by Peter Klein
I stared with astonishment at the giant poster that Billco had created. I’d called him on the Saturday after speaking with Billy and told him that a friend of mine was looking for something a little different for his pizza shop’s Christmas decorations. Could he come up with a poster that would make his shop stand out? Could he ever; the drawing he’d done was absolutely brilliant. It had a huge merry-looking Santa Claus being towed by his reindeer on a giant pizza instead of the usual sleigh. Santa even had a cape with the words Merry Xmas from Gino’s! on it which fluttered behind him. The flying carpet pizza was headed unmistakably towards Glenhuntly Road; the number 67 tram was parked right out the front. I’d asked for something different and he’d certainly given us a decoration that would make us stand out from the other shops.
‘I love it! It’s amazing.’
‘You think your mate will like it?’
‘I can guarantee it.’
‘Well, you can roll it up and take it with you. Just be careful you don’t crease it when you put it in the car.’
I reached into my pocket and peeled off some bills. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Don’t be silly, Punter. I don’t want anything, it took me no time at all to knock up.’
‘You’ve earned it. I’ve got to give you something.’
‘Tell you what, if anyone in your friend’s restaurant likes it, get him to pass on my number.’
I said goodbye to Billco shortly after lunch, with a pile of his business cards and a promise to call him and let him know what Billy thought of his flying Santa on a pizza. Then I got in my van and drove to the races at Mornington.
My afternoon at the races turned out all right. There were two races I thought I could play, a two-year-old scamper over a thousand metres and a middle-distance handicap for restricted class runners. The three horses that I backed were at least reliable plodders and my second pick won at six dollars, giving me a good result on the race. The two-year-old race had only one horse I liked, but at a dollar seventy, it was well under its odds. So I left the race alone and was secretly pleased to see it get beaten. Take unders, go under.
There was a good-sized crowd in attendance for a Wednesday. A lot of people were already in Christmas holiday mode and what better place to spend an afternoon than at a country race meeting. I walked down the stairs of the grandstand to the mounting yard to have a look at the two-year-olds who’d just raced. I always look them over after they’ve run. I know it’s considered an old-fashioned thing to do, and most punters would argue that if anything’s amiss it will show up in the steward’s report anyway. But I want to see the horses in the flesh. See the ones whose flanks are heaving and will benefit from the run. Notice the angry trainers who think their jockey butchered the ride. You can pick up some useful information just by watching, if you know what to look for.
‘’Ullo, is that the mystery beau?’ said a gruff and officious voice behind me. The voice belonged to Jim Beering, the state’s head racecourse detective. He stood tallish and solid, his hands clasped behind his back in the manner that cops have. That’s what Beering was for twenty-odd years before he retired from the police force and lucked into this cushy role some time ago. It’s the perfect job for a copper who likes a bet. He had on his usual faded sepia-brown suit and a matching well-worn trilby. Must have had the suit for twenty years too, or maybe he had several suits all the same colour. His jacket was unbuttoned as usual, allowing a burgeoning pot belly to hang over his belt. Despite his ballooning waistline, Beering could handle himself when he had to. I’d seen him in action and knew he was a whole lot faster than he looked. I’d first got to know Beering through my father years ago and occasionally passed on anything useful I’d heard around the traps. He was a handy person to know; one phone call from Beering could get you into or out of a squeeze and I preferred the latter, so I made it my business to stay sweet with him. Once in a while, my information had even helped him in some of his cases. So he always made a point of picking my brains if he saw me at the track.
‘Not you too, Jim. I didn’t think you read the gossip columns.’
‘I read the papers cover to cover. And wasn’t I surprised to find a picture of you and Miss Troubles arm in arm?’
‘She’s no trouble, far as I’m concerned.’
He raised his eyebrows disbelievingly at me then changed the topic.
‘Terrible thing that strapper, Julie Summers, getting murdered the other day.’
I nodded. ‘I see they wasted no time in rounding up Mad Charlie Dawson and charging him.’
Beering grunted cynically. ‘He’s a crazy bastard, that one. They should lock ’im up and throw away the key.’
‘I’d hate you to be judging me in a case. His lawyer’s actually pleaded not guilty, hasn’t he?’
Beering scoffed. ‘Silly bastard rang the cops from her flat, he did. Said he found her like that. Can you buy that? It’s an open and shut case. He’d bashed her right through their relationship. Every time he got pissed. Which is most nights for Charlie. Then last Saturday he must have gone around there and just snapped. Finished her off for good.’
‘Finished is the word. Stabbing frenzy is what the papers said.’
Beering sniffed and nodded. ‘Cut her throat and stabbed her twenty-seven times is what my contact at Homicide told me. That’s the signature of a seriously twisted mind.’
As the last of the horses were led out of the mounting yard, Beering dropped the conversation about the Summers murder, pulled out his race book and started flicking through it. I knew what was coming next.
‘Eh, your old man got anything running today?’ he asked.
I don’t know why, but every time Beering saw me at the races he always checked to see if Dad had a runner that had some sort of chance. I may have tipped him the odd winner or two from his stable over the years, but Dad wouldn’t tell me if the world was ending and I wouldn’t ask him anyway, so the ‘inside information’ that Beering thought I had was non-existent.
I turned and faced him. ‘Yeah, he’s got one in the last. But it’s twenty to one and the ambulance would probably beat it home.’
‘Is that right? Didn’t think your old man kept any slow ones.’
‘It’ll win a race. Look for him a couple of starts from now in something longer, but don’t expect any twenty to one about him then.’
Beering sniffed good-naturedly. ‘You Punter clan can never give a straight tip, can you? Always gotta have conditions attached. I don’t know who’s worse; you, your old man or your brother.’
Those freaking police idiots! They don’t know jack shit. To think they arrested that ex-boyfriend jumps jockey. Always thinking the bloody obvious. Mind you, it was wonderful timing that Mad Charlie Dawson happened along and muddied the waters. I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried to frame him. The halfwit. Sometimes you can get lucky. Should I tell them? Hell no, why spoil it! Let the police go on with that bullshit spin they’ve been spreading to convince the community they’ve got it all wrapped up. That they’ve caught the killer and everything is going to be okay.
That Summers tart knew she had it coming. She did. You could see it in her eyes when I woke her. Oh, and it was so easy. Like finding out where she lived. The bloody race book practically gives you their address! How simple. Stalking 101. Select one of the bitches in the racecourse mounting yard. Look at the saddle cloth number of the horse they are leading in and check in the formguide who the trainer is. Then, after the race, wait in your car by the horse float park for the nice driver to take them home. Follow them back in your car, tra la la la la . . . When they get back to the stables, you track the dirty little scag back to her home. How extraordinarily fucking simple.
Sure, there’s a bit of casing to do. That’s to be expected. Did she live alone? Did her friends drop around? How hard was it going to be to get in? Summers’ place only took me one night. It was perfect, from the moment I let myself in through her open laundry window, to creeping silently
around her tiny flat. No one steals more silently through the night than I do. No one. Every room told me a story confirming what I already knew about her. That pile of trashy celebrity gossip magazines by the coffee table; typical, weren’t they? The obligatory party photos on her fridge door, all posing with a different male partner. They are never satisfied. Always have to be searching for someone better, someone who can offer more.
I left her bedroom to last. It’s the room I looked forward to the most, and I felt like I almost couldn’t wait, but I forced myself to be patient, show some restraint. After all, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly . . .
The first drawer in her dresser was filled with her carelessly tossed lingerie which I sifted through with my knife. Various bras and panties and a skimpy little G-string. I picked it up with the tip of my blade, trained my pencil torch over it and inspected it. The whore. That merely confirmed it, didn’t it? Amanda used to get out in the same sort of slut gear too. And this one? Just like her. Another filthy little silk chaser, same as they all were. She was curled up in the bed, oblivious of my presence, a heavy breather; slept with her mouth agape as she dreamt her dreams. After a little while, when I was ready, I woke her from those dreams and turned them into nightmares.
3
Maxine’s text asked if I could pick her up at the airport from her six thirty flight and drive her straight to a function. She certainly liked her text messages. I’d counted thirteen in the four days since Tuesday, when she’d gone away.
Missing u heaps xxx Maxine
Can’t wait 2 c u soon
And of course, U can text me!
Me, text anyone? I was still in the Dark Ages. Couldn’t understand why you didn’t just ring someone up and talk to them. And if you couldn’t reach them, then you left a message. Besides, my large fingers seemed to struggle with the miniscule keypad on my mobile phone. That was my excuse and I was sticking to it. I did make an exception for Maxine, however, and sent a clumsy reply confirming I’d meet her flight. It seemed to take ages for me to tap out on my phone even though it was only a sentence or two.
I waited at the gate where her flight was due in. There were lots of people around, a typical busy Friday evening with travellers coming and going before the weekend set in. The arrivals monitor said Maxine’s flight was on schedule and so it was, the doors opening up a few minutes later to let the passengers come streaming through. Maxine was the fifth passenger out; she must have been travelling up front. She gave an excited wave and a huge smile when she saw me. Then she stopped right in the middle of the aisle and gave me a huge pash which forced the rest of the passengers to walk around us. Someone gave a wolf whistle as I came up for air and one of the ground staff asked us to move on as we were blocking the path. Maxine didn’t seem to notice.
‘I missed you, Punter.’
‘Me too.’
‘You could have texted me more and told me you missed me.’
‘You know what I’m like with those things. I did leave messages on your voice mail.’
‘Pathetic.’
‘I know. How was the trip, business go okay?’
‘Bloody Winning Way is a pain in the arse.’
Maxine ran her own public relations business. Although it was only a small company, she seemed to have an ever-growing list of clients. Her father was rumoured to have steered a few customers who’d advertised on his radio show her way, but Maxine was obviously very good at what she did to win the business. She’d been in Sydney organising an event and doing the PR work for a racing client, Winning Way Syndications, and was putting on a similar function for them tonight in Melbourne.
I smiled at her. ‘A demanding client?’
‘You could say that. Kagan Hall, who owns the company, is a bloody perfectionist who wants to micromanage every little detail.’
She pulled a brochure from her handbag as we walked and thrust it into my hand. I read it as Maxine hurried me along to the baggage carousel. It was a glossy publication showing an impossibly good-looking couple cheering their horse past the finishing post. The brochure was full of testimonials from satisfied clients who had bought horses through Winning Way. Pictures of leading jockeys and trainers jumped off the pages to reassure you that this was the only outfit in town you could trust. I had to admit it was extremely well put together.
‘Is this your work?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. That’s what I’m getting paid to do.’
‘It’s very professional. I’d be tempted to buy a share in a horse after reading it. I mean, listen to this: Mrs Donovan from Hawthorn says, “I invested five thousand dollars in the Winning Way number four syndicate and we struck gold! Duncan’s Luck won the Caulfield Guineas and overnight our colt was worth eight million dollars.” ’
Maxine gave me a cynical look. ‘Yeah, for all the Mrs Donovans I had to track down, there’s another hundred who’ve bought slow ones. You should know better than anyone, they can’t all win. Anyway, my job’s to paint Winning Way in a positive light. Get as many people as possible along to these sales functions so that they’ll buy shares in Hall’s syndicates.’
‘How’s it going; they selling?’
Maxine nodded. ‘It’s a slog. You’ve just got to keep the momentum up, which is what this do tonight is all about.’
Forty-five minutes later, I found a park not far from the Rialto building where the event was being held. We walked in together and caught a lift up to the twenty-eighth floor. In the foyer was a rather effeminate-looking concierge who was ticking off attendees on his list and giving out name tags. He checked off another couple ahead of us and then turned his attention towards Maxine and I. He quickly found her name tag but couldn’t seem to locate my name on the list.
‘It’s Punter,’ said Maxine with growing impatience. ‘I rang up myself yesterday and requested an extra guest ticket.’
The guy fussed around and gave an exaggerated pout as he peered at his computer screen to see if he could find me. No sign; I’d fallen through the cracks, didn’t exist. He apologised politely, but told me I couldn’t possibly go in unless I was on the list.
‘Oh, really?’ said Maxine.
‘Yes, unfortunately, he can’t. I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but we have a strict allocation for catering purposes and unless you’re on my list, I simply can’t allow you in.’
I felt like telling him he should apply for a job guarding the members’ gate at Flemington. But I didn’t have to say anything, Maxine beat me to the punch. She leant forward and gave him a combative stare.
‘Actually, it’s my company that’s organising this event tonight, so as far as catering purposes goes, that’s quite all right.’
Mr gatekeeper bit his lip. He knew he was up against formidable opposition, but still had some fight left in him. ‘I’ll still have to have a name for my list to let him in,’ he lisped defiantly.
‘A name. You need a name?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Maxine leant over the bench and picked up a bright pink highlighter. Then she snatched the sheet of paper with the list of names on it out of his hand.
‘Hey! That’s my list, what are you doing?’ He sounded shocked.
I knew I was still in the honeymoon discovery stage with Maxine, but I didn’t expect her aggressive response and was a bit surprised at how far she went. In giant letters that took up the entire A4 page, Maxine wrote over the top of all the other names: John Punter.
‘There you go.’ She smiled acridly at him. ‘A nice little name for your nice little list. Happy now? C’mon, Punter, let’s go, we’re running late.’
Maxine escorted me into the room, which was already full of attendees. At a guess, I’d say two hundred people were sipping drinks and mingling with one another; a turn-up that Maxine seemed well pleased with.
‘Can I be rude and leave you on your own for a moment?’ she said. ‘Got to check everything’s running smoothly.’
‘Sure. I’ll be okay. You do what you n
eed to do.’
I grabbed a glass of red from a waiter hovering nearby and stood by to see if I might recognise anyone. It was certainly a racing crowd; you would have to be deaf not to hear the talk of horses and track gossip. The attendees were a mixture of members and owners drawn from the three metropolitan racing clubs and they all seemed younger than myself; single, twenty-somethings, no kids, no mortgage and plenty of cash and credit to throw around. Just the type of prospects to tip into a horse. But there were some older people in amongst the group as well. In fact one walked past, stopped and said hello to me. It was Daisy from the racecourse café.
Daisy looked like a living monument to a 1960s Women’s Weekly magazine. Normally I saw her in an apron and uniform while she tended the cash register. Tonight she was dressed up with her hair in a bun, a pink floral frock and a white French lace handbag which she clutched firmly with both hands. I leant forward as she gave me a kiss on the cheek.
‘Hello, luv. Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Hello, Daisy. Could say the same about you. Didn’t think you attended this sort of thing. You here with anyone?’
Daisy smiled and nodded her forehead to a similarly dressed crowd of older ladies standing by the side of the room. ‘I’m with the girls from the café. We’ve decided to bite the bullet and buy a share in a horse.’
‘No way! Good on you.’
I felt genuinely pleased for her. A little surprised, but thrilled that she could participate in owning a racehorse with her friends. I guess there was no law that said she couldn’t; it’s just that you don’t expect someone nearly eligible for the pension to suddenly buy into a horse. She must have read the look on my face.
‘Oh, I know. I probably should save my money. But Keith left me a little bit when he passed on last year and I’ve always fancied owning a horse. Is that so wicked?’
I laughed. ‘Of course not.’