The Big Score

by Peter Corris

  ‘What would that be, Jerry?’

  ‘Money, of course. What else is there to be interested in when you come right down to it?’

  That was Jerry’s philosophy all right, plain and simple. He’d been in and out of gaol for most of his life—worked up from car theft to B & E to small-time holdups. No violence, no drugs as far as I knew. He was a Glebe character who always returned to the suburb when he was released. He’d picked up a lot of history from his father and grandfather, who went way back, never living more than a stone’s throw from Glebe Point Road. I enjoyed Jerry’s stories and I liked him. I switched off when he got onto cricket, a passion I do not share. There was no harm in him. He was about seventy, on the pension, doing other bits and pieces, and just getting by.

  ‘Money’s good,’ I said, ‘but what about family, friends, health, sex?’

  ‘Money’ll buy you most of them. Seriously, I’ve got something to talk over with you and I can’t do it here. Where’s your office these days?’

  That was a surprise. I hadn’t figured Jerry as the appointment-making type, but his whole attitude seemed to have undergone a subtle change in a more serious direction.

  ‘Newtown,’ I said.

  ‘What’s the address?’

  I reached for my wallet. ‘I can give you a card.’

  His voice was a hiss as his eyes darted around the bar. ‘Don’t give me a fucking card. We’re just a couple of old mates talking.’

  I drank, he drank. I told him the address.

  ‘Nine o’clock tomorrow,’ he said. He finished his drink, slapped my arm and walked out. I turned away and looked across at the pool players. You don’t watch an old mate leave a pub after a casual conversation, even if you can scarcely contain your curiosity.

  Gentrification is spreading along King Street in Newtown like a grassfire. An African restaurant recently opened next door to the boarded-up shop my office sits above. Renovation and rent rise are inevitable and not welcome, because my business is shrinking as the private enquiry corporations with HQs in LA and NYC take over. For as long as it lasts, the office has the right feel for me—plain, reasonably clean, functional and cheap.

  Jerry was precisely on time, meaning that he was waiting outside the door when I arrived a couple of minutes late.

  ‘Time is money, Cliff,’ he said. ‘I oughta know, I did the time for the money I stole.’

  I’d heard it before but it was still worth a laugh. I opened the door and ushered him in.

  ‘I can make coffee, Jerry. No milk though.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t want coffee, mate, I want your ear and your help.’

  I sat behind the desk and he took the client’s chair. ‘Okay, you’ve got the first, the other depends.’

  Jerry cleared his throat to make his pitch. ‘Charley Sanderson had a … home invasion. Three guys broke in and tied up Charley and his wife and got Charley to give them the safe combination. They took a little over half a million in readies.’

  Jerry still uses old BBC cop show slang, which is one of the things I like about him. He paused to pull out a pipe and stuff it. I’ve never minded the smell of pipe tobacco and I pushed an almost clean ashtray towards him for the several matches I knew it would take him to light it.

  Sanderson was a bookie, a big one. His reputation was better than some, not as good as others. I hadn’t picked up anything about the robbery in the media and I told Jerry so as he struck matches and puffed.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ he said when he had the pipe drawing. ‘Reason’s obvious.’

  ‘Sanderson’s readies aren’t something he’s ready to declare.’

  ‘This is serious stuff, mate—half a million.’

  That was one too many ‘mates’ for comfort. Jerry and I weren’t that close—a few drinks, a few pool games, chats about the boxing, such as it was, and the history of Glebe.

  ‘Get to the point, Jerry.’

  ‘Sanderson’s offering a reward for anyone who can … help. Fifty grand.’

  Jerry is nothing if not an actor, probably from watching all that TV in gaol. He let the figure hang in the air like a balloon while he cast a look around my basic fittings. ‘How does that sound, Cliff? Twenty-five thou.’

  ‘You know who did it, do you?’

  ‘Not exactly. But, you know I do a bit of consultancy for this security firm. Me having certain experience.’

  ‘So you told me. So what?’

  ‘It’s not much, peanuts really. But I heard a whisper and I think I know how to go about finding out who did the business.’

  It was starting to sound thin. ‘To answer your question, Jerry, it looks bloody dangerous. If Sanderson wants to keep everything quiet, what plans does he have for the ones who did the job? They’d know how much money was involved and they could sing an interesting song to the tax people and the bookie licensing board. Sounds as if they’d be expendable from Sanderson’s point of view.’

  Jerry’s pipe had gone out. He shook his head as he fiddled with it. ‘Charley’s not that sort of a bloke.’

  ‘Think about it. And think how he’d feel about anyone who fingered them. His whole future’s on the line. From what I know of him he could probably gee himself up to take drastic measures. You’re in danger just knowing about it. How come you do?’

  ‘Can’t tell you while you’re taking this attitude. Look, Cliff, this is my last chance for a big score and I need it bad. All I’ve got’s the fucking pension and you must know what a room costs to rent in this fucking city. I’ve gotta eat, have a drink, and I’ve got health problems.’

  ‘You’re healthier now than if you were dead.’

  ‘Ah, that’s you all over. Always fucking joking. Look, I’ve got a brother who’s getting a good deal on a decent-sized caravan in a park up on the Hawkesbury. Twenty-five thousand’d get me a half-share. I could live up there rent-free on the pension. Fish, breathe clean air. Give me another ten years.’

  ‘You’d miss Glebe.’

  ‘Fuck Glebe. What’s Glebe ever done for me?’

  I had to laugh at that. Jerry laughed too and got his pipe going. The mood changed.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t much like the idea of playing according to Charley Sanderson’s rules, but if you want to let me in on how you know about this and the way you’re thinking, I could perhaps give you some advice. Help to keep your nuts out of the blender.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that.’

  Jerry puffed his pipe and thought about it. Hard to tell what he was thinking. As an experienced but not very successful card player, he could keep a blank face. Maybe he was thinking of a way to lock on to the whole fifty thousand. He got up from the chair, old joints creaking.

  ‘You could give me one of them cards now, mate. I’ll be in touch when I’ve had a bit more of a think.’

  I gave him a card and he left.

  The call from the police came two days later. I was told to drop in at the Glebe station and ask for Detective Sergeant Johnson. Johnson came down from upstairs, suggesting that he wasn’t going to take me up to the interview room for the third degree. We’d met before and treated each other with a certain amount of respect. We talked in the space between the door and the reception desk.

  ‘Just a word, Mr Hardy,’ Johnson said. ‘You know a man named Jerry Fowler?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What would you say was the nature of your relationship?’

  ‘We have the odd drink together, have a yarn. He’s a Glebe identity, knows a lot about the place. Why?’

  ‘He was shot and killed last night.’

  ‘Jesus! Who by?’

  ‘I thought you might have some ideas. We found your card in his wallet. Was he your client?’

  ‘Come on, I know I don’t command top dollar, but Jerry couldn’t afford me.’

  ‘Card looked new. When did you give it to him?’

  I shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. Put a card in a wallet and it stays looking new, doesn’t it?’ />
  It was his turn to shrug. ‘I suppose. Well, just asking. No idea yourself about who’d want to kill him?’

  ‘Not a clue. When did you say this was?’

  ‘Last night. Well, early hours.’

  ‘I’m sorry, really sorry. He was a character.’

  ‘He was a habitual criminal.’

  ‘Not lately.’

  ‘Once a crook, always a crook. Get in touch if anything occurs to you.’

  He gave me his card and I brushed it clean and made a show of putting it away carefully in my wallet. He knew what I was doing and didn’t like it. Probably not a smart move on my part.

  I went in to the office to deal with routine matters, thinking that the last person who’d been there with me was Jerry. I was genuinely sorry about his murder and I resolved to go to the funeral, if there was one. But I didn’t feel a strong sense of responsibility. Jerry had been in the criminal world for a very long time and he knew the risks he was taking dabbling in the murky waters of rewards for snitching.

  Of course I’d lied to Johnson. From the little I knew, Jerry’s killer could have been associated with the people who robbed Sanderson or with Sanderson himself, who might have thought Jerry less than helpful. I’d leave it to the police to sort out if they could or if they wanted to. The murder of an old lag like Jerry wouldn’t make them put their best foot forward.

  The stairs up from the street to the first floor in my building are narrow and pretty dark. My habit is to take them three at a time as a little bit of aerobic exercise before sitting at the desk. That’s what saved me. Two men were waiting on the landing where the stairs take a turn. I came barrelling up, bent over a little, and the swing one of them took at me missed. He lost his balance and went down a step or two. His mate was obviously hoping to deal with someone incapacitated and he was surprised when I straightened up and slammed a fist into his gut. Soft gut. I grabbed his arm and swung him against the banister. It caught him in the kidneys and he went down.

  The first guy came up with a baton at the ready but I was above him and balanced. I kicked him in the face; he dropped the baton and tumbled to the bottom. I was breathing hard and in the seconds I took to suck in some air the soft-gut scuttled past me. I collected the baton and went down to the door. Holding the baton behind my back I looked up and down the street. Nothing.

  ‘You’ve still got it,’ I said to myself as I went back upstairs.

  I was undamaged, which is not always the way you come out of a two-man attack. But I didn’t kid myself— they weren’t very good, and it was lucky that I hadn’t just climbed the stairs normally. Of the two other offices on this level one was unoccupied and the other, allegedly the home of an independent record company, Midnight Records, was unused until late at night. To my surprise a young man in black jeans and T-shirt opened the door.

  ‘Hey, what?’ he said, flicking back long locks.

  ‘Hey, nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Cool.’

  I went in to the office and made coffee as an aid to thinking. There was really only one line of thought—who hired them and why?

  For the rest of that day and the next I kept an eye out for trouble but nothing happened. Lily was away interstate working on a mining story. She’s the one who reads the papers closely, I just skim them, so I missed the notice of Jerry’s funeral. Daphne Rowley brought it to my attention that night in the Toxteth after a game of pool.

  ‘You going?’ I said.

  ‘Wish I could but I’ve got a full day. Just can’t get away. I liked Jerry.’

  ‘So did I. Where is it?’

  Daphne told me that the service would be held in the Unitarian Chapel in Darlinghurst and that Jerry was to be buried at Waverley Cemetery. That surprised me. I thought the cemetery was more or less full and that only people who’d booked plots could still get in. I didn’t see Jerry as someone who’d invest in that way.

  I was late getting to the chapel after wasting time looking for a parking spot. The service was coming to an end. There were five people present. Four I recognised as Glebeites, the other I didn’t know, but he bore a striking resemblance to Jerry. Younger, better preserved, well dressed, but clearly of the blood. The coffin was put in the hearse and I was wondering how I was going to follow it to Bondi when the look-alike came up beside me.

  ‘You’d be Cliff Hardy.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Zack Fowler, Jerry’s brother.’

  We shook hands. ‘I guessed that,’ I said. ‘You’re a lot like him.’

  ‘In some ways, not all. I’d like you to ride along with me, if you don’t mind. There’re things I want to discuss with you.’

  You don’t say much in a funeral car. Something about the fittings, the driver, the pace keep you quiet and leave you with your own thoughts. The car was followed by another carrying the other mourners. The burial was conducted smoothly and efficiently. When it was done Zack Fowler went to the Glebe people and handed them some money. Then he came back to me.

  ‘I thanked them for coming and asked them to hold a bit of a wake for Jerry at his watering hole.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll do that,’ I said. ‘I’d be in it. Shouldn’t you be there?’

  ‘No. Hold on.’

  He spoke to the two drivers and the cars pulled away. It was then that I noticed the quality of his clothes—the suit, the shirt, the shoes. He’d obviously paid for the whole thing and the burial plot. This man had money.

  ‘We can get a taxi back. I’m hoping you’ve got some time.’

  I nodded and we began to walk between the rows of graves and the ornate tombs as the early afternoon wind took on an edge.

  ‘A wake for Jerry’d be okay,’ Fowler said. ‘I always expected I’d go to his rather than him coming to mine. But I’ve got more serious business. I want to hire you to find out who killed my brother.’

  Fowler told me that Jerry had been the black sheep from the start, always in trouble for thieving and fighting. The parents were religious—hence the names Zachariah and Jeremiah—but it didn’t take with Jerry.

  ‘I was a couple of years younger,’ Fowler said. ‘I thought it was all bullshit, the religion, but I played along to keep the peace. Jerry was causing them so much trouble they needed something to make them feel worthwhile.’

  ‘How did you get along with him?’

  Fowler shrugged. ‘Okay, what I saw of him. He was in and out of reform schools from his early teens and then he graduated to gaol. As I say, I toed the line, did okay at school, Fort Street, got a commerce degree, started a business that did well. Mum and Dad didn’t live to be very old but I helped make them comfortable for the last few years. Mum always said Jerry broke her heart, but there’s nothing to that. They were cowed, frightened people who clung to their religious delusions and then just sort of faded away.’

  We walked back towards the gate. I had a pea jacket over a sweater and the cold didn’t penetrate too much. Fowler just had his business shirt and suit coat but he didn’t seem bothered. Reminiscing had removed him physically from the scene.

  ‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said, ‘how unforgiving Christians can be. They never forgave Jerry, wouldn’t have spoken to him more than half a dozen times since he became an adult.’

  ‘I’ve seen that,’ I said, ‘churchgoers shunning their unmarried pregnant daughters.’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, I stayed in touch with Jerry as best I could, but my business took me overseas a lot and when he was out of gaol he was always in some rooming house or other—hard to track down. I gave him a helping hand when I could but …’

  ‘He probably shouted me a drink sometime or other with what you gave him.’

  That’s when Fowler apparently started to feel the cold. He hailed a taxi. ‘Let’s go somewhere and have a drink. Jerry told me about you more than once and he spoke about you recently. That’s why I want to talk to you.’

  The taxi took us to Fowler’s hotel—the Novotel at Darling Harbour. We installed
ourselves in a warm comfortable bar and Fowler bought double scotches, putting them on his room account.

  ‘Jeremiah Fowler,’ he said as he raised his glass.

  We drank the toast. Fowler unbuttoned his suit coat and leaned back in his chair. As a man in late middle-age, he was comfortably padded but not fat. Probably worked out a little when he had the time. He took another pull on his drink and got ready to talk.

  ‘About six weeks ago, when I was just back from the States, I found out where Jerry was living and went to see him. In Glebe, of course. That’s where the family had been for a couple of generations.’

  The scotch was smooth—bound to help talking and listening.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m a comparative newcomer. Jerry filled in the background for me.’

  Fowler nodded. ‘He would. It was his only interest apart from a quick easy dollar. Well, I went to see him and found him pretty close to the edge financially, and health-wise. I told him about this caravan park that I’ve got an interest in. Well, I own it really, but I didn’t tell Jerry that, and I said he could have one of the mobile homes to live in rent-free. He seemed interested and the next thing I know he rings me and asks how much to buy the unit. I told him forty-five thousand just to name a figure and he said he thought he could raise it. Next thing I know I get the news that he’s dead.’

  ‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’

  ‘No, I knew the detective I talked to wasn’t interested. The only way Jerry could have got hold of that sort of money was through something criminal. He must have stepped on somebody’s toes and got himself killed. I want to know who killed him and I want to see them in gaol. Jerry spoke very well of you, said you’d helped him out a few times. One of the Glebe people pointed you out to me at the service and here we are.’

  ‘Where are we exactly, Mr Fowler?’

  ‘I’m trying to enlist you to find out who killed Jerry and I’m happy to pay your going rate. More if necessary.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d be able to do that?’

  Fowler shrugged. ‘I feel that I let him down. I have to do something and this is all I can think of.’