While he gazed out into the street Oliver wondered what it would be like living in Henry Agar’s shoes. It was said he was so tough he flossed with tungsten. He was a large, intimidating figure, a true heavy in the Hollywood B-movie tradition with a fearsome reputation as a street fighter in the old days,although these stories had become much exaggerated over the years. Once—Oliver knew this to be true—he pulled a gun on a racetrack official who told him to behave himself in the members’bar,but no charges were laid after the official received a sum of money and a live bullet in the mail. Everything he did was like that, as if his life was a succession of crazy stunts from which he emerged unscathed through sheer charisma. He gave every impression of being his own Number One fan—a tough gig to maintain in a town like Sydney where there was always someone trying to drag him down. On TV Oliver had seen part of an interview with him in which he came across as a supreme egotist. He actually enjoyed portraying himself, as if he were a dramatic character in fiction.
Oliver was tempted to ring Raydon, but he had been instructed not to provide progress reports. Raydon only wanted to know when it was over. Fair enough, and the news would only depress him further, but how would one ever know it was over? There were no contracts to be signed, witnessed and exchanged in this shifty enterprise. The old problem with blackmailers: what was to stop them from going back to the well once you’d paid up? Once they knew you were good for it? Nothing, was the answer.
After three Scotches Oliver felt more confident, but after four he wasn’t so sure. He knew he was getting pissed, but as long as he didn’t go overboard that would serve him well, giving him the courage and even a measure of recklessness to impress his adversary.
He switched to Club soda for his next drink. Still the phone did not ring. Time: 4.15. He rang Eugenie just for something to do, then fiddled with the phone before realising he was as nervous as a cat.
The phone rang. Oliver jumped.
‘McEncroe.’
‘Oliver McEncroe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Henry Agar. How can I help you?’
Charming man.‘I represent Raydon Steer. There are issues to be resolved concerning one Tamsin Mascall. Garry Patchouli gave me your name.’
‘I see. Where are you?’
‘At the Ritz-Carlton, Double Bay.’
‘Fine. Give me an hour. Be in the cocktail bar.’
The phone was abruptly disconnected.
Damn. Shit!
Oliver had not planned to meet him here. He was going to suggest the Golden Sheaf or somewhere neutral. This was too much like having him in your own home—too close to the bone. But Agar had been too quick for him. Oliver clasped his hands: they were clammy. He ordered another Scotch.
When Agar arrived—fifteen minutes early—Oliver was dismayed to see he had not come alone. That was something else he hadn’t counted on. Agar he recognised immediately from the photos in his book, but who was the offsider, his second banana? He was a rangy-looking customer with pale eyes and blond hair, somewhere in his mid-forties. Like Agar he conveyed an air of tangible menace without having to do anything at all.
Shit. They were going to get him in a pincer movement . . .
As they approached in response to his discreet signal, Oliver was suddenly a touch fearful for his safety. He heard himself giggle inanely: was that the Scotch? Christ, man, get a grip— they don’t shoot people in the cocktail lounge of a five-star hotel, not even in Sydney.
‘Mr McEnroe?’Agar said.‘Henry Agar.’ Intoning his own name as if he were introducing a distinguished personage to the royal court, he crushed Oliver’s hand for a second or two and then sat down heavily on the sofa, on Oliver’s left. The second banana sat on the other armchair, facing Oliver.
Agar’s attire was pure Sydney: black summerweight suit over a blue-and-black tropical shirt hanging outside his pants, which were voluminous to accommodate his muscular thighs. Black, square-toed shoes with outsized buckles. Around his neck was a gold choker with three gold crosses on it. Oliver remembered: Agar was a devout Catholic. According to his memoirs he accompanied his mother to Mass and confession every Sunday, apparently reserving mayhem for the other six days. The three crosses no doubt represented the Holy Trinity. He also wore solid gold rings on all his fingers, and a gold watch with a loose bracelet that slid up and down his wrist. Sleek and fit as a dolphin, he sported a shaved, spit-polished head and ultra-dark sunglasses. In the shirt pocket were three Corona-sized cigars.
He lounged comfortably on the sofa with his legs apart, arms draped over the backrest as he appraised Oliver. The second banana—Mr No-name—sat quietly. He too wore a tropical sort of outfit, with a matching suit and open-necked shirt in midnight blue. His eyes were bright and wide but still, as if they were as unseeing as a blind man’s.
The waiter appeared. ‘Gentlemen?’
‘Same again for me,’ Oliver said.
‘One Chivas Regal.’ He turned to Mr No-name.
‘Do you have Chemay?’ No-name said. Apparently protocol in these circles demanded his identity remain undisclosed.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll have that. Served in a large goblet.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Agar’s turn. ‘Still on that stuff?’ he said to Mr No-name, who shrugged.‘Okay. Sambuca for me—Romana if you have it. Throw in a few coffee beans, please.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
When the waiter had gone,Agar leaned forward, removed his sunglasses and hooked them on his shirtfront. ‘So, Mr McEnroe . . .’
‘McEncroe,’ Oliver said. ‘As it happens I do play tennis, but I’m not in that class.’
Agar smiled, showing teeth that were far too good to be real. Mr No-name issued a short, explosive laugh: ‘Ha!’ Then he blinked slowly, like a lizard. His lids seemed to operate independently from the rest of him, like a mechanical device. Oliver noticed that his upper lip protruded, from a conspicuous overbite.
‘Sorry,’ Agar said. ‘You must get that a lot.’
‘I ignore it most of the time.’
‘I can understand. Excuse me,but you’re not wired,are you?’
Oliver was taken aback. For a moment he thought Agar was inquiring if he was spaced out on drugs, then he remembered from the book: Agar was paranoid about being secretly taped.
He laughed and said,‘Wired? Of course not. Why, do you want to search me?’
‘Would you mind?’
Oliver couldn’t believe it. Here he was, standing in the Ritz-Carlton lounge being patted down by this . . . person. He knew what he was doing too.‘Arms out, please,’ Agar said, searching all the possible places a man might wear a microphone or mini-cassette: under his armpits, in the small of his back, jacket pockets and lining, including the sleeves, behind his belt buckle, the insides of his legs right down to the shoes. Some customers took an amused interest, further embarrassing Oliver, but Agar didn’t seem to care.
Up close, Oliver was overpowered by Agar’s smells: a strong, nutty aftershave mixed with alcohol and premium cigar leaf. It was the rich, intoxicating stink of excess and corruption—and of a serial seducer. His face glowed as if it had been massaged with expensive lotion.
Finally they sat down, just as the waiter arrived. Silence reigned while he set down the glasses, together with a bowl of cashew nuts, and poured the Chemay.
‘Please forgive me,’ Agar said when he was gone, ‘but I’ve been the victim of dirty tricks in the past.’
Victim? Oliver thought. Try perpetrator.
‘Just before we proceed, might I see some credentials?’ Agar said. He drew a cigar from his shirt pocket, unwrapped it and clipped the end with a natty little cutter—gold, naturally.
‘Credentials,’ Oliver said, getting out his wallet.‘Well, I have a business card, membership of the Law Institute, driver’s licence. Will that do?’ He gave the question a slightly sarcastic edge, although Agar took no notice: with the unlit cigar in his mouth he moved the three items around on
the table, examining them closely as if searching for the fatal flaw that would reveal Oliver’s treachery.
‘Seems to be in order,’ he said, handing them back with a warm and completely false smile.‘You must think I’m a highly suspicious man, Mr McEncroe.’
Oliver merely shrugged, bringing the Scotch to his lips.
‘I have to be careful, you see. Plenty of people want a piece of Henry Agar. You could be anyone, after all—a journalist, or an undercover cop.’
Oliver was aghast. ‘Do I look like a journalist, or an undercover cop?’
‘You’d be surprised. They come in all disguises.’ He fired up the cigar, a process that occupied his full attention for some time. When he was eventually engulfed in dense swirls of smoke he said, ‘And now, Mr McEncroe, perhaps you would care to spell out the nature of your proposal.’
Oliver drew breath to answer just as Agar’s phone chirped from somewhere in his clothes. Putting up his hand to Oliver he produced a minuscule flip-phone, noted the caller’s number and barked into it: ‘Yeah.’
Listening, he stood up. His face darkened alarmingly. ‘Is that so,’ he said, and began moving away. ‘Mate, tell that cunt if he wants to be a hero, I’ll break his fuckin’ legs. See how that goes down.’ He moved right away, to the other side of the room, but Oliver could still hear the expletives. He glanced at Mr No-name, who evinced no interest, except in the Belgian beer.
Oliver’s own phone burred.
‘Hello, Sharon.’ It was his secretary, who had called to give him a rundown of the day’s proceedings in an increasingly difficult sexual harassment case they were defending. It had been given to a junior partner as a baptism, but he didn’t seem to be handling it well—in fact he was all at sea. Oliver had to concentrate on questions of law and make some important decisions, which was a challenge under the circumstances. When he looked up at Mr No-name he was on the phone too, standing at the window punching an endless sequence of numbers as if he were trying to crack the Enigma code. Over the way Agar was drawing attention to himself by gesticulating angrily with his free hand and occasionally firing off profanities into the piece. Watching him Oliver thought: he’s doing it deliberately. It’s all about ego.
Ten minutes later the meeting had reassembled.
‘Pardon the interruption,’ Agar said.‘Can’t seem to round up the usual suspects today.’ Glasses were emptied; the waiter was summoned for a fresh round.
‘Can I suggest,’ Oliver said,‘that, without prejudice, we are prepared to do business in a fair and reasonable way, provided certain conditions are met.’
‘Go on,’ Agar said, crunching coffee beans.
‘We’ll offer a one-off lump sum payment. In return, you will guarantee an end to this campaign of character assassination directed against my client by making all appropriate representations to Tamsin Mascall and to the relevant police; in addition you will hand over any evidence you may have in relation to this matter—in which my client maintains his complete innocence.’
‘But he’s prepared to cough up anyway,’Agar said.‘Despite his innocence.’
‘So that the matter can be brought to a swift conclusion.’
‘Understandably. I would too, in his position. Teenage sex rap like this goes to court, and he’s shot to high heaven, isn’t he? But that was an impressive list of conditions, Mr McEncroe.’ He turned to Mr No-name.‘Did you get all that? Oh, excuse me, did I introduce . . . ?’
‘Don’t believe so,’ Oliver said.
‘Christ, I don’t know—sometimes my manners . . . Terry, Terry Pritchett.’
It was late in the piece for formalities, so a nod on either side sufficed. The name meant nothing to Oliver, and the man himself wasn’t very impressive.
‘Sorry,’ Agar said. For a prize bastard he sure apologised a lot. ‘Terry has a lot more to do with . . . what’s her name? Tamsin Mascall. In fact I don’t even know the lass. I’m more or less the facilitator here.’
‘I see,’ Oliver said. That made Pritchett the pimp.
‘Mr McEncroe,’ Agar said, a slightly puzzled expression furrowing his brow. ‘Let’s get this straight. You hold no whip hand here. Your client, Mr Raydon Steer, QC, was caught with his pants down, having sex with a little girl and feeding her an illicit substance,namely cocaine. The victim in this case is Tamsin Mascall, not Raydon fucking Steer. The child is fourteen, man. Fourteen. That almost makes your client a fucking paedophile in my book,old chap.I don’t have much time for paedophiles. Take that bastard—’ and he named a lifelong child abuser who had recently been put away for many years. ‘If I got my hands on that dirtbag, he wouldn’t live to see another sunrise. So don’t come to me with all your goddamn conditions, Mr McEncroe. Pay up and shut up—or cop whatever comes next. I personally want to see your boy swing. But—business is business.’
He finished off his Sambuca and puffed on his cigar before continuing. Agar obviously had strong feelings on the subject: Oliver had already seen that he was a man who could become hot under the collar almost to the point of spontaneous combustion in a second. And yet, strangely, he cooled and became civil again just as fast. ‘Mr McEncroe, I’ve had more than my share of trouble and injustice, but I don’t complain. I’m an adult and I can fend for myself. But when I see the callous exploitation of helpless children by adults I become extremely angry. Sadly, there are many unfortunates like Tamsin Mascall in this city—and in yours. Usually they have run away from an intolerable domestic situation. I know what it’s like— I’ve been there. Most of them become hustlers, prostitutes and drug addicts; many live on the street or in halfway houses. They die from disease, malnutrition or heroin overdoses in alarming numbers. Child abuse doesn’t just happen in the Philippines or the wilds of South America—it’s widespread right here under our noses. It’s a spiralling problem and a national disgrace. Politicians don’t give a shit, because these poor wretches don’t even vote. But when I see an opportunity to make a difference, Mr McEncroe, I seize that opportunity. Someone has to.’
Listening to this passionate diatribe, Oliver was casting his thoughts back to Agar’s book: in it he boasted of personally sponsoring hundreds of disadvantaged children in various countries. There was also some grand plan about setting up a place, a ranch, for homeless or displaced children in rural New South Wales, for which he had unsuccessfully sought government funding. He was a crusader—or at least presented himself as one. But Oliver’s gut feeling told him Agar was a pathological liar and a criminal; that all his posturing and sounding off about the tragic children of the world was a sort of cover-up for his own villainous proclivities. He needed to occupy the high moral ground to feed his fantasies about himself while he carried on a life of violence and extortion. This was a delusional, dangerous man. But he was right: business was business.
‘Point taken, Mr Agar,’ he said.‘No reasonable person could dispute one word of that. Nonetheless I have to represent my client to the very best of my ability. And whether you accept it or not there are two sides to every story.’
‘All right, all right,’ Agar said. ‘I’ve got that off my chest. So, where does all this leave us, Mr McEncroe? You said something earlier about a sum of money, all parcelled up in legal mumbo-jumbo as I recall it.’
It was the moment Oliver had actually been looking forward to, in a perverse sort of way. He withdrew a thick buff envelope from inside his jacket and tossed it casually on the table, like a trump card in a game of five-card stud. Agar and Pritchett looked at it but didn’t seem all that impressed.
‘What’s that?’ Agar said.
‘That’s fifty thousand. Full and final payment.’
No-one said anything. The envelope sat on the table like a great, unspoken question, almost quivering in its importance.
The waiter arrived; a fresh round was ordered. Agar and Pritchett exchanged glances as the waiter retreated.
‘It won’t do,’Agar said at last. He rested the cigar in an ashtray.
Oliver’s mou
th dropped open. ‘What?’
Agar shifted slightly, and clasped his hands.‘Let me explain, Mr McEncroe. I am a private investigator. I investigate all the time. Can’t help myself. Accordingly, when your client came to my notice, I ran a little search and guess what? I discovered he is a seriously rich man. He can afford to shell out till his nose bleeds. So, operating on the user-pays principle, I figure he’s good for a lot more than a lousy fifty. He’d put that much up his nose without touching the sides. It’s loose change.’
‘You can’t do this,’ Oliver said lamely.
‘Oh, I can. I am.’
‘No, no.’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Agar, I came here in good faith, on the clear understanding—’
‘You’re not in any courtroom now, my learned friend. No statutes or precedents prevail here. Understandings can change without notice.’
Oliver swallowed some Scotch. Pritchett’s gaze occasionally wandered over the other patrons in the room. He showed so little interest in the matter at hand that Oliver felt scared, as if everything had been decided beforehand and he had no say in the final outcome.
‘How much more? Out of curiosity.’
‘The figure is now two hundred and fifty. Non-negotiable.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Oliver said straightaway. He suddenly felt dizzy: was there something wrong with his hearing? Did Agar say $250,000?
Agar gave him an amused little smile, as if surprised, maybe even impressed, that Oliver would dare to say such a thing. ‘Crazy? Perhaps. We’re all crazy in our own way, Mr McEncroe. I’ve been called many things in my time, but no-one ever accused me of being mentally challenged.’
‘It’s bullshit. We’re not paying, and that’s that. We’ll go to court.’
Blindside Page 21