Taking Care of Business ch-28

by Peter Corris

  ‘You’ve got time to perve on your receptionist. I bet you invite her in a few times just to watch.’

  He let that go by him. ‘Simon died of AIDS. End of story.’

  ‘Some people don’t think so.’

  He nodded and the flesh jiggled again. ‘Jordan Elliott. The classics freak. As crazy as he is queer.’

  ‘You’re not? Queer I mean? The perving could be an act.’

  Roche reached for the phone. ‘I’m going to call security.’

  ‘Do that,’ I said. ‘Get the safari suit up here and we’ll get a little blood on your carpet. Be fun.’

  ‘What d’ you fuckin’ want?’

  ‘What happened on that tour to turn Townsley’s health around?’

  ‘Nothing that I know of. He just packed up.’

  ‘I want a list of the places they played with the dates, and current addresses for the other members of the band. And I want to know where they’re playing next.’

  ‘Will you piss off if I do that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He picked up the phone and briefly spoke into it. He hung up and swung around to look at his view. Within a couple of minutes the fax machine on the desk began to chatter. He slid the sheets across to me. I looked at them.

  ‘What about the new singer, Jo-Ho whatever?’

  ‘What about her? She wasn’t there.’

  I glanced at the sheets again. ‘I want her address too, and the roadie, Don Berry.’

  ‘Jo-Jo’s in a flat just down the way in New McLean Street. Number 4, flat 6. Wall-to-wall dykes. I haven’t a fuckin’ clue where Berry is. Roadies come and go.’

  I put the sheets away and stood. ‘Okay, one last thing. You don’t say a word about me to these people. I’ll be able to tell if you have, believe me. And I won’t be happy.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s a pity you weren’t fair dinkum about providing security. You’re arsehole enough to be good at it.’

  I tried the flat in New McLean Street. No one home. I drove to the office and phoned the members of the band one by one and got a no reply, a no longer connected and two answer machines before a human response. The woman who answered Seb Jones’ phone told me that the band was rehearsing in the back room of a pub in Woolloomooloo. Steve’s fax came through and I skimmed the pages. Of greatest interest at a quick look was a photograph of the band, including the roadie, taken during the last tour.

  I shoved the fax sheets in my pocket and drove to the Loo. The rehearsal was more of a jam session and run-through with a few other musicians sitting in. I thought it showed chutzpah for the Stonewallers to replace a male singer with a female but dropped the idea when I heard Jo-Jo Moon. She was tiny and dark, possibly Aboriginal, and her voice was almost identical to Simon Townsley’s.

  When they finished I managed to get a few minutes with each of the men by mentioning Steve Cook’s name. He had clout. Not with Jo-Jo though, she took off on a motorbike with a woman twice her size. I told the guys who I was and what I was doing. Reiss, who was older than I’d expected and straight-acting, was dismissive, almost aggressive. Jones was so stoned he was practically incapable of speech and I wondered how he’d managed to play. Craig Pappas seemed genuinely interested but couldn’t add anything to what Manny had told me: nothing had happened on the tour to account for Townsley’s collapse.

  ‘Maybe Don Berry knows something,’ Pappas said. ‘Him and Simon were real close, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I thought Simon and Jordan were…’

  Pappas shrugged. ‘So did Jordan.’

  ‘Where can I find Berry? Manny didn’t seem to know.’

  ‘I saw him the other day. He was asking if he could get in on the tour. I told him to see Manny but I wouldn’t fancy his chances.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He mimed tourniqueting his arm. ‘I think he said he was at the Williams.’

  Jesus.

  ‘Yeah, a fleabag, but you know how they get.’

  The Williams is a small place off Bayswater Road. It had a brief period of prosperity during the Vietnam war when it was a favourite R amp;R spot but its gone steadily downhill, so that now it’s given over to transients, junkies and prostitutes. Twenty dollars got me the number of Berry’s room from a guy on the front desk who would probably have given it to me for ten. The room was on the second floor and it was smellorama territory all the way-stale tobacco, spilt beer, takeaway food, sweat, vomit and despair.

  The door was ajar. I knocked and pushed it further open. The room was dark with the only light coming in through tears in the blind. A big man got up out of a chair and lurched towards me.

  ‘Have you got it, man?’

  ‘Got what?’ I squinted, slow to adjust to the gloom from an eye injury some years ago. He got bigger still, looming up out of the darkness, and I stepped back.

  ‘Fuck! You’re not him.’

  It was Berry but he’d aged ten years since the photograph of a year ago. His hair was lank, he was unshaven and he smelt as bad as he looked.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ I said.

  ‘Fuck off.’ He threw a punch and from the way he did it I could tell that he once knew a bit, but his reflexes were shot and I dodged it easily. Like an old street fighter, he didn’t mind missing and he had a better follow-up that caught me on the shoulder with some force, but he was off balance by now and I kneed him in the crotch and he went down hard.

  I waited while he pulled himself up against the wall. I’d had it in mind that Berry might have got Simon Townsley on smack and contributed to his decline, but looking at this wreck it was hard to imagine the elegant singer having anything to do with him. Still, it was a year ago.

  Berry was in withdrawal, shaking and sweating. I squatted down near him and showed him a twenty dollar note. ‘A few questions,’ I said.

  He nodded, still clasping his hands over his crotch.

  ‘I’m told you and Simon Townsley had a thing going on that last tour.’

  Peter Corris

  CH28 — Taking Care of Business

  ‘Me ‘n a hundred others.’

  ‘Townsley was like that?’

  ‘He’d fuck anything; young, old and in between.’

  ‘Others in the band?’

  ‘No. All except. Fucked Doc Reiss’ son but.’

  ‘Reiss? The drummer?’

  ‘Yeah. Laughed about it behind Doc’s back.’

  ‘Why’s he called Doc?’

  ‘Dunno. Mad bastard. Threatened to pull the plug unless the boys performed in that fuckin rainstorm after the temperature had dropped to nothing. Do I get the money? I need a hit bad, man.’

  ‘He didn’t shoot up with you? Share a needle? You look like you could have hepatitis.’

  He let go all he could manage in the way of a laugh. ‘Nah, Simon didn’t use; didn’t even drink. Too fuckin’ vain. You’re right about me though. I’ve got everything that’s going. You’re lucky I didn’t bite you.’

  It was all I could do to stop myself from drawing back. I dropped the note between his legs and left.

  I went to the nearest pub, bought a beer and read Steve Cook’s fax sheets carefully. One story was devoted to the trials of Carl ‘Doc’ Reiss, who’d studied medicine and qualified as a pharmacist before pursuing a musical career. He was forty-two and his sixteen-year-old son, Danny, had died of AIDS the year before last. After that, it wasn’t hard to put it together.

  I went back to Woolloomooloo and found Reiss on his own in the rehearsal space, drinking beer and tapping on a snare drum.

  ‘You know,’ he said.

  I sat down out of range of his sticks. ‘I think so. Townsley infected your son and you somehow doctored his medication. Then you helped him to get pneumonia.’

  ‘Are you wired?’

  I shook my head, stood and pulled my shirt out of my pants and rotated.

  ‘Drop your strides.’

  I did. He tapped a few times, then laid the sticks down. ‘He knew he was positive and he
didn’t give a shit. He was one of those who reckoned they’d take as many with them as they could. Well, he took my Danny and I took him.’

  ‘How’d you do it?’

  ‘Easy. Substituted placebos for some of his pills. The bastard was on thirty pills a day. Some of the stuff that went into his cocktail rotted inside him. A while without his Bactrim and he was wide open. I know about that stuff.’

  ‘You insisted they play in the rain.’

  He nodded. ‘I fucked the air-conditioner in the van as well. What’re you going to do?’

  ‘Talk to Jordan Elliott.’

  ‘Talk all you like. Tell him his lover kept score on the back of his guitar. He must’ve rooted fifty blokes on that tour. As for me, you’ll never prove a thing. I’m in favour of cremation, aren’t you?’

  I thought about it but in the end decided to tell Elliott the truth. He listened and he seemed to age in front of my eyes. He wept unashamedly. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me. You’ve destroyed a dream.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That happens,’ I said.

  BLACK ANDY

  I’m a literary agent but I’m not ringing to talk to you about your memoirs,’ Melanie Fanshawe said quickly. ‘A couple of people in the business have told me about your…’

  ‘Rudeness?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Emphatic refusal. ‘This is something quite different. Professional. I can’t talk about it on the phone and I’m afraid I can’t get to you today. Could you possibly come to me? I’m sorry, that sounds… I’m sure you’re busy, too.’

  She gave me the address in Paddington and suggested five o’clock. Suited me. I knew the area. There was a good pub on a nearby corner where I could have a drink when we finished, whichever way it went.

  I was at her door a couple of minutes early. A tiny two storey terrace described by the real estate sharks as a ‘worker’s cottage’. The door, with a small plaque identifying the business carried on inside, was right on the street. No gate. One step up. I rang the bell and a no-nonsense buzzer sounded inside.

  Heels clattered briefly on a wooden floor and the door opened. Melanie Fanshawe was solidly built, medium-tall, fortyish. She wore a white silk blouse, a narrow bone-coloured mid-calf skirt and low heels. Her hair was dark, wiry and abundant, floating around her head.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Come in. Come through and I’ll make some coffee and tell you what this’s all about.’

  I followed her down a short passage, past an alcove under the stairs where a phone/fax was tucked in. The kitchen was small with a slate floor, eating nook, microwave, half-sink and bar fridge. She pointed to the short bench and seats. ‘You should be able to squeeze in there.’

  I could, just. ‘Small place you’ve got here.’

  She laughed. ‘I inherited it from my grandma. She was five foot nothing, but I’ve learned to turn sideways and duck my head.’

  ‘I’ve got the opposite problem,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a terrace in Glebe that’s too big for me.’

  She boiled a kettle, dumped in the coffee, poured the water and set the plunger. ‘How d’you take it?’

  ‘White with two.’

  She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m trying not to be a stereotype.’

  She laughed again. ‘You’re succeeding. They didn’t tell me you were funny.’

  I made a gesture of modest acceptance as she pushed the plunger down.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘This is it. I’ve got a client who’s written a book. No, he’s writing a book. I’ve got an outline and the chapter headings and it looks like amazing stuff.’

  ‘Good for him. And good for you.’

  She smiled that slightly crooked smile that made you want to like her. ‘Yeah, sure. If he lives to finish it.’

  I drank some of the excellent coffee. ‘Here comes the crunch.’

  ‘You’re right. This book tells all there is to know about corruption in Sydney over the past twenty years-up to yesterday. Names, place names and dates. Everything. It’s going to be a bombshell.’

  ‘But it hasn’t been written yet.’

  ‘As I said, the outline’s there and the early stuff is ready. He’s got the material for the rest-tapes, documents, videos. The thing is, as soon as it becomes known that this book’s on the way, the author’s life is in serious danger.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Crims, police, politicians.’

  I finished the coffee and reached for the pot to pour some more. ‘You’ve only got an outline. Some of these things fizzle. Neddy Smith-’

  ‘Not this one. This is for real. You know who the author is, and he specifically asked for you.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘As protection.’

  ‘Who are we talking about?’

  She drank and poured the little that was left in the pot into her mug. ‘Andrew Piper.’

  ‘Black Andy Piper?’

  ‘The same.’

  Ex-Chief Inspector Andrew Piper, known as Black Andy, was one of the most corrupt cops ever to serve in New South Wales. He’d risen rapidly through the ranks, a star recruit with a silver medal in the modern pentathlon at the Tokyo Olympics. He was big and good-looking and he had all the credentials-a policeman as a father, the Masonic connection, marriage to the daughter of a middle-ranking state politician, two children: a boy and a girl. Black Andy had played a few games for South Sydney and boxed exhibitions with Tony Mundine. He’d headed up teams of detectives in various Sydney divisions and the number of crimes they’d solved were only matched by the ones they’d taken the profits from. His name came up adversely at a succession of enquiries and he eventually retired on full benefits because to pursue him hard would have brought down more of the higher echelon of the force than anyone could handle.

  Melanie Fanshawe looked amused at my reaction to the name. ‘I gather you know each other.’

  ‘I’ve met him twice. The first time he had me beaten up, the second time it was to arrange to pay him blackmail.’

  She nodded. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Well, he’s telling all in this memoir-names, places, dates, amounts of money.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Did you know his wife died last year?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘She did. Then he was diagnosed with cancer. He says he’s found God.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Which of the three?’

  ‘The last. Black Andy is a corrupt bastard, through and through. If Jesus tapped him on the shoulder, Andy’d have one of his boys deal with him out in the alley.’

  ‘He says he’s put all that behind him. Cleared himself of all those connections. He wants to tell the truth so he can die in peace.’

  My scepticism was absolute. ‘Why not just write the book, confess to a priest, die absolved or whatever it is, and turn the royalties over to the church?’

  She ticked points off on her fingers. ‘One, he’s not a Catholic. Some sort of way-out sect. Two, he needs the money-the advance for the book-to pay for the treatments he’s having to give him time to finish it.’

  ‘I paid him a hundred grand last year.’

  ‘As I said, he claims to have broken all those connections. No income. Some recent in-house enquiry, well after his retirement, stripped him of his pension. At the time, he didn’t care. But it’s different now. From what he’s told me, he had incredible overheads when the money was coming in-protection, bribes…’

  ‘Booze, gambling, women.’

  ‘All that. He makes no bones about it. It promises to be a unique inside account, Mr Hardy. A mega bestseller. He needs it and, frankly, so do I.’

  ‘How long does he think it’ll take?’

  ‘Six weeks, he says.’

  ‘That’s a lot of my time and someone’s money. Yours?’

  She gave me that disarming, crooked smile again. ‘No, the publisher’s, if I can work it right. The thing is, publishing houses leak to the med
ia like politicians. I’m sure I can get the contract we need for this book, one with all the money bits and pieces built in, but as soon as I get it the news’ll flash round the business and hit the media. I’ve told Andrew that and he says they’ll come gunning for him from all directions. That’s why he suggested, no, requested, you. Will you do it?’

  It was too interesting to resist and I liked her. I agreed to meet Black Andy and talk to him before I made a decision.

  ‘But you’re more pro than con?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m intrigued. But we get back to it-six weeks solid is big bucks.’

  ‘I’ve got a publisher in mind who’ll be up for it.’

  ‘What about libel?’

  ‘He’ll cope with that as well. He’s a goer.’

  ‘Can I see what you’ve got from Andy already?’

  She looked doubtful. ‘He asked me not to show it to anyone until I was ready to make the deal, but I suppose you’re an exception. I can’t let you take it away, though. You’ll have to read it here.’

  She handed me a manila folder. It held four sheets of paper-the outline of Coming Clean: the inside story of corruption in Australia. I read quickly. No names, but indications that the people who would be named included well-known figures in politics, police, the law, media and business, as well as criminal identities. The fourth sheet was a list of chapter headings, with ‘Who killed Graeme Bartlett?’ as an example. Bartlett had been a police whistle-blower whose murder a few years ago hadn’t been solved.

  ‘This is it?’

  ‘I’ve seen more. He showed it to me on our second meeting but he wouldn’t let me keep it. He said it needed more work and he will only hand those chapters over to you. No you, no deal.’

  Flattering, but very suspicious. There were harder men than me around in Sydney, plenty of them, but maybe hardness wasn’t his priority. If he was genuine about his problem, Black Andy would have known that anyone he hired to protect him was liable to get a better offer. Some of the possible candidates would switch sides at the right price. My dealings with him hadn’t been pleasant, but at least we’d understood each other. And perhaps my police contacts were something he thought he could make use of.