Man in the Shadows

by Peter Corris

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Quinn? Your former husband . . . ’

  ‘The name’s Buck.’ A man appeared from behind her; he was stocky and dark in shorts and a blue singlet. A man of action; he stepped around the woman, moved forward and threw a punch. Having to move sideways first threw him off line a little, otherwise the punch would’ve been hard to avoid. But I had time to go back, take it on the shoulder and grab his arm.

  ‘Steady, you! What’re you doing?’ He jerked free, set himself and punched again. This time he landed under the ear and inspired the standard Hardy counter—I hit him with a light left to the nose and tried to shove him back against something hard. The woman screamed which seemed to give him extra strength. He rushed me back and I felt the rail bite into my spine. I turned to reduce the impact and kicked at his knee as he came on. He wobbled and I put both hands on his right shoulder and bore down. The knee I’d kicked hit the concrete hard and he yelled and crumpled up.

  The woman bent down to him and then a baby wailed inside the flat. She rushed in and I moved to follow. The dark man pulled himself up on the railing.

  ‘Get out!’ he yelled.

  ‘Easy, mate,’ I said. ‘You’ve got some wrong ideas.’

  I went into the passageway and Shelley Quinn or Buck came out carrying and soothing a baby. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Hardy. I was hired by your husband to . . . ’

  ‘That bastard! I’ll kill you!’ The man hobbled forward.

  ‘You didn’t do so good the first time. Don’t push your luck. Let’s go inside and talk. I don’t understand this.’

  I stood aside and let him pass me; he held on to the door and edged along the wall. As I closed the door I saw a green car pull up outside the flats. I had a sudden alarmed feeling that I’d seen it before.

  We went through to the kitchen. Shelley made coffee and we stumbled through the introductions and explanations. The child was Henry Quinn’s but neither Shelley nor Peter Buck wanted anything to do with the father. Shelley snorted when I showed her the invitation.

  ‘He’s an animal,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t go to a party there without a suit of armour.’

  ‘He . . . beat her up,’ Peter Buck said hesitantly. ‘She wouldn’t let me go around and square him.’ He had work-hardened hands and muscles but was extraordinarily gentle when handling the child. He was part Maori and he sang when he could and laboured when he couldn’t. The chemistry between Buck and Shelley was strong and the child, dark-eyed and olive-skinned, could have been their own. It was clear that that was how they regarded him.

  Shelley explained that she’d met and married Quinn as a piece of youthful folly. She’d begun divorce proceedings within a year and had moved to Whale Beach. Quinn broke in and raped her.

  ‘He wants Tommy,’ Shelley said quietly. ‘That’s why you’re here. It has to be.’

  It dawned on me then. The green car and the feeling I’d had all along that Quinn’s story was shonky. I’d approached it all too lightly and hadn’t once looked to see if anyone was taking an interest in me. ‘Can you see the back and the front of the block from this flat?’

  Peter Buck nodded. He rubbed his knee and glowered at me. ‘Why?’

  ‘Would you mind taking a look? I think I’ve led Quinn straight to you.’

  He hobbled away and when he came back his face was grim. ‘There’s cars back and front. Blokes in ’em. They’re watching.’

  Shelley caught her breath and hugged the baby who protested. She smoothed the soft, dark hair. ‘What can we do?’

  I phoned Quinn and could hear the satisfaction in his voice. ‘Thought I’d be hearing from you. My men’re outside those scumbag flats.’

  ‘I know. What’s the game, Quinn?’

  ‘I’m offering twenty grand for the kid.’

  ‘I think Mr Buck here would put it down your throat with his fist.’

  ‘Buck? Who’s he?’

  ‘He’s with Shelley.’

  ‘Sounds like a nigger.’

  ‘He’s a Maori.’

  ‘Shit! I’m gonna have to keep real close tabs on Shelley now you’ve found her for me and I don’t think she’s gonna like it. I’m gettin’ that kid, Hardy, if it takes me a year. I never had a kid.’

  ‘That’s a blessing. Why’d you use me? Why not one of your men, as you call them?’

  ‘They’ve got no finesse. I wanted it to look genuine. You did a great job, Hardy. Thanks.’

  I hung up on him which felt good but didn’t help. Buck changed Tommy’s nappy and Shelley put him down for a sleep. We drank more coffee while the little flat got hotter. After my anger at being used by Quinn had receded I began thinking again.

  ‘We have to get something on him,’ I said. ‘Shelley, can you remember anything he was sensitive about. D’you know anything about his business dealings?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, nothing. Sensitive? Him? You’re kidding. All that Norman Mailer crap, the photograph . . . Hold on, there was something. He got angry when I looked at this old picture I found.’

  ‘What picture?’

  ‘It was real old. It looked like a newspaper picture but it was, you know, glossy. It was a boxing picture. Two guys in the ring and a lot of people crowding around. I know Henry was a boxer.’

  ‘Was he in the picture?’

  ‘Hard to say. It was old. If it was him he had a lot more hair and no gut. I don’t know. Anyway, he hit me.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Peter Buck cracked his knuckles.

  ‘Can you remember anything else about the picture?’

  ‘Nuh. Yes, there was a woman in it. A blonde. She was yelling. That’s all.’

  I felt a twinge of hope. ‘How’re you for money?’

  ‘Low,’ Buck said.

  I put three hundred dollars on the table and took out one of my cards. ‘I might have a way. What you have to do is get together a few blokes to keep an eye on Shelley and Tommy. Round the clock. Can you do it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Don’t look for trouble. Just make sure those characters outside never get close. Ring me if you have a problem.’

  ‘Why’re you doing this?’ Shelley said.

  ‘I don’t like feeling dumb. I’m sorry about your knee.’

  Buck grinned. ‘You’ll have me in tears. Work something out pretty quick or I’ll handle it my way.’

  I waited at the flat until two men arrived—another Maori and a pakeha, both tattooed, both big. The Maori was carrying a big bottle of lemonade, a bucket of fried chicken and a towel. He flicked the towel at Buck. ‘Let’s go to the beach.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ I said.

  I took a look at the men in the green car before I got into the Falcon—average-looking thugs, not very bright. They stayed put and I drove to the Public Library. The public records are hell when you don’t know what you’re looking for, heaven when you do. It didn’t take me long; on November 29, 1956, the Melbourne Sun News-Pictorial had published an Olympic Games photograph in its sports section. The picture showed the scene after US light heavyweight Hank Quinn had been disqualified for eye gouging in his bout with Australian Ian Madison. A younger, fitter Quinn stood defiant in centre ring while Madison held both gloves across his face. A blonde woman shrieked at the referee from ringside. The brief account of the fight was highly critical of Quinn and mentioned that his wife, Billie, had attempted to assault the referee after the disqualification was announced. I took a copy of the microfilm frames.

  It was four o’clock when I got home to Glebe. I was hungry and thirsty but optimistic. I drank two glasses of wine and ate a slice of fairly old pizza. Then I phoned my lawyer, Cy Sackville.

  ‘You’re lucky to catch me,’ Cy said. ‘I’m going to Byron Bay for Christmas.’

  ‘Good on you. Would you have a contact in New York who’d be able to look up marriage records in New Jersey and locate a certain party?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you’d have a fax mac
hine there in the office, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What about US Treasury records, tax assessments and so on?’

  ‘Harder but possible. You thinking of moving offshore, Cliff? Thought you were more patriotic than that.’

  I laughed dutifully and told him what I wanted. He said ‘Um’ and ‘Yes’ and told me there’d be someone in his office to handle whatever came in.

  ‘What’ll it cost?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Christmas.’

  After that it was a matter of waiting. I went out to Manly the next couple of days and we had some fun on the beach—Shelley, Peter Buck, Tommy, Eddie Tongarira and a Manly reserve grade front rower named Steve. The men up under the pines who watched us looked hot and bothered.

  The information from the States came through on Christmas Eve; first I phoned Shelley, then Quinn.

  ‘Quinn? This is Hardy. We’d like to come to the party tomorrow. Is it still on?’

  ‘Who’s we?’ Quinn sounded suspicious and a bit drunk.

  ‘Shelley, Peter Buck, me and Tommy. You should have the thousand you owe me ready.’

  His laugh was a raucous, tipsy bellow. ‘That right? You seein’ sense? You’re not such a . . . what is it? Not such a mug as I took you for. Make it early. Ten o’clock. You say the kid’ll be along? I’ll get a tree.’

  I got to the Manly flat a bit before eight. The green car was outside. Everybody had been awake for three hours and the place was a sea of wrapping paper and cardboard boxes. I had a can with Peter and Shelley and the minders and then we set off for Cronulla with the green car following. One of the watchers joined us in the lift and he and Peter Buck eyed each other off as we rode up to Quinn’s penthouse.

  Quinn was wearing a pink shirt and white trousers. He’d shaved extra close and done something to his hair. He looked even more like the photograph of Mailer than before.

  ‘Shelley,’ he boomed. ‘So good to see ya, honey. An’ this must be the boy. How ya doin’, sonny?’ He attempted to kiss Tommy’s cheek but Tommy belched.

  ‘Cute,’ Quinn said. ‘C’mon in. You can go, Lenny.’ The watcher withdrew and we went into the room that seemed to be half-filled with sun and sea and sky. Pine needles from a huge Christmas tree by the window lay all over the carpet. At least ten wrapped presents were piled up under the tree. Shelley, Peter Buck and Tommy sat on the leather couch. Quinn pulled a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and clawed off the foil wrapping. His hands were shaking.

  ‘Let’s have a drink.’

  ‘Let’s see the money,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, sure, sure. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. ‘Two grand. Bonus. You can’t say Henry Quinn’s cheap.’

  I took the money and handed it to Shelley. Neither she nor Buck had said a word. Tommy was sleeping in Peter’s arms.

  ‘What is this?’ Quinn said.

  I took the bottle from him, popped the cork and poured the champagne into four long glasses. I pushed Quinn down into a chair, gave him a glass and carried two to the couch. I took a sip of mine and reached into my pocket. Quinn clutched his glass and stared at me. I spread out the documents on the arm of his chair.

  ‘This is a photograph of you losing in Melbourne in ’56. Your wife Billie isn’t happy but you lost just the same. This is a photostat of your marriage certificate. Henry Quinn bachelor, blah, blah, Billie Teresa D’Angelo, spinster, blah, blah, Atlantic City, New Jersey, May 8, 1955. No divorce ever registered. Billie Quinn, welfare recipient, Century Hotel, Atlantic City, deposes December 23, 1986, that no divorce ever took place on account of both parties were of the Catholic faith. Here is a US Treasury memo to the effect that Henry Xavier Quinn is liable for US taxes of more than one million dollars but, ah, I’m quoting, “action is forestalled due to Quinn’s status as an Australian resident alien”.’ I looked across at the couch. Shelley and Peter Buck touched glasses and drank.

  ‘Shit,’ Quinn said.

  I sipped some of the champagne. ‘Your status here depends on your marriage to Dawn Leonie Simkin in 1958, but that marriage was bigamous which means that you ain’t got no status at all.’

  Quinn twitched and spilled champagne; a dark stain appeared on his pink shirt. ‘You bastard,’ he said.

  ‘How’d you like to be deported, Henry? How’d you like to get into a plea bargaining situation with the US Treasury? I think you’d rather stay here, wouldn’t you? I think you’d rather stay childless but well-heeled and very, very quiet, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Okay. You’ve got a deal.’

  Shelley and Peter finished their champagne and stood up. Buck hoisted Tommy on to his shoulder and put his glass down carefully on a polished table, ‘Thanks, Hardy. Come on, Shell.’

  ‘Call the next one Cliff,’ I said. ‘Hang on, I’m coming with you’. I tapped the documents together and put them in Quinn’s lap. The wetness had spread down over his paunch. ‘These are copies.’ I reached out and patted his smooth-shaved cheek. ‘Merry Christmas, Norman,’ I said.

  In slightly different versions, ‘Cloudburst’, ‘The Deserter’ and ‘High Integrity’ have appeared in Australian Penthouse. Minus its present ending, ‘Byron Kelly’s Big Mistake’ was published in the Sydney Morning Herald weekly magazine Good Weekend. ‘Norman Mailer’s Christmas’ was published in the Sydney Morning Herald.