by Peter Corris
‘Just looking,’ I said.
He was close enough for me to see the aggression pent up in him and something else—there was a nervousness in his movements and a frozen look in his eyes that I’d seen before in speed-freaks and pill-poppers. I opened my hands in a placating gesture which he misunderstood, perhaps deliberately. He crowded up close and bumped me back against the crumbling brick wall. I wasn’t ready for it, and lost a bit of breath.
‘Take it easy,’ I said. I put out a hand to hold him back and he swept it aside. His punch was a clumsy looping effort, and I couldn’t resist it; I stepped inside and hit him short, just above the belt buckle. He sagged and I grabbed him under the arms to hold him up.
‘Let him go.’ Another man came from behind the trees; he was slighter and clean-shaven, and he dropped into a martial-arts pose about ten feet away from me. I let the bearded man slide down the wall.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘All this is silly; I just want to ask a few questions. I’m looking for someone.’
‘Do him, Chris,’ my winded opponent said, and Chris didn’t need any encouragement. He jumped up and let go a flying kick at my shoulder. It was a good, high jump, but the trick with this stuff is not to watch the acrobatics. I ducked under it and kicked the leg he landed on out from under him. He went down in a heap and the stiff-armed chop he came up with might have looked good on the mat but was way too slow in the field. I swayed away from it and hit him just where I’d hit his mate; and that was a mistake because he had washboard muscles there, but I had the combination ready and the next punch landed on his nose where there aren’t any muscles, just nerves to cause pain and blood vessels to break. He yelped and threw his hands up over his face.
So I had one on the ground and one with a bloody face and no information. Then I heard a slow, ironic handclap; she was standing on the steps of the next house, dark and fat in a shapeless dress and with a cigarette between her lips.
‘I didn’t start it,’ I said inanely.
‘Who cares?’ She seemed to find it all funny; flesh on her face shook as she laughed and she puffed at the cigarette without touching it.
I fished out my licence card and waved it in front of Chris and his mate.
‘I’m a private detective. I’m looking for Kenneth Silverman; now who’s going to talk to me? There’s money in it.’
The woman took the cigarette out of her face and tried a fat, pursed-up smile.
‘Now you’re talking,’ she said. ‘Come along here.’
‘Don’t talk to him, Fay,’ the bearded one said.
‘Shut your head, Lenny. Come on whatever your name is, I’ll talk your arse off.’
I went past my opponents and followed her to a back door in the middle of the row. We went into a kitchen that was neither dirty nor clean. I smelled something vaguely familiar, and sniffed at it.
‘Candles,’ she said. ‘No power in here. I can make you a coffee, though.’ She gestured at a small stove hooked up to a gas cylinder.
‘Don’t bother, thanks. Do you know Silverman?’
‘Straight to it, eh? What about the money?’
I got out ten dollars and put it on the cracked linoleum-topped table.
‘And another if I’m satisfied,’ I said.
‘Fair enough.’ She bobbed her head and the fat bounced on her and ash fell down on to her lumpy chest. ‘Yeah, I knew Kenny, he lived down the end there.’ She waved back towards the scene of my triumph. ‘He left when they cleared us out; no, a bit before that.’
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘The developers—Forbes Realty. They own this terrace and a few others. Cunts!’
‘What happened?’
‘Came around one morning, about six o’clock, two big blokes with a guy in a suit. He told them what to do—they dumped all our stuff out; everything, every fucking thing, just out in the bloody street. Then they boarded the place up.’ She laughed.
‘What’s funny?’
‘I was thinking, Chris lost a fight that morning too—it’s bullshit, that karate crap.’
I grunted. ‘You said Silverman had gone by this time?’
She squinted at the ten dollars, remembering, or pretending to. ‘Yeah, he wasn’t in the house that morning. No sign of him. I think some of his stuff got dumped, but I’m not sure. It was a pretty wild scene.’
‘Why are those two so jumpy?’
She spat the cigarette stub out onto the floor, put her thonged foot on it and fished a packet of Winfield out of her pocket.
‘We’ve only been back a couple of weeks; it’s been quiet, but you never know with that mob.’
I nodded, she lit up and puffed an enormous cloud of smoke at the window. I looked around at the artefacts of the squat—packing case shelves, a hose running in through the window to the sink, the small carton of milk on the table. She read my mind.
‘You’re wondering what a silvertail like Kenny was doing living in a dump like this?’
I pushed the money across to her. ‘Yes.’
She picked it up and put it away with the cigarettes.
‘Kenny and the others were taking on Forbes,’ she spoke around the cigarette. ‘Kenny was living here as a political act, that’s what he said.’
‘Who else was in the group?’
‘Chris and Lenny, couple more. I think I’ve said enough, I don’t know a bloody thing about you. Do I get the other ten?’
‘You’re not political yourself?’
‘Shit no, I squat ’cos it’s easy.’
‘Did they have trouble with the developers before?’
‘Oh yeah, plenty—slashed tyres, windows busted—usual things.’
‘Anything since you moved back?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What sort of action did Kenneth and the others take?’
‘Letters to the papers, attending council meetings, street meetings about the plan. They’re going to build right down to the water, you know? We won’t even be able to see the bit we see now.’
I gave her another ten dollars and went across to the dusty, cobwebbed window. Blackwattle Bay was an ugly, oily gleam under the dull grey sky and its Glebe shore was a blasted landscape of car bodies, timber and scratchy grass. The view was a long way short of cheerful but there was water in it, it promised better things; it was Sydney. I thanked Fay and tramped through the backyards; Lenny and Chris weren’t in sight and I pulled myself up to one of the windows of the house Silverman had occupied. It was in bad shape; there were black-rimmed holes in the floorboards, and plumbing had been ripped out and hung limp and useless on the kitchen wall.
I drove to the post office and looked up Forbes Realty. The address in Norton Street, Leichhardt, niggled at me as I wrote it down. Back in the car I found out why—Kenneth Silverman’s parking ticket had been incurred in Norton Street.
It seemed like time for some telephone research; I went home, made a drink and called a few people including Cy Sackville, my lawyer, and Grant Evans, a senior cop and friend. The results were interesting. Forbes Realty was a semi-solid firm and the word in financial circles was that it was over-extended. Its two leading shareholders were Horace Silverman and Clive Patrick. Silverman’s interests were extensive and Forbes was a small part of his action. From Evans I learned that Forbes Realty had been burglarised eight weeks back and that enquiries were proceeding, also that a Constable Ian Williamson had stopped MG sports model JLM 113 registered to Kenneth Silverman and booked the driver for speeding. Evans arranged for me to talk to Williamson and that made one favour I owed him.
I reckoned I’d put in a day. It was time to tease out a few loose ends and do some thinking. I needed to know more about Forbes Realty and Kenneth’s tactics; also, I was stalling: I didn’t like the look of things and I might have to play a very careful hand. I bought some Lebanese food on the way home and washed it down with a few drinks. Then I took a long walk around Glebe; they were selling food and drink and fun in the main road and God know
s what in the back streets and lanes. I nodded to the shop and street people I knew, and avoided the dog shit and cracks in the pavement by long habit. The water was shining under a clear sky and a light breeze brought a salty tang to the nostrils. You wouldn’t have washed your socks in the water and every tree in the place was struggling against the pollution, but it was home and I liked it. Its minute foreshore didn’t need blocking out with flats.
I went home and phoned a contact in motor registry. He got back to me an hour later with the information that Silverman’s car hadn’t been sold, traded, stolen or smashed in the last two months. It had disappeared. I went to sleep wondering about how Kenneth reconciled the car with his radicalism; I wondered whether Horace Silverman’s delicate business negotiations involved Forbes Realty, and I wondered whether Dr Garson would accept if I asked her out to dinner.
At ten in the morning I phoned Horace Silverman and asked him about his role in Forbes Realty. He went silent and I had to prompt him.
‘I can see you’ve been doing your job, Mr Hardy.’
‘I hope so.’ I was thinking fast, trying to guess at his meaning and keep the upper hand. ‘Would you care to tell me all about it?’
There was another pause and then he spoke very deliberately. ‘I don’t know how you found out, but it’s true—Kenneth and I had a falling out over Forbes Realty.’
I breathed out gently. ‘How bad?’
‘Quite serious. He was very critical of the firm, I suppose you know why.’
‘Yeah. You didn’t tell me he’d stopped taking your money.’
‘That’s true too. I’m sorry I wasn’t frank, Mr Hardy. It’s painful to discuss.’
I could imagine his cocky little face expressing the pain, and part of it would be due to having to apologise and explain. It seemed like the right time to suggest that we weren’t looking at a happy ending.
‘I suppose you hoped I’d find the boy quick and easy, and none of this’d matter?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘something like that. I take it it’s not going to be easy?’
‘Right. Now, tell me about Forbes Realty; do those business negotiations you mention concern it?’
He snorted. ‘No, not at all. That’s a very big deal, Mr Hardy, and I don’t want to discuss it on the phone.’
‘Forbes is small beer to you?’
‘More or less. It’s a useful investment.’
‘Are you actively involved with the company?’
‘No, not really. I paid it some attention after Kenneth made his … allegations.’
‘Were you satisfied?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t enquire too deeply, other things took precedence.’
I’d heard that before—from parents who wept while children with scarred arms died in hospital, and from husbands who’d come home to empty houses and notes. Silverman broke in on these thoughts: ‘Can you tell me what progress you’ve made, Hardy?’ The Mr had gone, he was asserting himself again, and I wasn’t in the mood for it.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll call again when I can.’
It was close to six o’clock when I got to Erskineville; petrol fumes and dust hung in the air and Williamson, a beefy, blonde man, was sitting in his singlet on the front step of a terrace house breathing the mixture and drinking beer. We shook hands and I accepted a can.
‘Evans told me to cooperate,’ he said, popping another can. ‘What d’you want to know?’
I got out the photocopy of the speeding summons and handed it to him. ‘Remember this?’ I drank some beer, it was very cold.
‘Yeah, pretty well. That should have come up by now. What’s going on?’
‘He’s dropped out of sight and I’m looking for him. Can you describe him?’
Williamson took a long suck on the can. ‘He didn’t get out of the car, so I can’t be sure of his height and build—I’d guess tall and slim, maybe a bit taller and thinner than you. He was dark, narrow face …’ He held up his hands helplessly.
‘Hair?’
‘Not much of it, dark and well back at the sides, peak in front, sort of.’
‘Age?’
‘Forties.’
‘Clothes?’
‘Suit—no shirt and tie, the jacket was on the front seat.’
‘Where did he get the licence from, pocket or glove box?’
‘Can’t remember, sorry.’
‘He was alone?’
‘Right.’
‘Did you see anything in the back of the car—clothes, suitcase?’
‘Can’t be sure, the interior light was only on for a second.’
‘How was that?’
‘Well, when I went up he opened the door as if he was going to get out but then he shut it again, you know those sports cars, they’re short on leg room. Maybe there was something in the back, a bag, a parcel, I don’t know. Why?’
‘Just wanted to know if he was on a trip. You stopped him in Gymea, going south?’
‘Right. He was doing 115, like it says.’ He tapped the document and I reached over and took it back.
‘Drunk?’
‘No, he was driving okay and he looked and smelled okay.’
‘Where did he say he was going?’
‘Didn’t ask.’
‘What was his voice like?’
‘Well, Silverman, I don’t know. He wasn’t Australian, some kind of foreigner.’
I finished the beer and set the can down on the wrought-iron rail. ‘Thanks for the help and the drink.’
He waved it aside. ‘What’ll you tell Evans?’
‘I’ll tell him you cooperated.’
‘Fair enough.’
•
The morning was grey and cool; I showered and shaved and dressed. The Smith & Wesson went into a holster under my jacket and I put a couple of fake business cards in my wallet. The wallet didn’t look healthy so I banked Silverman’s cheque and drew out some money in a thick stack of small notes. As I was packing it away I took another look at the speeding and parking tickets. The parking ticket was dated eight weeks back and timed at 7.30 a.m., the speeding ticket was thirteen hours later on the same day.
Norton Street was fairly busy when I arrived but I managed to park exactly where the parking attendant had booked Kenneth’s sports car. The spot gave me a clear view of the Forbes office, which was a converted two-storey terrace house behind a high wooden fence. I could see the windows of the upper level and down a lane which ran beside the building. The parking place was legitimate now, but ceased to be so at 7 a.m. when a clearway came into operation.
I had only the vaguest idea of what I was going to do and I tried to think which of the business cards I had was the least incredible. I decided that I knew something about books and that I might be able to gauge the probity of the firm with the right approach. The small front courtyard behind the fence was covered in bark, and there were flowers in pots on either side of the solid door. I rang the bell and the door was opened by a girl who looked too young to be working; she had big eyes swamped in make-up, a lot of straight blonde hair, five-inch heels—and she still looked fifteen. I looked over her shoulder and saw a cigarette burning a hole in a piece of typing paper on her desk.
‘Hey, your desk’s on fire.’
She spun around, shrieked and snatched at the paper, which knocked the butt on to the floor, where it started burning the carpet; she also knocked over a vase of flowers and spread water across the desk. She started to cry, and I went in and picked up the cigarette. I eased the big blotter out of its holder and used it to soak up the water. She stood watching me while I dried the desk and dropped the cigarette and sodden blotter into a tin wastepaper bin. I also read the letter—it advised a shopkeeper in Newtown with an unpronounceable middle-European name that his lease would not be renewed. The door had opened into what would have been the hall in the original house, but the wall had been taken out and it was now a fair- sized office with two desks and several filing cabinets. The girl was fumbling on the desk f
or another cigarette. She got it going and sat down.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘What can I do for youse?’
I handed her the burnt letter. ‘You’ll have to do this again.’
She looked at it. ‘Shit,’ she said.
I gave her the card that said I was a second-hand bookseller and asked to see Mr Patrick.
‘You need an appointment.’ She puffed smoke awkwardly and tried to look eighteen.
‘I just prevented your office from burning down.’
She giggled. ‘What do you want to see him about?’
I pointed at the card. ‘I want to open a bookshop; I need premises.’
‘Oh, you don’t need Clive … Mr Patrick for that; Mr Skelton will do.’ She swung around to the empty desk. ‘He’s not here.’
I leaned forward and dropped my voice. ‘Well, you know, I might have to deal with Clive. You see, this is not just an ordinary bookshop, if you get what I mean.’ I did everything but wink, and she got the message. Just then a short, well-stuffed guy in a pale blue suit bustled into the room. He had a high complexion, and pink showed through the thin fair hair that was carefully arranged across his skull. He shouldn’t have been that heavy and thin on top, he wasn’t much over thirty. The girl batted her eyes at him.
‘Mr Patrick, Mr Henderson here wants to see you about business premises …’
‘Give him an appointment,’ he barked. ‘Have you got the letter for that wog yet?’
She made her hands look busy on the desk. ‘It’s almost done.’
‘Snap it up, Debbie.’ He turned without looking at me once and went out of the room. The girl looked helplessly at me.
‘He’s nice really,’ she said. ‘Now when are you free?’
The front door swung open and a man came through. He was tall, dressed in a narrow-cut dark suit: narrow was the word for him, he had a long, thin, swarthy face with a sharp nose, his dark eyebrows grew in a V over his yellowish, slanted eyes. He had close-cropped black hair that receded on both sides and grew in a pronounced widow’s peak in the front. His wolfish eyes swept over me as if he was measuring me for a coffin, then he dismissed me.
