by Peter Corris
‘You think Isabel found out about Valerie and killed him along with the wife?’
‘Possibly. Or each one found out about the other and they did it together. Valerie’s article could have been written to protect them by putting the blame on the wife. We’ll never know.’
‘What about the ticket from Adelaide? What’s the significance of that?’
I shrugged. ‘What does it matter?’
Two days later they fished Mrs Ozal out of the harbour, I used my contacts to get a look at the autopsy report. Her stomach was full of booze and pills and salt water. In the language of the report, they found a small silver rose in one of her ‘body cavities’.
Airwaves
Wilbur Hartwell was a star announcer on a top-rating radio station until his heart attack a few years back. He took his golden handshake and went fishing the way so many men do. He was back in Sydney looking for a job within a year.
‘It drove me crazy,’ he told me over an illicit (for him) beer one night in the Toxteth. ‘Catching fish. What’s the point?’
‘You should have eaten them,’ I said. ‘Nothing better for the heart.’
‘I did eat them. I ate the bloody things till I couldn’t stand the sight of them. By the way, how’s your cholesterol, Cliff?’
‘Low,’ I said. ‘Likewise my fat to body weight ratio, blood pressure and resting pulse rate. I had a checkup a couple of months ago.’
Wilbur, plump and rosy-faced, sighed. ‘How do you do it?’
‘Nothing to do with me. My ancestors did it. The way I live, I should be a hyper-tense, twitching wreck—or dead.’
That exchange had taken place six months back. Wilbur, a friend of Cyn, my ex-wife, who somehow stuck on after Cyn and I broke up, settled into a job managing Radio 2IC. Funded from a thousand different sources, espousing a thousand causes, 2IC tapped into a deep well of talent and called itself ‘the voice of the inner city’. I started listening when Wilbur took over the station. I liked the chat and the music. I was surprised when Charlie MacMillan got a regular evening spot. MacMillan was a sports commentator turned general know-all. He was a born-again Christian, a political reactionary and a racist. Trouble was, he could be funny, in a beer ’n’ prawns kind of way, and he did have a knack for getting people who should have known better to argue with him on air.
The Federal Minister for Aboriginal Affairs took him on, and lost, as did Phillip Adams, though he ran him close, and Peter Garrett. MacMillan rated, drawing sponsors and listeners. Some of the audience must have been like me, hovering between antagonised and amused, but there’s nothing that says your audience has to be smiling. 2IC jumped a few rating slots. I was happy for Wilbur, although I could imagine his old Whitlamite hackles rising when MacMillan came out with lines like, ‘Malcolm and Gough’re great mates now, and neither of them’s had an Abo to dinner since they were in the Lodge.’
Wilbur rang me on a hot November night. I’d got home after a hard day’s summons serving, cracked a beer, turned on the news and put my feet up. The phone rang and I was positioned so I barely had to move a muscle to answer it. It was Wilbur.
‘Not listening to MacMillan?’ he said.
I hit the mute button on the remote control. ‘No, I’ve got the TV on. Different lies from different sources.’
‘Cynic. You have heard him though?’
‘Sure. He’s a prince.’
‘He’s a prick. But he’s a money-making prick.’
‘For now,’ I said. ‘He’s a nine-day wonder. People’ll get tired of him.’
‘Someone’s so tired of him already they’re threatening to kill him.’
‘That’s par for the course, surely. Nuts threaten the newsreaders, the actors in the commercials …’
‘Right. MacMillan’s hate mail started after his first broadcast. He laughed about it. But this one’s got him worried. He wants protection.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Top dollar, Cliff. Expenses paid within reason. Charlie goes to some nice places. You could meet a girl or two. He takes a break in a fortnight. That’s all it’d be.’
‘I hate him,’ I said. ‘I’d end up helping the threatener.’
‘Flat rate,’ Wilbur said. ‘Five thousand, plus expenses.’
‘You bought me. Starting when?’
‘In about fifty-five minutes, when he goes off air. Pick him up at the studio. I’ll have a cheque ready for you.’
‘Don’t push it, Wilbur,’ I said, ‘or I’ll do my best to convert him to Buddhism.’
I’d expected a thorough briefing from Wilbur, but he’d left early for his regular poker night, so all I had to do was collect the announcer himself and a thousand-dollar cheque at the studio in Pyrmont. Charlie MacMillan had a big, mellow voice but it came out of a scrawny, undersized head and body. He dressed in thousand-dollar suits and held himself very erect, but he was still a runt. We had our first disagreement straight off.
‘I’m not riding in that,’ MacMillan said, eyeing my utterly reliable, if slightly elderly, Falcon.
He pointed to a white Merc sitting at the kerb. I could see the red alarm light blinking inside. MacMillan tossed me the electronic gadget that turns the alarm off. I tossed it back and he fumbled the catch. ‘Don’t be dumb,’ I said. ‘If there’s anyone out to get you, why make it easy?’
He looked ready to argue, then he shrugged. ‘There is someone out to get me, make no mistake about that. Maybe you’re right. Drop the keys inside. Someone’ll run the Merc home. I’ve got places to go.’
I wanted to tell him to run his own errands, but five grand is five grand, and if Charlie took a set against me I wouldn’t get it. I gave the alarm-stopper, the keys and the message to the doorkeeper and we piled into the Falcon. He directed me to a block of flats in Arthur Street, Surry Hills. Security door, no parking. Good place to keep a woman on the fairly cheap. I escorted him to the door. A female voice answered when he buzzed. MacMillan winked at me.
‘How long?’ I said.
The door clicked and he pushed it open. ‘Depends. Say an hour.’
My office was only a couple of blocks away. I could have gone there and checked on the mail. Or I could have slipped across to the Brighton and chewed the fat with a couple of the cops who were sure to be there. Instead, I bought a can of light beer and a packet of peanuts and sat in my car watching the lights in the second-floor window. A few people came out of the flats, a few went in. Others entered the restaurant across the road. A quiet night. The loudest noise I could hear was myself, crunching the nuts. A woman came out of the restaurant and, just for a second, I thought it was Cyn. It wasn’t, too young. Mind games. Cyn wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to find me drinking beer and eating peanuts in my car while looking up at a bedroom window.
Fifty minutes and MacMillan came out, not exactly zipping his fly, but almost. He smelled of whisky and baby oil, not a pleasant combination. I started the motor. ‘Home is where?’
‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘Wherever I finish up. Let’s go to the Skin Cellar. Have a good time.’
The Skin Cellar was a dive on Darlinghurst Road which featured toxic air, watered drinks, fat strippers and third-rate crims. MacMillan tried to big note himself through the door, but he had to cough up ten bucks for himself and ten for me, just like everybody else. We were there for three hours during which time he had ten drinks, chatted up several less-than-keen women and got the brush-off from a couple of minor hoods. The only guy who talked to him was a stringer from one of the tabloids, a fact Charlie was apparently too drunk to realise.
I got him out into the relatively fresh air and the cool night; absence of noise and the darkness seemed to hit him like a brick. He sagged against the car. I asked him again where home was and he just shook his head and mumbled. I’d started out by disliking him and had moved on through despising to contempt. But what could I do? I bundled him into the car and took him to my place. He unzipped himself and pissed all over the pot-plants on the front porch, w
hich was better than doing it in the hallway. I eventually got him to take two aspirins with a glass of water. In the spare bedroom, stripped, with a wet towel beside him on the pillow, he was one of the drunkest, most pathetic specimens to have inhabited the spot. And that’s saying something.
MacMillan was one of those people who don’t suffer from hangovers. He was up at seven, cooking scrambled eggs, banging pots and pans and whistling in the kitchen. He turned on the radio—commercial station pap. I like the news and 2BL. I slouched into the kitchen and changed the station.
‘Hey!’ He spooned egg expertly out onto a plate.
‘Hey, yourself,’ I said. ‘Any coffee?’
‘I drink tea in the morning.’
‘You would.’ I made coffee and watched him eat—four eggs, three slices of toast, lots of butter and two sugars each in his three cups of tea. And he wouldn’t have weighed sixty kilos, wringing wet. He seemed brimful of confidence, nothing like the burning-out wreck of the night before.
‘What’re you staring at?’ he said.
‘You. Why so chipper?’
He wiped up egg with a bit of toast. ‘Got confidence in you, Cliffy,’ he said, chewing. ‘You’re all right.’
‘Call me Cliffy again and I’ll cut your vocal chords.’
Tough guy stuff. He loved it. I despised myself. But it kept him buoyant through the morning and afternoon while he did the things radio personalities do—checked his phone messages, read the material his researcher had prepared for him, met with a couple of his sponsors. I had to admit it, he put in a full day, and he did it on cups of tea, mineral water and a couple of salad sandwiches. He seemed to get a bit nervous after the sun went down, scrutinised the street and traffic, hunkered down in the car. But he was in the studio again by 8.30 with a thermos of coffee and some yoghurt. No wonder he was ready to howl by eleven.
I sat in Wilbur’s office and shared a bottle of red with him. Wilbur listened to MacMillan’s opening spiel, which was something about who was really calling the shots in South Africa, before cutting off the feed.
‘I met fish I liked more,’ Wilbur said. ‘What d’you make of him?’
I told Wilbur about our night and day. ‘He seems to be two different people, day and night, sober and drunk. He’s genuinely frightened though. When did the death threats start?’
‘Day one,’ Wilbur said. ‘Show you.’ He opened a filing cabinet and took out two folders, one thick, the other thin. He passed the thin file across. ‘This is just the written stuff. We get a few over the phone and on the board when he does the talk-back segment. Use the delay switch, but there’s a few tapes you could listen to if you like.’
I nodded and poured some more red. The eight or ten letters were written on a variety of stationery, some typed, some handwritten in pencil, ballpoint, ink, Texta colour. They basically denied MacMillan the right to hold the opinions he espoused. A couple argued against racial differences on scientific grounds. Two letters threatened MacMillan’s life if he continued to broadcast, although they were vague about how the execution would be carried out.
‘What’s in the other folder?’ I asked.
‘Messages of support.’ Wilbur dumped the heavier folder in front of me. Unlike most of the brickbats, the bouquets were all signed and carried addresses. A few were typewritten or done in the copperplate they taught in state and private schools before the war; others were rougher. Their message was consistent—Australia for the Australians and that meant people with skins more or less the colour of the paper they were writing on.
Wilbur slipped a cassette into a machine on his desk and hit the PLAY button. I listened for a couple of minutes to harsh male voices, threatening violence.
‘How did the message that flipped him out come?’
Wilbur shook his head. ‘Don’t know. He just came storming in, swearing his life was in danger and demanding protection.’
I looked through the hate mail again and listened to the tape. Then I checked the pro-Charlie stuff, including a couple of callers that had been on air and agreed with MacMillan that white was right.
‘Did any of the knockers get air time?’
‘Sure. A radical libber gave him a bit of a run for his money. Some bishop got on, but Charlie made mincemeat of him.’
I closed the folders and put them back on Wilbur’s desk. ‘There’s something funny about this,’ I said. ‘But I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘Don’t worry. No one wants you to solve anything. Just keep him safe, semi-sober and happy for a couple of weeks.’
‘He only drinks at night,’ I said. ‘During the day he’s like Mahatma Gandhi.’
Wilbur had drunk most of the red and his face was almost the colour of the bottle. He belched. ‘Wish I could say the same.’
‘How come you’re doing all this? Why isn’t Charlie hiring me?’
‘In his contract,’ Wilbur said. ‘Standard these days. Celebrities get protection, employers pay.’
‘I’m all for it,’ I said. ‘Seeing as how it’s mostly bullshit. Money for jam.’
Wilbur concentrated on pouring the last of the wine into his paper cup. ‘Right. So why are you frowning?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘A feeling.’
‘Feelings are for women,’ Wilbur said, and he laughed.
I didn’t laugh and I frowned deeper and even swore a little when Wilbur told me that MacMillan insisted on using his Mercedes to get around in. He claimed other cars hurt his back.
MacMillan did his session and we set off into the warm Sydney night. The evening was a repeat of the previous one, with variations. Charlie visited a Woollahra whorehouse and a succession of pubs around the eastern suburbs. He got thoroughly pissed and announced loudly in the last pub that he was going back to a motel in the Cross and that anyone was welcome to come along. There were no takers. We’d left the car at the lower end of Victoria Street. I had to support MacMillan, stop him bumping into trees and posts. This distracted me so that I didn’t hear the footsteps until it was almost too late.
‘Hey, man.’
Pseudo-matey, jumpy, vicious. I shoved Charlie away and hit the first man as hard as I could with a fist and a knee and a foot. He screeched, sagged away. His mate was coming at Charlie. I rushed him and drove him hard into the iron railing fence. He was fat and it didn’t hurt him much. He swung at me—a chain, hissing in the air. I ducked under it, grabbed the metal links and brought them up, wrapped them around his fat neck. He felt the chain bite into his flab and he started to beg.
‘Please, mister. I never …’
The other one was vomiting into the gutter. I’d got him very low with the knee. I forced the fat man to kneel beside him and I bumped their heads together, not gently.
‘Stay there for five minutes,’ I said. ‘Make it ten to be on the safe side.’
I hauled Charlie to his feet, threw the chain away and walked him to the car. The rush of adrenalin was fading; I felt drained and a bit dirty. Automatically, I drove to the motel MacMillan had mentioned, a down-at-heel joint with a car park as skimpy as the balconies on its rooms. I wedged the Merc into the only space available, which left its MAC 1 numberplate exposed to the street.
Charlie used his Mastercard although he was almost too drunk to sign his name. We got a big room you might have called a suite if it had been cleaner—two double beds and a single, small kitchen and breakfast nook. Charlie sprawled on one of the doubles, clawed off the top layer of clothes. He mumbled something that might have been ‘Thanks’, and went to sleep. I made instant coffee and sat on the single bed feeling like the year’s prize idiot. I knew this motel only too well—it was a crim hangout where more than a couple of the fraternity had had their last drink, fuck, heroin hit, whatever, before kissing their dirty lives goodbye.
I spent a very uncomfortable night drinking coffee, watching old movies on TV and nodding off in a chair I’d selected particularly for its lack of comfort.
MacMillan woke up at seven,
clear-headed, as before. I’d ordered breakfast at six, just for something to do. He wolfed down most of it, cold eggs, tomato slices and the kind of limp toast only motels can provide. He flicked through the paper and whistled as he slapped more butter on the toast.
‘Quiet night, Cliff? Easy money?’
I grunted. Light glinted around the edges of the heavy blind. I reached over and released it. The bright sunlight hit him full in the face. He barely blinked.
‘Ah, Sydney,’ he said. ‘You beauty. What would you say to a swim?’
The man was a freak. I was beaten. ‘Wouldn’t mind.’
‘That’s the spirit. I’ve got nothing on today. You like Newport?’
I liked Newport. Who doesn’t? I’d have liked it even better if I’d had the kind of place Charlie had to live in—a white painted sandstone house on a hill overlooking the ocean; high wall all around, nice garden, balconies, roof deck, plus one of the best burglar alarms and security systems I’d ever seen.
Charlie made a few calls from one of the several phones in the house. He found some swimmers for himself and an old pair of stubbies for me. We went to the beach with towels, chilled mineral water and about ten pieces of fruit. MacMillan turned out to be a real little wave-cracker. He swam out strongly, using the slight rip to get him beyond the breakers and he came in, head down, shoulders hunched, streamlined. I caught one to his three, quit about ten waves sooner, and went to the bottle shop for a few cans of Coopers Lite.
It’s hard to feel angry when you’re lying in the sun, munching crisp apples and wetting your whistle, but I managed it. I knew MacMillan was playing me and Wilbur Hartwell for suckers. He was exposing himself, as it were, instead of keeping a low profile and staying safe inside his electronic fortress. The trouble was, his fear was genuine. As we lay on the beach, he twitched every time a male over sixteen walked past. His shades came on and off as he gazed around at the car park, the surf club, the skateboarders on the pavement ten metres away. A truly frightened man. But what of?
I crumpled the second can and stuffed it into the plastic shopping bag we’d used to carry the towels and stuff. Charlie eyed the two remaining cans but he shook his head when I offered one. ‘Never touch it in the daytime.’