Forget Me If You Can

by Peter Corris

  I did the same on the four jockeys and waited for the results. I spent time by day and night following each of them and tapping all the sources I have that intersect with the racing world—a few cops, an ex-bookie, a former clerk of the course at Warwick Farm, a callgirl controller, a gym manager. I made notes as my observations and the information accumulated, avoiding premature conclusions. I put a lot of kilometres on the Falcon, quite a few drinks down my throat and the throats of others and exercised the vocal cords in smoky pubs, steamy gyms and quiet parks.

  Mallet lived alone in a Kensington flat, drove a Mazda and seemed to have no interests other than horses. He’d missed the last two corporation payments on his flat. Zelinka had a wife and four kids in Matraville and had recently dropped a girlfriend in Paddington and acquired another in Darlinghurst. He shared her with several other men; she wasn’t very good-looking and consequently not very expensive. Johns was a very low-key, low-profile homosexual who lived with a young strapper. He drove a Holden Statesman but was slightly behind on the payments. His friend had recently switched from a motorbike to a scooter. They seemed to spend most of their time watching videos.

  Rex Goot was a little more interesting. Older than the others at about thirty-four, he’d had a topsy-turvy career as a rider with some big wins, long, bare stretches and more than his share of suspensions for minor infringements. He was considered a good reinsman but ‘cranky’ and inclined to let owners and trainers know his opinion of their horses and methods. He was separated, rented a modest semi in Randwick and his last maintenance payment cheque for his two children had bounced. His wife had re-presented it only to have it bounce again. Then it was third time lucky with a very angry Mrs Goot having to cough up the default fees.

  ‘He’s paying the mortgage on the former family home in Concord,’ my informant, an enterprising bank database man told me, ‘but he was late with the last one and the next’s due tomorrow.’

  ‘Did he have enough on hand to cover the last payment?’ I asked.

  ‘That’ll cost you more.’

  I thought about how characters like this were making money from characters like me by tapping keys. What a world.

  ‘Day after tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Tell me about how he stood last time and what he does this time. Then charge me.’

  ‘I got it.’

  He meant what he said. He had my Bankcard number and had a way of charging fees against the card. I didn’t know how he did it and didn’t want to know. The charge appeared on my statement as ‘Security Enquiries’ and I could bill my client without difficulty. What a world.

  I turned my attention to Bruce Bartlett. A press photo showed him as a big, beefy character with a dimple in his chin. There’s no way to run the standard check on bookies—they handle a lot of cash and everyone knows that their accounts are elaborate fictions. The taxation people leave them alone as long as they get a reasonable whack. Trying to calculate the real income wouldn’t be worth the grief. Still, I poked around and found out what I could. My chief informant was Perce Kelly who runs an SP book in the Bedford Arms hotel in Glebe. Bookies are Perce’s speciality.

  We met in the back bar of the Bedford, not far from Wentworth Park where Perce did a lot of his business. I put a schooner of Old down in front of Perce and sipped at my middy of light.

  ‘What d’y drink that piss for?’ Perce said.

  ‘I use unleaded petrol, too.’

  Perce shook his head and drank a third of the schooner in one pull. ‘Christ help this country if there’s another war.’

  ‘Brucie Bartlett,’ I said. ‘What d’you know?’

  Perce told me that Bartlett had started off with a country licence and worked his way up to the city tracks. He was a man good with numbers but with no flair. Not Perce’s style.

  ‘Can you see him taking bets on the nod from Tommy Herbert?’

  Perce rolled some White Crow and lit up. ‘Maybe. Just.’ He downed another third of the schooner. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Jesus, Perce. That’s not a lot of help.’

  Another suck on the rollie, another pull on the beer. ‘What I mean is, Cliff, I can’t see Tommy fuckin’ betting with him!’

  ‘Would the ten grand fine hurt Bartlett much?’

  ‘Nup. He wins.’

  Perce’s glass was empty, something that usually he dealt with straight off. Now he smoked and turned the glass in his hands.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Brucie used to be in partnership with a bloke named Kelvin Johnson. They fell out and split up. Bad blood. Kelvin had lots of style but no fuckin’ sense, if you know what I mean. They weren’t suited. It happens. Happened to me when I had a licence. Funny thing, though, about that day at Randwick …’

  I knew Perce’s style. The next move was up to me. If I didn’t make it, he’d come up with a yarn about the old days. I took a fifty out of my wallet and put it on the table. I finished my drink and picked up the glasses. ‘I like funny stories,’ I said.

  According to Perce, Johnson and Bartlett had become rivals as bookmakers and had run something of a vendetta against each other which had been costly to both. There were a lot of technical details about laying off of bets which I didn’t fully understand, but the upshot was that the two men were locked in a somewhat irrational conflict that spread to include their two sons who had also been friends at one time.

  ‘But Kelvin’s finished,’ Perce said. ‘He must’ve been stretched pretty thin and the race before the one Tommy got rubbed out for fucked him. He took some big money on the long-odds thing that won. Took it late and couldn’t lay it off anywhere. And you wouldn’t believe it, but Kelvin bets himself. Big. He was probably on the favourite. He got screwed and Brucie was crowing.’

  ‘Was Bartlett …?’

  Perce rubbed the side his nose in the age-old manner, rolled another White Crow and worked on his schooner.

  It doesn’t do to make too much use of the one source. Spread the enquiry around and you reduce the risk of feedback and fuck-up. I went back to my other informants, particularly the former clerk of the course. Des Joseph describes himself as a ‘sober alcoholic’. The booze cost him his job and his family and was on the way to stripping him of everything until AA saved him. He works as a drug counsellor and I met him through one of my clients who was making a serious attempt at drinking himself to death. Des helped him to pull out of it and I’ve referred a few other people to him since. We get along although sometimes I think he eyes me as a prospective customer. We met, as always, in a coffee shop at the Cross.

  ‘This is twice in three days, Cliff,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you’re not working up to seeing me about something else?’

  ‘I’m sure. Say a number of jockeys were under investigation by the chief steward. Who’d do the investigating?’

  ‘They’ve got a couple of blokes, more or less in your line.’

  ‘Would anyone collate the information?’

  Des sipped his long black and gazed past me out to Darlinghurst Road where probably every third person was a likely candidate for his services. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘They call the jockeys under investigation in one by one, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would anyone look at the information on them across the board, other than to consider if they’d colluded about something?’

  Des doesn’t waste words. ‘No,’ he said.

  My bank computer man called the next day to tell me that Rex Goot was late with his last mortgage payment and seemed to have become short of cash a couple of months before.

  ‘Nothing going in or too much going out?’ I asked.

  ‘Bit of both. Looks as if he hasn’t been banking some of his earnings.’

  I thanked him; he checked the expiry date on my card. That’s the way he is. I sat down with my notes and drew my diagrams with the connecting arrows, names in boxes, question marks, ticks and crosses. When I thought I had it all nutted out I called Tommy.

  ‘I think
I’ve got it,’ I said.

  ‘Jesus, what’s it been, five days? You could’ve strung it out for twice this long. You’re throwing away money.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Ha-ha. You know me, Cliff, I’ll joke on my death bed. What’ve you got?’

  ‘A theory.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘With facts. Can you get hold of race tapes?’

  ‘Of course I can. I subscribe to a service. We all do. Gotta see how good we look and how lousy the others are.’

  ‘What do the tapes show, just the race?’

  ‘Nah, you get the horses in the ring beforehand and then coming back after, the owner smiling, the works.’

  ‘I want you to get the tape of the race before the one they say you were trying to fix.’

  ‘I didn’t have a ride in it.’

  ‘Does that mean you can’t get it?’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘Just do it, Tommy, and bring it around here. When can you get it?’

  ‘I can have a courier deliver it tomorrow morning, first thing.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll expect you here about ten.’

  It isn’t in the rule book, but sometimes the client has to do some of the work, take some of the risk. I knew Tommy’s habits pretty well. He was a gregarious type who liked to hang out with other jockeys and talk. He told a good yarn and was excellent company and the racing fraternity would be rallying round him to some extent. I knew he wouldn’t lack for company that evening and that he wouldn’t be able to keep completely quiet about the latest development. Tommy would spend some time in a club or a pub or both where he’d have one drink, two at the most before switching to mineral water, and talk.

  The next morning I was parked outside Tommy’s flat in Clovelly. Tommy and his wife of ten years or more had no children and didn’t seem to feel the lack. Racing was Tommy’s life and his wife was a keen golfer. Tommy played golf occasionally and his wife sometimes went to the races. They had it worked out pretty well. The flats were in a big block that featured a swimming pool and other comforts. If I sold my house and took out a mortgage I might just have been able to afford one. I drank coffee and listened to the radio and saw the courier arrive. A little while later Tommy emerged from the car park in his white Merc. I waited. Sure enough, a dusty Pajero with mud smeared over the numberplates fell in behind him. I joined the procession.

  Tommy took the logical route to Glebe and I hung back, making sure that the occupants of the Pajero were concentrating on what was in front of them and ignoring the rear. At Centennial Park I called Tommy on his car phone.

  ‘Hey, Cliff, what’s up? I’m on my way.’

  ‘I know you are, mate. I’m not far behind you and there’s a blue Pajero in between us that’s been on you since you left home. Don’t look!’

  ‘Shit. What do I do?’

  ‘Chatted to a few people last night, did you?’

  ‘Christ, yes, I guess so. I’m sorry, Cliff, I …’

  ‘It’s okay. We can get something out of it with a bit of luck. Drive to the bottom of Glebe Point Road. Right down to the water. Have you got anything with you apart from the video? A book or something?’

  ‘Fuck, you think I carry War and Peace around with me? I’ve got the Gregory’s and the form guide for Canterbury.’

  ‘That’ll do. Wrap the paper around the Gregory’s and walk a bit to the left as if you’re going to throw it in. We’ll see what happens. And don’t worry, I’ve got a gun.’

  ‘I never worry about guns, just the fuckers that use them.’

  He sounded shaky but he did all right, drove normally. There were two men in the Pajero. I got close enough to take a look and didn’t like what I saw. The driver was a big, dark guy, maybe a Maori, with a calm, professional air; the other man was smaller, smoked continuously and looked edgy. I was edgy too. We reached Redfern before I realised that I’d had the radio on the whole time—Andrew Olle and Paul Lyneham had run through their routine—and I hadn’t heard a word. I switched it off and considered ringing Tommy again. Decided against it. Didn’t want to rattle him.

  The peak traffic had passed and Glebe Point Road was flowing smoothly. The Pajero was one car back from the Merc and I was one back from it. Tommy stopped at the Bridge Road lights and I thought again about calling him and telling him to shake off the Pajero. Last chance. I didn’t do it. I told myself we were in my territory and that I had the edge. We passed the Valhalla cinema and the only butcher shop left in Glebe. There used to be three or four, maybe five. The crazy thoughts you have when you nerves are stretched.

  Tommy headed for the bottom. I turned at Federal Road, stopped, unshipped the .38 and ran through the park past the new bit of garden, down towards the big Moreton Bay fig. The Pajero had turned and parked, pointed back up the road. I was still moving fast but I could see Tommy strolling towards the water with a package in his hand. The smaller man got down from the 4WD. I was close enough now to see that he was carrying a weapon, assault rifle or shortened shotgun. That was enough for me. I shouted for Tommy to get down and I fired at the Pajero.

  The armed man crouched and took in the situation quickly. Tommy was twenty metres away, I was a bit further. He swivelled and pointed the weapon in my direction. I lengthened my stride and threw myself behind the tree that was big enough to stop a mortar shell. I heard the blast of the shotgun and a sound like hail hitting the leaves high above my head. I sneaked a look around the tree; Tommy was flat on the ground and the shooter was piling back into the 4WD. The driver took off with a squeal of rubber that left a trail of blue smoke in the air.

  I ran down to where Tommy was picking himself up. He was wearing a cream safari suit and it was grass-stained from neck to knee. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What was that?’

  I tucked the gun away and looked around. The action had taken only a few seconds and the sound of the shots hadn’t attracted any attention. It’s a noisy area with occasional crashes from the container wharf across the water and a high background level from the bridge construction. I helped Tommy up.

  ‘Let’s get out of here before anyone else asks that question.’

  ‘Fuck it, we want the cops. We could’ve been killed.’

  I thought about that as we walked back towards the tree. The shooter had passed up the chance of an easy shot at Tommy and had fired high at me. Metal glinted under the tree and I stooped to pick up a pellet. I looked at it, then flicked it away.

  ‘Bird shot. They weren’t out to kill, just to frighten.’

  ‘They fucking succeeded,’ Tommy said.

  Back at my house I made coffee and added a slug of brandy to both mugs. A shottie discharged in anger in your vicinity justifies a drink, even if it’s before ten in the morning. I explained things to Tommy as we drank the coffee and before we watched the video.

  ‘Those four took too much care to look as if they hadn’t come into money. One by one it looked all right, but put it all together and it’s obviously contrived.’

  ‘Come again.’

  ‘Fixed. Faked. I was getting a smell of it, then I learned about Bartlett and Kelvin Johnson. Bartlett hated Johnson’s guts and the race before the one you got done for cleaned him out good.’

  I hit the play button and we watched the tape. I didn’t know enough about racing to see anything wrong, but Tommy bent forward almost as if he was in the saddle, watched intently and nodded and clicked his tongue. ‘Play it again,’ he said as soon as the winner passed the post.

  ‘Hold it. I want to see the next bit .’

  The camera followed the horse back and showed the winning owner and trainer along with their losing counterparts. It was only a flash but this was more my sort of thing and I caught it: Rex Goot had won the race on a rank outsider. Just as he neared the enclosure he lifted his whip and almost covered a wink in the direction of a man with a dimple in his chin—a younger version of Bruce Bartlett. As well, a couple of the owners and trainers looked more than a little
unhappy. I ran the tape three more times and we pointed out to each other what we’d seen.

  ‘Comes down to this,’ I said. ‘Bartlett and the four riders fixed that race and took Kelvin Johnson to the cleaners. Then they cooked up the story about you to defect any attention away from the race. Tommy Herbert, race fixer, made a much bigger splash than a few doubts about a minor race.’

  ‘Shit, yes,’ Tommy said. ‘It fits. Goot made his report just as we were getting ready. Know why? Because I was doubtful about riding. I felt crook from wasting, but I decided I was jake right at the last minute.’

  Tommy accepted another coffee with brandy and lit a cigarette. He brushed at the grass stains and smiled. ‘I don’t know what Sharon’s going to say about my suit. Have to get it to the dry-cleaners before she notices. Trouble is, it’s just come back from the bloody dry-cleaners.’

  ‘Tommy. You know this game better than me. We’ve got these suspicions and theories and a bit of evidence on tape if you want to see it our way, but it’s not solid. What do we do now?’

  He sucked in smoke, drank some coffee and pulled the telephone towards him. ‘We talk to all the right people,’ he said.

  Tommy set up a meeting with the owners and trainers of horses involved in the two races and certain of the jockeys. The meeting took place at his flat and Sharon had laid on the works—drinks and eats, cigarettes and cigars. Tommy had a huge video screen and he’d run the race film so many times he could pause, reverse, freeze frame and slow advance like an expert. The trainers and owners ate and drank heartily; the jockeys smoked and drank coffee. Everybody swore a lot. They listened to me and they listened to Tommy. I’d been back to the park and collected a couple of the bird shot pellets.