by Peter Corris
‘I like Ruby very much,’ Marcia said. ‘And I want to help. How can I? You haven’t told me this for nothing.’
‘You practise somewhere? You’ve got a surgery?’
‘Hardly that. The front room of a terrace in Stanley Street.’
‘That’ll do. Is there something we could slip Sammy to give him the symptoms of a venereal disease—fever, discharge and so on?’
She took a deep, very distracting breath. I tried to sneak a look at her legs under the table. Well, it was that kind of a situation. ‘Yes, there is,’ she said. ‘Cantharides’d do it.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Spanish fly. Take enough, and you feel you’re pissing razor blades.’
‘What about … discharge?’
She shook her head. ‘Harder. Massive vitamin C’d produce stains.’
‘But no serious damage.’
She shook her head. ‘Not in the short term.’
‘How does it come, this stuff?’
‘Granules. They’re rather bitter.’
‘Sammy has a couple of long blacks with his brother every morning and after work.’
‘Three days,’ Marcia said. ‘Four at the most.’
I spoke to Benjamin in his office, which was a flat in a pre-war building in Riley Street, another of Sammy’s holdings.
‘A doctor and she’s a whore? What’s the world coming to?’
‘Tell yourself it’s getting more interesting,’ I said. ‘It works for me. All you have to do is slip this stuff into Sammy’s espresso. Couple of days later you tell him he’s looking terrible and offer to help. Make sure he takes a lot of vitamin C. Be subtle. If that doesn’t work, be direct.’
Benjamin agreed to do it. Three days later he was on the phone to me. ‘Sammy’s desperate,’ he said. ‘I can’t bear to see it. What’s next?’
I gave him the telephone number and the address in Stanley Street.
‘How am I supposed to know these symptoms?’
I’d done some checking on Benjamin in the quiet hours. It’s always wise to check on a co-conspirator. There was more to him than met the eye. He had a personal interest in some of Sammy’s assets, and he was not unknown at The House of Ruby. ‘Benjamin,’ I said, ‘if your wife is the only woman you’ve ever shtupped, I’m a Dutchman.’
He disposed of that with a quiet cough. I repeated the address and told him not to worry. He called me at home that night.
‘Tomorrow at 2.00 p.m., as planned,’ he said.
‘Good. Will he be alone?’
‘Of course. You think he wants anyone to know about this? What’s the matter, Cliff? Are you afraid of Turk?’ It was the first time I’d heard an edge on Benjamin’s voice since this business began. I was glad of it; it meant that he wanted Sammy straightened out as much as my other client did.
‘Turk’ll come later,’ I said. ‘Let’s get this done first.’
Sammy turned up in a taxi at Marcia’s terrace five minutes early. He was as nervous as a schoolboy buying condoms; he glanced up and down the street and then stared at the house. That must have been a comfort: Marcia’s place had a neat, tiled frontage, just the right amount of greenery and a confidence-inspiring brass knocker. I was watching from the balcony. Sammy knocked. I scurried down the stairs and took up my position with the camera behind the screen in the front room. Marcia, wearing a short skirt, very high heels and a starched white lab coat, jotted down Sammy’s details on a card. She arched a plucked eyebrow once, presumably at some blatant lie of Sammy’s. I was alarmed; although her make-up was much toned down for the event, I was afraid she might overdo things. She didn’t. Her instruction to Sammy to take off his pants was clinical. Sammy was so embarrassed he shut his eyes when she examined him. This allowed Marcia to open the lab coat. I had the silent camera whirring the whole time: Sammy’s flaccid dick in Marcia’s hands, the lacquered nails showing clearly; Marcia, her breasts dropping forward out of a lacy black bra under the starched white fabric and her hand clasped around Sammy’s balls; Sammy, bent over, his underpants around his ankles, and Marcia behind him with the coat shrugged back on her shoulders, muscular thighs showing under the mini-skirt and her rubber-gloved finger probing Sammy’s arsehole.
‘Get dressed, Mr Jones,’ Marcia said.
Sammy did, with relief. Marcia stripped off the gloves, washed her hands in a bowl and dried them on a white towel. Sammy sat on a plastic chair. I could see the sweat standing out around his receding hairline. Marcia picked up Sammy’s card and made a few notes. She’d buttoned up the lab coat and assumed a prim, professional expression.
‘Well, doctor?’ Sammy said.
‘You have nothing to worry about, Mr Jones. Your condition is the result of a dietary irregularity—lack of calcium, principally. Do you drink much milk?’
The gratitude and pleasure on Sammy’s face was childlike. ‘Never touch the stuff.’
‘You’ve built up an imbalance in your body chemistry. I recommend milk and goat’s cheese, also green vegetables. As much as you can get down.’ Marcia scribbled on a prescription pad.
‘Sure thing. And … ?’ Sammy said.
Marcia tore off the sheet. ‘These pills. Twice a day before meals.’
‘You mean three times a day.’
‘No. Skip lunch. You should eat only a light breakfast and a high calcium dinner. No meat.’
‘Pasta?’
‘Light on the oil.’
Sammy jumped to his feet and thrust his manicured hand at Marcia’s middle. ‘Thank you, doctor. Thank you.’
‘Here’s your prescription. Have you got your Medicare card?’
‘Let’s make it cash,’ Sammy said.
Benjamin and I had agreed that there was no point in lying, no working through go-betweens. We didn’t want Sammy worried out of his mind. I arrived at Benjamin’s office by arrangement late the following day to find the two brothers drinking coffee. Sammy said it was the first decent coffee he’d had in days. Benjamin didn’t say anything. Sammy was expansive and ready to apologise for our misunderstanding of a few nights back.
I cut him off and spread the photographs out on the desk beside his coffee cup. I’m no artist of the lens, but the pictures were eloquent enough. Marcia looked delicious in her unfastened coat, Sammy’s closed eyes could be taken for transports of ecstasy, and so on. Sammy looked at the photos and slowly reddened from his soft chin to his retreating hairline. He looked across the desk at Benjamin and his eyes were moist.
‘You set me up. Your own brother.’
‘It was for your own good, Samuel. Believe me, your own good, and mine and everybody’s.’
‘Your own brother.’
‘I’m not your brother, Sammy,’ I said, ‘but I am your friend, or I can be if you play ball.’
‘What’s the rules?’ Sammy said softly.
Benjamin got up and took the coffee pot off the warmer. He poured some more into Sammy’s cup and filled a cup for me.
‘First, you lay off Ruby. Leave her rent alone, don’t hassle her in any way. Meet any reasonable requests she has as a good tenant.’
‘And?’
‘You stop pissing around with hoods like Turk. Stop acting the big shot.’
‘Attend to business,’ Benjamin said.
I sipped some of the terrific coffee. ‘Exactly.’
‘Or?’ Sammy said.
‘I take the pictures to Karen along with the doctor’s report on you—that you presented for a suspected venereal disease and so on.’
Sammy snarled, ‘Doctor!’
I said, ‘She is a doctor, Sammy, and she gave you the straight goods. There’s nothing wrong with you. You took a few doses of Spanish fly, which caused you a few temporary problems. That’s all.’
The cloud that had been gathering on Sammy’s brow lifted. ‘You mean it? That woman really is a doctor?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I just got your urine tests back. You’re clean.’
Sammy drank his coffee in one
gulp. The flush in his face receded and he grinned. Then he exploded into laughter. ‘You guys,’ he said. ‘You fuckin’ guys. You finally get me to go to a doctor. Me, scared shitless of doctors. And I’m okay?’
I nodded. ‘Sound as a bell. Sammy, while you’re laughing, I can’t quite see why you were worried. I mean, you haven’t stepped out of line, have you?’
Sammy looked at his brother. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’
Benjamin nodded. ‘I knew the scheme’d work, Cliff. Sammy worries about toilet seats, mosquitoes, knives and forks in restaurants …’
‘You can catch things,’ Sammy chuckled as he spoke.
It was time to cut through the hilarity. ‘Okay, Sammy,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re happy. We did you a favour, fine. But the terms still apply. Get ahold of yourself, or Karen makes your life a living hell. I don’t need to spell it out, do I?’
Sammy shook his head; suddenly glumness enveloped him. ‘It’s not that easy.’
‘How so?’ Benjamin said.
Sammy waved his hand and it was almost as if he was saying goodbye to buffed nails and shaped cuticles. ‘It’s Turk,’ he said. ‘He’s kinda … pressing me. You know?’
‘Don’t worry about Turk,’ I said.
A little checking turned up something odd and interesting about Turk. He didn’t have a permanent place of residence; instead, he moved around a circuit of city hotels, staying two weeks or three weeks at a time in one place after another. Not five-star hotels, but not fleapits either. The sorts of places I like to stay in myself, and where I stick out-of-town clients. Spending some money on the street and using the phone, I located his current hostelry, the Sullivan in Elizabeth Street, where I happened to know the security man.
Bert Loomis is an ex-cop, ex-bank security man, ex quite a few things. He’s fifty-five and looks every minute of it, especially around the eyes, which have seen most of the dirty things there are to see. I judged that $50 would be about right, and it was.
‘Fifteen minutes, Hardy,’ Loomis said. I noticed that he didn’t touch the knob, just slipped the card in the slot and edged the door open with his knee.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Where’ll you be?’
‘Nowhere.’
He jerked his head; I went into the suite and heard the door close behind me. I had to work fast, and Turk made it easy. He lived light—basic toilet articles in the bathroom, clothes in the closet and drawers. Condoms, a vibrator and pornographic material in a bedside cabinet. Beer and wine in the bar fridge, hard liquor on top. Two suitcases, empty. Dirty clothes in a heap in the corner of the little balcony room that overlooked the park. The drawer in the solid writing desk was locked and the Sullivan didn’t run to a security safe for guests. I picked the lock and emptied the drawer out on the bed. Personal papers, money matters—bank books, chequebooks, statements, bills from a firm of accountants, three passports.
I checked my watch. Twelve minutes. Time was up. I turned on the radio and dumped a drawer full of underwear onto the floor, where it could be seen from the doorway. Then I moved across to the door, opened it and left it propped open with the toe of one of Turk’s high-heeled boots. According to the passports, Konstanides/Lycos/Mahoud measured 183 centimetres—he’d looked taller in the Skin Cellar and the boots explained why. I stood inside the bathroom, two metres from the doorway, with my .38 Smith & Wesson at the ready. I was there because I knew Bert Loomis couldn’t resist a doublecross or a dollar.
Turk was quiet, but I could sense and smell him. He edged through the door, and I could imagine him standing in the short hallway, hearing the radio, looking at the mess on the floor. I could feel his tension. I stepped out with the .38 levelled at 150 centimetres. Turk was fast: he saw me, ducked, pulled out his own gun and came on. But the round hole staring at him had held his attention for just long enough, and I had the advantages of height and readiness; I moved aside, reached forward and clubbed his bald head with my metal-loaded fist. The barrel and trigger guard tore his skin, and the blow almost stunned him. His knees gave and I chopped at his right wrist, bringing my left hand down hard and bunched. He dropped his gun. I hit him between the eyes with my left and felt the knuckles protest. He fell forward and I kneed him in the chest as he came down.
After that, there was no fight in him. I pulled him into the bedroom and bound his ankles and wrists with four striped silk neckties from his closet. Bert Loomis put his head through the door, and I pointed my gun at him and he went away. Then I called the Immigration Department’s investigations branch and told them I had an illegal immigrant in custody—an individual with multiple passports, multiple bank accounts, several driver’s licences and a concealed weapon.
I had a beer from Turk’s fridge while I waited for the Immigration boys. Turk and I didn’t speak. I showed them the documents and Turk’s gun, and there wasn’t a whole lot more to say. Turk’s eyes blazed at me as they read him his rights and put the cuffs on.
‘You shouldn’t have spat at me, Turk,’ I said as they packed up his belongings. ‘I really didn’t like it at all.’
Sammy Weiss was as relieved to get Turk off his back as he was to learn that he didn’t have the pox or anything else. All he had to worry about was the photos, and I set his mind at rest about them.
‘All you have to do, Sammy,’ I said, ‘is leave Ruby alone and behave yourself. Listen to Benjamin, do what he says. In six months, if you toe the line, I’ll give you the pictures.’
We were in the Bar Calabria, drinking coffee. Sammy was wearing a quiet suit and tie and looking hurt. ‘You don’t trust me.’
‘How do you spell it?’ I said. ‘Deal?’
‘Deal. Really a doctor, huh?’
Benjamin was pleased and insisted on paying me over and above the two hundred retainer. He offered to do any accounting I needed free of charge. Ruby paid me as well—a couple of days work, and expenses, such as my payment to Marcia, and for film and developing. It was a nice piece of business. After I’d collected the cheque and a drink and an enthusiastic kiss from Ruby, I stopped at the table by the door. Marcia was painting her nails and reading the Independent Monthly.
‘You were great,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
She looked up and blew on a wet nail. ‘My pleasure. Anything else I can do for you?’
Almost Wedded Bliss
Reasons to remember 1967—the release of Sergeant Pepper, the Six Day War, the hanging of Ronald Ryan, the drowning of Harold Holt. I remember it because that was the year Astrid and I nearly got married.
My life had been going along in two and three-year zigs and zags—two years in the army, two years at university, three as an insurance claims investigator. I had a flat in North Sydney and I was doing all right—people were always burning things down and cheating in various ways that needed to be uncovered to protect the other people who played the game straight. That was how I looked at it. I had energy to burn and I straightened out certain problems for friends. I also did an occasional bit of bodyguarding on the side, like for the 1966 Bob Dylan tour, although I never got closer than twenty feet to the man himself.
I met Astrid in early ’67 at an anti-Vietnam rally. I was along for the ride, to see if any of the speakers and rallyers knew what they were talking about. Some did. Astrid was tall and thin and blonde and she stood out in a fairly unwashed crowd like a swan among ducks. Like most people, she was surprised to learn that the war I’d fought in, the Malayan Emergency, had ended only seven years before. I had scars, cynicism and experience. She had enthusiasm, idealism and a thirst for knowledge. She was from Wahroonga—selective high school, Fine Arts degree from Sydney; I was from Maroubra, suburb and school, University of New South Wales drop-out. She worked for a publisher. I read the odd book. A perfect match.
She moved into my flat and we had a big party because Astrid was saying goodbye to her North Shore origins. Her widowed mother and my sister got along fine. Our friends, hers from the university and the publishing game, mine from the army, two
cops and Clem Carter who went to gaol soon after although he was innocent, did likewise. A good party. We even went off to the Blue Mountains for a sort of non-honeymoon and then it was back to work. Busy lives, dynamite sex on the pill, boozy Italian dinners. A kind of trial marriage. A magic time.
The first non-routine job that came along after I took up with Astrid was weird from the jump. A man named Lawrence Bean, who’d been referred to me by a man I’d saved from going to prison by proving he hadn’t torched his factory, arrived at the flat with a proposition. He operated a nightclub off Darlinghurst Road. ‘It’s going to be the top R ’n’ R spot in the Cross,’ he said.
‘Rock ’n’ Roll?’
He laughed and shook his head. He was a small man, about fifty, with hair that waved tightly back across his bat-eared skull. He had a Jimmy Durante nose in danger of becoming a W.C. Fields. He was a constant, nervy smoker. I was a smoker myself in those days, rolling them, using them to relax and as an aid to thought. Lawrie, as he insisted on being called, used them to fuel some inner fire.
‘No, mate. Haven’t you heard? The Yanks are coming! Rest and Recreation. The town’s going to be full of GIs with greenbacks to burn.’
I’d heard about it, in a vague sort of a way, but it hadn’t meant much to me. It had happened before, in the Second World War, and the country had survived, although there’d been some casualties—the women strangled in the Melbourne ‘brown out’ murders, a few soldiers killed in brawls, the good-time girls who were the victims of botched abortions. We were all more sophisticated now. What was the problem?
Lawrie mashed out his Rothmans and lit another immediately. ‘My place is called the Rocky Mountain Bar.’
‘Cosmopolitan,’ I said.
He ignored that. ‘I’ve got American beers—Pabst Blue Label, Budweiser, Schlitz—you name it.’
‘Lone Star,’ I said.
‘Huh? Never mind. You see my point. When those thirsty fighting boys, so far from home, get here they’re going to find familiar bottles and, if you’ll excuse the joke, familiar women. Hah hah.’