by Peter Corris
Piece of shit. I knew blokes who could knock the lock out of that in two seconds flat. He dropped the lock on the floor and got out his tobacco.
Not in the car, I said. Youre talking about policemen, I suppose?
Yeah, of course.
I know people who can take out any car alarm system ever made and start the motor from the pavement.
That shut him up. He slumped down in his seat and I could sense the good feeling the beer had given him already ebbing away. The question was, did he come up passive or aggressive? We drove down William Street. Daylight saving had just ended and a bit after seven oclock the light was fading and the girls were beginning to emerge. White gazed out at them, and I glanced at him to gauge his response.
Jesus, he said. Will you take a look at that.
A six-foot transvestite or transsexual stood on the kerb outside a luxury car showroom. She had long, shimmering silver-blonde hair and wore a halter top, miniskirt and thigh-high boots to match.
Her dicks probably bigger than yours.
Whats the difference? he muttered. A holes a fucking hole.
I dropped him in Rose Street opposite a three-storey terrace that would fetch a fortune when it stopped being a dosshouse. Ive seen plenty of those places in my time; the metho bottles in the backyard can outnumber the sweet sherry flagons. White had wound his window down and stuck his face out on the drive in an effort to clear his head. He climbed stiffly from the car and leaned through the open window.
Im broke, Hardy. That seven hundred was all I had. Can you lend me a few bucks?
Sure, I said. Just tell me who staked you in the first place.
Youre a bastard.
I have to be. I deal with them every day. Dont lie to me, Barry. The way things are, every word we exchange is important.
A woman. Ive made her certain promises.
Shes an idiot.
Maybe, but she doesnt think so.
Human beings are hard to understand. Ive known a few intelligent, resourceful women whove fallen for useless, violent men, some who just couldnt get interested in any other type. I took two twenties and a ten out the change from the drinks and passed them to him. Dont drink it all, Barry. You need to rinse out that shirt and you could do with a deodorant and a mouthwash. See you tomorrow.
He took the money and didnt speak. I watched him in the rear-vision mirror as I drove away. For a few seconds he wavered between turning left or crossing the street. Left took him to the corner and the pub. He squared his shoulders and crossed the street. There were signs that Barry White wasnt a completely spent force, but that didnt make me trust him one bit more.
I drove home to Glebe, stopping to buy some fish and some white wine on the way. I grew up on a diet of fried meatchops, steak, sausages, bacon. That kind of tucker, plus large dollops of frustration, blocked my fathers arteries and saw him off at a fairly early age, but I seem to have inherited my mothers constitution and temperament. She ate, drank and smoked what she liked, made it to seventy, and went complaining about her short innings. These days I exercise some dietary caution, but not with fish; the only way to cook it is the way my Uncle Jim said. He used to catch flathead, bream and tailor off Maroubra Beach after pulling up sandworms for bait with his fingers. Fry the fuckers! was Uncle Jims advice, and thats what I did.
Ive lived alone since Glen Withers married her policeman. I occasionally see a former girlfriend, Terry Kenneally, who came out of longish relationships more or less intact, like me. We have a meal together, go to a movie and sometimes to bed. Theres nothing possessive about it. Were both looking for company and sex without complications. I cant say I prefer the arrangement to a passionate, committed relationship, but its not too bad. I enjoy the gaps and solitary spells, knowing that theyre not permanent.
I was in just such a spell at the moment with Terry, who was a tennis coach, away interstate with one of her hopefuls. Over the meal I lowered the level of the wine to halfway down the label and then quit, I made coffee and sat down to think about what I could be getting into with Barry White. It was hard to be optimistic. For years stories had circulated about cops with treasure trovesbales of marijuana, talcum powder tins full of cocaine, suitcases of money. As far as I knew none of these ships had ever come in, and the old rogue cops were all doing time or paying off their lawyers bills by installment. Still, Whites story had a different ring and the man himself wasnt the standard sticky-fingered corrupt moron.
I took out a fresh notebook and started plotting my course through some of the hazards. First things first, and my priorities are not necessarily those of the person whos hired me. I had to check up on the reward. Were the terms and the accrued amount what White had stated? Along with that went a need to know more about Barry White himself. Was my suspicion right that hed done some time, and if so, for what? I needed to know the personnel of the police instigating team and, if possible, get some idea of their conclusions. Had laying charges been considered and, if so, against whom? That led to the obvious question that shapes any investigationwho benefits? White and I had talked about Ramona Becketts victims as profiting from her death, but what about othersa lover, a family member? There was going to be some leg and telephone work involved as always and some favours to be asked for and maybe nothing to show at the end of it. But just maybe thered be a good deal more to show than usual.
I watched the late-night news on television for a few minutes, long enough to tell that nothing had happened that hadnt been predicted in the morning or developed during the day. I turned on the radio to catch Phillip Adams Late Night Live program, but they were talking about the next millennium and I was happy just to wait for it. I played Paul Simons Graceland through for the thousandth time and went to bed with Graham Richardsons autobiography which made me feel that the people I dealt with werent so bad after all. My tennis gear was lying in a corner where Id dropped it after my last game with Terry. I went to sleep thinking about her long brown thighs.
3
I never took to jogging, and riding a bicycle around Sydney these days is no fun, what with the foul air and the traffic. Like a lot of other people Ive found that walking is the best exercise. You dont jar things, tend not to step in potholes and dog shit and you can think while youre doing it. I do a few kilometres in Glebe most mornings unless its pissing down rain or I have to be somewhere early, and I try not to let that happen. It was March and cooler than it should have been after a summer that hadnt been up to much. I walked briskly through the park along with joggers, power-walkers, dog-walkers and others just walking.
When I moved to Glebe in the early seventies, you couldnt get down to the water below Jubilee Park. There were rows of old tin and fibro buildings in the waya ships chandler, a timber yard, an auto-electrician. That all got cleared away and the park was extended to the waterline with more trees and a paved walkway running all the way around to the canal. It was a 100 per cent improvement, and the upgrade is still going on to the west towards Johnston Street. More buildings have been cleared and the land detoxified. The plan is to let a section of it revert back to the wetland it once was. Good news for the birds. Normally, I go up the Crescent past the Lew Hoad Reserve to Bridge Road and make my way home that way, but since the work started on the Harold Park Paceway Ive changed my route. Theyre extending the car park and building a stand out over Johnstons Creek. I dont approve. You used to be able to walk alongside the creek. It wasnt the flashest walk in the world, but at least it was public space. I wandered into the football ground and sat in the stands for a think.
A lot of birds sat there with me as if waiting for the wetlands to arrive. I was unsettled by some of the changes going on around herethe flight path, the Paceway, the development in Ross Street where a hectare or so of warehouses had come down, the Glebe Island Bridge for gods sake. Id attended a meeting protesting the plan to build a marina on Blackwattle Bay and that was about as environmentally active as Id been. I wondered, not for the first time, if I shouldnt think about movin
g. I didnt need a three-bedroom house with planes flying overhead, but I couldnt think of anywhere else Id like to be except Bondi, and they were sure to start changing that soon.
I threaded my way through the streets and lanes that lead back to Bridge Road and the familiar sights and smells drove thoughts of moving out of my head. And no planes went over. I went home, showered and shaved and rang Frank Parker, who I knew would be at his desk at ten past nine. Frank and I go back a long way. He married Hilde Stoner who was a tenant in this selfsame house once, and they called their son after me. Franks been pretty much put out to graze in administration, but every now and then he gets his hands dirty. We exchanged the usual male bullshit and I asked him what he knew about Barry White.
A pity, that, he said.
How so?
He was the right sort of bloke for the job, or seemed to be. But the bastards at the Loo corrupted him. Youd have had to be a saint to resist some of the stuff that was on offer around there back then. Can I ask why youre interested?
Id have to give Frank some of the story to get what I wanted, but I wanted to intrigue him first. Frank Parker was a man with great curiosity. A job. Hes got some information that could lead somewhere.
Oh, very helpful. Just ask me anything, Ill tell you everything I know.
Hang on a bit, Frank. Was he ever inside?
Let me think. Yeah, he did a very short stretch for conspiracy. I forget the details.
Leo Grogan?
Jesus, youre dipping deep in the bucket now. What is this, Cliffa rollcall of crooked cops?
Was Grogan crooked?
You bloodhound, you. Not especially, as I remember. I worked with him for a while, if you could call what he did working. The man was drunk from morning to night. Just could not stand to have a dry throat. Come on, Cliff. I cant see the connection.
The connection is Ramona Beckett and a reward for information leading to blah, blah. Can you find out who was on the investigating team?
Sure.
Id like to talk to him.
Its twenty years ago. He could be dead or in Noosa.
Seventeen years. Ill go to Noosa if I have to. If number ones dead Ill settle for number two or three. Its important, Frank.
Look, Cliff, weve taken on a sort of consultant to look into old unsolved cases when anything comes up. Names Max Savage, good bloke.
Oh, yeah.
If I help you with this, can you bring him in?
Id have to think about that.
He wouldnt want a bite of your reward. Hes OK for money.
I dont know
Sorry, Cliff. Thems the terms. Ill get you all the dope I can, if youll play. But Max can get you more, much more. Added to that, I think youd like him.
I said nothing, intending the silence to be discouraging.
Tell you what. See how you go for a day or two. Ill brief Max and hell scratch around. If you decide to call him in Ill set up a meeting and Ill advise him from my high position in the force to give you every possible assistance.
Youre a manipulative bastard.
He laughed. You just got out manipulated for once, thats all.
The Cleveland is a boxing pub. The walls carry photos of old-time fighters and some not so old. Les Darcy and Jimmy Carruthers hold pride of place above the bar; Griffos up there with Dave Sands and Vic Patrick and Tommy Burns and Jack Carroll. A couple of non-Australians get a grudging spotArchie Moore, Freddie Dawson, Emile Griffith. The shrinking band of former fighters gathers there for reunions from time to time and they drink there regularlynot at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday though. There are two pool tables and couple of pinball machines but the pugs have been known to take steps if the players get too noisy when theyre doing serious things like discussing whether Jack Carroll couldve taken Benny Leonard or how Fenech wouldve gone against Famechon.
Its not what youd call a dressy establishment. I wore drill trousers, a dark blue shirt and a cream linen jacket that has seen much better days. Id eaten a ham sandwich and a couple of cold boiled potatoes before leaving home as blotter for the beer Id be drinking. Its a trade thats hard on the liver. I spotted Barry White in a miasma of tobacco smoke at the end of the L-shaped bar. Just above where he sat, Ron Richards, who could beat anybody on his night, was glowering behind his gloves. White raised his hand to me and then signalled the barman. Fuck me, I thought, hes going to buy me a drink. Then I remembered that it was my money. The middy was on the bar, sitting on a much-used coaster, when I got there.
Light? That right? White said. He was on a stool with two others drawn up near it.
I sat. Thats right. Thanks. Cheers.
Yeah. Whyd you drink that piss?
I took a long pull at the beer. Have you tasted it lately? Its improved.
He sighed. I suppose Ill be on it, or worse, if I get on this health kick.
Dont worry, Barry. Theres a way to go before you reach that point.
True. Leos late.
First hurdle.
He drained his glass and pointed to it for the barmans benefit. Dont say that and dont worryfirst drink of the day. He stirred the pile of change and the couple of five dollar notes on the bar in front of him. See, I didnt drink the lot.
He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday but his shirt looked fairly fresh and he didnt smell as bad, although it was hard to tell with all the tobacco fallout. Whoever the woman was whod lent him the money, she wasnt handy with a needle. His jacket still lacked the button that would enable it to be fastened smartly. The pub was fairly quiet with just a few locals judiciously wetting their whistles. Tuesday was two days short of pension day and the beer money had to be spun out. The Cleveland didnt go in for counter lunches or happy hours or any of the other attractions. It was a place for drinking and talking.
So, White said. You put out any feelers yet?
A few.
Frank Parker?
Lets just talk to Leo first.
But he couldnt let it go. He sighed again as he fished out his Drum. Hes a good cop, Parker.
I was irritated and finished the middy quicker than Id intended. He thinks the world of you, too.
Youre a bastard, Hardy.
You said that before. Hello, this must be him or his twin brother.
The man coming towards us could only have been a former cop. He had the walk, a sort of swagger that changes over the years as the belly gets bigger but still says, I can do things to you that you cant do to me. He wasnt big, under six feet, but he was wide and thick through, especially around the middle. He wore a grey suit that had fitted him when he carried a few less kilos and a tie with some kind of emblem on it. Even in the gloom of the Cleveland, I could see that his nose was a mass of purple veins and a similar tracery spread across his cheeks.
Yeah, thats Leo. White signalled and a schooner of old appeared on the bar as Grogan reached us. He took it up and drank a third of it before dropping heavily onto a stool and shaking Whites hand.
Gday, Barry. Ta for the drink. He pointed to Whites diminished money pile. Youre flush.
Temporarily in funds, Leo. Dyou know Cliff Hardy?
Grogan polished off another six or seven ounces. Heard of him. Gday, Hardy.
Leo. I held up three fingers to the barman and took a closer look at Grogans tie. The emblem was crossed boxing gloves. He saw me looking.
State amateur light-heavy champ in 1966. You look as if youve gone a few rounds in your time.
Welter, I said, Police Boys Club stuff. Lost in the state semis to Clem Carter.
The beers arrived, I paid and Grogan finished number one and took a surprisingly small sip of number two. The grog might have ruined his career and looks but perhaps he was still capable of shrewdness. I remember Carter. Good fighter but a dumb fucker.
Clem had been a close mate of mine for a number of years. Grogans assessment was harsh. Clem had escaped from gaol, taken me along for the ride at gunpoint to get even with the man whod framed him and stolen his wife and ended up dead. He was unlu
cky, I said. Like Barry here.
Grogan snorted his amusement and took a solid pull on the schooner. Over to you, Barry. What the fuckre we all doing here, apart from remembering when we could throw a punch or two?
White had fiddled with the cigarette hed rolled while Grogan and I had sparred. Now he lit it, drank some beer and pulled his stool in closer so that we were in a fairly tight ring. The paranoid thought suddenly occurred to me that this whole thing could be a set-up directed at me. I held a good store of secrets of one kind or another, and I knew there were people who could benefit from knowing things I knew. I studied the torsos of the two men closely, but they were both too flabby for me to tell whether there was any electrical equipment under their shirts. I resolved to say as little as possible until I could get a true sense of the meeting.
A while back, White said, you happened to tell me that you knew a thing or two about the Ramona Beckett case.
Grogan sipped his beer and looked annoyed, but that might have been because he spilled some down his shirt. Oh, yeah. Did I?
You were… talkative. It rang a bell with me and I did a bit of checking. There was a reward out. There still is a reward.
Bullshit. Her fathers dead.
It was in his fucking will, Leo. A quarter of a million bucks.
Grogan looked at me. I shrugged and had to hope that concealed any surprise on my face. Barry White was the original corkscrew man. Here he was putting a twist on things right at the start. It made me wonder how many twists hed introduced in his spiel to me.
What do you reckon, Hardy? Grogan said.
Its one of the things Im going to look into, I said.
White puffed smoke away from our faces. Youre our starting point, Leo. We cant make a move without your information. Thats why youre in for twenty-five per cent.
Grogan laughed. Jesus, I dont believe this. Well, at least Ive got a drink out of it from youse. And I reckon Ill have another. He drained the schooner and held it up without looking at the barman. For all his dismissiveness, he was watching Barry White closely. I was having trouble reading the signs in their behaviour towards one another. Animosity certainly, but also something else.