by Peter Corris
I shrugged. ‘He was a lightweight, junior welter at most. All the rest were heavies.’
‘I was one of them.’ He extended his arms and I could see pale scars crossing the dark skin of his forearms. ‘One of the brawlers. I got badly cut up.’
‘When you were working for Rudi Szabo?’
‘Yes.’ He looked at the cheap watch on his wrist just below the scars. ‘I’ve got a class soon. What do you want from me? You know that I’m a servant of the Lord now. I don’t do violence.’
I outlined my problem to him, stressing that Billie Marchant needed proper medical care, but not concealing the fact that I had a particular agenda quite apart from her welfare. There was no point in dissembling. Steve Kooti was an impressive piece of work—calm, intelligent, confident. He had the kind of composed inner strength I’d seen in some soldiers, some boxers, some cops and an occasional criminal. You can’t bullshit them.
He heard me out. ‘John Manuma is a . . . let us say, conflicted man. There is much good about him. He’s a genuine Christian, I believe, but his power and influence can send him in wrong directions at times.’
‘Do you have any influence with him?’
‘No, not of the kind you require. Are you sure this woman is not receiving proper care? The power of prayer and faith are enormous.’
‘Her sister says not. She also fears for the boy, her nephew, falling under the influence of this Yoli.’
‘Yolande Potare. Yes, he’s a different thing altogether. A criminal. I might be able to help you. Have to think about it, and take counsel with others. Where will you be this evening?’
‘Wherever you want me to be.’
He looked at me and a smile played across his broad, dark face. ‘I don’t see you booking into the YMCA. Find a motel in Campbelltown and ring me on the mobile around six o’clock. I have to go.’ He slung his backpack, smoothly uncoiled his huge body and moved away. Then he turned back. ‘How’s Rudi?’
‘As ever.’
He nodded. ‘Not the worst villain around.’
‘What’re you studying?’ I asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘Religion?’
He smiled. ‘Stereotypical thinking. I’m disappointed in you. Computing, Mr Hardy. Computing.’
People can change, you see it all the time. Religion is one of the great life-changing forces, I have to admit, and not always for the better—think of George Bush. Being given responsibility and some support can work, too, as in Tommy’s case. If that held.
The wide open sky I’d noticed in Picton was here as well, wider even, and I felt an impulse to walk under it. The sun went behind a cloud as I wandered over to a basketball court where a pick-up game was in progress. Black and white kids, male and female on both teams. Encouraging. I never cared much for basketball because the professionals score too readily, just as in soccer they don’t score enough. But at this level it was more entertaining with a lot of misses and fumbles and no hopped-up coach shouting from the sidelines. A player jumped, threw and missed and the ball came towards me at speed. I caught it and tossed it back.
A kid shouted, ‘Wanna play, mister?’
I grinned and shook my head, but the invitation did me a power of good.
13
I checked in to the Three Ways Motor Inn in Campbelltown, phoned Kooti and left the message. That gave me time on my hands. I phoned Sharon Marchant’s mobile and she came through as clearly as though she was next door.
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘this is a good connection. Where are you?’
I told her and added that I might have made some progress at getting her sister away from Yoli and Co.
‘That’s great. Look, I’m with Sarah for a while but I’ll be dropping her back home before heading out to Picton. Why don’t we get together and you can tell me all about it.’
She agreed to come by the motel in a couple of hours. I inspected the mini-bar. There were three double serves of gin and plenty of tonic water. I went for a walk, located a fruit shop and bought a lemon. A gin and tonic without lemon is like a martini without an olive. I had a swim in the motel pool and was freshly shaved, showered and shampooed when Sharon turned up.
She dropped into a chair and breathed an exhausted sigh. ‘Keeping up with the young is the pits. That kid’s been running me ragged.’
She was wearing the clothes Lou Kramer had left her and, not flattering to start with, they were wrinkled and shapeless. Her face was aglow with parental happiness but just below that surface she was deeply tired. I put my thoughts of a close encounter aside and made her a drink.
‘Thanks. Just one. Two’d put me on my ear and I’ve got to drive home. Got that class tomorrow. What’s been going on, Cliff ?’
In fact, I didn’t really have much to tell her but I made the most of it, saying that I had an ally among the Liston Islanders and expected to make progress.
‘If we get her out I hope you’ll be standing by to talk to her.’
She sipped her drink. ‘I’d need some assurances about that woman you’re dealing with first. Some firm arrangements, unnegotiable, if you know what I mean.’
I said I did. We talked a bit more and she took off to Picton after saying she’d mail the clothes back to me. I knocked off one of the little gins. Thought about ringing Lou Kramer, decided against. I was thinking about dinner when Steve Kooti showed up. He refused alcohol, naturally, so we went to sit by the pool in the evening air, me with a beer and him with a can of coke, as a full yellow moon rose.
‘I talked to my sister. She’s a nurse in the area health service. It seems she’s had a report about a seriously ill woman at that address.’
‘That right?’
‘Yes. And she’s going to pay the place a visit tomorrow. She’ll have a couple of paramedics with her who just happen to be members of our congregation.’
‘Big blokes?’
‘Very big. Understand, if she finds the woman in good health and getting reasonable treatment there’s nothing she can do. But if it’s not like that she’ll have her removed to Western District hospital.’
‘Fair enough. What about Yoli?’
‘Yoli’s going to be busy.’
‘I see. This sister, would she be Tommy Larrigo’s mother by any chance?’
‘No. She’s his aunt. I’ve got a few sisters. Tommy’s mother died young, kidney cancer. His father comes and goes. Mary and the others tried to steer him right—I was off being a tough guy as you know—but he was a wild kid.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Yes, Mr Hardy. You can stay well clear of everything until you hear from me, one way or the other.’
I agreed to that. We sat in companionable silence for a while as the mozzies buzzed around us and the traffic noise died down. I asked him if he missed it all.
‘What?’
‘The football. The booze. The fun.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, I do. Of course I do. I spent my early years in that atmosphere and loved it. Then I saw the light. I miss it, sure, but I’d never go back to it. Still . . .’
‘Still?’
‘Maybe you’re giving me a little taste of it again. Goodnight, Mr Hardy.’
‘Cliff. Goodnight.’
The lights came on around the pool and one situated down below the surface. The water took on an intense blue as midges danced in the light. Then a couple of young guests came into the pool area and jumped in with shouts and splashes and broke my mood. Just as well; it was veering towards self-pity. I gathered up the empty cans and went back to my room. Gaps in the car park showed that only about half of the rooms were occupied. Slow night in Campbelltown under a full moon. Maybe Fisher’s ghost would be out.
Experience had taught me how to kill a dead night away from home. A long walk to raise the appetite, a meal with a book, and back to a combination of print and television. ‘Media Watch’ named and nailed the usual suspects. I read a few chapters of Craig Macgregor’s book on Mark Latham and
topped it off with a few entries from 1000 Great Lives, a paperback I’d picked up cheap. The title was misleading; Darwin, one of my heroes, was certainly worth his spot and likewise Muhammed Ali. Hard to see Hitler’s life as great, and some were downright miserable—Elvis, for example.
I’ve never been keen on doing as I was told. Nine o’clock the next morning found me in Liston, parked well away from the house where Billie was staying but with a good view of it through my binoculars. After a few minutes a big Islander dressed in a dark suit left the house, got in one of several cars parked nearby and drove away. Ten minutes later an ambulance pulled up and a white-clad nurse and two paramedics went inside the house. A few more minutes went by and one of the paramedics came out to the ambulance and collected a stretcher.
Looks promising, I thought.
My mobile rang. ‘I’m in a phone box. ‘Just wanted you to know I was on the job,’ Tommy Larrigo said. ‘Making progress, man.’
‘That’s good to know. I’ll come by when I get a chance.’
‘Finding some strange things here. Old statues of men and women doin’ it.’
‘Close your eyes,’ I said.
I rang off as the paramedics carried the stretcher out with a small blanket-wrapped figure on it. The nurse emerged a little later, scribbling on something attached to a clipboard. She got into the ambulance and it drove away. A smooth operation, but slightly worrying because it meant that Billie Marchant was genuinely unwell. I rang Lou Kramer, got her voicemail, and left the briefest of messages to say where I was staying and what I was doing. Then I rang Sharon Marchant.
‘What?’ she snapped.
I told her Billie was on her way to the hospital.
‘Shit, I’ve got a class in ten minutes.’
‘Ring the hospital. Tell them you’ll be there as soon as you can. Someone from the family should be there.’
‘I’ll get Sarah to go. She’s never met her but she’s her niece, after all. I’ll get there later this morning. Where will you be?’
‘I’ll be there.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll tell her to look out for you. Sarah’ll be glad to meet you. She’s sure we’re on together.’
‘They think of nothing else.’
The ambulance didn’t use its siren on the way to the hospital, a sign that Billie wasn’t at death’s door. It took a while for me to find a parking place and then to locate the admissions desk. I enquired about Ms Billie Marchant and was told she’d been admitted by Sister Mary Latekefu of the District Health Service. She was receiving treatment for malnutrition, dehydration and pneumonia and couldn’t receive visitors until a doctor said so.
I moved away from the desk and a young woman who’d been standing nearby approached me. She was medium tall, slim, brown haired, olive skinned—Sharon without the dye job, a few shades darker and twenty years younger.
‘Mr Hardy?’
‘You’d be Sarah . . . Marchant?’
‘Sarah Marchant-Wallambi. Didn’t Mum tell you? My dad’s a Koori.’
‘Glad to meet you, Sarah. Did you hear all that about your Aunt Billie?’
She smiled as we moved away towards a set of plastic chairs. ‘Yeah, except that she’s Aunty Wilhelmina. That’s her real name. I was just going to ask about her when you stepped in.’
‘I’m finding out more about your family all the time,’ I said. ‘How much d’you know about what’s going on?’
‘Not much. I know she’s a wild one and into drugs and all that. I met her once when I was a kid. That’s when she told me her name. I thought she was great, but Mum didn’t like to talk about her much.’
I bought us two coffees from the machine and we sat on the hard chairs they provide with arm rests so you can’t stretch out on a few of them for a nap. She dropped her backpack to the floor and drank some coffee. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, sandals. She had a couple of rings in her ears but none in her face. ‘Can you tell me what this’s all about? I mean, suddenly Mum’s in Sydney with a strange man and her car needs picking up and her sister’s off to hoppy and you’re here . . . like, this is so un-my mum.’
‘It’s a long story. Billie . . . Wilhelmina . . . she’s a sort of witness in something pretty big to do with money and other stuff. I’m working for someone who needs to talk to her and can help her to pull out of this bad patch she’s in. Your mother’s on side more or less, if we can work out the details.’
‘Wow. Is she in danger . . . Billie?’
‘Not while she’s here. Look, what you should do is tell them you’re her niece and that her sister’s on the way. Tell Sharon I’m going off to organise my client to see Billie when she’s well enough. Okay?’
She nodded. I patted her shoulder. She gave me a look I’d seen before on the faces of wise children of women I’d got involved with. Is this guy a candidate? With the scars, the broken nose, the manners for the moment and the secrets? Probably not.
I gave Sarah the motel number and headed back there expecting a visit or at least a call from Steve Kooti to put me in the picture. I also wanted to think about how to play things with Lou Kramer. Her bull-at-a-gate style wasn’t right for things as they stood, and I worried that negotiations between her and Sharon could easily break down. Still, I considered I wasn’t doing too badly so far, with Billie found and secured and an ally or two on the side. I stopped for petrol and, as I hadn’t eaten anything yet and felt I owed myself an indulgence, I had a cup of coffee and a sandwich at the servo.
I pulled in to the motel car park and hoped they weren’t doing my room. Nothing more boring than kicking your heels while they cart out the empties. But the door was closed and there was no sign of the trolley. I went in and something about the weight of a Mack truck hit me on the back. My knees crumpled; a skyhook picked me up and dumped me on the bed. I fought for breath, waiting for the next assault, but nothing happened. With almost everything hurting, I wrenched myself around to see a man standing beside the bed. He was so big he blocked out most of the light from the window. He wore the kind of high buttoning single-breasted suit that footballers wear to the tribunal and their court hearings. I recognised him as the man I’d seen leaving the Liston house that morning. Had to be Yolande Potare.
He cracked his knuckles with a noise like the rattle of small arms fire. ‘You’re a nuisance,’ he said, ‘and I don’t like you.’
‘Doing my job.’
‘Interfering with the Lord’s work.’
‘You reckon the Lord likes to see sick women wasting away to death, do you? She’s where she belongs, Mr Potare. Let it be.’
‘I will. But first I’m going to make you sorry you ever got born. Stand up.’
The bedside lamp was anchored, and the clock radio; the only weapon to hand was a pillow. I slung it at him as I stood, hoping to distract him long enough to pick up something solid or, better still, get through the door. He swatted it away, grabbed me by the shoulder and drew back his other arm to totally rearrange my face.
The door burst open and two men came in. They weren’t as big as Yoli but one was big enough. He grabbed Yoli’s arm and swung him off balance while the other guy kneed him in the crotch. Yoli released me, bellowed with pain and rage and bent double. The smaller man flashed something in a leather folder under Yoli’s eyes.
‘If you want to be up on assault charges, you can be,’ he said.
His mate took a handful of Yoli’s suit collar and pulled him towards the open door as Yoli was still fighting for breath. ‘Or you can just piss off.’
Yoli staggered through as he was released and the door was kicked shut behind him. I sat down on the bed and massaged my shoulder.
‘Police?’
The big man dusted his hands off, looking pleased with himself. ‘No. My name’s McGuinness and this is . . . well, never mind. We work for someone who’s anxious to meet you.’
‘Look, I’m glad you happened along. Don’t quite see how but—’
‘That can be explained. Just stay put
.’
I took a closer look at him. McGuinness was big, fair, freckled and running to fat. His exertions had left him short of breath. His mate was more compact, possibly smarter, but not in charge. Both had something like an ex-army or ex-cop poise I didn’t like the look of, but there was no point in arguing.
McGuinness opened the door and gestured invitingly. I heard a car door slam and footsteps approaching on the concrete path. Leather soles, confident tread. McGuinness held the door wide open and Barclay Greaves walked in.
14
Greaves, looking like John Cleese with a gut, sat in the room’s only comfortable chair. He would. McGuinness’s mate opened the fridge, poured a glass of water and handed it to me.
‘How’re you feeling, Mr Hardy?’ Greaves said.
I drank some water. ‘I’m okay, Mr Greaves.’
He glanced at McGuinness. ‘Did you mention my name?’
McGuinness shook his head.
‘No mystery,’ I said. ‘I saw you in the company of Louise Kramer the other night. Checked your car registration and Bob’s your uncle. We sort of met at Jonas Clement’s party, if you remember.’
‘Yes, indeed. Well, I’m impressed. Wasn’t that a bit above and beyond the call of duty? Keeping tabs on your own client?’
‘Can’t be too careful. I knew she wasn’t giving me the full picture.’
‘I’m not sure anyone knows what precisely that is. Louise is devious. That’s all right, so am I, and you seem to have acquired some formidable enemies. I’m told Rhys Thomas gave you a hard time, and that big chap certainly wasn’t friendly.’
‘True. Well, your blokes helped me out there. I suppose I should be grateful.’
He nodded. He was immaculate in his suit, muted striped shirt and silk tie. His colour was a few shades too high and he was carrying those extra kilos. One-on-one I didn’t think he’d give me much trouble, but the presence of the other two tipped the balance.
‘Yes,’ Greaves said. ‘That should put us on a good footing, wouldn’t you say?’
