by Peter Corris
‘Squeaky clean, it appears.’
‘No way. I remember a couple of those pieces—there’s something funny going on in that business structure but we just haven’t got the time or resources to ferret it out. I could put you in touch with the bloke who did the articles.’
‘Wouldn’t hurt,’ I said.
Harry scribbled on the back of a discarded galley sheet. ‘Ivan Novacek, young but bright. I know he had some more stuff on the casino mob but it didn’t look like panning out as gold and we couldn’t keep him on it any longer.’ He pointed at my notebook. ‘You need to run all those names past someone who has access to corporate and business records. You look for some pattern, some concentration of interests and then you sniff hard at that. Sounds dull, huh? Much more painstaking stuff than your slap-dash methods.’
I took the paper and put it in my left pocket, reaching across my body to get there.
‘What’s wrong with your arm?’
‘I hurt it lifting weights.’
‘You’ve never lifted a weight in your life. Hey, Cliff, something’s going on, right? You’ve got that look.’
‘What look?’
‘There’s a look you get when something’s really pissing you off. Plus you’ve taken a few knocks recently. You look rougher than usual, except for the haircut. I thought you wanted a quieter life?’
‘Wanting isn’t getting. Thanks, Harry. I appreciate the help. I’ll talk to your bloke and if there’s anything in it for you I’ll see him right.’
‘See if you can get some sex into it. Personally, I’m tired of sex and I suppose it’s showing. I’ve been accused of not having enough about it in the rag. Mind you, I’ve also been criticised for never having printed anything about Elvis what’s-his-name.’
‘Sex. I’ll try to remember. Do you like a police corruption angle?’
‘Love it. You might get yourself in dutch with Glen, though. How is she, by the way?’
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘Sorry, I need the chair.’ Abi had arrived with a stack of floppy disks in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. I got up from the chair and winced as I pushed off with the left arm.
‘Shit, you’re really hurting.’
‘Only when I move. Thanks again, Harry. Bye Abi.’
She fluttered her fingers the way Vita Drewe had done. Another Cabaret fan. I tried it myself as I left the office and Harry laughed. I think it was the only laugh I’d heard so far that day. Good old Harry. I thought about his remark that he was sick of sex as I rode the lift down to the ground floor. Harry used to be quite keen on sex, but only on a part-time basis. When he was a hot-shot reporter on the News, he seemed to go without everything for long stretches—sex, food, drink, sleep—except Camel cigarettes. But sometimes he hinged. I remembered the six-foot redhead he’d turned up with at the Moody-Rosso fight and wondered what had happened to her. For that matter, I wondered what had happened to Moody and Rosso. Gloomy thoughts, inappropriate to a night on the town.
I walked back to the office, arriving sweaty and tired and telling myself I’d have time for a short sleep before picking up Vita. I loaded the precious cargo—my soup-and-fish and the orchids—and set off for Glebe. I even stopped along the way to buy a tin of tuna, a steak and a couple of bottles of Yellowglen champagne to put the cat, Dylan, me and Vita in the right mood.
13
She did look great in sequins. Mind you, there weren’t many of them—just a scattering around the neck and on the shoulder of her short, tight black silk dress. She wore shoes that lifted her height to within an inch of mine and the hair was all brushed out into a crinkly mop that framed her face. Her make-up was not what you’d called restrained—heavy lipstick and eye shadow. She showed me the long, white silk scarf she planned to drape around her shoulders and the black patent leather purse she planned to carry.
I was trying not to look too impressed by her appearance. ‘With the Beretta inside.’
‘Of course. I won’t kiss you just now. You don’t want to get this goo on your nice, smooth face. Later.’
She gave the steak to the dog and I opened one of the bottles of champagne. ‘I haven’t got any of those jazzy glasses,’ she said. ‘What should we drink it out of?’
‘Anything.’ She was oddly put together, with wide shoulders, small breasts, a flat stomach and slightly jutting backside. She was ever so slightly knock-kneed. I wanted to run my hands over the whole lot, to explore her. I reached out and stroked her hip as she moved away with the open bottle in her hand.
‘Mmm. I’d fuck you now,’ she said. ‘Except that climbing into this outfit, what d’you call it, these togs? It took me like an hour.’
‘Same here.’
‘And you look real nice. Hang there, I’ll just get something to ...’
‘Shit! I forgot!’ I rushed out the back door and through the yard where Dylan didn’t look up from his steak. I’d left the cool pack on the wall as I’d juggled the bottles to get through the gate. I reclaimed it and came back inside, feeling young and foolish. I presented her with the flowers.
‘Drums and trumpets,’ I said.
‘Baby, you’re going to have to wash your face.’
She kissed me and although my first sexually charged kiss was something like thirty years in the past, I could remember it and this felt something like the same. I was pleased and scared at the same time as I returned the pressure. I didn’t feel foolish any more, just young. She broke away.
‘Thank you, they’re lovely. You’re a very nice man.’
I was dry-throated and aching for her, tasting her lipstick and smelling her perfume.
‘You’re embarrassed,’ she said. ‘Cliff, we can both walk away from all this, right. Not tonight, not tonight, but ... like, you know.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Go and get the vegemite glasses, maybe you’d call them jelly glasses, while I scrub this goo off my face.’
She pointed to the box of tissues on top of the TV set. ‘Tough guy.’ ‘You bet.’
I took a couple of tissues and rubbed at my mouth. I also opened the purse. Sure enough, the Beretta was there. Why not? I thought. Smash the rules.
Vita drove. Valet parking. We went up the stairs under the chandeliers and through the illuminated archway that led to the reception area. The archway proved to be a metal detector and it shrilled as Vita passed under it. The uniformed man who approached her got a sweet smile and the Beretta. He looked unfazed, as if an Uzi might have caused him to raise an eyebrow. He issued Vita with a receipt and waved us on. That would certainly focus some attention on us, but I wasn’t worried about that. Anyway, Vita in that dress with those trimmings, was going to attract plenty of attention anyway.
We skipped the bar in favour of the buffet, both needing something to blot up the champagne. A chattering crowd of smartly dressed people, some startlingly young. Smoked salmon, avocado, lobster pieces, crusty bread, Perrier. We ate standing up, watching multi-coloured fish swim around in a large tank.
‘Why’re we here?’ she said.
I held up a biscuit with a piece of lobster and a slice of avocado balanced on it. ‘For the grub, Vi, and to win a pile of dough.’
She used the end of her scarf to flick a crumb from her dress. ‘Well, that sure would be nice, but it is also horseshit.’
‘Keep your eyes open for the man you saw in the car the night Scott came to the office. I’ll be looking for the two who broke into my car.’
‘What if we see them?’
‘We’ll discuss it. Come on, let’s try our luck.’
We went into one of the gaming rooms. Three roulette wheels, three blackjack dealers and a craps table. Gambling bores me, but people don’t. The crowd had built up quickly and the air was developing that ripe smell of tobacco smoke, perfume and liquor. The casino was enforcing a dress code of jacket, collar and tie for men and nothing less formal than tailored slacks suits for women. Most of the females were in glad rags of one kind or another, long- and sh
ort-skirted, and at least half the men wore evening clothes. Uniforms destroy identity, masking class, income, occupation and means. I suppose that’s the point. Nevertheless, some individuals stood out—a tall, silver-haired tycoon type handed chips to an anorexic blonde who was feeding them to a blackjack dealer as if she was playing a slot machine; an immaculately dressed Chinese couple were having a run of luck on a roulette wheel and gathering an audience; a thin, nervous-looking man in an ill-fitting dinner suit (probably hired, like mine) was throwing craps as if his life depended on the outcome. And his life was slipping away with every throw.
I bought some chips and we played in a desultory fashion for a few minutes. Vi asked me to get her a drink, a serious drink. I went to the bar and got two double Jack Daniels with ice.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘It’s easy to see this bores you rigid. Why don’t you leave me here to have some fun while you look around a bit? I want to play some blackjack and I have to concentrate. Can’t do that with you looking as if you’d rather be someplace else.’
‘Sorry. Got enough chips?’
‘I’ll be fine. Scoot!’
We touched hands and I left the room, glad to be out of it, troubled by the look on the face of the thin man and the glitter in the eyes of the high-rolling Chinese. There was something more than money involved and I knew I’d never really understand what it was.
I recalled the layout of the place fairly well from the guided tour Oscar Cartwright had given me and I went roaming, looking at faces, eavesdropping on conversations, trying to get a feel for the place that had somehow brought about the death of my friend. The casino, which had looked somewhat contrived, even antiseptic on my first visit, had acquired atmosphere, almost a personality. Despite the tasteful, expensive fittings, it was vulgar and garish if you cared to think of it that way. Despite the abundance of services and assistants, you were essentially on your own in a money vacuum cleaner. What else was there to do there but win or lose, get drunk or stay sober? The place had no other function. The thought of being there alone was almost terrifying.
I staved off these phantasms with a few sips of Jack Daniels and the thought of taking Vi home later. I concentrated on singling out the employees—waiters, croupiers, barmen, cashiers—looking for Baldy and his knee-kicking mate. No luck. The smoke-free rooms were surprisingly well patronised. I’d thought that the action might be tamer in these non-suicide sections but not so. If anything, the non-smokers seemed to be drinking more and I saw two men and four women who were beginning to draw looks from the other gamblers for their rowdiness and willingness to argue about the run of the cards. I caught an exchange of glances between a barman and a man who looked like a slightly jaded gambler. When he moved it was clear that he was a peacekeeper and a good one. He took one of the drunk women by the arm and spoke briefly to her male companion. The rowdy group was split smoothly into two and another handler came in to calm the waters. Nice work.
Out of professional interest, I watched the operation of the cash cages. Everything seemed to going like clockwork with the pneumatic capsules humming away and the keyboards clicking and the screens glowing brightly. Knowing where to look, I saw that every area where money was handled was well covered by closed-circuit TV cameras. I was sure that the fire extinguishers would work and that the air-conditioning system didn’t house a single Legionella bug.
I finished my drink, put the glass down on a table and decided to check a couple of the glossy toilets with the sour thought that my attackers might be handing out towels or scrubbing down the tiles. The toilet I entered was sparkling clean and fresh-smelling as I expected. I used the urinal and washed my hands. When I lifted my head to look in the mirror I became aware of two men standing behind me. Both had come up, not silently, but making natural noises—a lot harder to do.
Both wore dinner suits and looked ordinary. One was slight, had receding hair and a moustache, the other was stocky without being fat. He said, ‘I must ask you to come with us, sir.’
‘And who would you be?’
‘My name’s Carstairs and this is Mr Ralston. We’re employees of the casino.’
‘Perhaps Mr Ralston would be good enough to hand me a towel.’
Ralston would have to step back and sideways to reach the pile of snowy towels. He smiled and shook his head. The two of them moved in concert so that I could get to the towels while they still had me enclosed and cut off from the doorway. Experts. I got a towel and dried my hands. Carstairs took it from me the instant I’d finished. No flicking it in their faces, no diversions.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’m sure we can sort it out very quickly. Just come with us and don’t do anything foolish.’
I shrugged, reminding myself of the sore arm. We left the toilet with Carstairs and Ralston flanking me and talking amiably to each other over and around me. All very natural-looking. Nothing to frighten the horses. We passed quickly through the gaming room and into an elevator leading, as I knew from my tour, to the executive level. Better than the basement. Once we were in the lift, Carstairs searched me quickly and efficiently for weapons. He didn’t say ‘Clean’ or anything like that. He wasn’t interested in impressing Ralston or me. He was impressed enough with himself already. Dangerous.
I studied their faces as we tramped along a brightly lit corridor. There was something familiar about Ralston. Give him back some of his hair and lose the moustache and I thought I’d know him. But that meant it must be years ago that I’d met him. ‘Ralston’ didn’t quite fit, but I couldn’t replace it with anything else.
We passed a long window that gave a good view out over the water towards the city. All of a sudden, my hired shoes pinched me and I almost stumbled. Carstairs gripped my arm and pain shot through me. Quite involuntarily, I swore and pulled away. Ralston was quicker than Alfie Langer; he slid behind me and had my arms locked and twisted up before I could draw breath to swear again. The pain was excruciating and I buckled, hissing and uselessly attempting to land a kick at the same time. By sheer luck I caught Carstairs on the ankle. He cursed and bunched his fist.
A door opened ahead of us and a man stepped out.
‘What the hell’s going on here? I said to bring him up quietly.’
It was Oscar Cartwright, resplendent in a white tuxedo jacket, red bow tie and midnight blue dress trousers.
‘Hello, O.C.,’ I said. As I spoke Ralston loosened his grip slightly.
He approached closer, squinting through his contacts against the bright light. ‘Jesus Christ. It is you. Cliff Hardy. I thought I recognised you on the monitor but in the suit and with the haircut ... hey ...’
‘Tell Mr Ralston to let me go,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a buggered-up shoulder and he’s making it a hell of a lot worse.’
At a gesture from Cartwright, Ralston released me. Carstairs stepped away. ‘Okay, boys,’ Cartwright said. ‘That’ll be all for now.’
Ralston was the keen type. ‘What about the woman?’
‘Keep an eye on her but hands off.’
The two moved away down the passage and Cartwright ushered me into his office. ‘You’ve gotta understand, Cliff. I get a report that this woman comes in with a Beretta in her purse in company with this guy looks like he can handle himself. It’s only natural I’d take an interest.’
‘No harm done,’ I said.
‘Take a seat and have a drink. It’s the least I can do to make up for the inconvenience.’
‘Can’t you rig the blackjack shoe so my lady friend can win some money?’
‘Hah, hah. What’ll you have?’
So far that night I’d had Australian champagne and Tennessee whisky. Smash the rules. ‘I’ll have a beer. Got any Heineken?’
He got two of the green bottles from his fridge along with chilled glasses, flipped off the tops and poured. ‘Good choice. Cheers. You should’ve told me you were coming. I’d have made special arrangements.’
I drank some of the cold beer. ‘Why?’
> He shrugged. ‘After what happened to Scott. You know. I was real cut up about that. We sent flowers and one of our guys went to the funeral. But he was your friend. Damn nice guy, too.’
It was all a bit scrambled but the emotion behind it seemed genuine enough. In Oscar’s world things ran on exchanges of favours, and it probably seemed natural to him to say he was sorry about my friend’s death by giving me a free night out.
I said, ‘How was he doing at the job?’
‘Just great.’
‘Who killed him?’
The older-than-the-face eyes opened wide. ‘Hey, hey, there. Is that why you’re here?’
‘Why else? The police don’t seem very interested. The guy in charge of the investigation practically warned me off. As you say, he was my friend and I got him this job. I want to know what happened and I plan to do something about it.’
The friendliness had gone. We were back to business. ‘And you figure it was to do with his job here?’
‘I’ve eliminated all the other possibilities.’
‘Have you got any leads, any evidence?’
‘Just bits and pieces. Nothing solid. I’m still looking and talking to people. Now we’re here, have you got any thoughts on the subject? Anything that might help me?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘No. How long was he here? A couple of months. He was learning the ropes, doing good, like I say. But like you said when you knocked the job back, it’s routine work. I can’t think of anything about it that would get him killed.’
I believed him and his concern seemed genuine, but it was for his operation, not for Scott and not for me. I drank some more beer.
‘Hey, let’s see how she’s doing,’ Oscar said. He touched a button on his desk and a panel in the wall behind me slid away to reveal a bank of TV screens. ‘You say she’s playing blackjack? Which room?’
I swung around to look. ‘I don’t remember.’
He opened a drawer, took out a remote controller and began changing the images on the screens. A picture of Vi, Kent in hand and with an empty glass at her elbow came into focus. Her pile of chips had grown significantly. ‘That’s her,’ I said.
