by Peter Corris
‘I’ve got three names, Harry. Be grateful for your input on all or any.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘A subscription to your newsletter.’
‘You already subscribe.’
‘A renewal—three year.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Louise Kramer. Jonas Clement. Rhys Thomas.’
‘The first is doing a book on the second who employs the third.’
‘Shit, Harry, I know that. I mean—’
‘I know what you mean. Okay, Clement’s a bit of a mystery man. Came from nowhere. I’ve got a suspicion it’s not his original name, shall we say. At a guess, I’d bet on him being a South African or from somewhere close, like Zimbabwe.’
‘Thought I twigged to an accent.’
‘Right. I don’t really know much about him. Bloody rich, political connections. Conservative of course.’
‘Reactionary, I’d say.’
Harry grunted. ‘Kramer’s a bit of a handful. She wrote for me when I was running The Clarion and she still does bits and pieces for me. She’s been around. She can research and write but tends to piss people off. Word is she got a big advance for the book. There’s a story in Clement if she can suss it out. She’s your client, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re doing what?’
‘Looking into things for her.’
‘C’mon.’
‘Harry, you know I can’t tell you, especially as she’s writing a book. Tell you what, if she gets it done I’ll try to persuade her to let you run extracts for free.’
‘Her publishers’d have something to say about that, but I take the point. Now Thomas is a bad bastard. He’s been banned from the racing industry for life, not allowed to look at a horse. Tough nut, but he isn’t dumb.’
‘I’ve already run up against him. He had a grip on Kramer that was likely to bruise the bone. I had to . . . cause him to stop.’
‘Bad enemy to make. When was this?’
‘Last night, at a Clement fund-raising party.’
‘Oh, yeah, I heard about it. Absolutely no press present, meaning lots of publicity because the press speculates about who was there and who wasn’t. Clement knows how to play it. Doesn’t sound like your sort of gig, though.’
‘I was filling in for someone.’
‘How’d Lou get in?’
I shrugged.
‘She’s a tricky one, Cliff. Watch yourself.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I dunno. Her stuff was always good but I wasn’t completely sure she got her info . . . ethically. Sailed close to the wind with her a few times—quotes ever so slightly doctored, questions about what was on and off the record. That kind of thing.’
We finished the coffee and the cups went into the bin. I asked Harry about Billie Marchant, mentioning that she’d been interviewed by Lou Kramer in Liston, and Eddie. He’d never heard of her and all he knew about Eddie was that he’d cashed in. ‘No great loss,’ he said. ‘What d’you know about Liston, Cliff?’
‘Heavyweight champ. Lost to Ali twice. Probably tanked the second time.’
‘Very funny. It’ll open your eyes. Three generations of welfare dependents out there, with a fourth coming along.’
‘Well, my grandad was on the dole when he wasn’t on the wallaby, and my dad was on it in the Depression. Me too, for a bit, when the insurance company sacked me.’
‘You can compare notes then with some of the people out there, but I doubt you’ll find much similarity. Some of them are locked into poverty traps no one has a clue about relieving.’
‘You’re talking about our political masters, our elected representatives.’
Harry blew a raspberry. ‘Yeah, and we’re about to elect the same lot again, or worse. Stay in touch, mate. I’ll hold you to that promise about the extracts if Lou gets her shit together.’
‘You have doubts?’
‘She always filed dead on time. What’s her deadline on the book?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘You should.’
‘Why?’
‘It puts writers under stress. Some of them spend the advance and can’t get on with the book. They go for the booze or the drugs, even suicide. It’s been known.’
‘Sounds like you know.’
‘Sort of. I’ve been trying to write a novel for years. Can’t crack it.’ Harry waved his hand at the computer and other professional material in the room. ‘Lucky I’ve got this. Haven’t you ever tried to do something and couldn’t make it, Cliff?’
‘Sure. Tried to clear six feet in the high jump. Five eleven and a half was fine but I knocked the bar off every time at six feet.’
‘So, what did you do?’
‘Changed to the long jump.’
‘And?’
‘Couldn’t clear sixteen feet.’
‘Same thing, mental barrier. So?’
‘Went surfing. I could stand up on the board and if I fell off it didn’t matter.’
‘Ask her.’
Perhaps by nature, certainly by experience and habit, private enquiry agents are suspicious and mistrustful. But some friendships take and hold and I had one going back quite a way with Bob Armstrong. Bob had eventually yielded to the blandishments of one of the corporations and become a security consultant and functionary within its organisation, but before that he’d been a keen and successful independent operator. I rang him, told him I wanted to talk about a former colleague, and we agreed to meet for a drink at six in Balmain.
‘In the glorious smoke-free pub where you can breathe the air and taste the beer,’ he said.
‘Didn’t know there was one.’
He named it. The day heated up considerably and I did a few routine things, like returning the dinner suit to the hirer, depositing Lou Kramer’s cheque and paying a few bills before heading to the Dawn Fraser baths at four thirty for a pre-drink and work swim. The baths have gone through a few changes over the years but not many. The water’s better now than a few years ago when the harbour around Balmain was very sludgy. I paid for a locker and stripped, wrapped my mobile in the towel and went out on the boards.
There’s something Old Sydney, in the true sense, that I like about the place. I remember the photo of poor Les Darcy in his trunks with the kids at the Manly baths, ninety years back. He looked as hard as a rock and ready to take on any middleweight on the planet. That image was in my head as I walked towards a clear spot. The way it is with me when a case is on hand, I could hear the voices of the people I’d spoken to inside my head. This is my shot, I heard Lou Kramer saying. Les never got his shot. Should have.
I tucked my towel and thongs into a corner, dived in and swam a few lengths. The water was choppy because a light wind had sprung up. I enjoyed the swim, pulled myself out and headed for the towel. The mobile chirped and I answered it with water still in my ears. I could scarcely make out the voice.
‘Can’t hear you. Hang on. I have to clear water from my ears. Okay. Who is it?’
‘It’s Lou Kramer. Why’ve you got water in your ears?’
‘I’ve been swimming.’
‘Swimming!’
‘Healthy mind in a healthy body. What’s up?’
‘I wanted to tell you not to deposit that cheque just yet.’
‘I’ve already deposited it. Paid extra for quick clearance.’
‘Shit, it’ll bounce. I’m sorry. I have to move some money around.’
‘You’re not filling me with confidence.’
‘It’ll be fine in a day or so. Just re-present it. I’ll pay the fee.’
‘I’ve got a question for you. What’s your deadline for the book?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Just curious.’
‘None of your bloody business. Sorry again about the cheque.’
She rang off. I thought a better rule than check on your client might be check on your client’s bank balance.
Bob Armstrong once attempted to work up
a PEA trade union of a sort but he had no luck. I played along for a while until it was clear there was no possibility of such a bunch of individuals with highly diversified lifestyles, values and politics ever cohering. Still, Bob stayed in touch with others in the profession as a matter of principle and occasionally organised a whip-round when someone fell on hard times.
The Red Unicorn hotel used to be a bit of a bloodhouse like many of the pubs in Balmain. Again like many, it gentrified along with the area itself, so that it had a bistro and sold boutique beers. TAB facility and a bank of pokies, but not too many. There were signs advertising live music two nights a week and a trivia competition. All the hallmarks of the trendy twenty-first century pub. The smokefree rule was its newest pitch at the high disposable income crowd. Didn’t worry me: I’d given up the rollies long ago. The last cigarette I’d lit in a moment of stress after years of abstinence tasted like old dog blanket and I knew I was cured. Bob, another quitter, had been a ferocious smoker and was still a keen drinker. The Unicorn was an obvious choice for a meeting.
Bob was at the bar when I arrived. I hadn’t laid eyes on him since he’d gone corporate and seeing him in a suit was a shock. I was in my usual late spring to early summer uniform of drill slacks, cotton shirt and beat-up linen jacket. Bob was working on a schooner and had a middy sitting beside it. He looked at his watch as I approached.
‘Dead on time. Knew you would be so I ordered you a beer.’
I toasted him with it. ‘Thanks.’ I touched the lapel of his jacket. ‘Nice suit. Doing well, Bob?’
‘I have to say I am. No overheads, car in the package, health insurance . . .’
‘I could do with that.’
‘But not with the rest of it, eh, Cliff?’
‘A dinosaur?’
‘Not quite, but an endangered species, that’s for sure. This former colleague is . . . ?’
I looked around before answering. The nearest drinker was three or four stools away and the barman was well out of hearing. Old habit—names spoken aloud in public can attract attention. ‘Was Eddie Flannery.’
‘Poor Eddie. Went down a long flight of stone steps. Possible suicide but probably pissed.’
‘I heard he was murdered.’
‘Did you now? That wasn’t the coroner’s opinion. Accidental death.’
‘I missed all this. When did it happen?’
‘A few months ago.’
‘Precisely when?’
Bob, who’d put on weight since I’d last seen him, stroked the beginnings of a jowl and took a long pull on his schooner. ‘Eight weeks, give or take a day or two. That’s the inquest. The death was about six weeks earlier. Can’t be more exact than that. I went to the funeral. It was pissing down.’
I finished the middy and signalled to the barman. ‘That’s as it should be. It must’ve been when I was in Queensland.’
‘None of it made much of a splash.’
‘Was Billie Marchant there?’
‘Sure was. Very fetching in black in a Barbara Stanwyck sort of way, if you get me. What’s this about, Cliff?’
I told him as much as I felt entitled to. He didn’t know about Eddie’s association with Clement and when that name came up he seemed to run dry of information, even though he had a fair amount of alcohol inside him. So did I, and I was facing a walk home to Glebe.
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re closing up on me, Bob?’
Bob suddenly looked as if he’d like a cigarette. Instead, he started to shred his coaster. The fingers that used to be nicotine-stained with bitten-down nails were manicured but nervous. ‘Clement’s a client of the firm I’m with.’
‘Then you should be a mine of information about him.’
He shook his head. ‘Not a chance.’
‘Bad guy is he?’
‘You won’t get another word out of me. In fact, I’m going. Sorry, Cliff.’
He was halfway off his stool. I grabbed his arm. Felt the quality of the material of his jacket. ‘You’ve been helpful. I’ll tell anyone who asks.’
‘Fuck, no. I wasn’t here.’
He pulled free and left quickly. Hadn’t even finished his drink. I topped mine up with what he’d left and went into the bistro with the two-thirds full glass. I ordered a steak and salad, no fries, and eked the drink out over the meal. Bob Armstrong had softened up since his days as an independent, but he’d never been short on guts and the genuine fear in his attitude surprised me. It sounded as though he wouldn’t mention our meeting to anyone at his place of business, but I couldn’t be sure. Anyway, I was glad I hadn’t talked about Billie’s kid.
4
It was a good night for a walk and a think, and it’s always good to avoid being breathalysed. The car was safely parked and locked and there wasn’t anything worth stealing in it. If someone wanted my sweaty gym gear and salty swimmers they were welcome. I was due for new stuff anyway.
At one time, Wednesday would have been an unusual night for a party like the one at Clement’s, but these days corporate types work seven days a week and have clocks around them set to London, Tokyo and New York time and a week has taken on an entirely different shape. For us lesser mortals, Thursday still means late night shopping and activity beyond the usual in the streets. I walked down Darling Street to Victoria Road and negotiated my way down to pick up the Crescent. I thought about cutting through Jubilee Park but decided against it. People do private things there at night and I respect their privacy. The Wigram Road hill is a good calf muscle stretcher and I was thinking I might reward myself for my virtue by having a quick one at the Toxteth hotel.
I tried to remember when I’d last been in Campbelltown and couldn’t. I knew I’d never been to its outer suburbs and decided I’d do a web search on Liston before I went out there. Couldn’t hurt. I was halfway up the hill when I became aware of something unusual. It wasn’t much—a feeling that a car light behind me wasn’t quite right, a half-heard idling car motor. I didn’t turn round but my senses were alerted and before I got to Glebe Point Road I knew there was a car, hanging back, slowing, letting others pass, following me.
I stepped up the pace, crossed over Wigram Road and used the pedestrian crossing over Glebe Point Road. Then I walked briskly past the couple of trendy shops and into the Toxteth. If someone wanted to talk to me they could do it here. If they wanted to do something else they could whistle for it. This was my turf, and I could make it home in ways only someone who’d lived here for twenty years would know.
I went in by the Ferry Road door through the pool area with its swanky blue baize tables. Three of them. Two youngsters, looking barely old enough to be in the place, were smoking, drinking and knocking the balls about— misspending their youth and enjoying it. I went into the bar where there were padded chairs and settees, plus stools and classy framed sporting prints on the walls. I bought a scotch and went back to watch the pool players. A mistake. Three men in suits entered the pub—Rhys Thomas and two others, both very big.
They moved quickly and purposefully, Thomas blocking the Ferry Road door to the street and one of the biggies standing in the wide opening between the pool area and the bar. It’s wide, but if he’d spread his arms he could just about have covered the distance.
I put my glass down, and picked up a cue and a ball. The one wearing the smartest suit took two fifties from his wallet, handed one to each of the kids and gestured with his thumb.
‘Out!’
They left. He replaced Thomas by the Ferry Road door and Thomas advanced towards me. I moved to put a table between myself and him.
‘You made me look foolish in front of my employer, Hardy,’ Thomas said.
I mimed being hard of hearing. ‘What was that?’
It threw him for a second and gave me a chance to snap the cue under my foot, making it a more dangerous weapon.
‘I said you made me look foolish in front of my employer.’
‘I heard you,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t hard.’
He
advanced and I poked the jagged end of the cue at him. ‘Back off. I could take out an eye.’
He retreated but the other man didn’t. Anticipating my move, he got close enough to try a karate kick to my leg. I just managed to swing the cue back and down. I don’t know anything about karate, but in the movies they always hit the right spot. He didn’t. The cue got him squarely on the shin. He yelped and swore and bent double. Points to me, but it gave Thomas his chance. He closed in and swung a punch into my groin. End of story. The pain shot through me upwards, downwards and sideways. I dropped the cue and went into a protective crouch. He brought his knee up, caught me on the forehead and I felt my brain swim and my vision slide away.
‘Jesus, man,’ I heard one of the suits say. ‘That was sweet.’
I was still conscious and, dimly, thought it wasn’t nearly enough if Thomas was fair dinkum. Then I realised that my blurred vision was due to blood flowing down into my eyes. Not trickling, flowing.
‘I think he’s got the message, Rhys. Let’s go before you get blood all over yourself.’
I propped myself up against the leg of the table and drew in several deep breaths. The pain in my groin was bad but I’d had worse from low blows in the ring and a rifle butt in army training. The trick is to suck in air and think of higher things. I wasn’t too worried about the blood because I knew what had happened. Thomas’s hard, bony knee had split the scar tissue I have over my right eye, a memento of my amateur boxing career. We didn’t always wear protective headgear then. I have sharp eyebrow ridges, like Jimmy Carruthers, and, as he did, I bleed there like a stuck pig. It’d look worse than it was. Cautiously, I raised my right arm and wiped at the spot.
‘Christ, mate. Are you all right?’
One of the drinkers had drifted in from the bar. I must’ve been quite a sight.
‘This is like the old days,’ he said. ‘Here.’
He closed my hand around the drink I’d abandoned. I gave my forehead and eyes another wipe and my vision cleared. Massive dry-cleaning bill but not much more damage. I drank the scotch.
‘Thanks. Little misunderstanding.’
