by Peter Corris
‘Who didn’t?’
I’d given him my card and he looked at it to refresh his memory of my name. ‘I’d like to help you with this if I can, ah … Cliff.’
‘Why?’
‘For the most selfish of reasons—to get material for my book.’
‘Not to get back at Haxton?’
‘Wouldn’t hurt, but no. It was that producer bitch that dudded me. As I said, I’m over it.’
I finished my beer. ‘I admit I’m a bit out of my depth with this—not the crime, if there is a crime, but with the relationships of the people. I’d be grateful for any help I could get.’
Crabbe nodded and held up a hand in a comradely gesture. ‘I wonder how I would’ve gone up against you.’
‘I’d back you,’ I said. ‘Ten years ago it might’ve been even money. This Corbett, reckon you can track him down?’
‘Yes.’
He made some phone calls, explained to Wendy that he had to go out, said goodnight to Chloe and we were on our way.
‘Which d’you reckon makes the better impression, my SUV or your clapped-out Falcon?’ Crabbe said after I’d pointed out my car.
‘Depends whether we want to be frightening or comforting.’
‘Frightening.’
‘We’ll take yours.’
Crabbe drove expertly but without flourishes. ‘I’m told he’s living under a shop in Marrickville, probably selling dope and speed. He had a bikie period, not sure if he’s still into that.’
The shop in Addison Road was boarded up but lights were showing in the flat, more or less underground, below it. There was a ramp to the door.
‘Bit weird,’ Crabbe said.
We went down and Crabbe knocked on the door. After a short wait we heard a sound inside and then the door opened. If this was Ben Corbett, he wasn’t doing any kidnapping in person because he was in a wheelchair.
‘Hello, Ben,’ Crabbe said.
‘Fuck me, big Tom Crabbe and a mate come to do me harm. I heard you was on your way.’ He produced a pistol from under the blanket over his knees.
Crabbe’s move was as quick as I’ve ever seen. Almost like a conjurer, he plucked the pistol from Corbett’s grasp and pointed it back at him.
‘No need for that, Ben. I think we got the wrong end of the stick. Sorry to see you like this. What happened?’
‘Come off me bike, what d’you reckon? What do youse want then?’
‘Nothing.’ Crabbe activated the safety on the gun and handed it back.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Mr Corbett, I’m a private detective looking for Cassie Haxton. I understand you—’
Corbett may have been a cripple but there was nothing wrong with his lungs. He threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter.
‘Bugger me. Cassie. You want me to tell you about her?’
‘Anything you can.’
‘Take a while. Come in. Truth is I’d be glad of the company. You’ve got no fuckin’ idea how many people avoid you when you’re crippled. Got anything to drink, Tom?’
‘I think there’s some rum in the car.’
‘Why don’t you go and get it while …’ ‘Cliff Hardy,’ I said.
‘… him and me get comfortable.’
Corbett swung the chair around and I followed him into the flat—just a sitting room and bedroom as one space and a kitchenette tucked in a corner. If Corbett was selling dope as Crabbe suggested, he wasn’t doing very well at it. He looked as if he could have been passably handsome at one time, but confinement in the wheelchair had put flesh on him and blurred his looks. He sported a bikie ponytail, but the hair was thin and receding at the temples.
I heard the door close and Crabbe came in with a half-bottle of Bundy. Corbett had things arranged so as he could reach them. He got ice and a carafe of water and some glasses from the bar fridge and set them out on a battered pine table.
‘Pour us a strong one, Tom, and youse can have what you like.’
Crabbe obliged, half filling a glass and adding two cubes of ice for Corbett and making us two heavily diluted versions. Corbett took a long slug.
‘Jesus that hits the spot. These legs are fuckin’ useless but they hurt like hell sometimes. Nothing like a bit of Bundy to dull the pain. I remember when—’
‘We don’t need any of that, Ben,’ Crabbe said. ‘When did you last see Cassie?’
Corbett laughed. ‘That means when did I last fuck her—same thing.’ He brought his left fist down hard on his knees. ‘Before this. That’d be when I was in LA. She was hot, like always, and she reckoned she was going to take that stuck-up prick Haxton for fuckin’ millions. Crazy bitch had this plan—that what youse want to hear about?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Cost you.’
‘How much?’
I moved around the table, reached under the blanket and grabbed the pistol Corbett had tucked down beside him. I checked the load, jacked a shell into the chamber, and pointed the gun at the side of Corbett’s head.
‘You’re depressed, Ben. Drinking hard. It all got too much for you not being a king of the freeway. You ran yourself off the road one last time. It’s easy to arrange.’
Corbett lost colour. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I would,’ I said. ‘I’ve done it before.’
Corbett shot a desperate look at Crabbe, who shrugged. ‘He’s a hard bastard and there’s a lot of money at stake. But he doesn’t seem to want to share any of it with you.’
Corbett steadied himself with another belt of rum. ‘All I know is, she had this idea to show him up as a cheap bastard and then blackmail him. Said she’d lop an ear off like that fuckin’ mad painter if she had to.’
I cleared the magazine and breech and put the gun and the shells in Corbett’s lap. ‘Did she say anything about having an accomplice—a helper?’
‘I know what an accomplice is, you prick. Yeah, some dyke who has it in for Haxton.’
Crabbe and I left Corbett the rum and we drove back to Newtown, barely exchanging a word. He backed carefully into his parking bay.
‘Has to be Emily-Jo Taplin,’ he said.
‘You mentioned a female producer in uncomplimentary terms.’
‘Got it in one.’
We stood in the street and I thanked Crabbe for his help.
‘I can handle it from here,’ I said. ‘Don’t quite understand it but I expect I will.’
We shook hands. ‘I believe you. That was nice work of yours back there with Ben. Very scary. Have you ever offed anyone like that?’
‘No.’
‘Good bluff. Can I ask you to let me know how it works out? Could be very useful.’
I agreed.
If this scenario was the real one, and instinct told me it was, it seemed to me that the pressure was off. Wouldn’t hurt to let Haxton stew a bit, and Cassie wouldn’t come to any harm. I went home to sleep and to think about how to play out the last act—the whole thing now seemed like a bad movie script. The modified voice was a clue, suggesting that Haxton knew the real voice. Can that modification make a woman sound like a man? Why not?
I drove home. It was a night sans Lily, which is okay as long as there aren’t too many and they’re well spread out. There was a message from Haxton on the answering machine. He complained about my mobile being off and said the caller had been in touch again.
‘It’s fucking weird. He asked how I’d feel about a hundred grand and I said okay. Then I got a bit pissed off and said things about Cassie that I shouldn’t have. There’s something else. Ring me.’
So much for a good night’s kip. I called him and told him I had the mobile off because I was dealing with dangerous characters. A true egotist, he didn’t even register what I said.
‘The fucker was recording me,’ he said. ‘I know about this stuff—the clicks and that. I swear I was being recorded. What’s all that about?’
Recording him fitted the scenario. I was sick of him, sick of the whole fantasy world he and his kind li
ved in. I told him to take a pill and get some sleep.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning and explain. Just be assured that your darling wife is in no physical danger.’
He was drunk and energised perhaps by some illegal substance and he ranted at me but I cut him off. ‘It’s more or less sorted, Bruce,’ I said. ‘Calm down. See you tomorrow at ten. Sleep.’
Haxton was dishevelled, unshaven and hungover when I arrived. The day had turned grey and cold and wasn’t helping his mood. For all that had happened he was still preoccupied with his profession.
‘Couldn’t shoot for shit in this weather, even locations,’ he said as he ushered me in. The place was a mess of glasses, a bottle or two, Budweiser cans, a pizza box, newspapers and ring-bound scripts. The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and spilled coffee. Haxton cleared a dressing gown from a chair for me and offered me a beer.
‘Got any champagne?’
‘Celebrating, are we?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Tell me.’
I gave it to him the way it appeared to me. His normally pale face became flushed under the stubble and his hands shook as he poured himself some vodka, not bothering about me or the tonic.
‘That dirty bitch. Those dirty bitches. That fucking modified voice sounded like a man. They’ll go to gaol for this. See how they like it with the bull-dyke screws.’
‘You’re not thinking. From what I’ve learned it looks as if Cassie knows you haven’t got much money but wants to bleed you for whatever you’ve got or are going to get. Okay. I understand that. But what about this Emily hyphen-something-something? What’s in it for her?’
Haxton’s face was a mottled mask of rage. ‘She wants co-director status on the picture. She’s a grasping, ruthless, ambitious … I’ll finish her in the business.’
‘No you won’t. Don’t forget she’s got tapes of you being willing to negotiate over your wife’s kidnapping. It’s all shit of course, but the American media’ll give it a tremendous play. There isn’t any evidence that Cassie and this woman are behind it, but you can bet the National Enquirer’d love it.’
Haxton groaned. ‘What can I do?’
‘Play along, Bruce. Give them what they want for now. That’s show biz.’
‘She’ll bleed me dry, Cassie will, and the other one …’
‘Get yourself an LA lawyer. They can work miracles, we’re told. Think of OJ. Meanwhile, how about a cheque for my retainer and expenses to date?’
‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘What did you do?’
I leaned forward, took the glass from his hand and tipped the contents out on the floor. ‘I called in a favour from a friend and fronted up to an ex-SAS guy ten years younger than me. Then I took a loaded pistol from a bikie and threatened to blow his head off with it, Dirty Harry style. How’s that for a night’s work while you were scoffing pizza and getting pissed?’
‘Okay. I’ll write the cheque.’
‘Nothing personal. Sorry, that’s another of my crummy jokes, Bruce. Make it out to cash on the movie account,’ I said.
Last will & testament
‘I’m dying, Cliff,’ Kevin Roseberry said.
‘Says who?’
‘The doctors and me.’ He tapped his pyjama-clad chest. ‘I can tell.’
‘Doctors have been known to be wrong,’ I said. ‘Even you’ve been wrong once or twice, Kev.’
Kevin Roseberry was seventy-five but looked older. He’d been a lot of things in his time—wharfie, boxer, rodeo rider, boxing manager. When he won two million dollars in a lottery he hired me, who’d known him just as someone to drink with in Glebe, to get a blackmailer off his back. It wasn’t hard, the guy was an amateur, easily persuaded of the error of his ways. Kevin and I became friendly after that. He bought a big terrace at the end of my street, held some great parties. Now he was in a private room in a private hospital and I was visiting.
‘I’ve been wrong heaps of times, but not now. The big C’s got me and they reckon I’ve got a month at the most. No kicks coming. After the life I’ve led I was thankful to make it to the new century, let alone two years in. I’ve got that doctor you recommended onside.’
‘Ian Sangster?’
‘He’s a good bloke. He’s put me onto another quack who knows the score. I’m going home next week and he’s arranged for a nurse who’ll know what to do.’
I nodded. That’s exactly what I’d want for myself—not that it’ll ever happen.
Kevin used to be big but he’d wasted badly. Even his craggy bald head looked smaller. His voice was still the hoarse bark it had always been and his eyes were bright under the boxer’s scar tissue. He pointed to his bedside cabinet. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
I opened the cabinet, took out a bottle of Teachers and two glasses. I poured two generous measures and handed him his. We raised the glasses in a silent toast to nothing in particular.
‘I’ve got a problem,’ he said. ‘Who to leave my bloody money to.’
‘I could take some of it off your hands. Just say the word.’
‘Funny. You can tell jokes at the wake. No, this is serious. You didn’t know I had a kid, a daughter, did you?’
‘Never saw you with a pram.’
‘Yeah, well it was all a fair while ago. I didn’t treat the woman well and I never had much to do with the kid, nothing in fact. Back then, it was work, fights, the rodeo circuit, grog and more grog. You know.’
‘You’ve got the scars to prove it.’
‘You bet I have. The thing is, I’d like to help the kid and her mother. It bloody worries me, Cliff. I’m on the way out and I’ve been a selfish bastard all my life. I don’t believe in any of that religious crap, but I’d like to go with a sort of clean slate if I can. Does that sound nutty?’
‘No, Kev. It sounds like a decent man trying to do a decent thing. Nothing wrong with that.’
‘Good. Thanks. You helped me once and I want your help again. I want you to contact the girl and her mother and tell me how things stand with them.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Well, last I was in touch with Marie, and this is nearly ten years back, she wanted nothing to do with me. Warned me not to try to get in touch with the girl. This was just before I came into the money, but I had a bit and I wanted to know if Marie and Siobhan needed anything. Marie said she was doing fine, so I backed off and I thought, fuck her. But now things are different. The house is worth the best part of a million. I blew a fair bit on horses and having fun, but there’s still a couple of hundred grand left. It’s invested and brings in a decent amount. Now if Marie’s doing well that’s fine, but Siobhan’s in her twenties and I don’t see why her mother should still speak for her. Shit, she might have children, my grandchildren. The money could be useful for them if not for … you see what I’m getting at.’
‘Why can’t you get in touch yourself—ring up or write?’
Kevin shook his head and the loose skin on his neck was grey and mottled. ‘I tried. I rang the last number I had but the people I spoke to had never heard of her. I didn’t know what else to do and I’m too crook to go hunting them up. But that’s your game, isn’t it—finding people?’
‘Part of it. I can give it a shot, Kev, but people can move a long way in ten years. Women marry and change their names. How old would Marie be?’
‘Twenty years younger than me, mid-fifties. I met her when I was managing a middleweight who fought Jimmy O’Day. She was some kind of cousin or auntie or something of Jimmy’s. A good bit older, Jimmy started real young. She was at the fight and afterwards we got talking and that.’
‘She’s Aboriginal?’
‘Just a bit, like Jimmy.’
‘That bit can mean a lot these days. You’d better give me the names and the address and anything else that might be useful. Got a photo?’
He gestured at the cabinet. ‘In my wallet. A couple of snaps from back when we were sort of t
ogether. Siobhan was just a baby.’
Snaps was right: they were polaroids and pretty faded. In one of the photos, Kevin, with more hair on his head and flesh on his bones, stood beside a tall woman who was carrying a baby. In the other, Kevin was holding the baby securely in his big, meaty hands, but the look on his face suggested he was afraid of dropping it. The woman was handsome rather than pretty, with strong features. Impossible to tell her colouring from the old pictures, but dark rather than fair, I thought. I put the photos back in the wallet. Kevin took it from me and extracted a wad of hundred-dollar notes.
‘Eight hundred do you?’
‘For starters, sure. You might have to hang on a bit longer, Kev. These things can take time.’
‘I’ll try, mate, but don’t count on it.’
I got Marie’s last known address, in Leichhardt, and left him there with the television on and the remote in his hand that was like a claw.
I remembered Jimmy O’Day. He was a fast-moving middleweight back when boxing was very much in the doldrums. He fought in the clubs, had a few bouts in New Zealand, and won the Commonwealth title, which meant practically nothing at all. I saw him once at Parramatta and thought he was pretty good without being sensational. He was a boxer rather than a puncher, and that didn’t please the pig-ignorant club crowd all that much. He dropped out of sight after losing the title to a Maori. I still had contacts in the boxing world and it might be possible to get a line on Marie O’Day through him if all else failed.
It took me a couple of days to clean up a few other matters before I got around to visiting Leichhardt. The young woman at the address Kevin had given me, a neat single-storey terrace not far back from Norton Street, remembered Kevin’s call and could only say she knew nothing about former residents.
‘I think it had been a rental property in the past,’ she said. ‘Tess and I had a lot of repairs to do when we bought it.’
I got the name of the agent she’d bought through, thinking they might have had the letting of the house beforehand, and thanked her.
‘Does the house have a history?’ she asked. ‘Like a criminal past?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Oh, you look like a policeman or … something.’