by Peter Corris
She fingered the shirt which came down to her knees. ‘This’s more like me. Wouldn’t go with the sandals though.’
I told her Lou Kramer was coming over with some clothes and to have a talk.
‘You said we could discuss that first.’
‘I know. Sorry. She called and there wasn’t any other way to handle it.’
She wasn’t happy but she let it go. She called her daughter and told her she was in the city for a day or two with a friend. She grinned as she listened.
‘Behave yourself. Listen, darling, my car’s parked at the pub. Could you get Craig to run you out there and pick it up? You’ve got a key. You could hang on to it for me for a couple of days . . . In your dreams. Thanks, love. Bye.’
She hung up. The conversation had improved her mood. ‘She worries about my love life, or lack of one.’
‘Sounds as if you get along well.’
‘We do.’ I’d taken another glass of red up to the computer with me and she looked at it. ‘I could go some of that now.’
‘Do you like curry?’
‘Love it. Take out, right? I looked around your kitchen and didn’t see any cumin and coriander.’
‘That’s right. When I curry something, mostly sausages, I do it with the help of Clive of India.’
‘Yuk. Well, if you had the fixings I’d offer to make it, but you don’t and I don’t reckon I’m quite up to cooking just now. I can, though.’
‘That’s okay. You’ve had a hard day and there’s a very good place up the street.’
I went out on foot to the Taste of India. A little light rain had fallen, laying the dust and setting free the scents from the gardens. When I first got to Glebe the small spaces in front of most of the terraces were filled with weeds, rubbish, and supermarket trolleys. Now they sprouted well-tended native gardens, and the old, rusted, gap-toothed wrought iron fences had been replaced by intact modern versions of the same thing. The security doors and window bars were another innovation.
We had the food spread out in its containers on the eating bench in the kitchen by seven o’clock. We were both hungry and got straight into it. We ate and drank in silence for a while.
‘No woman, Cliff ?’ Sharon said as she took a pause.
‘Not as of now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They don’t stick around, or I don’t, or both.’
‘Can’t commit?’
I forked in some rogan josh and chewed on it. ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but it’s more than that. It’s to do with the work. If you’d lived in Canberra, say, that’s where I’d be tonight.
Anyone living with me’d be on their own a good bit of the time. Hard to plan a night out.’
‘Let alone a family.’
‘Let alone.’
‘So, no kids?’
‘I’ve got a daughter I didn’t know about until she was grown up. For one reason or another her mother didn’t let on to me. I see her from time to time now but that’s about it. I’m glad she’s there and doing okay, but I can’t claim any credit for it.’
‘I can claim it for mine.’
‘You’re lucky.’
She ate a few mouthfuls, then shook her head. ‘Has to be more to it than that. These days there’s lots of professional women leading busy lives, working odd hours. They don’t require their blokes to be home by six for tea. And there’s more to you than you say. I’ve had a look at your books.’
‘I suppose so. But when I’m working, and that’s pretty much all the time to make a living, I get very preoccupied. Nothing much left over.’
‘Are you happy about it?’
Before I could answer the doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be Lou.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Tricky.’
Lou trooped in wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and a denim jacket. She carried an overnight bag, her backpack and a bottle of white wine. I introduced the two and Lou handed over the bag. ‘Some clothes as requested. Hope they’re your size.’
‘Thanks,’ Sharon said, ‘I’ll get them back to you soon as.’
‘I can make you a sandwich, Lou.’
She shook her head and smiled. ‘I was just pissed off with you. I like curry. Got enough?’
We finished the food down to the last grain of rice and scrap of pappadum. Sharon had had a glass of red and accepted a small one of Lou’s white. I poured myself a bigger one. Lou said she’d wait for coffee. ‘I’ve still got work to do tonight. Can we get down to it?’
We sat around the low table in the living room and I ran quickly through the events of the day. The two women eyed each other off in a way that didn’t fill me with optimism. A mutual dislike was immediately apparent.
‘My sister’s in a very bad way,’ Sharon said. ‘I reckon her physical and mental health are in danger and I’d like to get her away.’
‘Understood,’ Lou said, ‘and you think your knowing where the kid is gives you some leverage.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘How would you . . . never mind. Why can’t we just get some sort of court order? Have the cops take her away?’
‘I don’t think it’d be quite that easy, Lou,’ I said. ‘You’d have to give some sort of notice of the proceedings and the people she’s with would probably just move her. From what I can gather there’s a sort of vigilante network out there. They’d probably know as soon as some outside cops or social workers got anywhere near the place.’
Lou drank her coffee in a couple of gulps and I topped her up. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You mentioned money on the phone, Cliff. What’s on your mind?’
‘If we can get Billie away there’s going to have to be money to take care of her—doctors, detox, rehab—all that.’
‘How much?’
Sharon almost snapped to attention. ‘I know what’s on your mind, Ms Kramer. You’re thinking I’m in this to do myself some good.’
Lou shrugged. ‘You said it, not me.’
‘Shit,’ Sharon said. She went out to the kitchen and I heard the cork coming out of the bottle.
‘Flaky, like her sister,’ Lou murmured.
‘Take it easy. She’s your only avenue to Billie.’
Sharon came back in and stood behind her chair. ‘I don’t know about this, Cliff.’
‘I was hasty,’ Lou said. ‘I’m sure I can organise some money. Would twenty thousand do it?’
I tried not to react too obviously. I had no idea how much Lou’s advance had been, but the fact that she was still working at the paper suggested it wasn’t a lot. How would she lay her hands on twenty grand? The only answer I could think of was Mr X, and that gave me something else to worry about.
Lou had turned on the charm as she spoke, something some people can do at will. She smiled, repeated her apology to Sharon and sucked her in, at least for the moment.
Sharon said, ‘That amount would probably do, but I still don’t know how to get Billie away. I mean, if there was some way I could tell her about the help we can offer and that she could see Sam, she’d probably cooperate. But how?’
They both looked at me. Luckily, I thought I had an answer but I wasn’t going to tell them, particularly Lou, just yet. ‘There could be a way. I’ll have to work on it.’
Lou tried to grill Sharon about Billie’s state of mind— her memory, her grasp on reality—but Sharon wasn’t forthcoming. Eventually Lou gave up. ‘Keep me informed, Cliff. A bit better than you have so far, if I may say so. And I’ll see what I can do about the money.’ She gave Sharon a nod and I showed her to the door.
‘Don’t get distracted,’ she said as she walked out. I stood at the gate and watched her until she was safely in her car and driving away. All part of the service.
Sharon was quietly swearing. ‘I wish I hadn’t had those cigarettes. I gave them up years ago and that burst has brought the craving back. Haven’t got any, have you?’
‘No. I could go out.’
She shook her head. ‘No, just have to see it through. I didn’t care for your client.’
I started to clean up the mugs and glasses. ‘I noticed.’
‘She’s not the kind of woman other women trust.’
‘I’m with the other women.’
‘You don’t trust her?’
‘No. For one thing, probably minor, her retainer cheque didn’t clear. And she’s holding things back.’
‘What things?’
‘I don’t know. People who hire private detectives think they have a problem. Usually they have a couple of problems, sometimes ones they don’t know about.’
She thought that over as she drank the last of her wine. ‘You ought to write a book on it.’
‘No way.’
She yawned. ‘I’m tired even after that kip. Probably the wine. Hey, the curry was good.’
She helped me clean up and stack the dishwasher, not that there was much to stack. Lou’s bottle went into the milk crate that forms the halfway house to the recycling bin. I jiggled the cask. ‘We hammered the red a bit.’
‘Yeah. Well . . .’
It was one of those moments that could’ve led to something intimate, but we both realised it wasn’t the time. I jumped in with practical points.
‘Before you go up, is there a neighbour anywhere near your place up there in the sticks?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘It’d be a good idea to give them a ring in the morning and ask them to keep an eye on the place. You can come up with some story about a nuisance. One of your students or something. Would the neighbour cooperate?’
‘She’d love it. D’you think . . . ?’
I was thinking a number of things. Whether Lou, despite my warning, had told Mr X, and whether he had a significant finger in the pie. What Big John Manuma’s motives were. But I reached out and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.
‘No. Just being super cautious. Goodnight, Sharon.’
It was a comfort to have someone sleeping in the house, even if the person wasn’t a lover or even a friend. Back when I had a mortgage to service, I’d tried having tenants to help with the costs. It hadn’t worked too well, partly because the first one I had, Hilde Stoner, had been so good the others didn’t measure up. Hilde had married a cop named Frank Parker and the two of them were my best friends. I hadn’t seen them for a while and promised myself a night out with them when this case was done.
But as I lay in bed I thought that could be a long way off. There were loose ends everywhere and my feeling that Lou Kramer hadn’t been anywhere near straight with me had strengthened. I needed that information about her BMW-driving friend. I drifted off to sleep with thoughts of how I used to come awake with the smell of Hilde’s coffee wafting up the stairs. Hilde was one of those people who made good coffee, using the same equipment and grounds I did to produce my bitter brews.
11
Sunday, bloody Sunday. I couldn’t get in touch with my RTA contact to check on Lou Kramer’s mysterious dinner companion and I couldn’t act on my idea about springing Billie from the God squad. I went for a long walk around Glebe. Sharon slept late and the door was still closed when I got back with the crappy papers and good croissants. I was sitting in the back yard turning over the pages when she came down. She wore old tracksuit pants and a faded T-shirt.
‘Pretty daggy,’ she said, fingering the hem of the T-shirt. ‘Could she spare ’em?’
‘Didn’t want you to outshine her. Coffee’s hot, croissants are by the microwave.
‘Very Glebe.’
She came out with a mug and a croissant on a plate. The sun was well up and it was getting warm in the small space. I bricked it years ago, not well, and weeds spring up in the cracks. Helen Broadway, a girlfriend from the last century, had installed a low maintenance garden and it was holding on pretty well in the face of the water restrictions and my neglect. You can just see glimpses of Blackwattle Bay through the apartment blocks and smell the water when the wind’s right. This morning it was, and my patch wasn’t a bad place to be.
Sharon turned over a few pages uninterestedly. ‘You haven’t pressed me about Sam.’
I shrugged. ‘No need just yet. I take it you can get in touch with him when and if we have to.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s with good people?’
She filled her mouth with pastry and nodded.
‘Kooris?’
Another nod. ‘I think that’s right about us having a bit of Koori in us. Billie and I aren’t blondes, not by a long way, and we darken up good in the summer. There was a photo of Mum’s mother hidden away in the house and I found it and asked mum. Grandma Jackson was dark. She had the look. Mum was ashamed of it and Dad was a real racist so it wasn’t talked about.’
‘So Sam’s got it on both sides?’
‘Yes. We had a brother, Joe, and he was pretty dark. He got arrested for a minor offence and he hanged himself in the lockup.’
‘That says something.’
‘I’d like Sam to get a proper education and do something useful in Aboriginal affairs . . . if he was interested.’
It was about the longest and most personal statement she’d made when sober, and it seemed to do her some good. She ate another croissant and used her mobile to check on her daughter and the neighbour. She said yes and no a few times and laughed twice.
‘That’s fine,’ she said as she closed the phone. ‘But I have to get back by tomorrow night. I can get a train to Campbelltown and Sarah can pick me up.’
‘Should be all right. Check again with the neighbour tomorrow. Lou’s authorised me to give you a hundred dollars.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘As much as that?’
‘I can up it a bit if you’d like.’
‘No, that’s fine. Can I use your Mac to check on my email?’
She did that and asked me what I was going to do next.
‘I’m a bit stymied,’ I said. ‘I need to check a rego number with my RTA contact and follow up this idea about getting through to Billie, but I can’t do either of them today.’
‘Pity Craig’s not here.’
‘Craig?’
‘My daughter Sarah’s boyfriend. He could probably hack into the RTA computer. Nothing much he can’t do in that line.’
‘Handy bloke.’
‘In more ways than one. He plays football, swims, troubleshoots for various computer people. He drives a Merc.’
It was getting warmer in the yard and the sun was high and strong. ‘Why don’t we go to Bondi for a swim?’ I said.
‘Bet you haven’t been there in a while.’
‘What? In my bra and knickers?’
‘Pick up something down there.’
‘You’re on.’
We drove to Bondi; Sharon bought a swimsuit and left it on under her clothes. The beach and the car park were busy but I found a spot. We went in a couple of times and we lay on the sand with the other lucky citizens of Sydney.
‘You’ve got a proprietorial look,’ Sharon said. ‘Raised here, were you?’
I pointed south. ‘Maroubra. Spent a bit of time here though. They reckon there’s a better city beach in Rio de Janeiro, but this’ll do me.’
‘Yeah.’
I could see what she meant about her skin. It had that underlying smoky look that would darken quickly in the sun. ‘Don’t spend much time kicking down doors and shooting people, do you, Cliff?’
‘As little as possible.’
She tapped the side of her head, Poirot-style. ‘The little grey cells?’
‘Not much of that either. More patience and persistence.’
As the sun dropped the day cooled quickly and we decamped and fought the traffic back to Glebe. Sharon prowled around, taking books from the shelves and putting them back. Checking the CD holdings. ‘This is getting to me,’ she said. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Give it till tomorrow. Ring your neighbour first thing and your daughter and then you can go.’
‘I could go now.’
‘You could. Wouldn’t if I was you.’
‘I suppose you’re right. What’s on telly?’
She made a big omelette and we ate while watching the news and a few other forgettable programs. She picked out a book—Stephen Scheding’s The National Picture, his account of trying to locate a lost, and possibly nonexistent, painting of George Robinson and the Tasmanian Aborigines. She read the blurb and looked at me.
‘Have you read this?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a detective story, sort of.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Sharon, I read to amuse myself and fill in the time. That’s all.’
‘Fill in the time—that’s sad.’
I shook my head. ‘Nope. Some of the time’s full to overflowing.’
She nodded, touched me on the shoulder, and went up the stairs.
The swim had done me good and the bruise and contusion around my eye were healing up nicely. I hadn’t had the company of a woman in a relaxed friendly fashion lately and I’d enjoyed it. For all its uncertainties so far, the Lou Kramer/Jonas Clement case was having an upside.
I got on the blower early. The RTA employee who risked her job for me, and no doubt quite a few others, gave me the details on the BMW. It was owned by Top Fleet Ltd and leased to the Oceania Securities Corporation.
‘Car pool,’ I said. ‘Dead end individual-wise.’
‘I’ll walk the extra mile for the extra smile.’
We were both on pay phones, and if anyone out there or in there was picking us up then democracy as we know it is dead.
‘Walk.’
‘Registered driver is Barclay Greaves, 34 Ralston Place, Manly. Usual. Over and out.’
She likes to think of herself as some sort of undercover agent in the service of God knows what. Why not? We all have to get our kicks.
I’d never heard of the company, nor of Greaves, but it was at least interesting that he was apparently in the big money game and lived in the same neck of the woods as Clement.
Rudi Szabo’s boxing operation is a complex affair. He trains and manages fighters and promotes fights. You might think this would also promote conflicts of interest and you’d be right in spades. But conflicts of interest are an integral part of the boxing game. Way back in the bare knuckle days, the connections of fighters took side bets on their opponents and boxers themselves did the same. In the modern era, managers have sacrificed one fighter in order to promote another as a regular manoeuvre. Whatever tricks and tradeoffs remained in the much-reduced boxing scene in Australia, Rudi was a master of. And worse—throw in loan sharking and receiving. He employed people like the Maori ex-footballer Steve Kooti, whose name had come up as a counsellor at the Liston community protection centre, to collect debts and punish competitors. Luckily, Szabo owed me a favour because I’d happened to save one of his genuinely good fighters from getting into a cut-glass brawl in a Rockdale pub.
