Corris, Peter

by [Cliff Hardy 32] The Big Score [v1. 0]

  For generations the gym has served as a poste restante address for fighters and trainers often too down on their luck to afford proper accommodation. A couple of sports journalists drop in regularly in search of colour for their columns. I go there once in a while just to stay in touch with the business I had thought of taking on professionally until a hard left hook from Clem Carter in an amateur six-rounder convinced me otherwise. I’d done some work for a couple of the trainers and managers over the years, scaring off touts and persuading promoters to pay what they owed.

  Wally Tanner was one of those trainers and I knew he hung out at Trueman’s, always on the hunt for a promising fighter. I didn’t think he’d trained Jimmy O’Day, but O’Day had certainly put in time at Trueman’s and there was a good chance Wally would know something about him.

  In the old days a boxing gym smelled of tobacco smoke, sweat and liniment, now it’s just the sweat and liniment. It was early in the afternoon, not the best time when most of the fighters have jobs and only get to the gym after they knock off, but Wally was there watching a couple of heavyweights plodding around the ring.

  He nodded to me. ‘Gidday, Cliff. Look at these no-hopers. It’s a disgrace to let ‘em in a ring.’

  ‘As they say—they’re slow but they can’t hit.’

  ‘That’s right. Haven’t seen you for a while. What brings you around?’

  ‘D’you remember Jimmy O’Day?’

  Wally turned disgustedly away from the ring to watch a skipper and a kid working on the speed ball. They didn’t please him either. ‘Sure I do. He was a good boy—good, not great. Why?’

  ‘I’m trying to locate a cousin of his named Marie. I’m told they were pretty close at one time.’

  Wally was an old school racist. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘well they’re like that, aren’t they? Especially when one of ‘em’s got any cash. Jeez, they bled Dave Sands dry. Lionel too, I reckon.’

  ‘Any idea where Jimmy is now?’

  ‘Be in Redfern, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Come on, Wally, keep up. There’s Aborigines in parliament, in the law, in business.’

  ‘Not ex-boxers. The money goes and they get on the grog.’

  ‘Have it your way. I’ll ask someone else.’

  ‘Hang on, don’t get shitty. I don’t know anything about a cousin, but I did hear that Jimmy was doin’ something. What was it? Oh, yeah—he’s got a band. They play country music’

  ‘What’s the name of the band?’

  ‘Dunno. I just heard someone mention that Jimmy was the leader. I suppose he plays the guitar and sings. Don’t they all play the guitar and sing, the leaders?’

  ‘Mick Jagger didn’t play guitar, though I gather he does a bit now.’

  Wally would’ve spat into the sawdust in the old days, now he just sneered. ‘That ponce. Big in the bedroom, but I’d like to see him inside the ropes.’

  ‘The man’s over sixty.’

  ‘So am I, and I can still go a bit. Better than them two.’ He turned away to watch the cumbersome sparrers and I left him to it.

  * * * *

  It was a lead of a sort, and what you always dread in the early stages of an investigation is the absolute dead end. Avoid them for a while and you can start to make progress if you know your business.

  I don’t buy many CDs these days after replacing a lot of my seventies vinyls and cassettes. I don’t really keep up much since Cold Chisel and Dire Straits, though I quite like The Whitlams. With country music I mostly preferred the women—Patsy Cline, Lucinda Williams. I’d bought Kasey Chambers’s first album at Hot Music at the Cross and that’s where I went next.

  The place is distinguished from many others by having staff who know about the stuff they sell and how to get it if it’s not in stock. The young woman I approached had a fair amount of silverware in her face, a lot of eye makeup and an indoor pallor.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘do you happen to know about a country music band with a leader named Jimmy O’Day?’

  ‘Would that be James O’Day?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Well, sure—they’re called the Currawongs. Want to hear them? They’ve got two albums.’

  She put a disc on and gave me the headphones. I’m no great judge of country, but the music sounded tight and professional. The lead singer had a sweet voice, something like Gram Parsons. I listened to a couple of tracks and nodded.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  I produced the plastic and as she was inspecting the disc and wrapping it, I asked if she knew where the band played.

  ‘You like it that much, eh? Maybe you want the other album?’

  ‘This’ll do for a start.’

  ‘Okay, worth a try. Their webpage is on the line notes. You can probably find out from that. I know they tour a lot, like all those groups. Have to make a living, dude.’

  ‘Don’t we all, isn’t it a pity?’

  I took the disc to my office and inspected it. The album was simply called The Currawongs. The photograph of the band was small and dark and I wasn’t able to identify O’Day from that. Any one of the four—keyboard player, two guitarists and drummer—could have been him, but the notes said that James O’Day was the keyboard man, singer and lyricist. I looked at the photo again but couldn’t match the man at the piano with the kid I’d seen in the boxing ring nearly twenty years back.

  As you'd expect, the band's webpage was Currawongs.net. I got it up and learned more. One of the guitarists was Brian O'Day, James's brother, and the drummer, Larry Roberts, was their cousin. The other guitarist was Luke Harvey. The band had evolved from several earlier groups and taken their name a few years back. They'd toured the east coast extensively and played at the Byron Bay Blues and Roots Festival. Biographical information was sketchy; no ages were given, there was no mention of Aboriginality or boxing, but the title of one of the songs, 'Blues for Jimmy Sharman', struck the right note. Sharman Senior and Junior were the bosses of the most famous of the old-time touring boxing-tent shows. It was looking good.

  As the cluey woman in the music shop had thought, the band’s dates were listed on the website. In two days’ time they were playing at the Bulli Hotel in the Illawarra. Easy drive, pleasant setting. I took the CD home and played it. It didn’t make me want to rush out to buy the other one, but I liked it well enough. The songs had a freshness to them and varied between bluesy laments, standard country stuff and something verging on hard rock. There seemed to me to be a touch of the Stones in country mood, with a bit of Van Morrison, maybe some Paul Kelly, and that note in O’Day’s voice that reminded me of Gram Parsons, especially on the downbeat tracks. I listened closely to ‘Blues for Jimmy Sharman:

  You went in much too often

  And you got real beat down

  When the country boys who took a glove

  Weren’t just the usual clowns

  But you stayed at it longer

  Than they ever thought you might

  ‘Cos your woman and kids was hungry

  And Dad you had to stand and fight.

  Sounded as if he knew what he was singing about.

  I phoned Clarrie Simpson, one of the journalists who frequented Trueman’s and someone I occasionally had a drink with. We shot the shit for a while. Clarrie was semi-retired and glad to talk.

  ‘Remember Jimmy O’Day?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah—held the Commonwealth Mickey Mouse middleweight title, briefly.’

  ‘Know anything about his background?’

  ‘I should. I wrote a piece about him.’

  ‘His father?’

  ‘Tent fighter with Sharman Junior.’

  Thank you, Clarrie. ‘How old would Jimmy be now?’

  Clarrie’s of an age where everyone not as old as him seems to get younger. ‘Not old,’ he said. ‘He started young and he quit right after that Kiwi beat him. Nasty, that was. He got cut badly above both eyes and they didn’t stop it as soon as they should have. I’d say early forties. Anything in th
is for me?’

  ‘Could be, not sure.’

  ‘Typical.’

  * * * *

  I rang the Bulli Hotel and found out you could book a table close to the stage for a meal and a ticket to the show for a price that wouldn’t take too much of Kevin’s retainer. Pay by credit card. Why not?

  I booked into a Thirroul motel, thinking that I’d probably have a drink or two and wouldn’t want to drive back. A short hop from there to Bulli. Great old pub on the highway, heritage protected for sure. The structure had been preserved and the renovations hadn’t destroyed the charm. A Hyundai people-mover and trailer were parked in the lane beside the pub. The room where the band was to play held about twenty tables and there was plenty of standing room with a bar at the back. I gave my name and was shown to a small table off to one side with a clear view of the stage. I ordered a bottle of Houghton’s white burgundy and the barramundi with chips—what else do you eat on the coast within the sound and smell of the waves?

  The wine was cold and the food was good. The room filled up quickly with all the tables being taken and the standing room packed. Evidently the Currawongs had a following. They came on about ten minutes late, which is pretty standard. The MC just spoke the band’s name to raucous applause and went off. Before the lights went down I got a good look at the keyboard man. James was Jimmy all right—the same dark curly hair, olive skin and fluid movement. I couldn’t see the boxing scars but, like me, he had the heavy brows that stretch the skin and lead to cuts. The band tuned up briefly and launched into one of their country rock numbers I hadn’t heard. The crowd had and showed its approval.

  They played for forty-five minutes, switching from fast to slower but never slow, and keeping the energy up. James, as I told myself to think of him, was active at the electronic keyboard, standing up when appropriate and giving it some body as well as fingers. All four seemed to be on top of their game with some good slide guitar at times and nice harmonies. They took a ten-minute break and came back with more of the same. James didn’t do the corny stuff of introducing the band, but each member had a couple of solo moments that said more than words. I paced myself with the wine and still had a third of the bottle left when they did their last song and their encore. I was probably one of the oldest people there, but I was on my feet and cheering like the youngest.

  ‘James will be signing CDs in the bar when he catches his breath and has a drink,’ the MC announced.

  A crowd clustered around as O’Day propped himself against the bar with a beer to hand and chatted to the people buying the record. As I got closer I could see the scar tissue, which gave him a slightly threatening look. Even if you didn’t know he’d been a fighter, he’d strike you as someone not to mess with. I took the album I didn’t have from the roadie who was supervising the business and paid cash for it. I hung back until I was the last in the line.

  ‘Hi,’ O’Day said, ‘enjoy the show?’

  I handed him the record. ‘I did.’

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Cliff Hardy. I’m a private detective and I want to talk to you.’

  He paused the pen over the record. ‘Yeah, what about?’

  ‘I saw you fight a couple of times when you were called Jimmy.’

  He scrawled something illegible and stood. ‘Good for you. I’m off now.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  I moved to stop him and suddenly the roadie and someone else were beside me, hemming me in against the bar as O’Day slipped away. The roadie threw a punch. I ducked it and gave him a hard one to the ribs that crumpled him. The other man attempted to kick me in the balls and I up-ended him. He came back quickly in a karate stance. By this time some of the hard-core drinkers had clustered around, ready to enjoy the second show of the night. I didn’t oblige them. I pulled out my wallet and held up my PEA licence card.

  ‘Federal police,’ I said. ‘Don’t make things worse for yourself.’

  He straightened his body and unflexed the stiffened fingers. ‘Sorry, I was just ...’

  ‘Doing your job. It’s okay.’

  The drinkers lost interest. I looked about but the roadie had gone. I went out onto the tiled verandah and around to the side where the band’s people-mover and trailer had been parked. Gone. When I went back into the pub the karateist had faded away as well. Great work, Cliff, I thought, you scared everyone off and learned bugger-all.

  I went back into the room and recovered my bottle. My hair was in my face, my shirt was half pulled out from my pants and I was angry. A frightened-looking kid behind the bar handed me a cork and I gave him a nod that didn’t make him any happier. A woman came bustling towards me; she was angry, too.

  ‘I don’t care who you are,’ she said. ‘I’m going to report you for causing a disturbance here.’

  ‘Who’re you?’ I said.

  ‘I’m the events manager.’

  ‘In your place I’d do exactly the same thing, but think about it. Would a bit of a stoush after the band finished playing really do your venue a lot of harm? I don’t think so.’

  She was smart enough to take the point. She was pushing middle age but holding up well. She wore a white blouse, blue velvet jacket and black trousers with heels that made her tallish. Her hair was dark with red highlights.

  ‘You’re not a policeman,’ she said.

  ‘No. I told Jimmy O’Day that before things got wild.’

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘We go back a bit. You are ...?’

  ‘Rennie Ellis. Well, you’ve made life interesting tonight, but you’d better take your bottle and go.’

  ‘Who was the guy with the karate moves?’

  She shrugged, nicely. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you do. I’m booked into the Thirroul Lodge, room six. I’ll be there until ten am tomorrow. I’d like to talk to him and I could make it worth his while.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said.

  * * * *

  At the motel I parked the wine in the mini-bar fridge and opened one of the small scotches for a nightcap. I’d barely tasted it when a knock came on the door. I opened it and Rennie Ellis stood there with a trench coat draped around her shoulders and a bottle in her hand.

  ‘We got off on the wrong foot,’ she said, and handed me the bottle. ‘A peace offering.’

  I took the bottle—champagne. ‘Come in.’

  She moved past me and looked at the room. ‘A while since I’ve been here,’ she said. ‘Not bad. They’re trying.’

  ‘I was having a nightcap. Want a scotch?’

  She dropped the coat on a chair and sat down on the arm. ‘I’ll take the other half, sure.’

  She was a good-looking woman with a full figure and the sort of confidence that comes with experience on top of adequate self-esteem. She sipped of the scotch, bent easily and picked up the book I’d put down beside the chair, intending to read for a while before going to bed.

  ‘Dark Safari? she said. ‘Paul Theroux. What’s it like?’

  ‘Good. Confirms my feeling that I don’t want to go to Africa.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To know why you’re here.’

  ‘Knew you’d be direct. Anything else?’

  ‘I asked you in, didn’t I?’

  She drank the rest of the scotch. ‘I saw you in action in the pub. I was impressed.’

  ‘Didn’t come across to me.’

  ‘That was for the management. I’m here for me now.’

  It was a semi-invitation I couldn’t refuse. We finished the scotch in the mini-bar and opened the champagne. She told me she was a swimming instructor not getting too many clients given the time of year. She said she was tired of young surfies and old hippies. At some point she moved to the bed and we were sitting together and things went on from there. She kissed as though she needed to, and so did I. She had a condom in her coat pocket and by the time I’d kissed her breasts and slid my fingers inside her I was ready. We pulled back the covers and made love vigorously eno
ugh to pull the sheets away from the mattress. After we finished we clawed at the sheets and blankets, suddenly aware that it was cold.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘My first private detective.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘Someone heard you speak to James O’Day. That someone told me.’