The Bear Pit

by Jon Cleary

  That cracked the concrete a little: “You’d turn me over to him?”

  “No, Joanna, You’re ours. But Jack Aldwych hasn’t reformed—he’ll tell you that any time you ask him . . . We’ll be keeping an eye on you, but we’re not going to waste men keeping an eye on whatever Jack does . . .”

  It was a cheap threat and he was aware that Gail Lee was suddenly very still in her chair. But most threats are cheap and that is why they are used openly; expensive threats are kept secret, for fear they may cost even more. He would explain that to Gail later. She was half-Catholic as well as half-Chinese, so she would know the uses of threat. The Vatican thought of it as a virtue.

  Janis/Joanna was weighing up the value of what he was saying, like a dealer before turning over the last card. Then she said, “There was a girl who was in Mulawa with me. She told her sister about me and the sister found out I was working at the casino.”

  “Name? Where can we find her?”

  “Ruby Griatz.” She spelled the last name. “I don’t know where she lives. I met her in town, in Wynyard Park, and gave her the money.”

  “Has she troubled you again, after the first bite?”

  “Not so far.”

  “You think she will?”

  “I don’t know. If she does—” She left it unfinished.

  “Would you kill her?” asked Gail gently.

  Her stare should have stunned Gail, if not killed her. Then she looked at Malone: “Are you going to try and find her?”

  “Of course,” said Malone. “Have you any idea what she does?”

  “I think she’s a hooker. Her sister, the one in Mulawa, was. She was in for rolling men—the sister.”

  “We’ll pick her up. Let’s hope she backs your story.”

  “Look, if you pick her up, will you charge her? It’ll all come out if it gets to court—bang goes my job—” She was looking worried now, the concrete turning to sand.

  “Joanna, if you can afford this—” He waved a hand around him. “If you’ve got money stashed away, why is the job at the casino so important to you? You’re not making a fortune there unless you’re milking the kitty.”

  She smiled at that, but without humour. “We’re under more surveillance there than you cops could ever mount. I want the job and the experience—I’ve got my eye on something else—”

  “What?”

  “A job as a supervisor or even a manager at a casino they’re trying for up at Coffs Harbour.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I heard about it at work. Casinos don’t like competition—even as far away as Coffs Harbour. It won’t happen for at least twelve months or more, probably longer, but by then I’ll have had the experience and worked my way up from the blackjack tables to the high rollers.”

  “There’s been nothing about it in the papers. Well, good luck, Joanna.” Malone stood up. “We’ll find Ruby Griatz, let you know what she tells us. Her story had better check with yours. Any questions, Gail?”

  “Yes,” said Gail, leaning forward as if at last coming into the scene. “Where else do you have money stashed away, Joanna?”

  “I’ve already told Inspector Malone that. There’s an account at the Commonwealth Bank in Martin Place.”

  “We’ve looked into that. The balance on Monday was twelve thousand and a bit. That and a hundred and forty thousand in the credit union and your salary—we know that, too. Unless you’re eating into capital, that doesn’t add up to what you’re paying for this apartment or if you hope to buy it. Where’s the money you told Inspector Malone you got from the sale of your mother’s house and that you invested? We checked on what you got for the house—seven hundred and ninety thousand.”

  Malone tried not to look admiringly at Gail. She had read the computer print-outs through a magnifying glass.

  “How do you pay your rent of six hundred dollars a week? We can go to the agents, ask them, cash or by cheque?”

  Janis/Joanna took her time; then: “Okay, I have another account with the National, in George Street. I pay my rent from there.”

  “Why all the accounts? What are you trying to hide and who from?”

  “The tax man.”

  That stopped Gail for a moment: it was odd to see her without a word. Then Malone stepped in: “Righto, Joanna, so long as we don’t let the tax man know, you won’t mind if we look at the National account? We’ll need an authorization. You don’t have half a dozen accounts somewhere else?”

  “No.” She stood up, moved no further for a long moment, then crossed to a sideboard. She took a pad out of a drawer and wrote on it. She came back and handed the note to Malone. “If the bank manager wants to verify that, tell him to call me. Now I have to go to work.”

  “We’ll let you know when we’ve got in touch with Ruby Griatz.”

  “Don’t bother. I hope I’ve heard the last of her. Goodbye, Constable Lee. You must come to the casino and try your luck. You sound as if you have a grasp of how money works. Is that the Chinese in you?”

  Malone remarked again how much sharper women were at insults than men.

  “It could be,” said Gail. “But you seem to know how it works, too. What’s that in you?”

  “Experience.” She opened the front door for them. “Tell the dummies downstairs I’ll be going out in a few minutes, to the casino.”

  “Somehow I don’t think you’ll ever make that casino up at Coffs Harbour,” said Malone. “Take care, Joanna.”

  Out in the street Malone said, “What d’you think?”

  “She’s told us only half the truth.”

  “Is that Chinese intuition?”

  “No, it’s feminine intuition.”

  “I’ll gamble on that,” he said, but only because he wouldn’t have to lay out any money. He crossed the road to the surveillance car, motioned to Gregan and Styron to remain in it. “If Miss Everitt visits a bank, let me know. We know two of her banks and a credit union.” He named them. “We think there’s more. You might fake losing her for a while, give her some rein, see if she goes to another bank. But if you lose her completely, you’re for Tibooburra.”

  Gregan and Styron looked at each other. “I think the inspector is fair dinkum,” said Gregan.

  “Oh, I am,” said Malone. “She’s my pigeon and she’s not going to get away.”

  In the car going back to Strawberry Hills Gail Lee said, “Do you think she hired the hitman?”

  He was silent for a couple of hundred metres, then he said, “I think so. One or other of the Aldwyches was the target, but the Premier was the unlucky one.”

  IV

  “What do the polls show today?” asked Billy Eustace.

  “Not good.” Ladbroke tried to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. A week as Eustace’s minder had been a wounding reminder of how much he had enjoyed the previous twenty-two years. Working for the Acting Premier was like working in watery dough; no matter how much you tried to shape him, he fell apart. Each time he appeared on television he seemed to be asking directions of the interviewer, like a traveller on a street corner in a strange city. He was suddenly blinded by limelight. “The Coalition and us are even-stephen, thirty per cent.”

  “Thirty per cent?” The dough sat up straight, but looked bruised. “Who’s got the rest?”

  “A couple of Independents have got two per cent each and that’s it. Thirty-six per cent are undecided.”

  “Unbelievable! Incredible!” Eustace wobbled his head, then stopped, as if afraid it might fall off before the voters got to it. “What’s the poll as preferred Premier? Me and whoever gets it for the Coalition.”

  “Twenty-four per cent each.” Ladbroke swallowed his satisfaction; it tasted sweet. “Undecided, twelve per cent. Couldn’t care less—”

  “Couldn’t care less?”

  “That’s what the pollsters say. Couldn’t care less, forty per cent.” Ladbroke closed his file. “Basically, Billy, it looks like the end of the day.”

  Eustace sa
t slumped in his chair. It was a leather, high-backed chair and even after a week in it he still didn’t look comfortable. He gave the impression of someone waiting at a bus stop for a bus to take him somewhere else: the stranger in the strange city again. Or perhaps, thought Ladbroke, it was the ghost under the buttocks goosing him. The Dutchman was still in the corners of this big room, still prowling. Ladbroke himself still felt the presence.

  “Jesus, Jesus—” Eustace wasn’t praying; he was an atheist, though he didn’t work at it. Atheism never won one enough votes to get one elected. “What are we gunna do, Roger? We can’t let those other bastards into government—not with the Olympics coming up—”

  “If the police could come up with Hans’ killer—”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it! How’s it coming?”

  “I understand they have a suspect—” He wondered why Eustace, as Acting Police Minister, wasn’t au fait with every aspect of the case; or didn’t Eustace care? “They can’t pin anything on him, unfortunately. They’re still not sure whether the hitman meant to get Hans or Jack Aldwych.”

  “It’s gotta be Hans! We’ll lose the sympathy vote if it was meant for that old crim Aldwych. Jesus!” For an atheist he kept hammering on the wrong door. He wobbled his head again, then ran his hand over it, as if looking to check if his baldness had increased in the past week. Then he looked up as his secretary put her head in the door. “Yes, Wendy?”

  “It’s Mr. Balmoral—he has an appointment—”

  “Yes, yes, of course! Show him in—” He stood up, almost as if glad to escape the chair. “Roger, give me something encouraging to say on the polls. Some convincing bullshit . . . Jerry! Come in, come in! You know Roger—”

  Ladbroke went out and Eustace sank into his chair, looking back over his shoulder as if checking to see that it wasn’t already occupied. Balmoral, cool and immaculate in Armani navy blue, sat down and arranged the creases in his trouser-legs. He looked around the large office as if about to make a bid for it. He had never been here before: Hans Vanderberg had had no time for minor union officials.

  Then he said with something like a sigh, “We’re going to lose the election, Billy.”

  Eustace managed not to reply at once. He never felt at ease with these up-and-comers. He came of the old breed of trade unionists and these kids with their polish and education had to be handled carefully. At last he said, “Maybe, maybe not. I’ll be re-elected, personally. You still have to get pre-selection. How’s it going?”

  “I need help, Billy.”

  “I’ve already helped you.” At three per cent above bank rate.

  “Not financial help. Political help, Party help. Clout. Gert Vanderberg thinks she owns Boolagong.”

  “She does, basically. She inherited it from Hans.” He was awkward acting close-mouthed.

  “That’s bullshit, Billy. Nobody inherits an electorate. At least, not unless they’re going to take up the electorate themselves. She can’t act the éminence grise.”

  Eustace had always thought that éminences grise were masculine. But it wasn’t a term that had been used in the Party, at least not back in the old days. Nowadays with so many bloody foreigners around, you never knew what they were going to spring on you next. There was no denying, however, that Gert Vanderberg was an éminence, grise or otherwise.

  “There’s another thing at Boolagong,” said Balmoral; Eustace had never seen him so on edge. “Peter Kelzo has got some guy named Fairbanks up for pre-selection.”

  “Forget him. He’s one of Kelzo’s puppets.”

  “So’s Joe St. Louis. A bloody puppet that goes around beating up other candidates. He would’ve done me if I hadn’t got out of the way. Norm Clizbe copped what I was supposed to get.” For a moment he seemed to be looking for somewhere to spit. “Maybe I should’ve joined the Coalition. I’m good- looking, I dress well—” He would never suffer from modesty, the politicians’ bane. “I’ve got to get into parliament, Billy! Now!”

  “What would you have done if Hans hadn’t been shot?”

  “I’d have run against you, Billy. You’re almost as old as Hans was. That’s why they made you only Acting Premier.”

  Eustace was no stranger to cold ambition. But this young man had a freezing quality to him. The Acting Premier pressed against the leather behind him, protecting his back.

  “That’ll be all, Jerry.” He knew how to fight; the old union ways were not forgotten. “Find your own way out.”

  V

  The three men drifted away from the gaming table and Joanna Everitt looked at the woman who remained. She was beautiful and elegant, not the sort of late afternoon player at the blackjack table. Roulette, maybe, but not late afternoon.

  “You wish to play?”

  “No,” said Juliet Aldwych. “I’m just here to give you a warning. If you trouble my husband, John Aldwych, in any way I’ll come in here and let your bosses know your jail record.”

  Joanna gathered together the cards on the table, aware of the security guard watching her. “I’m not in the least bit interested in your husband. Your father-in-law has been to see me and I told him the same.”

  “Let it stay that way,” said Juliet.

  Then the burly young guard came to the table. “Some difficulty, Joanna?”

  “None at all, Lew. Madame is making up her mind whether she will play or not.”

  “No,” said Juliet. “I was watching the game. I don’t think I like it. There’s no intellectual exercise to it, like bridge.”

  She smiled at both of them, walked away and the guard said, “Who is she?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” said Joanna.

  8

  I

  THE DOOR-KNOCKING revealed that no one in Joanna Everitt’s street had been expecting a handyman to call. No one had ever used Mr. June or even heard of him.

  “So what the hell was he doing in that street?” Malone was clearing up his desk, ready to go home.

  “You want to bring him in and ask him?” said Clements. “Forget it. He’s half a lap ahead of us, but he’s gunna stumble sooner or later.”

  He was lolling on Malone’s couch, looking exhausted. The Premier’s murder was still the Big One, but there had been another two homicides in the past twenty-four hours. Politicians were talking of zero tolerance as the law-and-order policy, but out there beyond the rhetoric guns and knives were being used with no tolerance at all.

  “I had a call from Police Centre,” he said. “The two guys tailing Janis said she had a visitor a while ago at the blackjack table. The woman had been watching Janis for ten minutes or so before she walked over and spoke to her. The air, our guys said, looked a bit chilly. One of them followed the woman down to her car, took the number. They checked it. It’s a BMW750, registered to John Aldwych Junior. Is Old Jack getting Mrs. Aldwych Junior to carry his messages for him?”

  Malone sighed yet again: the habit was beginning to annoy him. “We’ll have a word with him. Tomorrow.”

  Then his phone rang: “Inspector Malone? Detective Constable Bianco, Police Centre. Nemesis.” The voice seemed to stumble on the word, as if from embarrassment. “You asked for a check on a girl named Ruby Griatz. She was a prostitute, used to work the streets around the Cross. She was picked up last week, dead. OD’d on heroin.”

  “Righto, thanks. Can you do a check on any bank account she might’ve had? We’re looking for a deposit of something around fifteen thousand.”

  “In a hooker’s account?” The voice now sounded incredulous.

  “It’s a strange world,” said Malone, hung up and told Clements the news. “Janis knew the girl was dead. I’ll take a bet, too, that the girl doesn’t have a bank account, not one with fifteen thousand bucks in it.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Right now I’m going home. I’ve had enough frustration for today. Go home and play dolls with Amanda.”

  “She tears the head off them. Says she learned that at her day-care centre.”

  “
I wonder if Mrs. Masson, from Happy Hours, is tearing the head off her Mr. June? With Dakota and Alabama and Wombat Rose cheering her on?” He put on his pork-pie hat. “I don’t care. See you in the morning.”

  He drove home, unabused by raging drivers, opened the garage doors to find the Laser parked in there. Ready to abuse, he went round the side passage, was about to go in the back door when he saw Maureen floating in the pool. He opened the gate in the pool fence and went in. “Who had the Laser today? You or Mum?”

  “I did.” She climbed out of the pool. “Oh sorry, Dad. The garage doors were open—”

  “Open for me and the Fairlane. The boss.”

  “I wasn’t thinking—I just drove straight in.” She took off her bathing cap, shook out her hair. She was wearing a pale blue one-piece that might have shaken up the life guards down on Coogee beach or got her a walk-on in Baywatch but should not be worn in front of fathers and brothers. “I’ve had a bugger of a day, Dad. Sorry—I’ll back it out now.”

  “No, sit down. What sort of a bugger of a day?”

  She sat down on a poolside chair and he sat beside her. She draped her towel round her, but didn’t look cold. “Peter Kelzo came to the studio today. He’d been invited to go on State Hour, but he’d ignored the invitation. Then this morning he rang, said he was ready and turned up for the taping this afternoon.”

  State Hour was the only current affairs programme that Channel 15 ran and then only under pressure that it might lose its licence. Its argument was that infotainment was as deep as the average viewer wanted to paddle, but Canberra occasionally stumbled back on to the straight and narrow and it had insisted that Channel 15 run a current affairs programme or else. State Hour was run on a budget that, said those who worked on it, ran out at a dollar a minute. It was hosted by an alcoholic ex-newspaper hack who managed to stay sober for the forty-eight-minute run and sometimes asked questions that stabbed the guests in their complacency. Up till now, though, it had never made waves that rocked even the flimsiest boat.

  “Why were you there?”

  “Because they were working from my material. I wasn’t on the show. I was behind the cameras with the floor manager, but he saw me—Kelzo, I mean—and snarled something in Greek and glared at me.”