by Peter Corris
Some sort of change had come over Salmon. He was decisive about where he wanted us to park—out on the Crescent, well down from the Lew Hoad Reserve—and for the first time he showed a real interest in our police escort.
‘Give ’em plenty of time to pick us up,’ he said as I locked the car.
‘If they’re any good, they won’t need help.’
‘Just do as I say.’
We walked around to the main entrance in Wigram Road and I looked across to the pub.
‘That’s it,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘The Harold Park—the pub over there. Didn’t you say it was one of the places you wanted to visit before you took your trip?’
Salmon glanced at the pub, which was doing its usual brisk race-night business.
‘Skip it,’ he said nervously. ‘The rozzers with us?’
They were, two guys in casual clothes looking like family men on a matey night out. They went through the turnstiles a few bodies behind us. I could feel the tension in Salmon as we stepped out of the light into an area of shadow in front of the stand.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now we lose ’em. Right now. We make for the exit over near the car.’ He moved quickly, pushing through clutches of people heading for the bars and the tote; the mob swirled around us with no pattern yet, no fixed positions taken, and the gaps closed up behind us. I sneaked a look back after a while and caught a glimpse of the cops anxiously inspecting a toilet entrance.
Salmon moved fast on the way back to the car. He hugged the wall and people got out of his way.
‘They likely to leave someone watching the car?’
I considered it. We hadn’t been evasive at any time, rather the reverse; anyone who knew my habits would wonder why I’d drive such a short distance, but not too many cops knew my habits.
‘Doubt it, but there’s no time for a recce. That pair’ll be on our hammer pretty soon.’
‘Right. Let’s go.’
‘Where?’
‘North.’
I took Victoria Road to the Gladesville Bridge and ran up through the back of Pymble to pick up the turn-off to Frenchs Forest. RBT seemed to have quietened Friday night down: the traffic moved smoothly and after Salmon got finished checking behind us for pursuit, he settled down and enjoyed the drive.
‘Nice night,’ he said.
‘Yeah, where’re we going?’
‘Whale Beach.’
‘Jesus, why?’
He gave a short laugh, one of the very few I’d heard from him. ‘Not for a swim.’
The traffic stayed light on Barrenjoey, all the way past Newport to the Whale Beach turnoff. The Falcon handled the drive well, but Salmon only grunted when I commented on it.
‘Fords are junk,’ he said.
It was true that Fords weren’t in abundance in the drives and on the road in front of the big houses. I saw Mercs and Jags, Celicas and the like, all looking good in the moonlight like the houses themselves. Salmon was concentrating on the terrain and when we reached a sign that said ‘Public Pathway to Beach’, he told me to stop.
‘What’s here?’
‘Me cabin. Not too many know about it.’
We started down a steep and long flight of steps. I could see the water gleaming out ahead and heard the big surf crashing on the beach. About half of the houses were in darkness and the whole area was quiet and still apart from the sound of the sea and a few night birds calling. Halfway down the steps Salmon stepped over the rail and took a look into the blackness.
‘Shoulda brought a torch,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t you know the way?’
He glanced at me sharply. ‘Sure, but it’s been a while.’
We pushed through the bushes following a rabbit track until a squat shape loomed up in front of us. Salmon had taken his jacket off because the path ran slightly uphill and it was sweaty work on a mild night. He fumbled in a pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys. He handed me the jacket.
‘Wait here, Hardy.’
I stood in the shadows holding the jacket and feeling like a five-hundred-dollar flunky; then I remembered that it was a thousand-dollar flunky and felt better. Salmon went up some wooden steps and took a long time selecting a key and getting it into the lock. Then he opened the door and took a long time turning on a light. The jacket felt heavy because there was a .45 automatic in one of its pockets. It was a long time since my army days when we practised stripping guns in the dark but I found I could still do it. I kept an eye on the light in the cabin while I ejected the bullet from the chamber, turned the top bullet in the spring-loaded magazine around and effectively jammed the thing as tight as a seized piston.
When Salmon came out of the cabin he was carrying a small canvas bag and wearing a look of satisfaction. I handed him the jacket.
‘Want me to carry the bag?’
‘Sure.’ He gave me the bag and we pushed our way back to the path. The bag felt full of something but light; maybe it was toilet tissue for his trip.
Back at the car, Salmon shrugged his jacket on and took the bag from me. I looked up at the starry sky out to sea.
‘Nice place,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ He was waiting impatiently for me to open the car.
‘Changed a bit in the last year or so though.’
‘Yeah.’
We drove back to Erskineville in virtual silence; it was an easy drive, giving me plenty of time to think. As far as I knew, nothing had changed much in Whale Beach for years—the affluent and trendy locals wouldn’t permit it.
Salmon stowed the bag away in the bedroom and we had a Scotch before going to our respective beds.
‘What time’s your flight?’ I was contemplating another Scotch, mindful of the hardness of the sofa.
‘Eleven in the morning.’
‘All fixed up?’
‘Yeah. Goodnight, Hardy, and thanks.’
I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake thinking about it and trying to figure what was going on. I felt sure things weren’t what they seemed but that didn’t take me far. I dozed and jerked awake with the same doubts and confusions crowding my mind. I didn’t care about Harvey Salmon one way or another; as far as I knew he hadn’t ever killed anybody, and in the world of organised crime his speciality was more in the organisation than the criminality. Still, I didn’t like being so much in the dark. Around 7 a.m. I called Harry Tickener, who writes on crime and politics for The News. He was grumpy about being woken up so early and I had to keep my voice low, which made him even grumpier.
‘What can you tell me about Harvey Salmon, Harry?’
‘At 7 a.m. nothing.’
‘Come on, I need something. I know what he looks like, six-foot-two, fourteen stone; what about habits and so on?’
‘Shit, Cliff, I don’t know. Wait’ll I get a cigarette. Okay … Well, fourteen stone’s a bit heavy. I can’t think of much, except that he’s a tennis nut.’
‘What?’
‘Tennis, played it all the time, had his own court and that.’
‘Thanks, Harry.’
‘Any other time, Cliff. Not 7 a.m.’
He rang off and I put the phone down carefully. I was trying to digest the information when my flatmate came through the door wearing striped pyjamas and pointing the .45 at me.
‘Heard you on the extension,’ he said. ‘Careless.’
‘You’re not Harvey Salmon.’
‘No, but I’ve got this and you’re still going to do what I say.’
He didn’t tell me his name but he told me about the deal over the next few hours as he packed his bags and we waited to go to Mascot. As he understood it, an elaborate arrangement had been arrived at between Salmon and the State and Federal police. Salmon wanted two things—a new identity and a new life in South America (that was one) and a chance to pick up a bag of money from Whale Beach. The Federal police wanted information; the State cops wanted convictions. Harvey Salmon was released on licence in return for certain information; he
didn’t trust the police and he knew about a look-alike who was doing time in Grafton jail for fraud. The deal was that the look-alike would move around Sydney for a few days under police protection so that the real Salmon could get an idea of how effective that might be.
‘What about the bag of money?’
‘Salmon was dead keen to get hold of that. The State cops okayed it; the Federals don’t know about it.’
‘Why would the cops make a deal like that? Salmon’d sung already.’
‘Not the whole song,’ Harvey Salmon said. ‘He keeps the last few notes until he gets his tickets and the bag at the airport.’
‘What d’you get?’
‘Some money and my freedom.’ He grinned. ‘And Lulu. Christ!’
‘You can go back for more.’
He shook his head. ‘Deal is, I leave Sydney for good.’
‘Tough.’
‘Yeah, now give me that gun you flashed outside the club.’
I gave him the gun, he took the bullets out and put them in his pocket before returning it. That made two inoperative guns and quite a relaxed atmosphere as far as I was concerned.
‘What do you know about the cops who were tailing us?’ I said, just to pass the time.
He grinned again; he was getting more relaxed by the minute and if he kept on grinning he might turn from a sad spaniel to a happy kelpie. ‘I’d guess they were State boys the other night,’ he said. ‘Didn’t care too much if Salmon got roughed up. They would’ve been the Federals last night; they’re not supposed to know about the money, but they couldn’t follow Neville Wran down Macquarie Street, anyway.’
‘Probably right. Whose idea was it to bring me in?’
‘Mine. I heard about you from Clive Patrick.’
‘Is he in Grafton?’
‘Yeah, copping it sweet. Be out pretty soon.’
I nodded and thought it over. I could take over now; the .45 was a liability and I was sure I had more moves than whatever-his-name-was. But I thought I might as well see it through.
‘What about the other five hundred dollars?’ I said.
‘At the airport—after the swap.’
I drove to the airport. He checked a suitcase through to Rio, having collected his ticket and an envelope at the desk. He had a smaller bag as cabin luggage, about the same size as the bag he’d collected at Whale Beach.
Pan Am flight 304 to Rio de Janeiro was on time and would be boarding in an hour. He got his seat allocated and was heading for the baggage security check when things started to happen. First, a tall man stepped in front of us. He had a long, droopy sort of face, baggy eyes and was built on leaner lines than my companion.
‘I’m Salmon,’ he said. ‘Let’s have the bag and the ticket.’
The false Harvey Salmon was looking nervous; he fumbled in his jacket for the ticket and seemed to be playing for time. Two men detached themselves from a knot of people looking at a flight monitor and strode over to us. They were big, wore expensive suits and had short haircuts. One of them gripped the real Salmon by the arm. ‘Would you come with us, sir?’
Salmon gave the man a tired smile. ‘It’s okay. I’ve got it here.’ He tapped his breast pocket.
‘Just come along, sir, and you too, please.’ He looked sternly at the impostor and me and fell in behind us like a sheep dog. I thought he’d be a pretty good heel-snapper from the smooth confidence of his movements.
‘Along here.’ The man holding on to Salmon steered us across the floor and behind some shrubbery to a room marked ‘Security’.
‘What is this?’ Salmon said. He got shoved firmly inside for an answer.
The room contained a desk with a chair drawn up to it and a row of chairs over by a big bright window. The sun was shining in and throwing long shadows from the divisions in the window across the pale carpet.
‘We’re police,’ the arm-holder said. ‘If you and Mr Salmon would just go over there and sit down, please.’ He struggled to frame the polite words and to keep his diction smooth. Under the barbering and suiting there was a very rough customer. Salmon looked alarmed and angry; he moved his hand towards his pocket again.
‘I’ve got it here.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ the cop said. ‘Sit down.’
We sat, not side by side but a few seats apart. Salmon had broken out in sweat. The second cop put the bag on the desk and opened it. He nodded and turned to the impostor.
‘Good. Got your ticket?’
The look-alike nodded and the cop carefully extracted a bundle of notes from the bag and passed them to him. ‘Harvey Salmon’ counted them, separated some and walked over to me. He held out the money; I sat still and he dropped the notes in my lap.
‘Thanks, Hardy. I’ve got a plane to catch.’ He didn’t look at Salmon; he turned and walked out of the room. Salmon stood up and rushed across to where the policeman was zipping up the bag.
‘That’s mine,’ he yelped. ‘We had a deal. I get the money and you get the names.’
The policeman shook his head slowly and his smile was as cold and cheerless as a Baptist chaplain. The second cop moved in behind Salmon to do some shepherding.
‘You’ve got it wrong, Harvey,’ the bagman said. ‘We wanted the money and no one wanted the names. No one wants you either.’
The other cop nudged Salmon. ‘Come on.’
‘No!’ Salmon spun around desperately and looked across the room at me. ‘Help me!’
The cop swung the bag in his hand and smiled again. ‘He’s done all he can. Harvey Salmon’s flown to Rio. Come on.’
Salmon sagged and one of them grabbed him and held on hard. I sat there with an empty gun in my pocket and five hundred dollars in my crotch and watched them leave the room.
Three days later I sat in the home of my friend, Detective Sergeant Frank Parker, and told him about it. The telling took a bottle of wine and set up a strong craving for one of Frank’s cigarillos. I fought the craving; no sense losing all the battles. Frank listened and nodded several times while he smoked and poured the wine.
‘It’s pretty neat,’ he said when I finished. ‘Must’ve been a lot of money in that bag?’
‘Where would that have come from d’you reckon?’
Frank leaned back and blew smoke up over my head. ‘Let’s see, I’d say it would have been grateful contributions from people Salmon had kept quiet about. Mind you,’ he gave me the sort of smile you give when you read a politician’s obituary, ‘that’s not to say that some of their names wouldn’t have been on the final list he was going to hand over.’
‘Jesus. I still don’t feel good about watching him being carted away to be cancelled.’
‘Nothing you could do. Describe the man in charge, Cliff.’
‘Big,’ I said. ‘Six-one or two; heavy but with a lot of muscle; smart suit; fresh everything—shave, haircut, the lot. Looked like he’d still be good at breaking heads and that he learned not to say “youse” and “seen” for “saw” not so long ago.’
Frank nodded and drew in smoke. ‘He’s an Armed Robbery D. Henry “Targets” Skinner. His turn’ll come.’
TEARAWAY
From The Big Drop (1985)
‘He’s a tearaway, Cathy,’ I said. ‘You know it, I know it, everybody knows it. The best thing you could do would be to forget him. Get out of Sydney; go to Queensland. Kevin’s caused you enough misery for a lifetime, it’s all he’s good at.’
‘He never hurt anybody,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Never. Not anyone!’
‘Just luck. He carried a gun—he pointed it, he never fired it but that’s just a matter of chance. One split second can change all that and make him a murderer. That’s still on the cards.’
I thought I had to be hard on her, but it turned out I was too hard. She’d come to me for help; she tramped up the dirty stairs and down the gloomy corridor and knocked on my battered door and all I’d done was cause her to drop her head onto my desk and cry buckets. I never did have much tact—a private det
ective doesn’t use it much—but this wouldn’t do. I came around the desk and gave her a tissue and made her sit up and swab down. Her boyfriend, Kevin Kearney, had broken out of a police van two days before. Kev and his three mates were on their way to their trial for armed robbery. One of them was shot dead twenty feet from the van; Kevin and the other two had got away. He hadn’t contacted Cathy, which was probably the first good turn he’d done her.
When she’d stemmed the flow and got a cigarette going, she filled me in on the shape and structure of her distress.
‘He got word out to me that he was going to run. I got a car and some money and we were going …’ She stopped and looked at me hesitantly.
‘Call it Timbuktu, Cathy,’ I said. ‘What does it matter?’
‘Well, I heard about the break-out on the news. Christ, I nearly died when they said one of them’d been shot. But …’
The cigarette wavered in her hand and she looked ready to cry again.
‘It wasn’t Kev,’ I said gently. ‘Go on.’
‘That’s all. He didn’t come—no phone call, nothing.’
‘I read about it. The cops say they’ve got no leads.’
She flicked ash; she was perking up a bit. ‘Same here.’ She opened her bag and took out a roll of notes and put them on the desk.
‘Nine hundred bucks. It’s the money we were going to shoot through on. Kev’d beat the shit out of me if he knew what I was doing, but I want you to find him.’
I looked at the money, thinking a lot but not saying anything. Cathy stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray alongside the cash.
‘Look, he’s guilty, he’ll get—what? Ten years? He’ll serve—what? Six? That’s not too bad. I can wait. On the run he’s likely to get killed, and then I’d kill myself.’ She grinned at me, finally showing some of the spark that made her one of the most popular whores in Glebe. ‘You’d be saving two lives, Cliff.’
