyn. I’m a private detective your father hired to look for you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’ve got you now. You were there when Lance got shot.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve tracked you from Norfolk Island to Coolangatta to here.’

  ‘Good for you. What now?’

  Fonteyn recovered himself as he always would and said, ‘That’s up to you, darling. I’m just relieved to know you’re alive. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.’

  She looked down to where the dinghy was bumping gently against the pylons of the jetty. ‘That’s a first.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s a first, too.’

  ‘Your brother’s dead.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, sort of.’

  ‘You’ve seen Travis Wilson,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, and Jake, and all that bunch.’

  Fonteyn looked enquiringly at me.

  ‘Addicts and pushers,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Juliana said. ‘But I cut loose from all of them and I’ve kicked all the shit.’

  ‘What’re you doing now?’ Fonteyn said quietly.

  She stepped back and for an instant I thought she was going to either run or attack us but she mimed a perfect top-spin backhand.

  ‘I’m working as a part-time tennis and swimming coach.’

  ‘You’re too young. You have no qualifications.’

  She smiled. ‘False ID, Dad. It’s the real world.’

  I had to admire Fonteyn. He didn’t try to lay any guilt on her about the suffering he’d been through or the expense or the loss of his son, which could in a way be construed as collateral damage.

  ‘Tell me what you want, Juliana,’ he said.

  She drew herself up. She’d grown in the time she’d been on the loose and at about 183 centimetres she was able to stare her father straight in the face.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I want, Daddy. What I’m here to do. I want to take that yacht out into Botany Bay and scuttle the fucker.’

  With an obvious effort, Fonteyn prevented himself from flinching at her language.

  ‘Will you come back?’

  ‘You’ll let me do it?’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  She looked at me and over my shoulder at Hank, who wasn’t far away.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They work for me.’

  She looked down the jetty. ‘The dinghy’s there.’

  After a tense moment she said, ‘Okay … and then I’ll think about what to do next.’

  Fonteyn took a key attached to a heavy wooden tag and handed it to her. She avoided his hand but touched his arm quickly and sprang away to go down the short ladder. We all stood stock still as we heard the outboard fire and saw the dinghy pull away in a swish of oily water.

  Hank drifted away to leave Fonteyn and me to watch as the dinghy reached the yacht. Juliana climbed aboard, tied up to the stern and within a few minutes had raised the anchor and had the Zaca heading for the open water.

  ‘Unwise, d’you think?’ Fonteyn said.

  ‘Can’t say. I can’t think of a precedent to guide me.’

  His chuckle was more to break the tension than a sign of amusement. ‘She looks well, doesn’t she? Older.’

  ‘Yes, and perhaps wiser. How long does it take to scuttle a boat?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘About?’ I said.

  ‘Depends. Half an hour, give or take.’

  ‘Won’t she be spotted?’

  His face was a mask of concern. ‘To tell you the truth I don’t really know her anymore. But from the way she’s coped with everything so far I think she’ll take care not to be seen.’

  ‘You know what she’s doing, don’t you?’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘The boat’s where she encountered someone who showed her how dark things can be. She wants to wipe the slate clean. My worry is that she’s committing a serious crime.’

  ‘Only technically,’ I said. ‘Harris probably bought the yacht with money earned by selling drugs. It’s forfeit on that account anyway.’

  ‘That’s a point. Still, I’m sure what she’s doing breaks some maritime law. I just hope she’s careful.’

  I could imagine insurance and dumping-at-sea problems if it all came out. Fonteyn’s money would help solve them but my concern was different.

  ‘My worry is whether she’ll come back or take off. It’s a big stretch of water and she could go ashore anywhere.’

  The yacht
was out of sight now and Fonteyn lowered the glasses.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I felt I had to give her that chance, although it went against all my … civil instincts to do it. I’m going to be a different man after this experience, however it turns out.’

  I believed him but I thought he’d find changing the habits of twenty years harder than he realised. If Juliana came back he’d face a challenge greater than any he’d had in the academic or commercial world.

  The sky clouded over and the day became cooler but neither of us, off the jetty now and sitting on a bench wrapped in our own thoughts, really felt the difference. We were transfixed by the slowly darkening water. Eventually Fonteyn, who had better vision than me, raised the glasses.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  He didn’t answer; he just kept the glasses trained steadily over the water until even I could see the dinghy making its way back towards the moorings.

  ‘I can see her clearly now,’ Fonteyn said, ‘and she’s smiling.’ He lowered the glasses and shook my hand. He was smiling and so was I.