Forget Me If You Can ch-20

by Peter Corris

  ‘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 6 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 grand-daughter,’ 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 work station 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 100 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 with 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 I 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 3 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 amp; 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.

  I gave up carrying a wallet years ago, too easy to lose or have lifted. I distribute what money I have around various pockets and I touched them now automatically, not expecting to have been robbed. The right trouser pocket felt fuller than it should have been. I emptied the pocket; in addition to the couple of tens and a five I’d had left after paying for the drinks in the airport bar, I had twelve crisp, new hundred-dollar notes. That’s when I knew for certain that Rex Hindle was dead.

  I flagged a cab and went to the office where I cleaned myself up and had a couple of medicinal Scotches. Probably not a good idea on top of whatever dope they’d shot into me, but I was in no mood to care. I sat behind my desk for a minute or two to see if there were any ill effects. All I could feel was the whisky doing me good. I ran through my story in my head and couldn’t see any reason not to tell the truth.

  The cops at the Kings Cross station don’t like me particularly but they tolerate me. I put my story on tape over lousy coffee with Detective Senior Sergeant Kev Ingham who heard me out, disapproval written all over his craggy face. I even mentioned the twelve hundred dollars.

  ‘Shit, Hardy,’ he said as he pressed the OFF button. ‘That’s one of the vaguest fuckin’ statements I’ve ever heard. The only person you’ve been able to describe is the woman.’

  ‘They doped me. Want to see the needle mark?’

  ‘No, thanks. But it’s a point. You’d better get down to St Vinnie’s and get a blood test. I’ll give you a chit. That might protect your arse a bit.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You’re supposed to make a contract with your clients, right? Remember the fucking law? I didn’t hear you mention a contract.’

  I downed the dregs of the coffee and wished I hadn’t. ‘I haven’t been at my best.’

  ‘So we’ve seen, and heard. Your licence is shaky, mate. Get to the hospital and go home. You’ll be hearing from us, or someone.’

  I got up, feeling capable of making it to the door, just. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I ran your Mr Hindle through the computer before you started burbling. He’s known to the authorities, as they say.’

  No trace was ever found of Rex Hindle or his BMW, or of the men and the woman who’d dealt with us at the airport. I was found to have a high level of some barbiturate in my blood and to have suffered a minor concussion. A committee that sat periodically to review complaints against PEAs censured me for failing to observe contractual procedures but, in view of my relatively clean record, my licence wasn’t withdrawn. I cleaned up my act, knuckled down to some routine jobs and saw them through. I cut down on the grog and got back into playing tennis at the courts in John Street where Lew Hoad had blossomed.

  A month later I got a visit from a Commonwealth policeman named Wilensky. I told him everything all over again and he did a lot of nodding and a little tapping on a notebook computer. He seemed quietly pleased and I asked him why.

  ‘Rex Hindle was the ugly Australian personified,’ he said. ‘His ferries were floating brothels. He trafficked in young women, young men and drugs. He was slime, Mr Hardy. Your failure to protect him has left the world a better place.’

  Which didn’t make me feel better about myself. I also felt bad about losing Glen Withers and the cat, but I felt okay about the twelve hundred dollars.

  TV

  ‘I’ve come to you, Mr Hardy, because I believe you are the only private enquiry agent who lives in Glebe.’

  Not the most ringing endorsement, but at least a change from the dreary summons-serving and money-minding I’d been doing recently. The characters who hire you for those jobs are only concerned about your rates and availability, they don’t care if you live in a bus shelter. The person sitting across the desk from me in my office in Darlinghurst was a bit of a change too. She was tall and wide-shouldered but thin. Her face was long, heavily but expertly made up and her hands were large. Her voice was pleasant, a bit over-precise and deep. I had my suspicions.

  ‘I do live in Glebe, Ms Cato,’ I said. ‘But I don’t advertise the fact.’

  ‘Oh, word gets around.’ She shifted in the uncomfortable chair. She wore a high-necked white silk blouse with a ruffle down the front, long sleeves. Her black skirt was tight and above the knee. ‘This job requires local knowledge and an… affection for the area. Would you say you qualify?’

  ‘I would. Do you live in Glebe yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’ She named the street, not far from mine. Naming stree
ts doesn’t tell you a lot about a Glebe resident. Ms Cato could live in triple-storey sandstone mansion or a weatherboard cottage not much bigger than the room we were sitting in. Until she fished her chequebook out of her shoulder bag and started writing, there was no way to tell her economic status. She crossed her legs. Good legs. Dark-tinted stockings. Medium heels.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me about this job for a local boy?’

  She smiled. ‘Isn’t it odd how we throw these words around-boy, girl, lady, gentleman. You’re many, many years past being a boy and, as I suspect you’re beginning to realise, I’m not a woman. Would it trouble you, working for a transvestite?’

  The smile helped the effect. Great teeth. Working in the Cross I’d known a number of transvestites in my time, also transsexuals at reputedly different stages of transformation above and below. Some were stupid and some were smart; some were brave and some were not, like the rest of us. ‘It wouldn’t trouble me, Ms Cato. I’ll work for anyone who doesn’t want me to break any serious laws and can pay me. I have a few no-go areas.’

  She lifted one plucked eyebrow. Did it well. ‘Like?’

  ‘I steer clear of politics, religion and teetotallers.’

  She laughed. Sounded a bit like Bacall. ‘You’re safe with me then. I vote Labor, federal, state and local, and that’s the end of it. I’m an atheist. I like a drink but I have to limit it to preserve my figure.’

  ‘We all should,’ I said.

  She focused her heavily made-up eyes on me. ‘You’re what? Pushing fifty? You don’t look so bad. Pity about the nose and the scars. Nothing a bit of plastic surgery wouldn’t fix. You could look ten years younger.’

  ‘I wouldn’t feel it. Now…’

  ‘To the point, yes. I hold weekly gatherings at my house of other cross-dressers. It’s a small group, half a dozen or so. We’re friends. There’s no sex involved. We have a meal and a couple of bottles of wine. We talk about clothes and make-up and some of the problems of our… hobby. There are a few, as you can imagine.’