by Peter Corris
I read until loss of concentration told me it was time to stop. Just for that moment I was back in the Sydney of nearly a hundred years ago when the men wore waistcoats in summer, the papers called Johnson a ‘nigger’ and Hugh D ‘Huge Deal’ McIntosh, the promoter and referee of the fight, carried a pistol. A different world and not a better one.
I put the book on the stairs and carried the wine glass out to the sink. I rinsed it and moved away to put it on the draining board. The glass in the louvred window shattered and I was sprayed with fragments which mostly caught me on the side of the head and high up. I dropped to the floor with the glass still in my hand in case there was another shot and felt blood dripping into my ear. I stayed down and watched the blood drip onto the lino. The thought came into my shocked and tired brain that louvred windows and linoleum dated back to the time of the Burns-Johnson fight.
16
My house is overlooked at the back by a tall block of flats and that’s where the shot must have come from. By the time I felt ready to stand up he would have been well away. I mopped at my head with the dishcloth, not a hygienic practice but the glass hadn’t hit me anywhere vital. I was cut in several places on the ear and higher up but my hair had taken the brunt of it. Thank you Grandad. At a guess the bullet must have struck in those couple of centimetres where a set of louvres overlapped and been deflected. With the kitchen well lit and me standing relatively still at the sink in front of the window I would’ve made a good target. I couldn’t say how many times people had told me to get the daggy louvres replaced and I’d resisted, more out of inertia than aesthetics. One up to inertia.
The surge of adrenaline that the near miss had pumped through me started to ebb away almost immediately, leaving me drained and spent. I’d been shot at before, hit before, but not by a sniper in quite that clinical way. More than once my ex-wife Cyn had said, I wish you were dead. Well, now there was someone out there prepared to grant her wish. Except that she was dead. I wasn’t thinking straight. How prepared was I for such things? For a man in my business, my security alarm system is lousy, apt to be short-circuited by cockroaches, but I set it and checked the doors and windows.
I showered and used a caustic stick, something we blade shavers still have on hand, to deal with the cuts on my ear. I dumped my bloodied shirt in the wash, knocked back a stiff brandy and went to bed with my Smith & Wesson for company.
I slept in fits and starts, waking up to all the small noises an old, poorly maintained house is prone to. I got up as soon as there was light in the sky, made coffee and settled down to think about what had happened in the cool calm of day. Was it a professional shot? Hard to say. The distance wasn’t great and the target would have been clearly illuminated. I could probably have made the shot myself when I was younger using a good rifle fitted with a decent telescopic sight. Again, it could have been no more than a warning. It was hard to tell where the bullet had hit exactly or what calibre it might have been. I’d be lucky to find the slug among all the weeds in the backyard. The big question was, who would want to kill me or warn me so dramatically?
I drank two cups of coffee and warmed up some of the Lebanese in the bachelor’s friend, a newly acquired microwave. Strange breakfast for a strange morning. There was a howling wind outside and I had to hope the piece of galvanised iron I could hear flapping wasn’t on my roof. I’d been in the private enquiry game for more than twenty years and had made my share of enemies, some of them hard men. But the only ones I could think of who’d take such a drastic step were either too old, too dead or in gaol. Conclusion, the hit attempt or warning had to be connected with a current case. Apart from trying to find out about Ramsay Hewitt and keeping Danni Price safe from the arms of the law, my only other cases were minor matters. Nothing heavy.
By the time I’d mulled these things over, shaved and made sure none of my cuts were bleeding, it was 8.30. I rang Viv Garner, caught him as he was about to leave, and asked him to put in his call at about the time I was due at Hurstville.
‘Might have to be a bit later,’ he said. ‘I’m in a meeting just then.’
‘Later’s okay,’ I said. ‘Later’s better. Further up their noses.’
‘You’re feisty but I haven’t got the time to ask why. Will do, Cliff. Call if you need me.’
He was right. I felt pro-active as they say, whatever that means. I rang my Telstra contact, negotiated a fee to be paid into his TAB account, and got an address for the Larson twins in Hunters Hill. I was through being discreet. This thing had become very personal and I was going to talk to Danni Price and not necessarily in a soft voice. I rang Martin Price and he came on the line speaking slowly, the way you do when your head is throbbing with a hangover and every limb and digit feels heavy.
‘Mr Price, this is Hardy. I’ve got an address for the Larson girls and I’m going over there to see if Danni’s around or they know where she is. I take it she hasn’t come home?’
‘No. No. The police just called. They want me to make a statement about Sammy and everything. Cathy’s advised me to make the statement. She’s going in with me.’
‘Right. Does she know anything about all this? About Danni and the drugs? About Junie?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Is she good?’
‘Very.’
‘Experienced?’
‘Yes.’
If she is, I thought, she won’t let you say anything much, especially if they ask about me. ‘Be guided by her. I’ll be in touch.’
He sounded almost panicked. ‘What’re you going to say to Danni?’
I gave him back his own medicine. ‘I don’t know,’ I said and rang off.
Hunters Hill was considered a dangerous place in the old days, what with the insane asylum and the convict barracks on Cockatoo Island nearby. Not anymore. Just about the whole of the district is classified by the National Trust and I’d have to sell my house to buy a unit there. The address I’d been given was close to Kellys Bush, the bit of native bush that residents and the Builders Labourers managed to save from developers in the ’70s. Nice area. I pulled up outside a sandstone squatter’s city mansion that had been divided up into flats. Enough of the land the mansion had originally occupied was left to provide undercover parking space for a dozen cars and room in the open for visitors. I drove in and parked about a metre and a half away from Danni’s sporty Honda.
The squatter would have had servants and dogs for protection, now there was a state-of-the-art security door and intercom system installed inside a tiled entrance with leadlight windows. I buzzed the flat number I’d been given and a female voice answered.
‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘Ms Larson?’
‘Who is it?’
‘My name’s Hardy. I’m a private detective working for Danni Price’s father.’
‘You’re joking. A private detective?’
‘That’s right. I want to speak to her, please.’
‘What makes you think she’s here?’
‘Her car’s here.’
The intercom cut out and I swore and buzzed again.
‘This is Danni Price. What d’you want?’
‘I want to stop having to press this buzzer. Then I want to come inside and talk to you fast.’
‘Why?’
‘Listen, I know about Jason and your stepmother. I know about your father’s mistress. He’s making a statement to the police right now. He wants to help you.’
‘I don’t need help.’
‘I wish I could say that. I think you do, Danni. You’re probably going to have to talk to the police, but it’d be better if you talked to me first.’
‘No. Go away.’
‘Okay, better get yourself ready to be charged with conspiracy to murder your stepmother.’ I left the entrance and walked back to the cars. The wind hadn’t let up and there was a bit of an edge to it that made the cuts on my head sting. I opened the car, dug an old poplin jacket out of the mess and put it on. The zipper was stuc
k but the extra layer was welcome.
Danni came out a few minutes later. She was wearing the same clothes as yesterday—tank top, jeans and sneakers—and she shrugged into a denim jacket as she walked towards me. She was taller than I’d thought from seeing her mostly from a distance or sitting, and bore a strong resemblance to her father. She stopped a metre away and looked me over.
‘I saw you yesterday. At the pub.’
‘I followed you. Doing my job.’
‘Shit. Show me some ID.’
I did and she examined it closely before handing it back.
‘Can we go inside or sit in my car?’ I said, ‘It’s blowy out here.’
She shrugged and I opened the passenger door of the Falcon. She climbed in and I went around and got in behind the wheel.
‘Okay, Mr Fucking Detective, what’s this shit about me murdering Cunt-face?’
I told her that I had learned from her father that Jason had told him Danni had been supplying drugs to her stepmother and that the police were investigating drug dealing in the Georges River area. Now her stepmother was dead of a drug overdose, there were suspicious circumstances and the police were likely to question her closely.
She listened and unless she was a brilliant actress her growing expression of disbelief was entirely convincing.
‘Fuck me,’ she said. ‘Jason told Dad that and he believed him?’
‘So your father says.’
She shook her head and raked her fingers through her dark hair. ‘That’s crap. Jason must’ve been nuts to say a thing like that. I’ve never given cunt … Samantha any drugs. I would’ve had to breathe the same air as her to do that and I fucking wouldn’t.’
‘Why would Jason lie?’
‘Lots of reasons. You said you know some things about him and her. You work it out. This is such shit. Why’s Dad got you on the job?’
‘The original idea was to find out who was pushing drugs down your way including to your friend in the coma and use that as a lever to get you a break. Now he’s thinking to get you out of the country.’
She laughed and took a packet of cigarettes out of the pocket of the jacket. She put one in her mouth and leaned forward to use the lighter.
‘It doesn’t work.’
‘Shit. Have you got a light?’
‘No. I understand all about kids not liking replacement parents and if your … Samantha took Jason away from you I can see why you’d hate her. But your attitude seems a bit stronger than that. The woman’s dead and you celebrated the fact when your father told you. I saw it.’
She fumbled in the pockets of her jacket and came up with a lint-covered, scratched, disposable lighter. She wiped it on her sleeve and flicked it at least ten times until it worked and she got the cigarette alight. She wound the window down an inch or two and blew the smoke out. Manners. ‘I’ve got reasons, don’t you worry. You don’t know much at all. There’s no one in a coma.’
‘I know your father’s worried.’
‘Let him worry, the prick. Let little fucking A-cup Junie take care of him. They can do it at home now instead of in the office.’
I was getting out of my depth. She seemed to hate everybody, lucky there was no family dog. She smoked and stared through the windscreen at the trees being lashed violently around by the wind as if that was quite all right by her.
‘Look, Danni,’ I said. ‘Put your feelings about Samantha and Junie and your father aside. Two people are dead. Jason was murdered and Samantha might have been. Do you know anything …?’
‘What do you care? You’re just a fucking minder, aren’t you? A glorified bodyguard.’
I lost it a bit then. I grabbed her shoulder and turned her towards me. I poked at my ear a little too hard and felt the blood start to trickle. ‘See this? I got shot at last night at my house. And it has to be because of you and Jason and Sammy and your father and the whole fucking mess I’ve got involved in. This is personal for me now.’
The violence of my action and the blood had some effect on her. The hard shell fell away and she was a kid again and looking all the younger for smoking a cigarette. She stared at me and her lower lip trembled.
‘You got shot?’
‘No, not really. The bullet missed. Glass cut me. But if you know anything about what’s been happening you should tell me now. Let me help.’
She recovered fast. ‘Yeah, so Dad can get me out of the country and fucking Interpol can come after me.’
‘I agree with you. That’s not a good idea. But there’s someone very dangerous out there. Do you know who pushes drugs in a big way in your part of the world?’
She shook her head.
‘Or why anyone’d want to kill Jason and Samantha?’
‘No. Except me.’
I reached in front of her to the glove box and got a tissue to blot up the blood. She took a last drag and dropped the cigarette out the window.
‘Well, we can rule you out for Samantha. I was watching you all morning.’
She nodded. ‘Will the cops search the house?’
‘I suspect so. Why?’
‘They’ll find my stash.’
‘Of?’
‘Just dope. Look, I reckon Samantha’s been using drugs for years. All those models do to stay thin. She probably just got hold of a bad batch. Just dumb luck.’
‘What about Jason?’
She shrugged, took another cigarette and tried to light it but the lighter wouldn’t work. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know about Jase anymore. I didn’t like some of the things he was getting into. Then, once he started fucking her I didn’t give a shit about him.’
Is that why you keep his picture there? I thought.
She fiddled with the cigarette and then crushed it in her hand. ‘Is that it, then?’
‘You should go home. See your father and talk to the police.’
‘Fuck you and him and them.’ She jerked open the door and ran for the house, moving like a sprinter. I couldn’t have caught her even if I’d had a reason to.
17
I considered going over to Hurstville and making a complete statement to the police and getting shot of the whole thing. Something held me back. Professional pride? I don’t think so. Possibly it was something about Danni, who seemed different from the image I’d had from talking to Price and Samantha about her. When I’d said she needed help I meant it, but what kind of help I wasn’t sure. Something. But it was probably mostly to do with someone having shot at me. Couldn’t have that. I had to know who and why and had to do something about it. Anyway, the police’d catch up with me sooner or later. Stankowski and Hammond didn’t look lazy or like quitters.
I’d watched my back very closely on the drive to Hunters Hill and I watched it again as I made my way to Concord to call on Ramsay Hewitt’s sugar momma. I hadn’t had the go-ahead from Tess but I was pretty sure she’d give it eventually. Her attachment to Ramsay was too strong for her to leave things dangling. I was curious myself, and a bit of driving around would give me time to think more about the Price matter while hanging myself out as a target, although an alert one. But I was increasingly coming to think of last night’s shot as a warning. Anyone seriously trying to kill me would have had plenty of easier opportunities than at night through a window. In a way it raised a more interesting set of questions: warn me off what, and why?
Concord was flat and leafy—as I remembered it from when I first met Tess there and we went through a few hoops together. I pulled up outside the address I’d got out of the phonebook—a California-style bungalow on a quarter acre block with a deep front garden. Shrubs, grass and a huge ghost gum with thick branches that would brain you if they fell and you happened to be underneath. I didn’t expect to see Ramsay’s flash Merc parked in the driveway and I didn’t. The wind was still blowing hard and a couple of plastic bags and soft drink cans bowled down the street. Otherwise it was quiet and still with only the occasional car cruising by. I hadn’t been followed from Hunters Hill. I watched the p
ostman arrive on his motor scooter. Nothing for the place I was watching.
The private detective business, whether you’re looking for people or serving subpoenas or body-guarding, is basically a matter of making house calls. Some turn out to be profitable and pleasant, others not. But it becomes a habit and having found a place where someone I was looking for was alleged to be I was incapable of just driving off. A few questions to Regina Kipps would surely be in order.
Most of the houses on the street had no fences and no front gates and Mrs Kipps’ house was one of these—a testimony to the safety and security of suburban Australia until very recently. I examined myself in the rear-vision mirror and picked away the pieces of tissue that had clung to the cuts. The bleeding didn’t start again and there was no blood on my shirt. I went up the cement drive that led to a garage and branched off on another similar path leading to the front porch. The paths were painted green with raised edges picked out in red but the paint had faded badly, and if Ramsay was living here he certainly wasn’t spending any time weeding the garden beds or pruning the shrubs.
I rang the bell and got out my credentials, quite unsure of what I was going to say. In any case, it’s not always a good idea to map it out beforehand because you might have to adjust to the unexpected. After a short wait I heard footsteps approaching and the door opened, leaving a good strong security screen door between me and the woman inside. It’s odd looking at someone through metal mesh. It’s almost as if they’re wrapped in armour and the mesh stops you seeing certain bits. The woman was medium height and, while not fat, she was certainly well-covered. She was in her fifties at a guess with a pale, slightly puffy face. She wore her fair hair in a style too young for her, although, in a silk blouse with the top buttons undone showing a deep cleavage and a bit of black lace, and a short skirt, she was doing her best.
