by Peter Corris
After that, there was no fight in him. I pulled him into the bedroom and bound his ankles and wrists with four striped silk neckties from his closet. Bert Loomis put his head through the door, and I pointed my gun at him and he went away. Then I called the Immigration Department’s investigations branch and told them I had an illegal immigrant in custody—an individual with multiple passports, multiple bank accounts, several driver’s licences and a concealed weapon.
I had a beer from Turk’s fridge while I waited for the Immigration boys. Turk and I didn’t speak. I showed them the documents and Turk’s gun, and there wasn’t a whole lot more to say. Turk’s eyes blazed at me as they read him his rights and put the cuffs on.
‘You shouldn’t have spat at me, Turk,’ I said as they packed up his belongings. ‘I really didn’t like it at all.’
Sammy Weiss was as relieved to get Turk off his back as he was to learn that he didn’t have the pox or anything else. All he had to worry about was the photos, and I set his mind at rest about them.
‘All you have to do, Sammy,’ I said, ‘is leave Ruby alone and behave yourself. Listen to Benjamin, do what he says. In six months, if you toe the line, I’ll give you the pictures.’
We were in the Bar Calabria, drinking coffee. Sammy was wearing a quiet suit and tie and looking hurt. ‘You don’t trust me.’
‘How do you spell it?’ I said. ‘Deal?’
‘Deal. Really a doctor, huh?’
Benjamin was pleased and insisted on paying me over and above the two hundred retainer. He offered to do any accounting I needed free of charge. Ruby paid me as well—a couple of days’ work, and expenses, such as my payment to Marcia, and for film and developing. It was a nice piece of business. After I’d collected the cheque and a drink and an enthusiastic kiss from Ruby, I stopped at the table by the door. Marcia was painting her nails and reading the Independent Monthly.
‘You were great,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
She looked up and blew on a wet nail. ‘My pleasure. Anything else I can do for you?’
MEETING AT MASCOT
From Forget Me If You Can (1997)
I got drunk at Glen Withers’ wedding and I got drunk pretty often after that without needing any excuse. I was late coming into the office more days than not, couldn’t quite manage to return calls and cope with a hangover at the same time, and business began to suffer. I botched a summons-serving or two and that avenue of funds started to dry up. I was irritable, couldn’t be bothered eating properly and lost weight. The cat left and didn’t come back. There were days when I neglected to shower and shave, neglected to eat and the only thing I didn’t neglect to do was find something to drink by mid-morning.
It was getting towards eleven o’clock and I was congratulating myself on not yet having had a drink, wondering if I could last until noon and doubting it, when a man walked into my office. I disliked him on sight, which is a sign of the way I was feeling. He was middle-height with a bulging beer gut, a high colour and not much sandy hair brushed across a pink scalp. His flabby face was scraped clean and he’d put on an aftershave that smelled like overripe pineapples. He wore a light blue summer suit with a white shirt, no tie, and he’d let the lapels of his shirt creep out a bit as if he really wished he was back in the seventies when shirts were opened wide over jacket lapels. He had the gold necklace to fit that style.
He took off his sunglasses and stared at me with pale, piggy eyes. ‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘The private detective?’
I remembered that the filing card I use for a nameplate on the door had fallen off and I hadn’t done anything about it. I thought about denying it, saying that Hardy had moved out and that I was the new tenant, but I couldn’t summon the energy. ‘Right,’ I said and left it at that.
His eyes darted around the room. It was Tuesday and I hadn’t been in since Thursday. A layer of dust covered the filing cabinets, battered desk and client’s chair. When spruced up the decor can have a kind of rough charm; today it looked like stuff left over from a garage sale. He slapped the chair with a newspaper he was carrying and sat down. ‘I’m Rex Hindle. I’ve got a job for you.’
Emotions warred in me. As I say, I disliked the look of him. I also disliked the look of myself. I had two days’ growth sprouting, not a pretty sight with all the grey among the black, and I hadn’t been near soap or a comb in a while. Anyone who’d want to hire me in that condition wasn’t likely to be anyone I’d want to work for. On the other hand, among the junk on my desk were several pressing bills and an over-the-limit credit-card statement. I couldn’t afford to be choosy, not right off the bat, anyway. Suddenly I wanted the drink badly and I briefly considered telling him to piss off and tapping the cask. Practicality, tinged with caution, won.
‘There are certain kinds of things I don’t do, Mr Hindle. Despite appearances.’
‘Have to admit I’m fuckin’ surprised. I was told you were pretty sharp.’
Now pride took over. I sat up straighter and gave him a keen-eyed look. ‘I’ve been undercover for a while.’ I scratched my chin. ‘This is all a front.’
He nodded. ‘So, you’re busy?’
I shook my head and wished I hadn’t. I needed the drink and three or four Panadols. ‘It’s finished. I’ll be cleaning myself up later. This place too. How can I help you?’
‘You do bodyguarding?’
‘Sometimes. It depends.’
‘I have to go to the airport and meet a couple of guys coming over from the fuckin’ Philippines. They don’t like me and I don’t like them, but we have to talk. I’ve got some businesses there and things need sorting out. We’ll go to the bar, talk and that’s it. But I need to show them I’m not some sucker they can push around.’
It sounded manageable but I wasn’t some sucker either. ‘What sort of businesses?’
‘What?’
‘What sort of business are you in, in the Philippines?’
‘Ferries. I own a couple of ferries. Real fuckin’ money-spinners when everything’s right.’
‘What’s wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m looking to hire you for a couple of hours, Hardy, not tell you the story of my life. Yes or no?’
‘When is this?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Plane gets in at ten.’
‘What sort of business are you in here?’
‘Jesus. I think I’ve come to the wrong place.’
I shrugged, almost happy to be out of it. ‘Suit yourself.’
He half-rose from the chair, then settled back. ‘Fuck it, they tell me you’re good. Taxis. I own a couple of taxis. I even drive myself if one of the lazy bastards doesn’t show up.’
By now my dislike of Mr Hindle was screwed up about as high as dislike could go. I had only one more card to play. ‘Let’s say three hours,’ I said. ‘Four hundred dollars an hour. Half up front, half when we say goodbye.’
He put his sunglasses back on and patted his thin, slicked-over hair. ‘Deal,’ he said.
I wouldn’t say I turned over a new leaf, but I did stir the old one around a bit. I held off until six o’clock for the first drink and didn’t lose count after that. I bought a barbecued chicken and some roast potatoes and salad in Glebe Point Road, took it home, put it on a plate and ate it with a knife and fork. The house was a mess and I left it that way but I made the bed before I got into it and after six and a half hours’ sleep I got up pretty refreshed. I showered and shaved and put on a clean shirt. I’d got out of the habit of breakfast, but I brewed some coffee and drank it with milk and sugar.
Hindle lived in Hunters Hill so it wasn’t much out of his way to pick me up. He drove a pale blue BMW that matched his suit of yesterday. Today he had on a cream number appropriate to the steamy weather. Only trouble was, his shirt was the same colour and there were dark sweat stains under his armpits. He was a lousy driver—too fast, poor reactions, no manners.
‘Smartened yourself up a bit?’ he said.
I nodded, watching the road the way he
wasn’t. ‘When in Rome.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
He took the route out through Redfern and I could see his eyes swivelling around as he paid more attention to the people on the pavements than the cars on the road. He blew out a breath as we waited at a light. ‘Hot weather sure brings out the toey little virgins, doesn’t it?’
A young black woman was crossing front of us. She was skinny with a very short skirt, a skimpy singlet top and very high heels. Hindle watched her avidly. The light changed and he roared away, burning off another car but misjudging the lanes so that he got wedged in and didn’t make up any ground. When the going was clear he glanced across at me. ‘What’s the matter with you? Those Abo sheilas root like rabbits. Not fuckin’ gay, are you?’
‘That one could’ve been my granddaughter,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Oh, I get it. No offence meant. No one told me you had a touch of the tar brush. Should’ve seen it, but.’
‘Forget it,’ I said. I’m an Anglo-Celt mix with a bit of gypsy and French thrown in somewhere, but I was in no mood to explain that to Hindle. Given the way he was driving, my main concern was to get to the airport alive.
We got there about forty-five minutes before the flight was due and Hindle pulled the BMW into a wide spot in the parking station but still almost managed to tickle a car in the next bay. We walked through the terminal. Hindle glanced at a monitor and then at his watch. ‘They reckon it’s on time but it’d be a fuckin’ miracle. What about a quick one?’
I shrugged. I’ve always liked drinking in airport bars. It gives you the feeling that it could be you who’s flying off to some exotic location or coming back with memories and experiences to feed off. Besides, he’d be paying. We went up to the bar, which hadn’t been open long and still smelled fresh from the cleaning. There were little bowls of nuts and the air-conditioning was exactly right. In the appropriate company it would be a good place to spend a couple of hours getting quietly mellow. With Hindle, twenty minutes would be ample.
‘What’ll you have, Hardy?’
‘Crown Lager.’
‘Piss.’ To the barman he said, ‘I’ll have a double Jack D with ice.’
The drinks came and Hindle paid with a fifty-dollar note; the barman struggled to make the change. I saw that Hindle had smaller bills in his wallet but the gesture didn’t surprise me. I was glad I’d asked for four hundred an hour, sorry I hadn’t made it five hundred. We drank and Hindle ate two serves of nuts. He tried to make conversation but I didn’t respond. Eventually, like someone who finds comfort in screens, he spun around and gazed at a monitor displaying arrival times.
‘What did I tell ya?’ he crowed. ‘Flight QF 870 from Manila delayed twenty-five fuckin’ minutes. Wonder it’s not an hour.’ He snapped his fingers at the barman. ‘Let’s go again, buddy. And you might lay out a few more nuts. Drinkin’ makes me hungry and eatin’ makes me thirsty. Ha-ha.’
The barman did as he was bid, keeping his eyes down. Drinking full-strength beer at ten-thirty in the morning was sliding back towards the habits of the past few weeks, but Hindle was one of those people to make you put up barriers. I was reaching for some nuts when a woman walked into the bar. She wore a white dress and a short black jacket, white high-heeled shoes. She was Asian—long, straight dark hair, high cheekbones, ivory skin. Everything about her appearance was modest and restrained, but behind that was a kind of sexual invitation beyond words, beyond description. My jaw dropped before I collected myself, but the effect on Hindle was alarming. As if on autopilot, he sucked in his gut and firmed his chins, a low roaring sound seemed to come from his chest and little beads of sweat collected on his forehead. He wiped them away with one of the napkins that sat beside the silver trays of nuts.
‘Jesus,’ Hindle croaked, ‘look at that.’
‘Drink up. Plane’s due in soon.’
He didn’t even hear me. He was off in some warm, soft place where dreams came true. The woman sat at a table and the barman sprang into action with nuts and coasters at the ready. The woman smiled up at him, ordered and reached into her leather shoulder bag. The barman returned to his workstation and the woman took out a mobile phone. She seemed to have trouble with it and Hindle slid from his seat.
‘Little lady needs an expert’s touch,’ he said.
It was hard to believe that he’d get anywhere with her, but I knew that confidence in a male was a powerful two-way aphrodisiac, and Hindle was almost secreting it. I watched as he walked across to the woman’s table, gut in, glass held casually. She looked nervously up at him, technologically challenged, hitching a ride on the communications highway. I heard her tinkling laugh and his throaty buzz. I had to look away. He put his glass down on her table, sat and took the mobile phone from her. She drained her glass and Hindle signalled to the barman. I drank too, feeling slightly sick, a little dirty. I wondered why I was here, instead of in my car, driving off somewhere to serve a summons, or keeping an eye on a warehouse with faulty wiring and a big insurance cover with Glen likely to call soon and propose dinner or a movie or both …
Suddenly, Hindle was up and moving towards the door with the woman. I cursed myself for my inattention and stood up to find the barman almost hovering over me.
‘Will you be settling the bill, sir?’
Hit the slowest mover, the daydreamer. Fair enough. ‘Yeah,’ I said. I pulled a ten-dollar note from my pocket and dropped it on the table. Hindle and the woman had moved to the door and I had the odd illusion that they were dancing.
‘Fourteen dollars eighty-five, sir?’
‘What?’
‘The bill is fourteen dollars eighty-five.’
I threw down a five and headed towards the door, glancing at the monitor as I went—still a couple of minutes to go. Hindle and his companion were twenty metres away, moving towards a telephone. I relaxed and hung back. I had twelve hundred dollars at stake and didn’t want to jeopardise it. This beauty was at least an adult and if she wanted to take on a beast it had nothing to do with me. I checked my watch again and that’s when I saw two men block my view of Hindle and his companion. I took a quick step forward, then I felt a sharp sting beside my spine and a voice spoke softly, very close to my ear.
‘You will move as I direct you. Slowly and calmly, or you are a dead man.’
I believed him. An expert with the right instrument can paralyse or kill you in a split second with scarcely a drop of blood. I don’t know much about anatomy, but whatever was sticking into me felt to be in a vital place. I moved as requested, very slowly. The man was slightly behind me so that I couldn’t see his face without turning, and turning was something I wasn’t going to do. Smaller than me, smelling of tobacco, a soft stepper.
‘What’s happening?’ I said.
‘Don’t speak please!’
Up ahead I could see that Hindle had two escorts, steering him in much the same way I was being steered. The woman was nowhere in sight. Idiot, I thought. A decoy. Hindle went for it one hundred per cent and you didn’t do much better. We went out of the terminal and the procession continued across the road and into the car park. I felt the sweat run down my neck and I was so sensitised to the tiny pinpoint of pain in my back that I was sure it was still there, even though it probably wasn’t. My gliding escort couldn’t have a hand that steady. But by the time I’d worked this out we were in the car park with no one paying us any attention. Child’s play for this guy to cut me down and roll me under a car. I kept walking, following Hindle and the others towards his BMW.
I was thinking fast but not coming up with anything useful. The two men with Hindle were small, compact types, neatly dressed in suits and wearing dark glasses. Hindle handed over his keys and was bundled into the back of the BMW, one of the men sliding in beside him. The other beckoned me forward. I moved towards the car. The beckoning became an impatient wave and I stooped more than was needed to get into the car. I knew I’d put some distance between myself and the man wi
th the blade and I had room to manoeuvre with the other guy. I was set to spin and start hitting when the car park roof fell in on me.
Things were very blurry after that. I was aware of movement and voices but of only one visual image—a shot of Hindle’s terrified face, drained of colour, running with sweat and with the jowls flapping as he shook his head.
The next thing I knew I was stationary and stretched out on my back behind a bush. I felt a leaf fall on my face and twitched away from it. My ears were ringing and when I opened my eyes the light made me shut them straight off. It felt as if I’d run into a wall.
After a while I pulled myself together and managed to sit up. The motivation was water—my throat was lined with bark and coughing detached bits of it and sent them scraping down my gullet. I stared, blinked and stared again. I was under a tree that grew beside a hole filled with sand. Beyond the hole I could see something smooth and green with a stick in the middle of it. I’ve woken up in some strange places, but behind bushes at the fifteenth green at Kogarah Golf Course has to be one of the strangest.
There were no players in sight. I got to my feet and steadied myself against the tree. A water bubbler was only a few metres away but it took time to get the confidence to make a try for it. I got there, rubbery-legged and sweating. The water was good for every part of me. I gulped it down, swilled it and spat, splashed it on my face, rubbed it into my hair and washed my hands. When I felt mostly human I checked myself over. It was three o’clock—I’d lost almost five hours. Everything else was there—home and office keys, driver’s licence, NRMA, Medicare and credit cards, PEA licence. My .38 Smith & Wesson was still in its holster under my arm. I took off my jacket and unstrapped the holster, which was uncomfortable over my sweat-soaked shirt. The movement made me aware of a stiffness and soreness in my left arm. I pushed up my sleeve and saw the puncture mark inside my elbow.
