Comeback

by Peter Corris

  ‘Nice place?’

  ‘Not very, from what I hear.’

  ‘What else d’you hear?’

  ‘That it’s got high-level protection.’

  ‘Who from?’

  She shrugged. ‘Hard to say, but you’d better be careful.’

  I thanked her for the information and the drink and left. I heard the music surge up as I walked towards the stairs.

  Black Girls had a website. It emphasised the exotic nature of its ‘ladies’ and promised luxurious and unusual settings as well as an outcall service. I waited until 9 pm before I called.

  ‘Black Girls, good evening.’

  ‘Is Miranda available tonight?’

  ‘I’m afraid Miranda is no longer with us, sir.’

  ‘How about Isabella?’

  ‘I’m afraid Isabella has commitments tonight, but I’m sure we . . .’

  I hung up. I drove to Double Bay and located the place a block from New South Head Road. I circled the block. Black Girls occupied a freestanding terrace that had undergone a lot of renovation—high cement wall with a security gate, new-looking tiled roof, side and back balconies with views of the water. Whatever had stood next to it as a pair had gone and the space had become a private parking area with a boom gate. Space for several cars, two in position.

  I parked on the opposite side of the street three houses away under a spreading plane tree. There was a street light and I had a good view of the establishment. Over the next few hours the operational pattern became clear. Cars pulled out of the parking area with a woman sitting in the back seat. I followed one trip. The driver deposited a tall, slender black woman at an address in Point Piper. He waited for a little over an hour and drove her drove back to Double Bay. Back at the brothel, I followed the next car to leave. It took its passenger, a woman with a more than passing resemblance to Naomi Campbell, to a house in Randwick. The driver settled himself behind the wheel and opened a magazine.

  I waited until he seemed immersed. I approached, opened the front passenger door and sat with the .38 held low, pointing up at him. He yelped and dropped the magazine. It fell open in his lap showing a double-page picture of a naked woman with enormous breasts.

  ‘Hands on the wheel,’ I said. ‘Stay very still and very quiet and you won’t get hurt. Do anything else and you get hurt, so does the girl and I take her money and this car. Understand?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You take the girls back to their places sometimes, right?’

  ‘S . . . sometimes, yeah.’

  ‘Where do you keep the addresses?’

  He gulped. ‘Glove box.’

  One of his hands moved and I brought the barrel of the pistol down hard on the knuckles. Keeping the gun very steady I opened the glove box with my left hand, felt inside and took out a slim notebook.

  ‘This it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s the name of the woman you just dropped off?’

  ‘Naomi.’

  ‘Figures. Where does Naomi live?’

  ‘I dunno.’ He nodded at the book. ‘I’d have to look it up in there.’

  ‘Okay. You’ve been smart so far. Let’s see if you can stay smart. I’m going. You sit still and look at the tit pictures. You can wank away if you want to. Don’t say anything about this to anyone. You get the addresses from one of the other drivers and no one needs to know what happened here. Right?’

  It was taking too long and I was talking too much. He made a sudden grab at the gun but he wasn’t quick enough. I bent my arm to take the gun out of his reach, then whipped it back and hit his windpipe hard with my elbow. He let out a high-pitched screech and scrabbled frantically at his neck as he tried to suck in air. I got out, walked back to my car and drove off.

  I drove to a wine bar I knew in Double Bay and ordered a glass of red. It came with a glass of water and a bowl of nuts. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten so I ate all the nuts. I drank the water, sipped the wine and opened the notebook. The handwriting was large and round, easy to read. Miranda was there at Baxter Street, Bondi; Simisola was there at Little Seldon Street, Paddington. Isabella’s address was a flat at 29 View Street, Coogee. I drank the wine slowly and drove to Coogee. The block of flats was small and new with sophisticated security. There was no way to tell when Isabella would discharge her commitments. I was tired. I drove home.

  I turned on the late news. There was a shot of the Little Seldon Street house and a brief report. A woman had been found dead with evidence of foul play. The police called on the person who’d reported finding the body to come forward and help with their inquiries. No name was given. No details were given of her age or appearance. A Muslim prostitute was super-sensitive territory in the current climate. I wondered whether the police would continue to suppress the information. Probably.

  I locked the gun away and put the money in its envelope under my pillow. I was sleeping deeply but dreaming a lot. My dreams were all of women—some white, some black, some beautiful, some not. Some of them made sexual advances to me and I responded but they faded away before anything could happen. Jane Devereaux came to me with a letter she said would tell me who killed Bobby but it was in mirror writing and I couldn’t read it.

  Prostitutes tend not to be drivers. They get driven a lot and many of them have drugs in their possession or in their system, making it not worth the risk of being pulled over. They also tend to get up late after a hard night’s work, but I was outside the View Street flats at 8.30 am just in case.

  Isabella ran true to form. No car and she didn’t show until well after ten o’clock. Visually, she was worth waiting for: her brown skin seemed to glow in the early sunlight and her dark hair had the sort of sheen you see in television commercials. She wore a short, leopard-print jacket and loose black trousers, high heels. She walked with a dancer’s grace and the only men who didn’t stare at her were those looking the other way. She strode off towards the main drag, smoking, with a bag matching her jacket slung over her shoulder. I followed her.

  The morning was mild with a light wind and the tang of the sea in the air. The early rush had subsided and there weren’t many people about—a few joggers, a few pram pushers, a few oldsters sitting under cover in the park. Isabella was at an outside café table. She butted the cigarette she was smoking and immediately lit another. She gave her order and sat back looking at the water. She was the only person in the café’s outside area. She took a mobile phone from her bag and made a call. She laughed, showing gleaming white teeth. I moved up quietly and sat across the table from her. I put the photograph on the table beside her bag.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. I don’t mean you any harm. I have to talk to you. It’s about your friend Miranda, and this woman.’

  She was older than she’d looked at a distance and from the way she moved. She was handsome rather than beautiful, but striking. She looked at the photo and blew some smoke, unperturbed at being accosted.

  ‘Simisola,’ she said in a New Zealand accent. ‘I suppose you’re a cop.’

  ‘No.’ I gave her my card. She glanced at it.

  ‘Even worse. What do you want?’

  Her coffee arrived. Black. She tore the top off three packets of Equal and poured them into the cup. Her long nails were painted silver.

  ‘You haven’t heard the news this morning, have you? Or seen the paper?’

  ‘Baby, I don’t watch the news or read the paper. It’s all bad stuff.’

  ‘Simisola’s dead.’

  She stirred her coffee. ‘Silly bitch. I suppose one of her crazy brothers got her.’

  ‘I don’t know. She rang me yesterday. She said she had information for sale. But you’re right, she mentioned honour killing.’

  She drank some coffee and finished her cigarette in two long draws. She snuffed it out and gave me a full candlepower smile. ‘I have three to start the day and that’s it. What information?’

  ‘Something about Miranda.’

  ‘What were you
looking for—a three-way plus one? No, you’re on about something serious. Bound to be pain.’

  I gave her a severely edited version of my interest in Miranda. She drank her coffee and listened without expression.

  ‘They’re both silly bitches, Miranda and Simisola. Miranda’s always looking for something extra, like an angle, a big score. Simisola was on a real good thing with that Muslim bit.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She used to wear the head rag for the punters.’

  ‘Muslim men?’

  ‘And others. You’d be surprised at what turns blokes on.’ She gave me the smile again. ‘Or maybe you wouldn’t. So she didn’t sell you the information?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hoped it was how to find Miranda.’

  She felt in her bag for her cigarettes.

  ‘I thought you said you only had three,’ I said.

  ‘I need to think. Order some more coffee.’

  A few other people had taken their places at the tables and the waitress was in and out of the café. I ordered two more long blacks. Isabella lit up and waited for the coffee. It came and she did the thing with the sweetener.

  ‘How much trouble is Miranda in?’

  Much the same question Ruby asked. Solidarity. I shrugged. ‘Nothing at all from me, a bit from the police, some from people she’s got involved with. All I want is answers to a few questions.’

  ‘And you’ll pay for the answers?’ She glanced at the card. ‘Cliff?’

  I drank some coffee but I’d let it cool too much. I pushed the cup away. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you pay me to tell you where Miranda is, or where she might be?’

  I nodded.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five hundred.’

  ‘A grand.’

  ‘Split the difference—seven fifty.’

  ‘I can get that for one trick.’

  I looked closely at her. There was a suggestion of a double chin and the lines around her eyes were spreading. ‘Not anymore,’ I said.

  She dropped her butt in the dregs of the coffee. ‘You’re right, but you’re a shit to say so. Okay, seven fifty. Let’s see it first.’

  I took the notes from my wallet. Seven hundreds, one fifty. She hesitated.

  ‘Her name’s not really Miranda.’

  ‘I know, it’s Mary Oberon.’

  ‘Fuck, I was hoping for the other two fifty. In fact it’s Oberoi. She figured Oberon was classier. She’s got a brother named Ramesh. He runs a restaurant up on the central coast. She used to talk about working there. How she liked it. I mean working in the restaurant.’

  ‘Indian restaurant?’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Where on the central coast?’

  ‘Fucking stupid name for a place—Woy Woy.’

  I handed her the money.

  ‘Say hello for me,’ she said.

  There were several Indian restaurants in Woy Woy and one of them was named Ramesh’s. At one time I had a girlfriend who lived near Newcastle and I spent a bit of time up there with her. But I wouldn’t have detoured to visit the central coast for many years. I surfed up there when I was younger. In those days we used to drive up in old cars with our boards on the roof and an esky full of beer. This time I decided to take the train. Get around by taxi. Hope Isabella’s tip was right. Stay overnight.

  I packed a bag and caught a train to Wyong from Central Station. I settled down with C.J. Sansom’s Heartstone. I’d been working my way through his Tudor series. Good reads, although this one was a bit slow—padded, as a lot of novels are now. I don’t know why. I looked out the window from time to time but basically let the kilometres take care of themselves. No food or drink on City Rail trains. I had a flask of scotch in my bag in case of delays and emergencies.

  The train was held up for almost an hour just out of Berowra. Signals malfunction they called it, which is not what you want to hear. It was late afternoon by the time the train got to Woy Woy. A taxi took me to a motel in the centre of town. I’d printed out a town map from the web. Ramesh’s North Indian restaurant was only a block away. I consulted the phone directory but there was no Oberoi listed residentially, so it had to be the restaurant. Well, nothing wrong with a good rogan josh after a train trip. I rang the restaurant and booked for one at seven thirty.

  I took a walk around the town centre to get the stiffness out of my legs and back. Woy Woy is a sort of generic Australian coastal town; could be Nowra, could be Ulladulla, could be Coffs Harbour. There was the usual run of shops with a Coles and a Woolworths and the inevitable McDonald’s and KFC. All I knew about the town was that it had once been a fishing village and Spike Milligan’s parents had lived there and Spike spent a bit of time there himself. There were worse places to be and I was willing to bet that anything with a view of the water would be pricey.

  I walked past the restaurant, saw it was both licensed and BYO. I bought a bottle of Eaglehawk chardonnay at a bottle shop. Ramesh’s was an upmarket place with muted lighting and gleaming white tablecloths. The Indian décor had been kept low-key and tasteful. It was more than half full even at that comparatively early hour.

  The customers were being shown to their seats by a plump woman in a sari. When it was my turn she looked around the room and made a gesture of despair.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir. You will have to wait a few minutes for your table. Please sit at the bar and have a drink on the house. My apologies.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ I said. ‘Seating one can be awkward.’

  ‘Not usually, but there is a big concert on tonight and people are eating early. I’ll put your wine on the ice.’

  She escorted me to the bar, spoke briefly to the barman and drifted away. I ordered a gin and tonic and looked around the room. It was the kind of place Lily Truscott and I used to like—medium expensive, good service and, I assumed, no sitar music. Eating alone was one of the things that triggered memories of Lily, who’d been murdered three years before. I sipped the drink and recalled Ray Frost’s question, Did you get even? I’d got even with Lily’s killer but it hadn’t helped. I still missed her.

  There was a mirror behind the bar and I saw my face set in a kind of angry scowl. I drank some more gin and tried to change the expression.

  ‘Your table is ready, sir.’

  The woman smiling at me wore a blue and silver sari. She smelled of something fragrant and her voice was musical. The sari, the jewel in her nose, the filigree headband and the spot of red on her forehead made a difference, but it was still Mary Oberon.

  She showed me to a table in the corner, one of a set of tables for two slightly screened off from the body of the restaurant to allow intimacy. She smiled and walked away. A waiter arrived with a menu and we went through the ritual. I ordered the meal and he brought the wine in an ice bucket. The room was pleasantly warm and I took off my jacket. The entree samosas with the dips were tasty, the papadums were crisp and the meat dish was hot without being fiery. A couple of different chutneys and jasmine rice. It was served smoothly and efficiently and when I indicated I’d pour my own wine the waiter left me to it.

  I watched Mary Oberon as she glided around the room. She took people to their tables and performed small functions to help the waiters and the cashier. She appeared to enjoy the work and to be good at it. But there was something a little off-centre about her behaviour—as if she were acting the part rather than being completely at home in it. The soft light flattered her and she appeared younger than in the posed picture Bobby had shown me. Younger, exotic and something else—wary?

  Within an hour people began to drift off, presumably to the concert, so that Mary Oberon and the waiters became less busy. I ate slowly, hoping still more people would leave so that I might be able to attract and hold her attention for a while. I had two glasses of wine and poured a third. A waiter came over and asked me if I wanted dessert.

  ‘N
o, thanks. Just a long black coffee. And could you ask Mary to come and have a word with me, please.’

  He looked surprised but he went to where she was standing and spoke to her. She came over, still smiling but even more wary-looking.

  ‘Is there something wrong, sir?’

  I returned the smile, tried to look non-threatening. ‘No, I’d like to talk to you. It’s about Bobby Forrest.’

  The calm poise fell away. She stared at me as if I’d spat in her face. The table had been set for two. She grabbed a knife and stabbed at my throat. I jerked up and sideways and the blade hit me in the right shoulder. It went through my shirt and in beside the collarbone. I sat, more surprised than hurt. She turned and ran, silver shoes slapping the tiled floor. The knife didn’t have much of a point and didn’t go in far. I pulled it out easily and blood welled and flowed. It soaked my shirt and dripped onto the table. The plump woman and a waiter appeared and blocked the view of the remaining diners.

  I grabbed a napkin and pressed it to the wound. It was soggy with blood inside a few seconds.

  ‘Come with me, sir,’ the woman said. ‘We have a doctor. He will help you.’

  They led me through a door a few steps away.

  ‘Fetch Ahmed and some towels quickly,’ the woman said to the waiter. She took me down a short passage to an office and sat me in a chair. The blood had stopped flowing but the shoulder was throbbing and the arm felt stiff.

  The waiter appeared with a couple of snowy white towels, followed by a man in a chef’s uniform.

  ‘This is my brother Ahmed,’ the woman said. ‘He is a doctor.’

  I nodded and let him tear the shirt away.

  ‘My bag,’ he said.

  He was in his thirties and very composed. He used a towel to wipe away most of the blood and pressed it against the wound which was seeping slightly. He glanced at me as he worked.

  ‘I do not think you are in shock.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You have been hurt before perhaps?’

  ‘A few times, yes.’