Lugarno

by Peter Corris

  I drove through the heavy rain to the sports centre in Leichhardt, paid my money, stripped and hopped into the spa. The water temperature was about right and I played the jets on my stomach and wallowed around like King Farouk. I could feel the warmth and the water relaxing me. Apart from a couple who pretty much clung mutely together in a corner of the spa I had the place to myself. Some rolls of fat in the middle, love handles not too bad, reasonable muscle tone elsewhere. I tried not to look at the grizzled grey hair on my chest. I felt I had a viable work plan mapped out and I tried to concentrate on soothing my body and leaving all things to do with Prices and Hewitt out in the rain.

  It pretty much worked and I was well and truly relaxed when I stepped into the sauna and slopped some water on the heat. I put a towel down on the top bench and stretched out on my back to let the steam do its work. I’ve heard of people fucking in saunas but it doesn’t take me that way, rather the reverse. The sweat was pooling in my grey-haired navel and running off me and I’d pulled the towel out from under and was mopping my face when two men entered the room. I didn’t bother to look at them and couldn’t have seen much through the steam anyway. I was about to roll over when one of the men spoke.

  ‘Mr Hardy, my name is Lewis. I represent the Lord George Social Introduction Agency.’

  I struggled to recover something from my soporific surrender to the heat. ‘You left out the word escort,’ I said. ‘Not that I give a fuck who you are or what you do.’

  ‘It would be very unwise of you to take that line.’

  I fanned away some steam and saw that the other man was Baldy. I pushed myself upright but I was sluggish from the spa and the steam and he was quick. He pinned me with an arm like a railway sleeper. He held me down without effort—he had the weight and the strength and the leverage. I lay back and blinked to try to clear my eyes and get a better look at them. Lewis was a thin, stringy type with sparse mousy hair that looked even more undernourished in the steam room. The other guy didn’t have to worry about hair on the head or any other part of his body. He was hairless all over. An alopecia sufferer. He was also packing much more muscle than fat on his big frame. He lifted his arm and stood so that he could hit me with either hand on pretty much any part of my body.

  ‘Represent,’ I said. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘In my case, legal matters,’ Lewis said as he took up a squatting position a level below me. ‘In Mr Stivens here’s case, security. Now you appear to be mounting some kind of surveillance on an important client of ours and we’re interested to know why.’

  ‘How d’you see it that way?’

  Lewis wiped his face with the corner of his towel and looked about ready to faint. ‘Too hot for you?’ I said.

  Lewis’s head barely moved but it was enough of a signal for Stivens. That RSJ of an arm came down hard across my chest so that I could feel the ribs separate and bend. I let out a gasp of pain.

  ‘To answer your question. You were seen by Mr Stivens in Kogarah and your activities at the Price home in Lugarno were reported to us. Mr Stivens and I followed you here from your office in order to have this little meeting.’

  He’d told me more than he realised but I wasn’t feeling on top of things as a result. ‘You should talk to the police, Mr Lewis. They’re anxious to know what you already know. You could be very helpful to them.’

  Lewis coughed. ‘You’re being very foolish. What is your concern with Mrs Price?’

  ‘I’m in love with her,’ I said. ‘She’s got beautiful tits.’

  Lewis gave his minimal signal again but this time I was ready. My towel was sodden with sweat and steam and I came up off the bench with it in my hand and whipped it into Stivens’ eyes. It hit hard and he yelled and doubled up, clawing at his face. I slid off the bench and brought my knee up under his chin. Something gave, not enough. He roared and came at me but, half-blinded, he was easy meat. I head-butted him solidly on his wide, fleshy nose and he sagged again. You don’t get many chances like that. As he was off balance and shaky I delivered a powerhouse right to his ear. It’s the sort of punch that protects your knuckle and causes a lot of pain. Stivens went down heavily, bleeding from the nose and his mashed ear. He wasn’t unconscious but all the fight had gone out of him. I kicked him lightly in the ribs. ‘You stay right there, Mr Stivens. If I see you again you can say goodbye to your teeth.’

  I recovered my towel, wrapped it around me and gestured to Lewis, who hadn’t moved a muscle. ‘You come with me unless you’d like some of the same.’

  Mustering what dignity a pale, skinny, potbellied, balding man can with only a towel for covering, he went through the open door to the pool area. The lovebirds were still at it. I shepherded him through to the changing room and pushed him down onto a seat.

  ‘Touch me and I’ll charge you with assault.’

  ‘No you won’t. Your kind doesn’t do business in courts, you like to use muscle.’

  ‘I think I made a mistake.’

  ‘You did and he did and he got hurt. He was over-confident. But you’re not.’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. You know, Lewis, I’m not really interested in your operation, not at this stage at least, but I do have an interest in Mrs Price and you don’t need to know why. How did she get involved with your escort agency?’

  He folded his arms across his skinny chest. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘No?’ Like me, he had the key to his locker pinned to his towel. I yanked it free, checked the number and opened the locker. Lewis made a move as if to get to the door but I stopped him with a look. I opened the locker and there was a smart suit, shirt and tie, shoes and socks all hanging nicely. I reached inside the breast pocket of the jacket and took out a thick wallet and a small notebook.

  A note of panic entered his voice. ‘What’re you doing? Leave that alone. Take the money, but …’

  ‘I don’t want your money. I don’t even want your dirty little secrets. I want the answer to the question I asked you.’

  He thought about it and while he did I started pulling cards and bits of paper out of the wallet and dropping them on the floor. One of the cards had a familiar look and feel and I glanced at it before dropping it—Dr Ephraim Cross. Lewis still didn’t speak so I tore a page from the notebook, crumpled it and flicked it towards him. ‘The next one I tear out I’m going to make you eat for ruining my sauna.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Mrs Price came to us through one of our personnel.’

  ‘Name?’

  He sucked in a deep, wheezy breath and looked at the door as if hoping Stivens would burst in and save him. He knew it wasn’t going to happen though, and he reached out a shaky hand for the notebook. ‘Jason Jorgensen,’ he said.

  11

  ‘Pick up your stuff!’

  Lewis started to gather up his things as I opened my locker and got dressed. I took my time about it and that increased his distress as I’d intended. Everything had gone wrong for him and he wasn’t used to it.

  When I was ready I pointed a finger at him. ‘You knew where to find me, but I know where to find you. I don’t think either of us wants to meet up again, do you?’

  Lewis shook his head and I took a wire coat-hanger from my locker and twisted it into something nasty in case Stivens was outside the door. He wasn’t and I was surprised. I thought he’d have a bit more go in him, but you can never tell. The spa room was empty and I opened the door to the sauna. Stivens was sitting on the top bench. He’d mopped up the blood and was getting the benefit of the steam.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Mr Lewis and I talked things over. You can leave now.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  No marks for originality. I let the door swing back and walked out, thinking that the tough guys didn’t seem to be as tough anymore. In the old days men like Rhino Jackson and ‘Haitch’ Henderson went all the way and it’d take a bullet or a lead pipe to stop them. The modern heavies seemed to know when to call a halt
. Maybe there’s a TAFE course on it.

  The rain had stopped but it was dark now and I exercised some caution in the parking lot. It’s always possible that the muscle you meet and deal with isn’t the only muscle around. But all was quiet. At a guess the gunmetal Saab parked a few spaces from my car was Lewis’s and I was tempted to do some work with my Swiss Army Knife on the tyres. But there was no way to be sure. From habit I made a mental note of the number. I put the twisted coat-hanger on the bonnet; if I was wrong about the car, no harm done, if I was right—message delivered. I was well ahead of Lewis and Stivens on points anyway, and it was definitely time for a drink.

  I had one small glass of red with a plate of spaghetti in Leichhardt. Over the meal I pondered why the beautiful Sammy had needed to employ professional escorts and whether she’d had her first encounter with Jason in that capacity or as a poacher of Danni’s boyfriend. Maybe she just had a taste for commercial sex. Emotion-free, producing fewer lines and wrinkles. Maybe the escorts were good drug contacts. I bought a bottle of champagne for three times the price I was used to paying in case I needed an entry prop and then headed for Strathfield. The rain stopped and started and a blustery wind added to the discomfort and danger of driving. It was a night for any sensible person to stay at home, but I was hoping that the woman in the high-security house in Henry Street hadn’t called off her Wednesday night parties.

  No worries. When I drew up outside the house the lights, the music and hum of voices and the fact that there was nowhere close by to park told me that there was a party going on. I parked on the other side of the street fifty metres away and watched while a taxi dropped a passenger. She was neither young nor old, fat or thin and she was dressed to the nines in a stylish frock and an elegant jacket that shimmered under the streetlight. I watched her go up the path and step inside. Open house, and not BYO.

  Although I was never a Boy Scout I try to be prepared. I keep a tie, a jacket and an electric shaver in the boot of the car in case I have to tog up. I put the jacket on and tied the tie, taking three goes to do it as it’s something I don’t do that often. I customarily shave with a blade on account of my heavy beard, but I ploughed away with the shaver and got the stubble down to a sandpapery smoothness. A red Porsche sports car pulled up a bit ahead of me and a woman got out and activated the automatic locking. She was tall and slim to the point of gauntness and had silver hair flowing to her shoulders. Black velvet pants suit, high heels, white silk scarf. She crossed the road and headed for the house and I followed her, just far enough back not to be annoying but close enough to surf in on her stylish wake.

  That’s how it happened. She went through the open doorway and I followed her into a well-lit passage that led to a big double room on the right. Party room. The music was Van Morrison down low, like the lights. There must have been about sixty people there and a preponderance of females. A waiter in dress shirt and bow tie cruised up with a tray of glasses and Silver Hair and I took one simultaneously. She noticed me for the first time and I smiled, confident now that I was in and had a glass in hand.

  The dim light must’ve helped because she returned the smile. ‘Tanya Scott.’

  I lifted the glass in a restrained salute. ‘Cliff Hardy.’

  ‘Available?’

  ‘Could be.’

  She reached into the little bag hanging from her bony shoulder, took out a silver cigarette case and extracted a smoke. ‘Don’t play too hard to get, Cliff. You’re longish in the tooth for this gathering.’

  I watched her flick a flame up from a lighter attached to the cigarette case. It all felt a bit Charles Boyer or even older, but she did it with style. I drank some of the champagne—very dry and cold and good, and looked around the room. She was right most of the women were around my age, plus or minus, but the men were decidedly younger, and definitely better looking.

  Tanya Scott blew some smoke over my head, not hard for her to do because in those heels she was as tall as me or taller. ‘Take a look around and see if you can come up with something better. I doubt if you can.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but I have to be polite. Where’s our hostess?’

  She pointed with the cigarette extended in slender fingers with long, silver-painted nails. ‘Over there, but forget it. She’s given up sex.’

  Of course I wasn’t looking for the lady of the house in order to meet her but to avoid her. In that crowd and smoky atmosphere it wasn’t hard to do. I moved across and stood in the archway between the two rooms and looked around. I don’t go to many parties and even fewer now than in days gone by, but I know that they’re all different. Some go with a bang from the first cork pulled or can cracked; some take a while to warm up and some just lie down and die. This one was curious. The people seemed not to know each other but to be keen to rub along. The women were cruising the men and some were getting attached and some were staying loose. Some of the women seemed more interested in other women than the men which evened the ratio up a bit. I got a few glances and smiles but I was way too rough to be high on anyone’s list.

  I was an odd man out and it would only be a matter of time before I was brought to the attention of the hostess. I lifted another glass of bubbly and wondered if Silver Hair would give me the drum on what the gathering was all about, although by now I had a pretty fair idea. I looked across to where I’d left her but I’d missed my chance—she was deep in conversation with a tall, blond classical profile in an Italian suit.

  I sidled past people, ducking and weaving with my glass, and when I was sure no one was watching and there were no waiters about, I scuttled down a passage past the kitchen where three or four Asian women were working towards the back of the house. The place was a lot bigger than it looked from the front. The block sloped severely and the house was on two levels at the back. There was a sitting room and three smaller rooms on both levels, plus bathrooms top and bottom. I did a quick recce: double beds in each of the rooms. I flicked on a light and went into one—TV and VCR with raunchy videos lined up ready to roll; condoms, lubricant and three sizes of vibrator in a drawer.

  I pushed open a door and stepped out into the subtly lit back garden: tall trees around the edges, a few shrubs and a little grass, but most of the space was taken up by a twelve metre pool and a number of cabanas built close around it. The joint could sleep two dozen people easy, or not sleep.

  I walked down the terracotta path, skirted the pool and looked into one of the cabins. Very cosy. Light rain began to dapple the surface of the pool and I dashed back under cover. The door to the house swung open.

  ‘Just exactly what d’you think you’re doing?’

  It was her, glass in hand, teased up hair, red dress and stoked. I moved towards her, twiddling my glass in my hand. ‘Nice party,’ I said. ‘Think I’ll get a refill.’

  ‘You will not! You’ll leave immediately. Good God, you’re the man …’

  ‘That’s right, I’m the man who came looking for Ramsay Hewitt, and you’re the woman who lied to me about not knowing him.’

  ‘You’re trespassing and being offensive. I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Will you? I wonder what they’ll say about the set-up here? All these fuck rooms?’

  ‘You’re revolting.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be. I’m open minded. It’s your business but it sure looks like a business and that could be your problem, Mrs …?’

  She took a gulp from her glass and I wished mine wasn’t empty. It was an edgy kind of stand-off for us both. In the dim light she came across as an attractive woman and if Tom Bolitho was right about her age and the surgical intervention, she’d done the right thing. Maybe she noticed and appreciated my evaluation, because she abruptly changed her manner and tone of voice.

  ‘I’m Prue Bonham.’

  ‘Cliff Hardy. And I’m still looking for Ramsay Hewitt.’

  ‘I can see I was hasty and underestimated you, Mr Hardy. I do know Ramsay of course. I know him quite well.’

  ‘If yo
u can tell me where to find him I’ll be on my way.’

  She drew in a deep breath and her breasts rose impressively under the red silk of her dress. But somehow I knew it wasn’t for me. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said. ‘Come back in and have that drink. Have a couple. I think you’ve cottoned on to what happens here. The numbers’ll be down to next to nothing in a couple of hours and we can talk.’

  ‘And what will we talk about, Mrs Bonham?’

  ‘We’ll talk about love and life, life and love. They should interest a man in your occupation. And after that I’ll talk about Ramsay.’

  Occupation, I liked that. By not saying profession she kept an edge. Suddenly, I liked her a lot. ‘Is there any Scotch?’ I said.

  For the next few hours I nursed a couple of Scotches with water while couples paired off and adjourned to the bedrooms and cabins out the back. Prue Bonham circulated, kept conversations going, made sure the food and drink kept coming. Towards the end Silver Hair, whose name I’d immediately forgotten, approached me again.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m otherwise engaged.’

  She puffed smoke. ‘Not my night. Don’t tell me you’ve scored with the chatelaine?’

  ‘We’ve got business to discuss.’

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t think you were up for grabs. Well, goodnight.’