Win, Lose or Draw

by Peter Corris

‘Thanks, that’s interesting. Give me your card. I’ll contact my client and he’ll have someone contact you. Don’t hold back with what you ask for, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll advise settlement of your account and an equal amount in compensation for your injury and for your assistance. How’d that be?’

  ‘Fantastic. I can’t thank you enough, Mr Hardy.’

  ‘Cliff. Stay afloat, Molly, help is on its way.’

  The Breakwater Lodge was quiet—everyone coming in was in and everyone going out was out. The bed was comfortable and the air-conditioning was quiet. I felt I was making progress and, unlike sometimes when I was frustrated and angry and lay awake turning things over in my mind and having disturbing dreams, I slept soundly and late.

  I was becoming fond of the Breakwater. I had a leisurely swim and an equally leisurely breakfast, shower and shave so that it was almost mid-morning before I checked out. No complaint from the management about the lateness and I left a tip for whoever cleaned the room—all on Fonteyn.

  I filled the tank and pointed myself towards the sunshine state. I hadn’t gone more than a kilometre towards the highway when my mobile rang. I pulled over.

  ‘Hardy.’

  ‘Cliff, this is Hank. Sorry, mate, your guy arrived on time and bought himself a ticket. He’s sitting in the departure lounge right now. Do you want me to do anything?’

  ‘No. Where’s he headed?’

  ‘Ballina. Plane goes in an hour. Is there a problem?’

  ‘No. Thanks, Hank.’

  ‘He socked down a couple before he bought his ticket. He doesn’t look like much.’

  ‘He’s a softie, but persistent.’

  I cut the call and got moving. Bloody Cameron, I thought. He’d probably done enough snooping in his time to pick up my trail in Fitzroy Heads and he had the money to follow it. He was well off the pace but a nuisance and just maybe something more.

  In a way I was pleased—things had been going too smoothly and I was feeling comfortable, always a bad sign.

  12

  Since the last election Queensland has recovered some way from the slide towards the police state that had threatened with the previous government. Probably some of the laws that had criminalised people for their associations were still on the books but it looked as though they weren’t being enforced as officiously. Still, in a fundamentally conservative territory, things could slip back.

  Coolangatta feels artificial and temporary, as if something might easily pack the whole place up and move it away. It boasts sunshine, sand and surf, and money. A good bit of the money is newly arrived and a lot of it is expressed in boats. I drove to the marina, or as close as I could get to it. It was Saturday and it seemed that every car for miles around had come to the city centre and the adjacent attractions like the marina.

  I walked in the warming morning to the harbour and let my eyes drift over the sparkling scene. White predominated—money afloat, washed clean. Some of the bigger boats had play areas and gardens on their decks.

  Chances of spotting the Zaca 3 were nil and there were too many sailing clubs and organisations to make legwork profitable. I needed local help and I had some in the person of Vaughan Turnbull, a private investigator who’d helped me before when I’d been up here chasing a maintenance-defaulting husband. I drove to the office he had in a low-rise building several blocks back from where the spray hit the sand.

  Vaughan was a bit younger than me, just enough to be respectful. He was hungry when I’d last seen him and, unless the business had taken a turn for the better up here in the last few years, I guessed that he still was. We single operators are an informal bunch; I didn’t phone ahead. My calling card was a chilled six-pack of Little Creatures Bright Ale. If he wasn’t in I’d phone him and tell him I had it; if he was, I’d put it on his desk.

  After parking a couple of blocks away and walking in the sun, the air-conditioning in Vaughan’s building was welcome. The place held a mixture of slightly offbeat businesses and several vacant suites. One floor up, I pushed open the unlocked door with Turnbull Investigations stencilled on the glass and went into a small foyer that could’ve just about held a secretary, but didn’t, and rapped on the door behind it.

  ‘Come in.’

  I walked into a fair-sized office containing all the standard equipment of the profession and plonked the six-pack on the desk.

  The man sitting there turned away from his computer and faced me.

  ‘Cliff Hardy,’ he said. ‘The Sydney sleuth. How the fuck are you?’

  ‘Getting along, Vaughan. Want to crack a couple of these?’

  ‘Why not? Have a seat.’

  He deftly closed the long blade open on the Swiss Army knife on his desk and unclasped the bottle opener. With the tops off we clinked bottles and Vaughan took a long swig.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘But I take it you haven’t come just to bring some Sydney sophistication to the deep north.’

  ‘No, I need your help. I’ve got a paying client and you’ll be a legitimate expense.’

  Vaughan had aged in the few years since I’d last seen him. Back then he’d been a gymaholic and surfer and about as fit as a man pushing fifty could be. Now he carried more flesh and had more wrinkles, but his hands were steady and his eyes were clear.

  He laughed. ‘I’ve been called a few things in my time but that’s a newie. What’s the job?’

  I told him as much as necessary to put him in the picture. He listened intently while sipping on the beer, nodding occasionally, as when I mentioned Hector the barman’s claim that the word would be out in New South Wales ports on the Zaca 3, and the encounter with George D’Amico.

  When I’d finished he said, ‘Deirdre or Diana and a stripper, past or present. It’s something to start with. I know about George D’Amico. He’s got a place up here. The word is he greases the right palms in politics and the constabulary. A man to be very careful of, Cliff.’

  ‘He was issuing a warning to Harris through me. Would he be likely to have someone watching my progress?’

  ‘More than likely.’

  ‘And be looking for Harris himself?’

  ‘Depends on how pissed off he is.’

  ‘He was very smooth, hard to tell.’

  ‘With D’Amico, assume the worst.’

  We drank our beer and didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Vaughan’s office was spick and span, which either meant he was an efficient organiser or didn’t have a lot to do.

  I broke the silence. ‘Drugs, marijuana, possibly other things. If Harris was looking to do business up here, how would he go about it? Assuming he’s been operating here before.’

  ‘The scene’s changed. The crackdown on the bikies has had some effect, not too much. They’re not stupid. You cut your hair and trim your beard, wear a Gold Coast Suns or a Brisbane Broncos shirt and don’t rev your Harley too hard and the cops don’t react. But the supply’s down and some freelancers’ll be getting busy among the kids.’

  ‘Any connection with yachties?’

  ‘Fuck you. I was just about to say that some of the well-heeled kids, and believe me there are some, charter boats to cruise about and get drunk and stoned and dip their wicks if they’re lucky, out on the water.’

  ‘Sounds like a scene Harris’d enjoy. You must have some contacts, and then there’s the wife angle. Have you got anything big on just now?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

  ‘We’ll have to decide how to divide the work up.’

  ‘Time is money.’

  I’d stopped off at a bank on the way to see him, and had a wallet stuffed with Gerard Fonteyn’s money. I counted out a thousand dollars in hundreds and put it on the desk.

  ‘Money talks,’ Vaughan said.

  I had a reservation before we got going.

  ‘Are these lines of investigation going to cross? I mean, strippers, prostitutes …’

  ‘No,’ Vaughan said. ‘D’Amico’s places specialise in young g
irls, as young as he can get away with.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay with this? It could get sticky.’

  ‘Mate, I’m more than okay. You knew I was divorced?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Oh yeah, after you were last here. She stripped me bare and I don’t blame her. I was almost never there and not really there when I was there.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Yeah, well I was down for a while, got on the piss, but I’m back on my feet now. One of my three kids still talks to me. But everything I’ve got is leased or rented. I want the work and I’ll give it my best shot. A grand’s a good start but information’s expensive in this town.’

  I told him there was the prospect of more expense money and a bonus if things worked out and he seemed satisfied.

  He told me that while prostitution was legal in Queensland and there were licensed brothels, only a small percentage of sex work went on in them. Otherwise the scene operated in a variety of different ways—individuals in their own premises, pairs in similar set-ups, massage parlours and escort services.

  Vaughan went off to try to track down the wife and I went to George D’Amico’s establishment. I thought I’d talk to whoever was there to see how serious D’Amico was about wanting the message to get to Harris. And such places can provide information about the drug scene if you ask the right questions of the right people and have the right money.

  D’Amico’s Classic Escorts was in a free-standing, double-fronted townhouse not far from a cluster of motels and holiday rental apartments—an ideal set-up.

  I drove there using the local street map Vaughan had given me and parked the Mitsubishi a block away. I’d debated whether to go to a motel and clean up but decided against it. At that time of the day I had a heavy stubble and my clothes were rumpled, but I wasn’t intending to make an impression other than as someone wanting information and resolved to get it.

  A high wall surrounded the property and there was provision for underground parking. A gate in the wall was protected by a high-mounted camera and an intercom. I pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Yes?’

  A female voice, sceptical. I was being looked at from inside. I held my licence folder up to where a faint glow indicated a camera constantly at work.

  ‘I have a message for George D’Amico.’

  ‘Mr D’Amico isn’t here.’

  ‘I know. I saw him in Fitzroy Heads yesterday. I want to talk to whoever is in charge here.’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  After a minute or so the door swung open. I went up a short path, through an open door and into a quiet, air-conditioned reception area with a desk, armchairs, coffee tables and photographs of women on the walls. There was no one at the desk although an almost full coffee cup and a half-smoked cigarette with a lipstick mark on the filter stubbed out in an ashtray suggested it had been recently occupied. A man in a light grey suit came down a set of stairs to the right. He noticed my startled reaction and smiled.

  ‘So you have met George. I’m his brother Paul. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Twins?’

  ‘Not quite. Ten months apart. I’m the younger, unfortunately. Could I see that ID again, please.’

  I showed him the licence and he examined it carefully. He waved towards some chairs positioned around a low table but I stood my ground.

  ‘This isn’t social, Mr D’Amico.’

  ‘I hope not. I’m not in the habit of socialising with scruffy private eyes.’

  ‘I don’t think a pimp is in a position to be that choosy. I’m here to talk about Lance Harris and his Lolita.’

  That startled him. ‘Are you now? I must apologise, Mr Hardy. I think we should have a drink and a talk.’

  13

  Paul D’Amico conducted me upstairs. Looking back, I glimpsed a woman coming from outside and slipping into the chair by the desk. I could smell the smoke on her.

  ‘Offensive habit,’ D’Amico said. ‘I discourage it, but it goes with the territory in this kind of establishment.’

  I nodded. Like his brother he had a slight accent and moved athletically. Something about the set-up here struck a false note with me but I couldn’t put my finger on it. We went into an office better fitted out than mine or Vaughan Turnbull’s but not as expensively as Gerard Fonteyn’s. He waved me into a chair and opened a bar fridge.

  ‘Scotch? Single malt.’

  ‘Thanks. Small one, neat.’

  ‘“Straight up”, as the Yanks say.’

  He was turning on the charm and I wasn’t buying it.

  ‘I never really knew what that meant. Spend much time there learning the business?’

  He prepared the drinks, adding a block of ice to his. He was a man who liked to make a point. Instead of sitting behind the desk he rolled the chair out beside it so that we were face to face, both using the desk as somewhere to place our glasses.

  He raised his glass in a gesture I could respond to or not. I didn’t.

  ‘So you’re on a missing persons case and Harris has her?’

  I took a sip of the smooth scotch. I remembered an episode of the TV show Taggart in which a Chinese woman praised the calming benefits of meditation. Taggart replied, ‘I know a single malt’ll do that.’ This was the stuff.

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Sixteen by now.’

  ‘Getting on for Lance.’

  ‘So I’ve been told. And for you.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not for me, for George. That’s why we’re talking.’

  It came to me then. The photographs on the wall downstairs were of adult women, no nymphets, not even near or pretend nymphets. Paul D’Amico said he disapproved strongly of his brother’s policy of using very young girls and had discontinued it in the Coolangatta establishment.

  ‘Lance Harris has supplied young girls for years. A couple, I regret to say, were actually underage and a few others of uncertain age were brought into the country illegally. Christ, bad shit was headed off only by the greatest good luck and some astute payments. I’ve urged George to change but he won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He sipped his drink, obviously trying to decide how much to tell me. He shrugged and for the first time looked uncomfortable.

  ‘It’s his penchant and it’s profitable. There’s some sick people out there. You say the girl Harris has in tow is sixteen?’

  ‘Only just,’ I said, ‘but more importantly, her father is a very wealthy and influential man. If it comes out that George and Harris had a contract to …’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. George approached me in Fitzroy Heads and gave me to understand that he was very pissed off that Harris hadn’t … delivered. My guess is that Harris built up the value of the … package and reneged or stalled on the deal. Probably stalled. If I get her back in one piece her father will bring down a shitstorm on your operation—the young girls, the hiring out to yachties, everything.’

  ‘Christ almighty.’

  It’s not every day you catch an operator like Paul D’Amico on the hop. Despite all his smoothness, I had no illusions about him. He was in the business of selling sex, but that’s been going on probably since we were in the trees, certainly since we were in the caves. All his reactions were business, not morally oriented. To a large extent, so were mine. In the cool, executive surroundings, we stared at each other over the single malts.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘The girl, intact, and Harris punished.’

  ‘How severely?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Would you be prepared to … smooth over certain details for that result?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Then I think I can help you. Where are you staying?’

  ‘Haven’t decided. One of the motels on this strip, I suppose.’

  ‘I recommend the Seabreeze. I could ensure you a good rate.’

  ‘
Don’t bother. When I get settled I’ll let you know. For now you can have my mobile number.’

  I tore a leaf from my notebook and wrote it down. He watched me as he finished his drink.

  ‘You’re a cautious man, Cliff. May I call you Cliff?’

  ‘No. Are you planning to pull the rug out from under your brother?’

  ‘Now, why would you think that?’

  ‘Just a feeling. I’ve seen these Cain and Abel set-ups before.’

  He stood, brushing non-existent fluff from his immaculate suit. ‘I’ll be in touch if I can help you to … defuse Harris.’

  ‘I might as well tell you I’ve got other lines of enquiry going on. Could be first come, first served.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  We went down the stairs and the nicely dressed and carefully made-up woman at the desk gave us both a hundred-watt smile. D’Amico ignored her but I smiled back.

  I didn’t go to the Seabreeze or any other motel. I was sure D’Amico had the contacts to track me to any of the upper level places. I found a caravan park with cabins, well away from the bright lights. It was cheap and rundown. Check-in procedures were rudimentary—the registration of the car and a scrawled signature. I paid the key deposit and three nights’ rent in advance in cash and the overweight man in a singlet and shorts didn’t even blink.

  I phoned Vaughan, told him where I was and what I’d been doing.

  ‘That’s a good start,’ he said. ‘News to me that Classics has gone adult and that the younger brother is getting stroppy. Do you trust him?’

  ‘Not an inch. How’ve you been getting on?’

  ‘Bit too early for me to find anything very useful. The girls don’t get in much before nine and they don’t get a break much before eleven. How about we meet up at midnight and compare notes?’

  He named a wine bar along the beachfront strip and gave me directions. The arrangement suited me; it gave me time to have a swim in the cabin’s slightly scungy pool, take a shower, have a sleep and find somewhere to eat.

  The wine bar was called The Cellar but it was at street level. It was thinly attended when I arrived shortly before midnight but Vaughan was already there nursing a glass of red and munching on a breadstick and bits of cabanossi. He had a small carafe of the red on the table and I poured myself a glass.