by Peter Corris
Surprisingly, Oldcastle turned out to be an easy guy to spend time with. He was quiet and knew how to occupy himself, probably from long practice. He read, mostly travel books and biographies, watched television and videos and did cryptic crosswords. His collection of LPs, cassettes and CDs surprised me. He listened to everything from Beethoven to the Black Sorrows. He told me that Joe Camilleri was the equal of any American or British modern musician and I listened and had to agree. The classical stuff tended to make me sleepy. He noticed me nodding off somewhat during something by Brahms or Bach or Haydn, one of them, and he turned the music off.
‘Show you something,’ he said.
He switched the light off in the room, slid the glass door open and went out onto the balcony. I followed him—a body that knows something about bodyguarding is that much easier to guard. He drew my attention to a smashed and twisted section of the aluminium door frame and some deep pitting of the bricks nearby. ‘You’d know what this is, wouldn’t you, Hardy?’
‘Sure. How close were you?’
‘Too bloody close.’
The damage was on a level with my nose. Oldcastle was about five foot ten, say, two and a half inches shorter than me. Forehead or temple, depending. Fatal either way.
Oldcastle stepped back inside, turned on the light and went across to a drinks tray that he kept near the fridge. Old-fashioned set-up but nothing wrong with it. He lifted a bottle of Cutty Sark and looked at me enquiringly. I nodded and he poured two solid ones over ice. We sat down well away from the still-open door.
‘Cheers,’ Oldcastle lifted his glass, drank and pointed at the balcony. ‘Trouble is, I couldn’t tell if they were meant to miss and just scare me, or if the shooter wasn’t quite up to it. The light would’ve been tricky at the time.’
I drank. I hadn’t had any Cutty Sark for a long time and it tasted good. The way we were going we’d be Cliff and Marty in no time. ‘Did you report the shooting?’
He shook his head. ‘Didn’t even tell Mick.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged and knocked back some more whisky. ‘No bloody point. He’d only worry all the more. I was still in my anonymous phase then, anyway, and couldn’t tip my hand.’
‘Any guesses as to who it was?’
I regretted the question as soon as I’d asked it. I didn’t want to know who Oldcastle was naming or anything about them. Not my problem. I wanted to walk right away from this when he’d sung his song and let everything go through official channels after that. If his evidence was as good as he made out, there’d be warrants sworn against his enemies as soon as he stopped talking. So far, Oldcastle had recognised that as my unspoken position, but the memory of the bullets fired at him and the loosening effect of the good Scotch caused him to drop his guard.
‘I bloody know who it was. Lance Christenson. He put four bullets into Murphy and his was the first name Murphy said to me. He was a champion rifle and pistol shot but I’ve heard his eyesight’s not what it was. Had to be him. Another drink?’
He’d loosened his tie, tossed his Scotch off and was clearly inclined towards another. Why not? I thought. Later, I wished I’d gone for a long walk instead. Oldcastle had told the truth when he’d said he didn’t drink much. Two more Cutty Sarks and he was well away. I got names and dates and places and amounts. Trouble was, I was complicit. I suppose I could have stopped the flow, but I was interested—professionally, and like any tabloid paper reader. I knew some of the cops, some of the lawyers and some of the crims and a couple of the women. One of them, Lettie Morrow, I’d known very well indeed, and that presented a serious problem.
Lettie was a beautiful woman with a light brown skin, black hair and slanted eyes. Her ancestry could have been Aboriginal, Polynesian, African or Asian or a mixture of any or all. Lettie didn’t know or care. She’d been abandoned in a taxi hours after being born and had been raised in institutions and foster homes. She was intelligent and athletic, did well at school and stayed out of trouble until she was twenty and had almost finished her nursing course. She met Royce Brown and that was the end of the straight life for Lettie. Brown had been dead for five years when I met Lettie but she had photographs of him and you could see what he had on offer—incredible goods looks, a fine physique and a smile to make their knees knock. He was also a heroin addict and a sociopath.
Lettie stuck with Brown for ten years—most of which he spent in gaol—had a child by him, used smack with him, turned tricks for him, did anything. She was arrested for this and that, served some time. When Brown OD’d she fell apart for a while, then got herself back together, got her nursing qualification and worked as a drug counsellor. We had a brief, intense affair and although I hadn’t treated her well we stayed friends afterwards. We’d lost touch though and Oldcastle said she’d taken up with Lance Christenson and was deeply involved in his operations—providing girls, entertaining contacts, laundering money.
‘What’s he look like, this Christenson?’ I asked.
‘He looks like Errol Flynn, and acts like him.’
That made sense. Lettie had made fun of my battered face, claimed to appreciate ‘pretty’ men and lamented that they were in short supply—at least the kind that liked women. I still had a load of guilt about Lettie. I didn’t exactly blame myself if she’d drifted back under the influence of a handsome bad man, but I felt I owed it to her to find out how deeply she was implicated in Christenson’s activities. The way Oldcastle told it, she’d take a long fall with him when he told all he knew. There was too much that was good and strong in Lettie for me to allow that to happen without at least giving her a warning. Big problem of the semi-professional—conflict of interest.
Doctors and lawyers, clergyman and accountants have pretty clear guidelines for their conduct. Playing on both sides in a conflict is out—the patient, the client, the parishioner gets the full commitment. In this game, it’s rather different. We operate in the gaps between the systems—the media, the law, police, prisons—and we see up close how the systems work in their own interests first and foremost. I’ve always felt that people should come first, especially people I like. I thought about it after Oldcastle had staggered off to bed. If Christenson already knew that Oldcastle was going to bucket him, there couldn’t be any harm in tipping Lettie, who might not know, the wink.
I continued to think about it through the next day, which was only three days before Oldcastle was due to give his evidence. That night I turned the body over to two of Pete Marinos’ men to guard. Pete runs a medium-sized agency on professional lines. I’d been using his services when required on the Oldcastle case and this was just an extension of the same. I felt nervous about it though and told the two guys what to do more times than I should have. Oldcastle had been hungover and tetchy in the morning, but by evening he seemed calm and unconcerned about my taking leave of absence.
‘I expect you’ve got a woman to see,’ he said.
‘That’s right, as it happens.’
‘I could never get along with women. I liked them all right but I couldn’t ever tell if they were fair dinkum. Never found one I could trust.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I left the flat, resisting the temptation to give just another tip or two to Pete’s men, and called the last number I had for Lettie on the car phone.
‘Lettie Morrow.’
‘Lettie, this is Cliff Hardy.’
‘Hello, Cliff. Hell, it’s been a while since I heard from you.’
‘Yeah. I wonder if we could get together for a drink tonight? I’ve got a couple of things to talk over with you.’
‘Sure. I’m not doing anything tonight. Bit knackered to tell the truth. Why don’t you get a bottle of that white wine you like, what is it again? Some bloody bird?’
‘Cockatoo Ridge.’
‘That’s it. Get a bottle and come over. You remember where I am.’
I did, a small semi in Elizabeth Bay or Woolloomooloo, depending on how you thought of it. F
or Lettie it was the Loo, always. I don’t know what made me resist the invitation: the sexual connection between us had been very strong but I didn’t need that complication just now. In public was safer.
‘No fear. My earning curve is up just now.’
She laughed. She had a great laugh and I almost reneged. ‘You can say the words, Cliff, but that don’t make it true.’
‘C’mon, Lettie. This isn’t on the cheap. Why don’t you throw on something flash and meet me at the Berlin Bar in an hour.’
‘Now that is a serious offer. Why not? Sure, see you there, Cliff.’
The Berlin Bar was in Elizabeth Bay. Lettie could walk there in her five-inch heels. I knew she loved the place because it catered to her sense of the dramatic. She might arrive in a dinner suit and top hat, à la Dietrich, or in almost nothing, à la Madonna. No way to tell. What I did know was that her favourite drink—champagne with a shot of cognac—would cost a bomb. I was wearing a suit—as I’d taken to doing because it saves thinking about what to wear—so I was dressed okay for the Berlin. What I didn’t have was nearly enough money in my wallet. My first port of call was an autobank.
The Berlin Bar was at street level and brightly lit for the first third of its depth so people could be seen and admired from the street. I parked as close as I could get and under a light. It was still fairly early; the place wasn’t crowded and I got a table near the front with a good view of the street, the door, the bar and anything else you might want to see. I hadn’t been there for some time but it hadn’t changed; why would it? You can’t do any better than full most nights at outrageous prices. I ordered a bottle of French champagne, two flutes and a quadruple cognac in a small snifter. The change out of a hundred dollars was barely worth putting in my pocket and it crossed my mind that I might have trouble putting this event on my expenses.
All such thoughts vanished when I saw Lettie approaching the table. Being old-fashioned, I stood up politely, but I think I was really signalling to the other patrons that she was with me. She wore a grey satin dress that dipped low in front and ended at mid-thigh, a black silk jacket that seemed to part from and cling to her as she walked; the inevitable spike heels. Her hair was loose on her shoulders. She walked straight up and kissed me on the mouth.
‘Hi, Cliff, you bastard.’
She was high on something; there was a slightly unfocused look to her slanted eyes and an odd, upwards angle to her neck.
‘Hello, Lettie. Sit down and have a drink. I hope you haven’t switched to Jack Daniels.’
She sat, looked at the ice bucket and glasses and a slow smile spread across her wide, thin-lipped mouth.
‘You beauty.’ She poured a good slug of brandy into a flute and let me fill the glasses. She drank half of hers in a gulp. All this was new—she used to be a sniffer, a taster, a sipper. I drank some champagne, the first drink I’d had for the day and not a bad way to start. Lettie looked older than she should and was using make-up to correct some of the damage. She still looked terrific but there was a line here, a sag there that suggested what was to come. She finished her drink and poured another. She used to be able to drink all night and not show it, but that was in her old style. With this fast-lane technique something else was possible. She was high, but also nervous.
‘So,’ she said.
‘Do you know a man named Lance Christenson, Lettie?’
‘Cliff, did you expect me to wait?’
‘Does that mean yes?’
She smiled and shrugged, not an easy thing to do, but she was full of those tricks. ‘You left such a hole in my life, Cliff.’
‘This is serious, Lettie.’
‘Drink up. You’re making me feel like the greatest lush in Elizabeth Bay, which I’m not. What d’you expect me to say? Sure, I fuck Lance. He’s got a big dick. Bigger’n yours.’
I poured some more champagne into my glass and took a drink. Somehow it didn’t taste as good. Lettie was fidgeting with a purse she’d taken out of the pocket of her jacket. I didn’t like to think about what was in it apart from money and her flat keys.
‘Lance has got some bad trouble coming his way,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to end up with a share of it. What’s happened to you, Lettie? I thought you had it all together?’
‘You thought! Fuck you! Fuck what you thought! You know what I saw and heard when I was doing that drug work? Catholic boys who’d been buggered by priests; Koori girls who’d been raped by Salvation Army blokes. Not just once, Cliff, and not just in one fucking hole either.’
‘Take it easy.’
‘I can’t take it easy. I couldn’t, I mean. In the end I couldn’t take it anymore. The holier the talk, the worse the abuse.’
‘So, it’s a shitty world. Everyone knows that. It’s no reason to take up with …’
‘You wouldn’t know a thing about it.’ She drank again, poured some more and put the rest of the cognac down in a swallow. Her mouth was set now and the sparkle in her eyes wasn’t just alcohol and drugs. She was very, very angry and I got ready to have something thrown at me. Suddenly, she shook her head as if to let all the anger fly out along with her frothing, bouncing hair. She grinned at me and pushed her chair back. ‘Excuse me, darling. I’ve got to go and powder my tits.’
She walked towards the toilet clutching the pocket purse. Heads and eyes followed her. There was something about Lettie that absorbed all your attention. I began to hear the bar noise—conversation, bottle-clinking and background music—for the first time. I also took notice of the customers. Same-sex and mixed-sex couples, singles … Too late. A big, dark-haired man with regular features dropped into a chair on my left. Another man, smaller and much less handsome, sat where Lettie had been. Some people claim to be able to tell cops on sight. Not me, but I can recognise two legitimate warrant cards when I see them. They were produced and put away too quickly for me to read the names, but I didn’t have to guess at the identity of the guy with the classic profile that was half-turned towards me.
‘Lance Christenson,’ I said.
‘Chief Inspector to you.’
I kept my eyes on the man opposite me, who struck me as more threatening of the two. Christenson was a little fleshy, less than fit and very self-satisfied. The other one, who was fair, with light eyes behind slightly tinted glasses, looked hungrier and keen to impress. Ambition is a very dangerous quality.
‘For now,’ I said. ‘I didn’t catch your chum’s name.’
Christenson smiled, showing perfect white teeth, probably veneered at great expense to law-abiding citizens. ‘His nickname’s Flick. Know why?’
‘I know you’re going to tell me.’
‘One Flick, and they’re gone. You’re going to be one of them, Hardy. Gone for good, unless we can talk a little sense into you.’
It was going to be a matter of timing. Just for a second, I wondered whether it was worth hanging around to swap shit with Christenson. I decided it wasn’t and slammed my reversed left fist backwards into Flick’s Adam’s apple. Done right, the blow will kill a man but I knew I wouldn’t have the force to do that with my left hand. Also, Flick had reacted. He was late, but not too late to deflect some of the force upwards towards bone rather than soft tissue. He sagged and gasped for breath just the same, and I grabbed him, hauled him up, his arm twisted to breaking point behind his back. He let me take him. He knew enough about this stuff not to get into busting his own limbs.
It happened quickly and probably didn’t look so bad to the Berlin Bar patrons—one big man dragging a smaller one towards the door which wasn’t so far away. Another big man was following at a respectable distance and not saying anything. Could’ve almost been a lover’s quarrel in that setting. I was almost to the door when I saw Lettie emerge from the toilet. She saw what was happening but it didn’t seem to worry her as she headed sinuously towards the table; she was in that neutral state where the only things that matter are inside your skull.
I dragged my man through the door and out onto t
he footpath. I didn’t fancy pulling him all the way to my car and didn’t think I’d have to. Christenson came out under the neon sign that showed a Marlene lookalike in fishnet stockings and top hat with a cane between her legs. He stood there as if he knew what an effective visual it made.
‘Let him go, Hardy,’ he said.
‘My car’s not that close.’
‘Too many lookers-on. We won’t bother you.’
People from the bar and passers-by were standing around getting an eyeful. I loosened my grip but stayed ready to knee him in the kidneys if I had to.
‘You and your dog mate’re in for a surprise, Hardy. A very big surprise.’
That was an exit line if ever I’d heard one and a theatrical type like Christenson wouldn’t waste it. I slung Flick down into the gutter and walked away to my car.
I hadn’t learned a thing, except that Lettie was back in the life and probably in deeper than before. It wasn’t hard to understand—unless they’re incredibly lucky, abused people gravitate to those who will abuse them. Christenson was a user of people, a handsome man with a charming smile and a heart like a hailstone. I was sorry about Lettie, but her problems predated me and were deeper and wider than mine, which disqualified me as a helper. I have enough difficulty fighting off the attractions of booze oblivion and violent solutions without trying to save souls. I would write Lettie off the way I had others and I’d feel bad about it from time to time.
Personal survival with a few basic principles intact is the bottom line. The threat to me had been real, but precisely how far Christenson and his offsider would have gone was hard to gauge. Christenson certainly hadn’t looked anxious, but his type runs on confidence and they have it and use it so much they can become insensitive to hostile forces. My involvement had concerned him enough to get Lettie to play a part and to bring his enforcer along. Men like Christenson see life as a series of deals, wins and losses, debts and credits. To some extent tonight he’d exposed himself, showed some of his cards with no result. He wouldn’t be happy.