by Peter Corris
‘Stop here. I have to make a call.’
He got out and used a phone box on the footpath. I watched as he felt in his pockets, dropped his money in and dialled—the perfect public servant. I was uneasy, though. He was slipping back into his secretive mode. Who was he calling, and why? Would he tell me? I’d have liked to make a call or two myself—to Vernon Morris maybe, or to Virginia Shaw or Joan Dare. But then Gallagher was back in the car, all toothy grins and confidence.
‘Hoadley Street, Coogee,’ he said. ‘Number 10. Just for a tick—then we’ll know where we’re really going.’
I started the car and revved it more than I needed to. The irritation was back. ‘Your informant is what—male or female? Animal, vegetable or mineral?’
Gallagher didn’t reply, which was probably to his credit. I drove on towards Coogee, feeling the pangs of hunger, stabs of pain from my disturbed tooth and deeper concerns. I tried to tell myself that two big tough men would be more than a match for one little tough man. But I couldn’t quite believe it.
19
The place Gallagher directed me to resembled a fortress. It was at the end of a no through road and occupied three sizeable blocks. There was a tennis court at the back, but substantial wire fences seemed to run around the whole perimeter apart from the front, where big metal gates were set in a brick fence six feet high. The house was a cream brick, two-storey job with white columns and bay windows. Cyn would have had it dynamited. There was a three-car garage at the end of a wide concrete drive that shone white under the morning sun. Gallagher got out, spoke into an intercom attached to the gates and waved me inside as they swung open.
There was going to be oil from my leaking gearbox and rubber from my battered tyres on the drive, but I supposed they had some way of dealing with that. I got out of the car and joined Gallagher on the path that led to the front door, a series of round sandstone slices set in a glossy lawn.
‘Your fizzes live well,’ I said.
‘He’s not my fizz.’
The door opened before we reached it and a small man in faded jeans, sneakers and a black T-shirt nodded to Gallagher.
We walked through the house, not an interesting walk but a long one. It was all deep carpet and chandeliers and attempts at good taste that missed by a mile. We went out through glass doors to a patio overlooking the tennis court and swimming pool. Not such a good view of the sea, but you can’t have everything. Two men were sitting at a table under a sun umbrella. Both wore business shirts and ties. One had a pistol in a shoulder holster. The unarmed man, a chunky type with a high colour and curling grey hair, stood up as he saw Gallagher. His eyes swept over me appraisingly, no doubt arriving at the conclusion that I didn’t have a tennis court or a swimming pool.
‘This him, Ian?’ he said. His voice was deep with a trace of Irish in it. He was a well-used thirty or a well-preserved fifty, it was hard to tell.
‘Yes,’ Gallagher said.
That was when the small guy in the casuals gripped me in a hold that I’d been taught in the army but never perfected. It paralysed both my arms between shoulder and elbow. I got set to kick someone or something but Gallagher had got his gun out, moved around and pointed it at my right knee.
‘Just keep still, Cliff,’ he said. ‘He’s got a .38 on his left hip, Chalky. Better get it.’
By then I was too amazed to do anything. I felt the grip relax but still couldn’t move my arms. Then the weight of the gun left me and I was tasting something bitter in my mouth.
‘Nice gun,’ Teacher said. His voice was gravelly and I’d heard it before—in St Peters Lane. He spun the chamber and cocked the revolver. Then he put the muzzle at the point of my jaw, not far from my bad tooth.
‘Let’s keep it sophisticated,’ the man in charge said. ‘My name is Henry Wilton, Hardy. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.’
Of course I had. Wilson and Wilton and Associates was a medium-sized private inquiry firm, based in Sydney but with at least one interstate branch. The name Wilton, as Teacher’s employer, had almost rung a bell with Joan Dare and should have rung one with me, connecting up with the talk of there being other private detectives involved in the Meadowbank et al. divorces. Too late now. Wilton could see how my mind was working. He chuckled and sat back down. ‘Chalky works for my father. He likes horses. He also works for me because he likes money and other things.’
I was left standing there, waiting for sensation to return to the pinched nerves of my upper arms and feeling like an idiot. Teacher was somewhere behind me with a gun; Gallagher was in front of me, also armed, like the dark-haired man still sitting at the table, not paying us a lot of attention. Wilton and I were the only ones without weapons, which put us on a level, in a way. I stepped to my left and went forward, brushing past Gallagher, until I could get my backside lowered onto the low wall of the patio. I took out the makings and rolled a cigarette with cramped, but steady, fingers. I lit it and looked at Wilton. ‘You’re a shameful disgrace to our profession, Wilton,’ I said. ‘I think Wilson should have a word with you.’
Give him his due, he laughed. ‘There isn’t any Wilson. Hasn’t been for a long time. As for the profession, it’s not a bad game, if you know how to go about it the right way, which you clearly don’t.’
I blew some smoke and moved my shoulders slightly. Felt all right, ‘Tell me,’ I said.
Gallagher put his pistol away and took off his jacket, trying to join the administrative rather than the executive branch. ‘I don’t think there’s any need to tell him things, Henry,’ he said. ‘I think this is his first fucking case.’
But Henry Wilton’s weakness was showing; he liked to talk, especially about himself, and maybe he didn’t get too many safe opportunities to do that. He settled back into the shade of the umbrella. ‘I can’t see the harm, Ian, old son,’ he said. ‘Seeing that it’s possibly his last fucking case.’
The effort never had much chance, but I made it anyway. I flicked the cigarette butt at Gallagher and scored a hit somewhere on his face. I launched myself from the wall and made a clawing grab at the gun sitting in the armpit of the dark man who was yet to say a word. My reactions were way too slow and my target was much too fast. He clamped his arm over the gun and hit me with a short elbow jolt. Then Teacher stepped in and thumped me in the ribs. I stumbled and sagged back against the wall. Wilton hadn’t moved. The only satisfaction I got was Ian Gallagher rubbing at his eyes and swearing when he saw how the cigarette ash had dirtied his shirt.
‘Game enough,’ Wilton said. ‘It’s a pity you’re not smart. You had a warning.’
‘I don’t like warnings, or being shot at.’ I looked at Gallagher, still brushing at his shirt. ‘Or being bullshitted.’
‘I have to admit you’ve had your share. There’s still a chance for you, Hardy. I hope you realise that.’
I recognised the line for what it was—a piece of hope with a barbed hook inside—and I didn’t respond.
‘We’d like to know who put you on to Chalky,’ Wilton said. ‘Tell us that, and maybe we can work something out.’
‘What’s the point?’ Gallagher said. ‘It’s contained. Let’s get it over with.’
‘Don’t be so hasty, Ian. Chalky’d like to know, wouldn’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ Teacher growled. ‘But there’s no need to ask him nicely.’
‘There’ll be none of that here,’ Wilton snapped. ‘How about it, Hardy? Want to chat?’
‘I might,’ I said. ‘But I’d need to get something in return. I’m having trouble believing this is about divorces and knighthoods.’
‘I feel like a drink,’ Wilton said, ‘especially if we’re going to be talking.’ He nudged the man who’d put his elbow into my face. ‘Slip inside, Mario, and get out a few bottles and glasses.’
Mario moved to obey.
‘Henry,’ Gallagher said. ‘Stop pissing around.’
Wilton said, ‘Contained, wasn’t that your word? No one’s expecting him or you, a
re they?’
‘No.’
‘Relax, then. Have a drink. You’ve done a good job. You deserve it.’
Like a lot of people, so I understand, I’ve dreamed that I was about to be executed. This was something like those dreams—slow moving, terrifying, but with a kind of civilised veneer and with a feeling that the moment would be long delayed and maybe never reached. Teacher kept a very close eye on me and my .38 rested very comfortably in his capable right hand. His boxing career didn’t seem to have done him any harm. He might have moved up a weight division, but he still looked very fit. His eyes were steady like the rest of him—neat, economical movements, no tics. No bravado either. Wilton was clearly the boss, but I had a sense that Teacher would go freelance if it suited him.
Mario arrived with several chilled bottles of Reschs Pilsener, a collection of frosted glasses and one paper cup on a tray which he put down on the table. A tall tree growing near the patio was casting some welcome shade by this time. I was sweating. I didn’t sweat in my execution dream as far as I could remember. This was fear. Gallagher looked anxious. Wilton was relaxed until he took stock of the drinks. ‘What’re you doing, Mario?’ he said. ‘Go and get a bitter lemon for Chalky. Right, Chalky?’
Teacher nodded. A man of action, Chalky, like Mario. Neither of them entirely happy with things, like Gallagher, but I couldn’t see myself recruiting them as allies. The only happy member of the party, now that he was about to get a drink in his hand and everyone was doing his bidding, was Henry Wilton. Mario poured the drinks. I accepted my paper cup and sipped cautiously. It would have been easy for Mario to have slipped something into the cup and icy cold beer will conceal most tastes. But why should they bother? I never heard of truth serum in tablet form and if they wanted to subdue me they had Chalky, willing and able.
Wilton drained his glass and signalled for Mario to refill it. Gallagher smoked moodily and drank slowly. Teacher took his soft drink straight from the bottle. A tough guy’s tough guy. Mario poured half a glass for himself, took a sip and lost interest. It was hard to guess what Mario would really be interested in—maybe a Gucci shotgun.
‘Well, now,’ Wilton said. ‘Ian here says he thinks you’re pretty smart, Hardy. Are you smart enough to talk yourself out of trouble?’
‘I don’t feel very smart just now,’ I said. ‘But you’re a good talker and I’m a good listener.’
Wilton worked on his second beer for a while. He traced patterns on the table top with the moisture from his glass and appeared to be trying to make a decision. Eventually he erased the doodling. ‘Okay. You might even be useful. The gongs are important. These silvertails want them more than they want to fuck and if the state and federal governments change, that’ll be the end of the game around here. The price has never been higher and there’s a lot of characters getting in for their chop. Redding’s not the only politician and there’s a judge who’d eat his wig to be a sir.’
‘I can’t see that a few divorces would matter much,’ I said. I shot a look at Gallagher, who was half turned away, staring towards the visible sliver of ocean. ‘But I suppose there’s time and money involved, and when someone pulls out, like Meadowbank did …’
‘That’s right. And the blokes panting for the nod get impatient. And Bob Askin and his mates can up the ante. Sorry, didn’t mean to mention any names.’
‘Shit, Henry,’ Gallagher said.
Wilton wiped foam from his mouth. ‘Shut your face. We want something from this man.’
‘You won’t get it,’ Gallagher said.
‘We’ll see.’
Mario yawned and Wilton gave him a dirty look. ‘You know what discretion statements are, don’t you, Hardy?’
I did, courtesy of my one, less than wholly successful, year of law studies—statements lodged with the court by divorce petitioners, suing on the grounds of their partners’ transgressions, giving details of their own misdoings. It was a requirement of the crazy, out-dated divorce law, particularly if the ‘innocent’ party was seeking custody of children. Mostly, these statements went unread by anyone, but sometimes a judge who smelled a rat or disliked one of the parties would take a discretion statement into consideration. ‘I know about them,’ I said.
Wilton lifted his glass in a sort of toast. ‘How many women have you fucked since you were married?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Be quite a few in my case and some names I wouldn’t want known. Do you get my drift?’
‘Blackmail. You’ve got hold of some discretion statements …’
‘A stack of ’em.’
‘That sounds like real money.’
‘Believe me, it is.’
‘And some people got greedy, like Juliet Farquhar?’
Wilton shook his head. ‘Silly girl. She was very cooperative and very useful for a time, working from Andrew Perkins’ office. She helped with the documentation, you might say.’
‘She sicced Chalky onto me, too.’
‘She didn’t know what she was doing,’ Wilton said. ‘When she put a few things together she wasn’t so cooperative and … He spread his hands. He wore a broad gold wedding ring. His hands were well cared-for and very clean.
I held out my paper cup in Mario’s direction but he ignored me. ‘Who performed that little service?’
I caught a twitch from Mario.
‘Which brings us to Virginia Shaw,’ I said.
‘That bitch! She just threw you in it, mate. She knew the score. Whose name’s in half those discretion statements, d’you reckon?’
‘What was the problem?’
‘Gave her a grip, didn’t it? Now you’re really talking greedy. We’d like you to help us with her whereabouts.’
I shook my head.
Gallagher slammed his empty glass down on the table. ‘That’s enough, Henry! I helped you set up this fucking thing, steered you through it. Now I’m saying that’s enough running off at the mouth to this joker. Ask him the question.’
Henry Wilton wasn’t a stupid man. He knew when he’d had his own way long enough and how to give ground graciously. ‘I think you’re right, Ian. Our cards are on the table, Hardy. Who gave you Chalky’s name?’
No one was pretending to be polite anymore and negotiation wasn’t in the air. Wilton had enjoyed telling his story but it hadn’t given me any room to manoeuvre. Perhaps more had come out than he’d intended. The upshot was that I was transformed from a captive audience into something disposable and we both knew it.
I took out the makings and rolled a cigarette. ‘I think it was Bob Askin,’ I said, ‘but it might have been Tiny Tim.’
Chalky Teacher hit me high and low, very hard. I didn’t see either of the punches coming and after they landed I didn’t see or hear anything at all.
20
Pain and fear are good companions. They go together well. Back each other up like a good doubles pair at tennis. I had both of them with me when I regained consciousness after Chalky Teacher’s scientific assault. The pain was in my head, hands and feet and just about everywhere else in between. I tried to move to ease it and found out the main cause—I was tied at the wrists and ankles with my hands behind my back and my legs drawn up. Spasms of cramp shot through me as I tried to move. I lay still, waiting for the agony to settle back into ordinary pain. The fear was internal and external. I was sweating; there was a foul taste in my mouth which was taped shut, and my bowels were agitating fitfully like an off-balance washing machine.
I opened my eyes and experienced a surge of panic. I couldn’t see anything. Had Chalky blinded me? Then I realised I was in an enclosed, lightless space. Or almost lightless. I blinked and let my eyes adapt. Inside the blackness were patches of grey, some paler than others. I felt rather than saw the confinement, but I knew it was very close. A big box? A cupboard? I tried not to think of a coffin—it was bigger than that. Then an engine started and the prison began to move. I felt the wheels under me bumping along. I was in the back of some kind of vehicl
e, a small truck, a van or a station wagon. The windows were blacked out and the doors or hatch were a tight fit.
Trussed up like that, I felt like a thing, a non-person, an object being transported to some unknown destination. After a while I could move slightly without bringing on the cramp, but there was no point to it. I couldn’t move enough to gauge the dimensions of the space, and what the hell difference did it make anyway? I was tied so tightly I couldn’t get leverage of any kind. There was no possibility of rolling over or sitting up without dislocating several joints. Suddenly, I was aware of another sensation—cold. I was naked apart from my jockettes and small draughts were blowing over me and making me shiver.
At first I couldn’t understand that. It was a warm day, wasn’t it? Then I realised I had no idea of the time. Warm days change to cool nights. How long had I been unconscious? In a way that lost time, and not knowing its duration, was the most frightening thing of all. It gave me the feeling that I was already dead. I closed my eyes again and concentrated on trying to get some movement in the lashings around my ankles and wrists. Nothing, not the fraction of an inch. I probed with my tongue against the tape across my mouth, but it was wide, heavy-duty stuff, generously applied. I panicked again, almost choked, and forced myself to breathe regularly through my nose. I was pretty sure I was experiencing the hard way another one of Chalky Teacher’s great talents.
I eventually decided I was in a panel van. The engine noise was muffled, meaning that there was a solid barrier between me and the front of the vehicle. Not a station wagon therefore, and some branches brushing the roof overhead gave me an idea of its height. Too low for a truck. I settled on the van—a matter of the quality of the ride and the pitch of the rattles and squeaks. I tried to listen to the traffic outside to get an idea of time and place, but wheels on roads sound much the same. The vehicle stopped and started, turned left and right, rode rough and smooth. I heard an occasional truck rumble and air brakes like those on a tourist bus. I heard no train noises or jet engines. I didn’t have a clue where I was.
