by Peter Corris
‘Bloody physios,’ she said. ‘They all vote Liberal. How are you otherwise?’
‘Okay. Got your car back. Three hundred-odd bucks. I’ve been driving it because the automatic’s easier on the arm. It’s going well.’
‘Good.’
It wasn’t like her to be indifferent to the condition of the Pulsar. ‘Now it’s you who sounds funny. What’s up?’
‘Nothing. I’ll be here for a couple of days. They’ve got a few rookies in the station who don’t know breakfast from dinner. Then I’ve got a bit of time in Nowra. I’d say I’ll be back in a week. Okay?’
‘Sure. Of course.’
‘What’re you working on?’
For the first time in our relationship, I didn’t want to tell her. And I didn’t know why. ‘Just the usual stuff. Bits and pieces.’
She didn’t believe me. I could tell from the pause and the tone of her voice when she spoke again. And I didn’t believe that she was just dealing with dumb rookies in Ulladulla and would need an indeterminate amount of time in Nowra. Glen was normally super-organised; she knew exactly how long she needed to spend doing what, where and with whom.
‘Well, take care,’ she said. ‘See you next week. Love you.’
‘Same here.’
‘Cliff ...’
Concern in her voice. A confession coming up? An ultimatum?
‘Don’t forget to feed the cat. There’s some food in the cupboard.’
We rang off more or less simultaneously and I realised that we’d made no arrangement to speak again before she got back. She must have been aware of it too. Bad sign.
11
Ian Sangster had been right about the sleeping. A few pain-killers and a couple of glasses of wine got me under, but I’m a restless sleeper at the best of times and when I rolled onto the shoulder I woke up yelling. I slept in snatches, waking often. If I managed to keep pressure off the shoulder, the arm stiffened up on me. It was a bad night. When I was in the army in Malaya, the brass told us that sleep-deprivation and disruption was one of the ways the Chinese would torture us if we were captured. The other ways involved bamboo splinters and water. Losing sleep sounded like the softest option then, but after this night I wasn’t so sure.
I was glad to see the sky lightening and to hear the cat mewing for food. I found the cans Glen had bought and opened one awkwardly. I didn’t have a lot of gripping power in my left hand. First time I’d ever felt the lack of an electric can-opener. I read the paper, ate breakfast and had a shower as hot as I could bear. The heat seemed to ease the shoulder and allow me a little movement. I stretched it until the pain made me sweat and need another shower. I decided to ignore the injury, use the arm as normal and put up with the pain. I drove the Pulsar into my office, determined to be purposeful and productive, the way all the politicians kept urging us to be.
I put the high-powered Ms Cornwall’s file in an envelope and addressed it. Then I attended to some untidy small matters, putting off the moment when I’d have to decide my next step in the service of Gina Galvani. The phone rang, a further welcome delay.
‘Hardy.’
‘This is Peter Carboni, Mr Hardy. I think it’s time for us to have our talk. I’d like you to come down here.’
‘When?’
‘Why not now?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Let’s talk about it when you get here. I’ll expect you in fifteen minutes.’
‘Make it twenty.’
Visiting police headquarters isn’t one of my favourite activities. There are few pats on the back and, although these days there aren’t usually any whacks over the head either, it’s still an unsettling experience. The difficulty I have is trying to believe that the cops, with all that manpower, firepower, computer power and influence are on the same side as me. I’ve never heard of a private detective becoming a policeman. There’s a certain amount of movement the other way, but the examples aren’t encouraging.
I identified myself at the modernistic reception booth, went through a metal detector, and was escorted up two floors to Carboni’s office. He opened the door for me, nice touch.
‘Have a seat. I hope you don’t smoke. It’s a smoke free zone.’
‘Funny,’ I said. ‘It used to be compulsory to smoke in cop shops.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
Carboni was a smooth number. Above average height, medium build, dark hair and plenty of it. He looked conscious of his neat, pleasing appearance but not vain about it. His office was small and functional with the obligatory computer on the desk and a certain amount of random paper. It looked like a surface where work got done. I sat in an imitation leather chair and looked at the landscape picture he’d hung on the wall to take the place of a view. The windows were high and small. Most of the light was artificial; the air-conditioner was quiet and effective.
‘Well, things happen around you, don’t they?’
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’
‘You took a bit of a thumping in Rozelle the day before yesterday I hear. Walked away, but you don’t look the best. Want to tell me about it?’
I told him about it, briefly, leaving out almost everything about Vita and finishing with the files arriving intact. He was interested, but not sympathetic. I didn’t make anything much of finding the files where the police had already been, but he scribbled a note about it. I entertained the suspicion that he was more of a politician than a policeman, looking for the main chance.
‘And what do you make of all that?’
I shrugged and wished I hadn’t. The shoulder hurt like hell, but true to my resolve I tried not to show it.
‘I haven’t a clue. As I say, the two cases didn’t go anywhere, and all I found out was that Scott was troubled. I’m still interested in his notebook.’
‘Maybe you’ll find it where all others have failed.’
I ignored the sarcasm. ‘Maybe. Look, I’m impressed by your intelligence network, Sergeant. I didn’t think that Rozelle stoush had attracted any attention. But you didn’t get me down here just on account of that.’
‘That’s right.’ He picked up a sheet of paper and glanced at it. ‘A complaint has come in about you, Hardy. From a Mr Kenneth Galvani. He claims that you’re exploiting his sister-in-law. According to him, ah ... you’ve convinced her that you can find her husband’s murderer and you’re going to bleed her dry while you play detective.’
‘That’s crazy. She approached me. I’ve got her signature on a contract ...’
Carboni waved his sheet of paper dismissively. ‘Grieving widow, easily influenced. He says you were rude at the house function after his brother was buried and that you were abusive to him on the phone.’
‘He’s crazy. And he’s lying.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. He’s upset. Why don’t you ask Gina about all this?’
‘Mr Galvani says she’s ill and staying at her mother-in-law’s place. There’s two little fatherless girls to take care of, distressed relatives. I’m Italian myself and I know how a family like that behaves. I don’t think it’s quite the time to put those sorts of questions to Mrs Galvani.’
I sat back in my chair, trying to make sense of this. Gina had expressly said she wanted to keep her distance from the Galvanis and would use her insurance money to do so. Was it the right time to mention the money to Carboni? Almost certainly not. I was in a bind. Carboni let the sheet drop onto his desk.
‘So where are we?’ I said. ‘I take it your investigation hasn’t progressed in any way?’
Carboni nodded. ‘That’s right.’
In his place, I might have shaken my head and said no, but Detective Sergeant Carboni was a positive kind of fellow. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something?’
‘I’m not telling you anything. It’s your licence. You know the way things are in your game these days. Is your record good enough to withstand a formal complaint from a highly respectable source?’
I decided that I didn’t like him and I got up from my chair. ‘Point taken. I don’t have to bother the Galvanis. It looks as if the casino’s the way to go. I guess it always was, but it seemed worthwhile to tie up those loose ends first.’
He leaned back in his chair to look up at me. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea. That’s where we’ve been concentrating, of course. It wouldn’t help for you to get in the way.’
I was slow I suppose, but now I could see where he was coming from and what his message was—hands off the marvellous Sydney casino, the money-spinner, the tourist trap and what else besides? I didn’t know whether he was obeying instructions from higher up or was working on his own behalf, and I didn’t care. I’d moved towards the door but now I took a step back.
‘I don’t like being warned off!’
His big brown eyes opened wide in well-acted mock surprise. ‘Who’d do a thing like that?’ he said.
I left the building swearing under my breath about the bastardry of policemen. For all I knew, he might have invented the Galvani complaint, or provoked it for his own reasons. I was so angry I didn’t even think of trying to enlist Frank Parker’s help. I had a down on all coppers, Italian, Australian, Hindu-bloody-stani, male and female. I stalked back to my office, too enraged to feel any pain in my arm or to give a sling to any of the Darlinghurst street hustlers who approached me. I usually give once in the morning and once in the afternoon, trying to be fair to young and old, men and women, white and black. Today, they were all out of luck.
I’d contrived to get a council sticker that enabled me to park the Falcon close to the office. Not so, of course, with the Pulsar, and an infringement notice was fluttering from underneath the wiper. I moved the car and took the notice up to the office. Another expense item for the Galvani file. It took a few very painful arm-stretches and a full mug of red wine to get me steady enough to ring Gina’s number. I got Ken’s voice on an answering machine inviting me to leave a message. Somehow, I kept myself from being abusive. I rang off quietly and looked at the wall. The building is in an advanced state of decay and some interesting cracks have opened up in the old plaster walls. I squinted and let the cracks in my wall form patterns. All I could see was a rough outline of Italy and the old rhyme jumped into my wine-heavy head:
Long-legged Italy
Kicked poor Sicily
Right into the middle
Of the Mediterranean Sea
Not very helpful.
I searched through my pockets until I found Vita Drewe’s card. I laid it on the desk and looked at it for a while. I drank a half-mug of red and felt it hit my empty stomach. I was full of anger and frustration and randiness as I grabbed the phone and rang Vita’s work number.
‘This is Vita Drewe.’
‘Vi, Cliff Hardy.’
‘Hey, hello. I had a feeling you’d call.’
‘What kind of a feeling?’
‘You wouldn’t understand. How’s your shoulder?’
‘Not too bad. Remember how you said you like to put on the glad rags once in a while and throw your money away on roulette?’
‘Not my money, but sure, I remember. I look great in sequins and heels. Very Sigourney Weaver, or so I’ve been told.’
‘I’ll bet you do. How about tonight? You can play with some of my client’s money.’
‘So this is business?’
‘And pleasure. So long as you don’t ever, ever call me Cliffo.’
‘You’re on,’ she said.
12
If you’re going to break the rules, smash ’em is what I say. I hadn’t worn a monkey suit for over twenty years but I went out and hired one at a William Street outfitters—double-breasted, with the shirt, tie, studs, cummerbund, black shoes and silk socks. The works. Thirty-eight long—not too bad for a man of my age carrying just a little flab. Then I went along to a barber shop and had a hair trim and a professional shave. After my restless night, the period in the chair was blissful. I nodded off and embarrassed myself by snoring loudly. Waking up with a start, I apologised to the barber who said he preferred to work on a sleeping man. I gave him a good tip for his tact. I passed a florist and did something else I hadn’t done in a very long time—bought a corsage. The florist presented the thing in a little cold pack which she told me would keep it fresh for eight hours.
I mailed Ms Cornwall’s file, drew some money from the bank and, thinking of the flab, walked briskly to Kippax Street in Surry Hills where Harry Tickener presided over the Challenger, an independent monthly that printed what the big news organisations were afraid to touch. The paper was constantly on the brink of closure as a result of libel writs, legal costs, low advertising support and all the vagaries of the recession. It survived on Harry’s energy, the dedication of his staff, and the support of unnamed benefactors. Harry had a knack for getting well-known and good writers to step outside their usual territories and write something off the wall. As a result he had months where his circulation sky-rocketed, helping to compensate for the flat ones. What with the lawyers’ writs, the politicians’ threats and the writers’ egos, he led an exciting life.
The office is on the third floor, the door is always open and the phones are always ringing. I took the stairs, wandered in and the first thing I saw, as I expected, were Harry’s feet. He had them parked on the desk in front of him while he leaned back, reading proof copy. I sat down and put my feet up so that the soles of my size eleven slip-ons almost met those of Harry’s Nikes. He’s a smallish man with feet to match. He lowered the proof sheet.
‘The shamus,’ he said in very bad Bogart. ‘Here’s trouble on wheels.’
‘Gidday, Harry. Still in business I see. Every time I come here I expect to see empty rooms and blokes with industrial vacuum cleaners sucking up the paper clips.’
Harry groaned. ‘Sometimes I almost wish it’d happen. But I just can’t disappoint my reader. What can I do for you, Cliff?’
A young woman wearing blue and white horizontally striped tights under a long loose shirt drifted up and dropped some more copy on Harry’s desk. She had an impossible amount of blonde hair held in place by red combs.
‘How is it, Abi?’ Harry said.
Abi smiled, showing the sort of white teeth that didn’t exist in Australia until the 1960s. ‘It stinks. It’s going to need your special skills.’
‘What’s wrong with giving it your special skills?’
‘I have. Now it just stinks, before me it absolutely reeked.’
Harry sighed. ‘Leave it with me.’
Abi grinned, nodded at me in the casual way young people do nowadays, and strolled away. Her long, thin legs in the hooped tights were strangely eye-catching.
‘First class honours in Communications from the University of Technology,’ Harry said. ‘Can do everything, including make me feel like an idiot. Want to hear a joke she told me?’
‘Sure.’
‘What do you get when you cross a Mafia don with a semiotician?’
‘What’s a semiotician?’
‘You’re no fun. The answer is—an offer you can’t understand. Try it on Glen, she’s smarter than you. It’s always good to see you, Cliff, and I’d love to go out for a drink if that’s what’s on your mind, but we’re snowed under. Deadline approaching and printer’s bill overdue. If you can’t edit, proofread, do computer graphics or give me cheque for ten grand I can’t use you right now. What’s wrong with your arm?’
‘Tennis elbow. Didn’t you tell me you’d recently put the whole of your rag on computer disk?’
‘That’s right. CD-ROM, to be precise about it. Preserved for all eternity, maybe.’
‘So if I want to research a certain subject I can call up everything you’ve got on it?’
‘Right again, as long as we have exclusive rights to any story that might come out of your investigations.’
‘Goes without saying. Lead me to it. Can I get print-outs?’
Harry scratched at his scalp as if
counting the few hairs remaining. ‘Yes, for a moderate charge. What’s the subject? I may exercise my much-challenged editorial and tenuous proprietorial veto.’
‘The Sydney Casino.’
‘Ah, yes. Is this to do with Scott Galvani, your protégé?’
I nodded. ‘Right. His widow has hired me to find out who killed him. And that is not for publication.’
‘Abi!’ Harry called.
The casino story had attracted media interest some time back and there had been various false starts as a number of players were ruled out on account of their dubious histories and connections. There had been a lot of disputation over how the establishment was to be financed, supervised and taxed. Both sides of politics had tried to claim the high moral ground and the Independents had wavered. The Challenger had dug up some dirt on a few of the rejected bidders, but the pickings were disappointingly slim on Sydney Casinos Ltd. A US and a Singaporean syndicate had entered into partnership with an Australian conglomerate to secure the licence. According to the paper’s investigator, the tangle of Australian companies was somewhat impenetrable, but all the relevant authorities had been satisfied. A board had been formed consisting of twenty people, fourteen men and six women I’d never heard of with the exception of one, Oscar Cartwright. It was nice to know that O.C. had himself a slice of the action.
I made notes on the companies the Challenger had been able to identify but they were bland—Carter Holdings, Cameron Securities, Kemp & Associates Pty Ltd, etc. Among the board members, there were several Asian names and a few that sounded American, like Robert E. Anderson Jnr. The Challenger had probed but had come up dry—the lease of the Darling Harbour site was legitimate, not something shonky rigged up between the government and the company. Sydney Casino Ltd’s claim that all the materials in the temporary casino were Australian-derived checked out.
I switched off and pushed my chair away from the screen.
Harry strolled across the room, his Nikes squeaking on the floor. ‘You look disappointed, mate. Didn’t even make one print. Or are you just economising?’