by Philip Bond
It’s Personal
Philip Bond
Austin Macauley Publishers
It’s Personal
About the Author
About the Book
Dedication
Copyright © Philip Bond (2019)
Acknowledgement
Looking Under the Rock
Too Close for Comfort
What’s a Nice Girl like You Doing in a Place like This?
Hello, I Am Harry Reisner
Hey, That’s What’s His Name
Phillip, I’m Taking a Job in Canberra
The Election Caravan
Another Day, Another Misdemeanour
Jackpot
Showdown
One Last Shot
Straight to the Top
It’s Show Time, Folks
Things Turn Nasty
Safe and Sound
Snakes Are Moving
Escape Plan Activated
Legal Advice
Sudden Impact
Replace the Divots
Repercussions
Reunion
An Unofficial Assignment
Déjà Vu
He’s Here, Where?
Live in Three, Two
Role Reversals; Pursuing the Evidence
The Journalist Emerges
The Report
It’s Not Business Harry, It’s Personal
Germans Bust Sex-Smuggling Ring
About the Author
Not yet the septuagenarian but he is a father, was a husband and always the lover of words. He’s not here for awards but only to take his reader into another place of his creation. Journey with him now and, should you wish, those that follow.
About the Book
Tenacious and methodical in pursuing a story, Harry’s a dismal failure in choosing the ‘right’ man until trailing the scent of corruption leads her to a life-threatening yet fortuitous encounter.
A kidnap and murder attempt don’t dissuade her from doggedly pursuing the culpable, even into war zones.
Harry’s rule: nothing’s over until she says it is
Dedication
To Suzy.
Copyright © Philip Bond (2019)
The right of Philip Bond to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528912921 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528912938 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528960311 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
To those who appear later in life offering encouragement,
I offer my gratitude.
Looking Under the Rock
“Rolling,” calling… “Sound okay?”
“I’m good.” Rick also is ready to rock and roll.
Cues Harry into action… “Mister Watford, why does this plant have a greater accident rate than similar facilities on the south coast?”
The Hunter region emerges into prominence when Lieutenant Shortland, in the late 1700s, discovers its rich, expansive coal reserves, mined to transit through the Port of Newcastle. Today, globalisation influences world economies, shifting production to less costly countries heralding steel production in this region close to extinction.
Geoff tightens capturing Watford’s facial expression. “I suggest you improve your research, Ms Reisner, we have an envious safety record!”
Etiquette forbids the retort, ‘bullshit’.
“How do you explain safety record variations between you and similar plants in other parts of the country?” Typical Harry; bite the throat and hold.
“I’ve no interest in comparisons, Ms Reisner, I’ll leave that for a journalist justifying this time wasting to an editor.”
Condescendingly annoying. “Not much of a response, Mister Watford, care to expand?”
“Our workers, shareholders and this community will disagree with you, and at the end of the day, they alone matter.”
Bad choice… “Mister Watford,” Harry monsters him. “This plant opens eighty years ago with migrant labour; only in recent years does the accident rate balloon. How do you explain that?”
“Let’s be realistic here,” shifting position… “We’re operating in a global economy, I’m sure you’re aware, it’s been in all the news media for at least this last fiscal year. You do read the papers?” His body language betrays unease.
“Mister Watford.”
“Let me finish, please. We’re forced to compete, and in order to do that successfully, we must reduce costs,”
“Mister Watford,” she edits.
“Wait until I finish please,” interjection thwarted… “The 457 visa scheme is available to us and we employ its value reducing our costs to remain competitive. Need I remind you, the alternative is to shut down and move production.”
She’s not having any of that. “Then, how can you justify the lay-offs occurring now?”
Jostling for advantage… “Times change; we operate in depressed markets.” Watford offers the pointed comment. “Even your network reports this or don’t you watch your news?”
“Interesting observation.” Extremely competitive and equal to his jousting, she rallies, “But you ignore previous difficult markets, Mister Watford. Is it not normal policy for last-in first-out during lay-offs?”
“Ahh yes,” he’s back to baseline… “That is company policy.”
“Who administers company policy?” Touché!
“Umm,” hesitating, he massages his manicured facial hair… “Management, Human Resources and…”
She jumps… “You are the Human and Industrial Relations Director, are you not?”
Calmly… “You already know this.”
Seeing checkmate looming, she jumps… “So, you administer the policy?”
The sweet scent of victory is in the air.
“We always pride ourselves in having the best people. In difficult circumstances, some have to leave us and those chosen to stay are, in our opinion, the best.”
“The best yes, but the issue grows, Mister Watford?”
“Umm,” he blinks… “It’s a shift change now.” Adjusting sound, Rick wants the siren backing the vision… “I must oversee the worker’s departure. You will… You will have to excuse me, thank you.” He’s panicking… “You can leave now.”
Harry’s rules—nothing is over until she says it is… “There seems to be a relationship, Mister Watford, between drugs and your accidents.”
“Tacky even for you, Ms Reisner.” Daryle rises to his full 185 cm, adjusts his clothing before walking to and opening his office door.
It ends abruptly with no time for nods and winks. Harry Rick and Geoff gather their equipment to leave.
As if sounding the start of a marathon, the loudest horn blast heralds employees slowly exiting the Bar-Mill Front End building, rising to a human tsunami.
Once free of the television crew, Daryle picks up the telephone and dials.
Reasons why people do things are not always apparent. Why an intelligent man as Daryle Wa
tford becomes entangled in the political imbroglio is bewildering, however the reality. Time for some reassurance from his nemesis. He dials, the other end rings twice.
The voice answers. “Neate!”
“Graeme?”
He knows the voice, however, decides upon, “Speaking.”
“Umm, that television reporter was umm, was here and just left. I have concerns.”
“I’ve seen her reports,” the voice is casual. “She’s a dog with a bone.” It’s difficult to fathom his moods. “So, what are you saying; help me out, again?”
“I just wanted you to know this happened, that’s all.”
“Okay, forget her, I’ll remedy the situation. Now you’ve phoned at the right time, spoken to your gallery director ‘friend’?” There’s distinct sarcasm lacing his voice.
“Ahh yes,” sensitivities prevail. “Ahh, we’re meeting in a few days to review details.”
“Good,” this time he doesn’t employ ridicule. “Make sure you have a good time together.”
Unpalatable as this may be, Daryle can’t let the obvious pass. “You agreed, once our part is completed, my slate is cleared, and we end all this?”
“Of course, it’s what we agreed.” Then, with unusual contrition. “Don’t be concerned over that reporter; I’ll make sure it ends today.”
There’s no mistake about intent, Daryle’s aware of previous situations where a remedy is applied, much to the detriment of the hapless recipients. He knows only too well this Sword of Damocles will never disappear until…
Sitting quietly, regaining composure, again he picks up the telephone, this time dialling a Sydney number.
Two bursts of ring tone, then a voice comes across the line… “Isadora Wetherill’s telephone?”
“Muriel, it’s Daryle, she in?”
“Sure is; hold on, I’ll put you through.”
Seconds tick until… “Daryle, I’m just aching to see you, any possibility of coming down earlier?”
“I wish, I’m inundated here. Having one hell of a day and need to hear your voice.”
Looking at the framed photo on her desk… "What’s wrong?
“Well, earlier, the reporter Harry, Harry Reisner, was in my office, asking questions. She rattles me.”
“Listen, don’t worry; our plan will work, you’ll see then, you’ll come and live with me and to hell with everyone.”
“Isadora, I miss you, I can’t leave now.” There’s pleading in his voice… “We need to finish it, conclusively.”
“Daryle, I’ve made the plans as we discussed. When you come to Sydney, we’ll go out for dinner at that nice little Italian place you like over in the North Shore.”
“I hope it works, it has to work, and yes when it’s over, then I will take my place by your side. To hell with everyone and everything else.”
“I love you so much, Daryle; you know I’ll look after you.”
“Yes, I know. Let us get through this, I’d better go, it makes me so happy just to talk to you, yet sad I can’t be with you. I’ll just say, I love you and miss you and hope to see you soon.”
“I will make you happy.” Concern mounts for her lover… “I love you, Daryle. Bye.”
*
“You know,” pondering aloud, “what’s happening here, happens everywhere.” It’s a growing phenomenon. “Why do they keep the newcomers to sack the experience?” Even the media isn’t immune from downsizing; in recent months’ redundancies, plus not replacing leaving staff follows diluting advertising revenue as the internet bites.
“It happens in television all the time,” Geoff holds the more circumspect view. “They call it generational change.”
The comment kills further conversation, yet their minds flick through those names that are no longer in front of or behind the lights.
The world and good journalists don’t stop. She prioritises moving to the next item: grabbing her cellphone.
“Hello?” He was dozing.
“Glen, it’s Harry Reisner, confirming our appointment for tomorrow morning?”
Research questioning and attention to detail unearths several worthy sources to propel and cross-reference the story. One such source is Glen Champion… “Oh hi, ahh yeah, that’s okay. You have the address.” In hanging up and if nothing else, he’s economical with words.
Opening a can of beer, he picks up the well-thumbed Penthouse magazine. As usual, the images sprout urges remembering the cute young barmaid in the see-through top. He consumes the last can, no matter, the hotel is only twenty minutes away… “Yeah, good idea, why not.”
*
Time passes; Champion’s abilities decline. Squinting at the wall clock, it’s something past ten. He rises from the barstool, walks towards the stained-glass doors, past the booths crammed with people, onto the warm street.
Stumbling the road to the place where the prostitutes wait, the urge hardens.
Magazines filled with photographs of nubile things are okay, however, reality beats fantasy. No self-stimulation tonight; he has money for the real thing.
Selection’s limited to one. A lived-in ‘thirtyish’ redhead, whose body bears little resemblance to the magazine images and looks more like a mum who should be home with the kids.
Urge dictates concessions.
Rosa takes Champion up a long staircase to a plain door. Her workshop’s predominant items are the bed, a small side-table and a narrow wooden wardrobe. A nailed-up sheet covers one window. Lighting consists of a single exposed globe hanging from the middle of the ceiling plus a small lamp on the side table.
Champion’s first into the room. Rosa closes the door and turns off the glaring overhead light. Now the room takes on a different hue, almost, almost, seductive by comparison. With the financials complete, Rosa slowly and seductively starts to undress, attempting to stimulate the customer.
In removing his clothing, success reveals.
With most clients, Rosa is on top, however, tonight is different; the customer assumes dominance.
Champion thrusts his pelvis as a crankshaft moves a piston.
Visions of the cute barmaid and the young nubile things from his magazines replace Rosa’s face.
The gorgeous brunette on page fifteen, the honey blonde on page sixty-five: he sees the blonde hair washing across the pillow, the beautiful neck so tender, soft to touch, hold and squeeze. Champion continues thrusting, seeing the blonde hair, the beautiful neck so tender soft, silky to touch, hold and squeeze. Her mouth and lips, the cute dimples when she smiles, the tender soft neck, so beautiful to touch, hold and squeeze.
Stimulated by a dull stinging sensation, sensual, almost surreal, Champion’s thrusts increase as ecstasy mounts, engulfing his sensations. His body tenses with muscles constricting.
He climaxes; testosterone floods his brain… “Aggh!”
In the ensuing seconds, all muscles relax. His body goes limp as if his bones liquefy.
Her body, with a beautiful neck so tender, soft to touch and squeeze. Noticeable contusions develop under his hands. In removing the other hand, his back stings with pain. Rosa’s eyes bulge lifelessly. Her mouth gapes, as she lays motionless with her fingernails still embedded in his skin.
Rosa lays still and lifeless.
He rolls the body over onto her stomach, realising something’s amiss.
She isn’t breathing, that much he fathoms.
Reality hits.
Must leave now! Dressing while stumbling for the backdoor.
Looking up, then down the lane, no one’s around, so he’s off.
He kicks a littering beer can. Darkness hides a street kid, sleeping rough in the lane opposite. Sleep doesn’t come easy for the youngster; every noise alerts his brain into wakefulness. In pulling up the barraged rug, a gift from an aspiring group dedicated to getting youth off the streets… “Huh, another shithead trying not to be seen leaving the girls.”
Champion steals away into the night and hopefully, anonymity.
The
walk is brisk.
The clock in his apartment… “That television reporter’s here this morning, better clean up and rest.”
Despite a stinging back, he showers, erupting in pain—a reminder of Rosa’s fingernails.
Sleep does come easy, despite the loss of his Credit Union card; nothing will keep him awake.
*
The sun is hot.
There’re only a few seagulls on beach patrol; the rising surf signals a changing tide. The waiter arrives with a large glass of orange liquid with a pineapple wedge and ice cubes jingling inside. Sipping her cool drink, she looks down to see the body of her Greek God emerge from the waves with his matted wet hair, broad shoulders narrowing into a slender waist. The cellphone rings.
Struggling… “Hello?” Reality replaces the dream.
“Harry?”
“Yes, who’s this?” Her clock shows 02:11.
“It’s me, Peter Redman. There’s been a murder,” his voice conveys animation. “A prostitute, interested?”
“The murder of a prostitute, okay, we’ll cover it,” rummaging for pen and paper… “Give me the details?”
He dictates. “Got that?” She writes. “Yes, thanks for the tip.”
“Can’t talk now; got to go.” Fortunately, he’s brief. “We’ll talk later?” Maybe, only if there is something for exchange.
A story’s a story; in the big wide world of television news, vision is king. Time to rally the troops… “Geoff, downstairs in the car park in five minutes. Wake up, Rick, we’re off for a murder. I think we have the exclusive.”
*
The senior investigating officer orders a search of the lane way in back of the building as television crew arrive. “One day, I’m going to investigate how they get their information about major crime so quickly.”
In making her way towards the officer, a searcher calls, “Sarge, better look at this, a Credit Union card!”
Others gather around to look at the find. “If the description the street kid gives us matches the owner, we might be able to wrap this up quickly. We have the hour till Credit Union opens. Just enough time to finish some paperwork.” His stomach calls… “And fit in a quick bite to eat.”
