by Peter Corris
‘What’s wrong?’ Pauline said.
‘I don’t know.’ I unlocked the door and pushed it open. Nothing happened, no shouts, no shots, no cries of welcome. I edged in half a metre, keeping close to the wall, and looking and listening hard. There was nothing to hear and only some scuff marks and wet stains on the polished wood floor to see.
‘Byron!’ Pauline shouted.
Nothing. We went into the flat. It was sparsely furnished and scarcely lived in. The big room that served as a living and eating and music and view-absorbing space was neat except for an overturned chair, a coffee table pulled askew and a shattered Swedish upright lamp. I stood there and looked at the signs while Pauline rushed into the other rooms.
She joined me beside the broken lamp. ‘What’s happened?’ she said.
I bent and examined the stains on the floor. They were dark, wet, fresh. ‘He’s been taken.’
‘Taken?’
I pointed to the faint, irregular dust marks. ‘He was hit. Showed some fight. Maybe hit a couple of times. They rolled him in a rug.’
‘They? Who?’
I followed the marks and stains back down the passage to the door. The stains stopped at the door; there was a flattened bush ten metres directly below in the garden. One shoe lay on the freshly cut grass. Pauline bent over the rail to look.
‘No,’ she said.
I held her as her legs went rubbery and helped her back into the flat. She was crying hard and rubbing her clenched fists in her eyes. I put her on the couch and went to the phone which was on a table by a sliding window. The balcony outside gave a view of Sydney to gladden a real estate agent’s heart. The water sparkled, the boats looked clean and the bridge was a noble arch. There were trees growing down to the water in some places and even the industrial bits looked dignified. Not what Captain Arthur Phillip would have seen but not bad. I put my gun down and lifted the phone.
I heard it as the phone responded to the punched buttons. A faint feedback; a hum so soft you wouldn’t hear it if you were breathing hard or scratching your nose. The phone in the flat, which the late Fuller, who was tied in to the Albion Reef development, had procured for Kelly was bugged. I looked back down the passage towards the door and wondered how many people had keys to it besides Byron and Pauline. I could spend some time and money on it, probably come up with some names, but I knew that Michael Parsons had had his last briefing and Pauline had had her last fight and I’d had my last drink with Byron Kelly.
Norman Mailer’s Christmas
HENRY Quinn was a burly man with grey curly hair and a face that had been shaped by good days and bad nights, booze and a fair amount of self-admiration. He looked a lot like Norman Mailer and he was aware of the resemblance. A shelf in his study carried a large photograph of Mailer and hardcover copies of the books, from The Naked and the Dead to the latest best-seller. There are people who say Mailer isn’t subtle; that’s nothing compared to Quinn—there were no other books in the study.
Quinn leaned back in his leather chair and swilled the brandy in his glass. ‘You see it, hey? The likeness? Boy, have I had some fun with that.’
It was midday; I’d refused Quinn’s offer of brandy and was drinking beer. ‘Have you read the books?’
‘No. Never had the time. But lemme tell you. I’m on a plane see? An’ these up-country types’re lookin’ at me and I know what they’re thinkin’. They’re whispering an’ then one of ’em gets up the nerve to talk to me. Know what I say?’
I shook my head. I didn’t want to know but he’d called and said he had a job for me and that he’d pay for my time from the minute I’d said ‘Hardy Investigations’ into the phone. So he’d paid for me to drive to Cronulla and to drink with him in his penthouse with its northerly ocean view on a beautiful summer day. I owed him a hearing.
‘I say: “I’m not who you think I am,” and they’re hooked, see? After that they eat outa my hand and I sign anything they give me. Sign it Norman M. It makes their day. Hah, hah.’
I shifted uneasily in the chair—too deep, too soft, more like marshmallow than leather. ‘So Mailer’s threatened to punch you or have you punched and you need protection. That it?’
‘Nah, nah. Him’n me’d get on fine, I’m sure. I’m a Brooklyn boy myself, well, Jersey. Close enough. Nah. I got a wife problem. I had three.’
‘I think Mailer tops you there.’
‘Right, right. And I never knifed one neither, though God knows I woulda liked to. But now, I wanna bury the hatchet. Get the girls all together on Christmas, have a few drinks, a few laughs. Show I’m a big guy. Hell, I’m thinking of gettin’ married again an’ I’d like a clean slate.’
‘Where are they all—Reno?’
‘What?’ He looked disconcerted for the first time but he recovered fast. He laughed and shook his head so that the curls floated around. It was a much practised movement. ‘Nah, nah. All Aussie girls. I been here since ’56. Came over for the Olympics. I was on the US boxing team, light heavy.’
‘How’d you do?’
‘Lousy, got disqualified for gougin’ in the first fight.’
‘You was robbed, I suppose?’
He grinned. The sun had moved and with some more light falling on his face I could see that he’d had a lot of work done on his teeth and some on his nose. Maybe he’d given the surgeon the picture of Norman to work from. ‘Nah. I went for his eye all right. We played it a bit rougher Stateside. But I liked the country an’ the people so I came back. Went inna business.’ He waved his hand around the room with the view. ‘Did okay.’
‘Mm. Well, the wives . . .?’
‘Can’t locate one of ’em—Shelley.’ He reached behind him, took a large, glossy photograph from the top of the bar fridge and passed it to me. ‘Good looker, eh, mate?’
His phony Australian accent was excruciating but Shelley fitted the description. She was a brunette in her twenties with bushy, wild hair, slanted eyes and a generous smile. ‘Got the other wives lined up, have you, Mr Quinn?’
‘Call me Henry. Man drinks with me, works for me, he calls me Henry. Secret of my success. Yeah, Francine an’ Dawn are all set. They’re bringing their guys along, no, Dawn is. Francine’s a lezzie though you coulda fooled me at the time. Know what I mean? Hah, hah.’
It was December 20, not long to find someone for a Christmas party. On the other hand it was about as long as I’d care to work for Mr Quinn. ‘A hundred and fifty a day and expenses. Half up front.’
Quinn nodded, reached for his wallet and extracted notes. ‘Give you a grand now, another grand if you find her, quits if you don’t. This is important to me, Hardy. Serious. So I’m putting up serious money.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll need a smaller photo, names, addresses and dates.’
‘An’ another beer,’ Quinn said. ‘Hah, hah.’
Quinn gave me what I asked for—a snapshot-sized photograph, the name of the last place his ex-wife had worked and her last home address. Their divorce had been finalised six months before and he hadn’t been in touch with her since. He also gave me a sealed envelope for her which he said contained an invitation to the Christmas party. I rode the lift twelve floors down to the lobby and walked through the plush reception area with the potted palms and the mirrors thinking that the job stank.
Why the short notice? Why not put an ad in a paper? Why not go through Shelley’s solicitor? But in this business you can’t be too choosy, especially in the holiday season when things are slow. I had a mortgage to meet, car repair bills, credit card instalments and I also liked to eat and drink once in a while. Outside the day was almost as perfect as it had looked from the penthouse. The air was clear after a wet, windy couple of days and the promise of a long, golden year’s end and year’s beginning was showing on the sea and the sand and in people’s faces.
The addresses helped me to make my decision. Shelley Quinn had worked the previous summer as a water skiing instructor at a health club at Narrabeen and her most recent address
was Whale Beach. Not hard places to take at that time of year. Swimming costume country, suntan territory. But first I needed to make sure that Henry Quinn wasn’t CIA or the Mafia.
I drove back to Glebe and opened all the windows in my house to catch a breeze that had a faint salty tang to it as well as some chemical and industrial smells. There was no need to steam open the letter. It was a plain envelope and the name was type-written, easily duplicated. Inside was a white card with gold lettering on it. It invited Shelley Quinn to ‘drinks to celebrate Christmas’ at noon. The place was the penthouse and the scrawled initials were HQ. I sipped a glass of white wine and looked out into my backyard which, ever since Hilde planted the herbs and put in the ivy and the pots, could be called a courtyard. The cardboard boxes with the empties and the yellowed metre-high stack of newspapers were my own touch.
I held the card up to the light. What did you expect? I thought. A death threat? He wants to have a drink with his ex-wives, wouldn’t you like to have a drink with yours, with Cyn? How about Ailsa and Kay Fletcher and a couple of others? I knew I’d hate it, but then I wasn’t like Quinn who seemed to be one of those people who only believed in his own existence. To the Quinns of the world, life without Quinn is unthinkable.
I put my drink beside the telephone and made some calls about my employer to people whose business it is to know people in business. Quinn checked out as only slightly grubby: he’d made money in a variety of ways—interstate trucking in the early, rough days, swimming pool manufacturing, land development. One of my informants, a banker with a conscience, said that Quinn might have some problems with the US Treasury.
‘He moves money around a bit. Dodgy from the US point of view. But his Australian resident alien status protects him.’
‘How did he come by that?’
‘Our file says by marriage to one Dawn Leonie Simkin.’
‘Since divorced.’
‘That doesn’t revoke it. He’s been pretty quick on his feet in this country. If they passed some retrospective tax laws he’d be in trouble, but otherwise he’s okay here.’
Which left me not liking Mr Quinn any more but not liking his money any less. It was late in the day by the time I’d finished phoning. I spent the night at home writing cheques, reading and watching a tape of the day’s tennis on television. As an addicted sports fan will, I checked on the light heavyweight division in the 1956 Olympics. The gold was won by James M. Floyd which didn’t mean much. It was different the next time round—Cassius M. Clay won in Rome in 1960.
The next day was a Sydney summer special—there was a light breeze and a freshness in the air at 7am but you could feel the heat building. I was at the health club at Narrabeen soon after 9am. The big expanse of water which everyone calls a lake is really a lagoon; its shores feature most of the possible natural features from thick timber to sparse, rocky beaches. The Peninsula Health Club spread over several hectares of paddocks, tennis courts, swimming pools and aluminium and glass buildings that housed a gymnasium, squash courts, spas, saunas and a kitchen which seemed to be totally given over to the production of carrot juice.
I got a lot of this information from a pamphlet I was given to read while I waited for my credentials to be checked at the security gate. Things have changed in the affluent parts of Sydney in recent times. There’s more paranoia, less relaxation. To get to talk to anyone at this place I had to present my operator’s licence, give a police reference, details of my bonding and the name of my lawyer. I was getting used to this insecurity, slowly.
Mr James Lewis was the security manager and he eventually consented to talk to me. He was a big, fit-looking man in his fifties who met me on the gravel path inside the gate. The path led to the water which was blue and inviting. Mr Lewis said he didn’t have an office.
‘Offices are the enemy of fitness, Hardy,’ he said. ‘We’ve got everything we need to know here on a computer. I can use it but I don’t need to sit at a desk. I walk around. If you want to talk to me you have to walk.’
‘Fair enough. Looks like a great place.’ I was glad I was wearing only light shoes, jeans and a cotton shirt. The air was clear and warm; insects buzzed in the grass and some water birds took off from the surface of the lake and wheeled away over the trees.
‘It is. Now, what’s your business?’
‘I have a client who wants to spend some time here. She has certain . . . health problems. She wants first class treatment and total security.’
‘She’ll get it here.’ He picked up a stone and sent it skipping over the water.
I gave him one of my sceptical smiles. ‘That’s what you say. She wants to hear me say it. She likes to water ski.’
Lewis was a man of few words. He made a motion with his head in the direction of a jetty where five sleek speedboats were bobbing in the water. ‘Top facilities.’
I could cut down on syllables too. ‘Instructors?’
‘The best.’
‘Mind if I talk to one? Lady . . . my client has some queries.’
We strolled over to where two young women in bathing suits were checking the water ski equipment. They were like peas in a pod—blonde, deeply tanned and with long, whippy muscles.
‘Louise and ah . . .?’ Lewis said.
Blonde Two pushed up her sunglasses. ‘Jenny. Hi.’
‘Hello.’
‘Come to ski?’
I shook my head. Lewis had stood still for some seconds and he didn’t seem to like it. He bounced on his heels and walked off towards the boats.
‘I’m a private detective,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for Shelley Quinn.’
‘Shit,’ Blonde One said. ‘I thought you might be looking for fun. Shelley’s not here anymore. She quit right at the end of the season.’
‘Why, d’you know?’
‘Sure. She was pregnant.’
If I hadn’t been wearing sunglasses she’d have seen me blinking in surprise. She couldn’t miss the dropped jaw. ‘She was divorced.’
‘You really aren’t any fun!’ Blonde Two pulled down her sunglasses in agreement. They started checking a pile of life jackets.
‘Is she still at Whale Beach?’
Blonde One sighed. ‘Last I saw her was at Manly.’
Lewis was coming back from the boats. ‘Where at Manly?’ I hissed.
‘Tim’s Gym, aerobics. C’mon Jen, obstructions check.’
Lewis nodded as the women ran past him. ‘Satisfied?’
‘What’s an obstructions check?’
‘Oh, they make sure there’s no logs or debris in the water. Your client’ll be safe here, Mr Hardy.’
‘I’ll tell him . . . her.’
That earned me a suspicious look from Lewis and a polite version of the bum’s rush.
I drove up the Peninsula and checked the Whale Beach address just to be thorough. The house was on a cliff overlooking the sea. Great view, but it had been occupied for seven months by a body-surfing accountant who worked from home. The previous occupiers’ names were Quinn and Buck. A few letters for them had arrived and the accountant had no forwarding address. I drove to Manly wondering who Buck might be.
Tim’s Gym was a few streets back from the ocean beach on the south side of The Corso. It was on a hill and from where I parked I could see down across the buildings to the water. The sun was high now and the people were clustering in the shade of beach umbrellas and the trees. All except the joggers who moved in a thin, bobbing trickle along the path that led around to Shelly Beach. What with the joggers and the gym, with its big mural of dancers, weight-lifters and rope-skippers, I experienced an oppressive sense of good health all about me. I would’ve liked a swim; I’d have liked a drink even more.
Manly has retained more of the flavour of old Australia, where if you asked questions about people you were a sticky-beak but not necessarily an enemy and if you had anything to hide you were a crook. That still didn’t make it a pushover. I asked for Tim and was shown to an office where a woman with red hair, a
white dress and perfect teeth was operating a desktop computer.
‘I’m Sally Teale,’ she said. ‘There’s no Tim. What can I do for you?’
I pulled out the photograph of Shelley Quinn and showed it to her. ‘D’you know this woman?’
‘I might. Who wants to know?’
‘My name’s Hardy. I’m a private investigator.’ I showed her my licence. ‘I know it sounds silly but I’ve been hired to locate her and invite her to a Christmas party.’
She laughed; the teeth appeared to be perfect all the way back. ‘That’s not very macho, is it?’
I laughed too. ‘No, not very.’
‘Hired by who?’
‘Her ex-husband.’
‘Well, well. Shelley said he was a touch on the sedentary side. I suppose it’s all right but I don’t know how Peter’ll take to it.’
‘Peter?’
‘Peter Buck. Her bloke.’
I shrugged. ‘No business of mine. If you’ll give me her address I’ll go around and give this to her.’ I produced the envelope. ‘Or I might just leave it in the letter box.’
I waited for the objection but none came. She hit some keys on the computer which whirred. She looked at the screen of the monitor, nodded and read: ‘Flat 3, 42A Darley Road. Not far for you to go.’
‘When did you last see her, Ms Teale?’
‘Yesterday. She’s getting back into shape after having the baby. Lovely little kid.’
Down the hill, around a few turns, and brakes on outside a cream brick block of flats numbered 42A. Easy money. I had my swimmers in the back of the car; maybe I could be on a wave within the hour. I located Flat 3 at the side of the building and went up the short flight of steps. This put me on a concrete porch with a waist high iron rail around it outside a plain door with an electric bell. I pressed the bell and heard movement inside. The door opened and the woman whose photograph was in my pocket stood there.