The Ambulance Chaser

by Richard Beasley

  After, in the paper, there is a colour shot of my blood-splattered table. My legs are sticking out at an awkward angle from underneath. Mercifully, one of the waiters has covered the rest of me in the checkered tablecloth. The police say they are following a number of leads. ‘He believed in the black armband view of history, that all capitalists are corrupt, he hated reality TV, and he was sympathetic to refugees,’ the detective in charge tells the press. ‘Anyone could have whacked him.’

  Jarrett arrived first. The ventricles of my heart quivered, missing a beat. He looked stiff and awkward. Not even the warm greeting from the front of house put him at ease. He went still tighter about the mouth when he saw Hardcastle hadn’t arrived yet. He wasn’t expecting to have to sit with Gough or me, but there was nothing any of us could do about it. He ordered iced water.

  Greeting someone like me politely was a skill that had bypassed James Jarrett. I got approximately one-fifth of a nod, plus a look-away. Towards Gough, actually, who appeared to inspire an expression of disgust. That’d be right.

  Some people, you meet them, you know you’re not going to get along. Anything you say will annoy them. They will take things out of context, misinterpret them, not laugh at your jokes. I could have been leading a delegation of the Four Marx Brothers, the Three Stooges and the Two Ronnies and it wouldn’t have helped. Jarrett looked at me like I was another species.

  Eventually I said, ‘Nice suit.’ I kidded myself that I was actually checking to make sure he wasn’t packing heat, but you know deep down that things have gotten really desperate when a bloke pays another bloke a compliment about his bag of fruit. It was a nice enough navy job, Italian, pure wool, thin white stripe, maybe a Ferré or a top of the range Zegna, but when it comes to other men I’m generally not a member of the Sartorial Critique and Commentary Club.

  Jarrett looked me over. I had on an off-the-rack Boss that had seen better days. For itself and its owner. ‘Thank you,’ he said slowly.

  You’re fucking welcome.

  Hardcastle finally appeared at the bottom of the steps. I checked my watch. One fifteen. He’d beaten the hit man by six minutes.

  Hardcastle filled the place with his presence, and his appetite followed closely behind. I heard sauces bubbling over in the kitchen in anticipation. Further out the back a calf gave its final moo. When he sat at the table, it no longer felt big enough. He said hello, swept off his jacket and draped it behind him like a Moroccan marquee, cut off a pound of butter, smeared it on his bread, coated it in olive oil, topped it with salt and then devoured it like an Eastern Bloc weight-lifter. During this process he speed-read the wine list and placed our order. We’d start with a Pierro, then move on to a Brunello di Montalcino. Whoever he was.

  Hardcastle scanned the room after he’d ordered the wine, waving at a few mates as he’d done when he walked in. Some heavy hitters were about, at the tables as well as on the walls. He waved at one Sydney identity, of the colourful variety, went over and shook hands and chatted with him briefly, leaving Jarrett and me in an awkward silence again. At least there was plenty of noise around us, including the guffaws and hearty belly laughs coming from the table Hardcastle was working. Some lusty material had no doubt been exchanged, along with their best advice to each other about how to operate government or large corporations without any regard to competence or traditional ethical norms.

  Hardcastle rejoined our table after a few minutes. ‘Such a pack of wankers,’ he said when he returned, still laughing. ‘Every time I shake their hands I feel like I get covered in cum.’

  I decided against having any seafood with tartare sauce for entree.

  ‘You know when I saw that bastard last?’ Hardcastle said to me, leaning forward but gesturing ever so slightly with his eyes to the other table. ‘A Touch of Class.’

  Unless a new bar or restaurant had sprung up recently with a business plan that included an unfortunate choice of name, the only A Touch of Class I was aware of was an upmarket brothel in Surry Hills.

  I imagine not every CEO of a major corporation admits to staff that they frequent high-class brothels. Still, most CEOs don’t do lunch much these days, I’m told. South Pacific surprised me on an almost daily basis. James Jarrett seemed highly unimpressed by Hardcastle’s revelation, though. Either that or he’d accidentally shoved a sour lemon in his mouth and a hot chilli up his bum. He looked away in disgust.

  He had no right to. Rumour had it that the previous month Jarrett had entertained an A-list member who at least one person and possibly more would describe as one of the Idle Rich. Just the sort of dame to have any real man worth their left-wing salt running into the arms of socialist–feminist–lesbians. Their meeting had apparently taken place in the high-altitude, leather and carved mahogany glory of one of the recliner chairs in the Citation X. The girl had naturally spilled the beans about her 10,000 metre naughty with Jarrett in the corporate toy, and word eventually filtered back to Hardcastle. Reports had it that he’d been heard screaming at Jarrett about the company’s first ever ‘$30,000 fuck’. This sum had been calculated from a breakdown of the leasing costs, fuel and cocaine consumption associated with Jarrett’s stratospheric hump.

  Hardcastle ordered antipasto to share as an entree, and a mountain of delicacies soon arrived. For mains we all ordered veal. While wrapping some prosciutto around the asiago mezzano, and wolfing it down with bread, Hardcastle gestured with his hand towards the walls.

  ‘Politicians,’ he said, grinning. ‘Want to know my rule for political donations?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘We’re not here to discuss that, Barry,’ Jarrett said tersely.

  Hardcastle ignored him. ‘Dollar for dollar to each side.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Then I add up the collective IQs of every bastard that’s slimed their way in, and I multiply by a thousand.’

  Another example of Australia’s great faith in the precious institution of democracy we all cherish. I tried to do the maths anyway. Would this be a lot of money, or not much?

  ‘Always comes in well within budget,’ Hardcastle said.

  I figured as much. Still, some of the dunces probably bring the average down quite unfairly for the others. On the other hand, old Gough up above us would have disproportionately raised the average IQ, so these things all balance out in the end. You have to hand it to the CIA. They rarely assassinate or depose dumb leaders. It’s a funding issue, I guess.

  While I was looking at Gough again I noticed the photo of the bloke next to him. Not a politician, I thought. Wing nut ears, hair like an unshorn sheep, arteries in his cheeks the size of aortas. Big snoz. I thought I recognised him, but couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I said.

  ‘Which one?’ Hardcastle asked.

  ‘Next to Gough. Jug ears. The pisshead. The ugly bastard who looks like he was breastfed Guinness.’

  Hardcastle burst out laughing, but said nothing. I didn’t know what was so funny until I noticed Jarrett looking at me. He’d swallowed that lemon again, but now had two chillies up his bum. ‘That,’ he said, without appearing to open his mouth, ‘is my father.’

  I knew that.

  I thought it best to let things lie where they were. Hardcastle stepped in to break the silence. ‘Chris knew it was your father, James,’ he said, still chuckling, ‘otherwise he wouldn’t have reminded you that Grandma Jarrett’s tits leaked Irish piss.’ Hardcastle poured himself some more wine and continued to laugh. I think by now Gough was laughing too, but the late Kingsley F. Jarrett of the former Jarrett Insurance Group appeared to be snarling. Meanwhile, his third son and principal heir continued to glare at me. The son of a Northern Ireland Orangeman, he was looking at me like I was a nephew of the Pope. There was a bullet with my name on it in the not too distant future. I was certain.

  Over the veal and the Brunello, Hardcastle cut to the chase. I had done a good job with the bordereau. Fast work. Concise analysis, clear reasoning
on likely liability and damages outcomes on the bigger matters, at least on a provisional basis. It was exactly what they were after. He was impressed, but he had expected he would be.

  ‘Ang De Luca couldn’t have done what you did,’ he said. ‘Not on the bigger matters, especially with tough liability or causation questions.’

  ‘Well, experience as a lawyer in private practice helps,’ I said modestly.

  ‘It also helps not to be fucking thick,’ Hardcastle said bluntly.

  ‘I wouldn’t describe Angelo as thick,’ I lied.

  ‘We would,’ Jarrett said.

  ‘The claims department has been a shemozzle for us,’ Hardcastle added. ‘We don’t really have much experience there. Personnel-wise or as a company. We’re still very green and unprofessional. It’s all very haphazard.’ I’ll say. They don’t know whether to kill you or pay you millions.

  ‘Most of our claims team are fucking hopeless,’ Jarrett concluded.

  ‘That’s not true, James,’ I said. ‘Some people are after a different lifestyle to private practice, and there are working mothers who are very sharp. Clare McDonald, for example –’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Jarrett interjected. A touch harsh, but he’s almost the boss.

  ‘We’re taking the market on full bore, Chris,’ Hardcastle said, ‘and that means every department has to be fully up to fucking speed. Claims is lagging behind underwriting and the rest of the organisation as far as being professional is concerned. The reports are sloppy. Matters aren’t monitored properly. Big claims aren’t identified quickly, especially non-injury matters. Tell him what the plan is, James.’

  Jarrett sighed, glared at me, then began. ‘We plan to get much bigger. We feel now is the right time. Premiums are high, there’s been some favourable legislative changes from our point of view. We want to greatly expand our business, particularly in the professional negligence and D & O areas. The top of the range premiums. We are ready to make a concerted assault on the market share of our competitors, both local and the Lloyds and US interests.’

  ‘We may even move HQ offshore soon,’ Hardcastle chipped in. ‘Somewhere in the Caribbean. Cayman Islands or the Bahamas. Every bastard’s doing it.’

  ‘We expect to double our profits for this financial year from last year,’ Jarrett said. ‘We will increase our dividend dramatically.’

  All very interesting, but how the hell did this involve me?

  ‘The long and the short of it is, Chris,’ Hardcastle said, ‘Angelo just isn’t cut out to run a claims department in an organisation like ours. Maybe thirty years ago, but . . . well, it’s not thirty years ago. We can headhunt, poach someone from another insurer, but we think your bad luck last year is our good luck.’

  My bordereau had been so impressive they wanted to make me Head of Claims? Chief executioner. What the hell had I done?

  ‘We won’t be dumping De Luca out onto the street,’ Hardcastle continued. ‘We’ll move him sideways, some sort of management position, pretend it’s a promotion . . .’ He waived his wineglass in the air, searching for the right words.

  Jarrett found them for him. ‘Frankly, he won’t know the fucking difference.’

  ‘So, am I hearing this right?’ I said. ‘You’re proposing to make me National Head of Claims?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Hardcastle said.

  ‘Barry,’ I said, ‘I’m still on probation.’

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘it’ll be a kind of modified position. You’ll be head of all claims, but with a special focus on the really big ones. Two million plus. Those ones, though, will be referred to this new section that we’re setting Angelo up in. His section will handle them – after you’ve analysed them – but most of them, I imagine, will end up with the external advisers. At least, that’s how we’ll play it initially.’

  That was a relief. The group of potential murder victims would still be De Luca’s responsibility after I’d fingered them. ‘So . . . when do I . . . ?’

  ‘How much you owe your creditors again, Chris?’ Hardcastle asked.

  So this is where I get paid off. I take the cash, become part of the crew. Part of the Execution, Murder and Mayhem Department of South Pacific Group Insurance.

  I told him. ‘Explain the banking,’ he said to Jarrett.

  JJ was starting to get annoyed at the second-fiddle routine, but he managed to spit at me the news that SP was getting close to opening up a banking division. Home loans. Simple business loans. Credit cards. Ambitions to go beyond that in due course. ‘There will be low-interest loan facilities available for approved staff as a matter of policy,’ he concluded.

  ‘In other words, Chris,’ Hardcastle said, ‘we can pay off your creditors for you. Not one hundred cents in the dollar, but make them an offer they’ll live with. I can negotiate something for you, I’m sure. We’ll give you a low-interest loan. Structure the repayments. That way you’ll be out of bankruptcy and not be lumbered with crippling debt repayments.’

  I was flabbergasted. What was the catch? I mean, obviously over the next few weeks or months I would be brought in on the Conspiracy to Murder Business Plan, probably on the expiry of my probationary period, but was there anything else?

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said. Apart from HELP!

  ‘Thank you would be a start,’ Jarrett hissed.

  ‘I need to think about it,’ I said. ‘I mean, it’s very generous, but . . . um . . . what would happen to my low interest rate if I, say . . . left? Not that I’m planning to.’

  Hardcastle shook his head and slapped me on the back, hard enough to bring a flat-lining heart patient back to life. ‘We’ll work something out,’ he said. ‘We don’t let people like you go.’

  Not alive, anyway.

  I looked around the room. Men doing the corporate lunch thing while some of their wives were no doubt out and about in the boutiques of Mosman and Double Bay, gravely scrutinising designer apparel with unfailing acuity. Meanwhile, their husbands put their noses to the wineglass and sniffed with similar concentration.

  Should I take the money? I looked up at Gough Whitlam, who shook his head. Of course not. Another man who knew from bitter experience that you never accept loans from dodgy characters.

  Twenty-Eight

  It was not the happiest evening at the RSLC.

  Gabby saw a client who was fighting her ex in a custody battle over their daughter. The ex had been charged with sexually assaulting the girl. The charges were later dropped, and now the ex wanted custody. The relevant government department was refusing to become involved any further. The kind of sad mess that can take all night just to talk through.

  Another solicitor saw some parents who wanted to take action against a hospital. Their adult son had tried to admit himself one night, saying he was going to commit suicide. He had been schizophrenic since his late teens. The hospital sent him home, and he jumped to his death off the Gap at Watson’s Bay four hours later.

  No AVOs against cats tonight.

  I had only the one matter to advise on. The client’s name on the advice sheet the law student had filled out was Mr Basmati. Naturally, I had prepared myself to deal with a bag of Pakistani rice. Mr Basmati turned out to be Mr Basil Shmastri, but that was neither here nor there. He was a small, dark, thin gentleman who, for record-keeping purposes, explained to us that sixty-nine years ago he had been born in Southern India, not far from Madras, which he assured us we both knew was now called Chennai. He migrated to Australia so his family would avoid starvation, as he put it, but he hadn’t appeared to have taken to our food, because the gap between his shirt collar and his neck was wide enough to accommodate a tree stump. He was a fiery old rooster, though, with a voice that was pure vindaloo. Mr Shmastri had been wronged and wanted something done about it.

  Specifically, he wanted to sue his bank for their continued refusal to provide him with a gold credit card. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a credit card, or that he couldn’t pay a bill, he just wanted a damn gold card
. Why Mr Basil Shmastri wanted a gold card I didn’t bother to ask. ‘Why should I not have one?’ Good enough for me. I wasn’t there to give financial advice.

  I tried to suggest to Mr Shmastri that the reason for the refusal by a large financial institution to grant him a gold card might have something to do with his aged pension income of $558 per fortnight. Mr Shmastri did not accept this for a moment. It was racial and religious discrimination. How on earth could I not see that?

  People like Mr Basil Shmastri were the reason I needed Thursday nights. People who would not take no for an answer, who were not prepared to have their rights violated. It’s why people from all round the globe have migrated to this country, so that they could assert their rights, and have people to fight for them. And as Mr Shmastri said to me as I drafted a letter on his behalf, ‘I ask you. Did any of the banks refuse Mr Alan Bond a gold card? I think not.’

  I think not too. From memory I think they gave him the largest gold card in history, and, as Mr Shmastri pointed out, Mr Bond was white. ‘And a signwriter,’ I added.

  I suggested that Mr Shmastri send the letter I was drafting to the CEO of the bank he was unhappy with. I read it out to him.

  Dear Sir,

  I refer to your Credit Card Services Department’s refusal to grant me a gold credit card.

  It has come to my attention that over a number of years you and various credit card companies around the globe have granted such cards, and other financial accommodation, to persons associated with Enron, HIH, Tyco, BCCI, Barings, Ansett, Arthur Andersen, Robert Maxwell, AMP, WorldCom, Tricontinental, the State Bank of South Australia, Rothwells, Quintex, Bond Corporation and countless dot.com entities to name just a few. These corporations have either collapsed or nearly collapsed under a mountain of debt that could be conservatively compared to Olympus Mons, the tallest mountain in the Solar System. In case you’re wondering, it’s on Mars, a planet that resembled Earth until about 2 billion years ago when the capitalists took over and the poor countries were left to the mercy of the International Monetary Fund, the World Bank and the World Trade Organisation, bodies originally set up on Mars to destroy the planet and starve its inhabitants before their executives and officers sent their DNA and male chromosomes to Antarctica preserved in rocks.