by Peter Corris
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘My first private detective.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘Someone heard you speak to James O’Day. That someone told me.’
‘Is it the person I think it is?’
‘Could be. Tell you in the morning. I’ve got another rubber—think you’re up to it?’
‘Not now.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Possibly, just possibly.’
Rennie was the sort of woman who knew what she wanted and what she was prepared to give. We were comfortable together in the morning—both feeling better about the world and ourselves.
‘Where’s the breakfast?’ she asked. ‘The soggy toast and the cold coffee?’
‘I don’t eat breakfast.’
‘Oh Christ, an ascetic.’
I pointed to the miniature scotches and the empty champagne bottle. ‘Hardly.’
She had a quick shower and got dressed. ‘Well, that was fun, Cliff, and I’m going to get Claude to call in on you. He might know why James O’Day took off like that and why they heavied you—tried to, at least. Are you trouble for him, the singer?’
‘Not at all. Would you believe I just want some information about his auntie.’
She laughed. ‘Big case.’ She blew me a kiss and was gone.
I showered and dressed, tidied the room a bit, put the condoms and the bottles in the rubbish bin. The day had dawned fine but cool and I could smell the sea as I stood outside the room with a cup of instant coffee. A Holden ute, about the same vintage as my Falcon, pulled in to the slot beside it. The man who got out looked bigger and darker in the daylight than in the pub gloom. He wore jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt that revealed his muscles and tats. There were rings in both his ears—not a good idea if you’re serious about fighting people who know how to fight.
‘You’d be Claude,’ I said. ‘Gidday, my name’s Cliff.’
He didn’t offer to shake hands, but he didn’t try to kick me. ‘Rennie says you’re okay.’
I nodded.
‘You freaked Jimmy a bit last night.’
‘Didn’t mean to. Come inside. Want some coffee?’
He smiled. ‘You’re a private eye, on expenses, right? How about a beer from your mini-bar?’
We sat at the table in the room, me with my instant and him with a Crown Lager. He drank half of it in a gulp. ‘Hits the spot. Rennie mentioned money, too, and she says you’re not after James for nothing dodgy. How much money, bro?’
‘Depends—on a scale from a hundred to two hundred depending on the information.’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Got a better offer right now, Claude? Look, I’ve got no grief for Jimmy. I saw him fight when that was his name.’
He drank some more beer and looked less hostile. ‘Yeah? He was good, wasn’t he? I was too young to see him.’
‘Pretty good and he quit when he was ahead. He’s in a better business now. Might hurt his ears, but it won’t scramble his brains.’
‘Right. That’s why martial arts is better, I reckon, ’cept there’s no money in it.’
‘Which brings us back to where we were. Why did Jimmy sic you guys onto me and take off like that? What’s he worried about? Tell me that and I’ll pay you something, tell me how to get to talk to him and I’ll up the ante.’
‘Tell me what you’re on about first. Then I’ll think about it.’
I made myself another cup of coffee, got him another beer and told him, without mentioning names or sums of money. When I finished he rolled the bottle in his hands as an aid to thought and decision-making.
‘That was a pretty neat move you made on me in the pub.’
I shrugged. ‘I always think one foot off the ground leaves you vulnerable.’
‘If the other guy’s quick enough. I was a bit pissed, a bit slow.’
I nodded. It was probably true. He was circling; I played along. ‘How d’you come to know Jimmy anyway? Are you related?’
He laughed. ‘You think I’m an Abo? I’m Maltese, mate. I played in the band for a while, wasn’t good enough when they got on to the bigger gigs and recording and that. No hard feelings. I do a bit of work for them now and then. I’m good at the electrics. Okay, well Jimmy had this manager who ripped him off every which way. The guy’s a crook, but he’s still trying to get a share now that they’re getting bigger. I reckon when you said you were a private detective Jimmy thought you were on his case. That’s why he gave Chicka and me the sign.’
I took two fifties from my wallet and handed them over. ‘That again if you tell me how to reach him. But you contact him first and tell him I’m not any sort of threat.’
‘If you’ve lied to me, I’ll fuckin’…’
I gave him the money. ‘I’m sure you would, but it’s not like that and you know it.’
‘He hangs out in Newtown, him, a couple of the guys, and Jimmy’s wife.’
He gave me the address and I tossed across my mobile phone. ‘Give him a ring.’
He shook his head. ‘Too early, man, they wouldn’t have got back till late and probably had a bit of a blast, you know. Good gig, sold some records.’
Claude gave me the phone number off the top of his head and said he’d ring at around midday. He advised me to call mid-afternoon when they’d be ‘mellow’.
They say that terminally ill people can get a surge from good news. I rang the hospital and left a message for Kev that I was making progress.
I took my time on the drive back to Sydney and it was almost midday when I reached Newtown. I had a quick drink in the Marlborough and then threaded my way through the narrow streets to the address Claude had given me. It was a two-storey terrace on a corner, two blocks from King Street and a block away from the Memorial Park. Biggish place, room for quite a few people. There looked to be a small courtyard out the back with a vine of some sort growing wild. The narrow front porch was mostly taken up by the wheelie bin and the two recycling bins, but there was space for a couple of pot plants that looked as though they got a certain amount of tending. No broken-down sofas, Jack Daniels bottles, defunct TV sets. Rock groups had cleaned up their act.
I parked fifty metres away and used the mobile. I got an answering machine telling me the names of the residents and asking me to leave a message. My response was interrupted.
‘This is James O’Day. Claude phoned me about you. Where are you?’
‘Outside.’
‘Stay there. I’ll come out and we can go for a walk.’
I met him in the middle of the street. Newtown people walk on the street because the footpaths are narrow and often blocked by overhangs from front gardens and the trees planted in the gentrification era. He still looked like a middleweight— medium tall, sloping shoulders, narrow waist. He wore jeans and a flannie, denim jacket with a sheepskin collar. He held out a hand, not to shake, a gesture of apology.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘You should be. You cost my client two hundred bucks.’
He smiled as we walked down the street towards the park. ‘That what you paid Claude? Good for him. You said you saw me fight. Was that just a line?’
We reached the park and began walking down a path beside a wall covered in graffiti, some of it not too talent-less. ‘No, I saw you a couple of times when you won. I didn’t see the one you lost.’
He took his hands from the pockets of his jacket and touched the scar tissue. ‘I got cut. Best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Made me quit before my brains got mushed. You’ve done a bit yourself, eh?’
‘Amateur only, before headguards came in. I did enjoy the show and I did buy the record. Bought the first one, too, when I was trying to get a line on you.’
‘Wow, that could put fifty cents or more in my pocket. Okay, now we’re here let’s get to it. Claude said you’re looking for someone in my family. He was a bit vague, the way you were, I suppose.’
This was
evidently a familiar walk to him and he was setting a cracking pace. He swerved off onto another path and I had to trot to catch him.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve mapped out this kilometre track and I do five or six circuits when I’ve got the time.’
‘Terrific. I do something the same around Jubilee Park in Glebe, but right now I’d rather talk than trot.’
‘Fair enough.’
We cut across the grass where some kids were kicking a soccer ball around, past a group that looked to be in some kind of therapy session, to a bench in the sun. Just to appear professional, I took out my notebook and leafed through it.
‘About ten years ago, you paid a corner store bill for a woman named Marie O’Day in Leichhardt. The shopkeeper said you looked like a fighter. I got onto an old-timer at Trueman’s who knew you’d gone into what he called the music business. Tracking you down wasn’t that hard after that but then …’
He smiled again, the smile he’d given to the photographers in his fighting days and on the stage in his new incarnation. ‘We ran into a spot of bother. Okay, I’m impressed with your investigative skills. Did you find out that after boxing I went to TAFE to get an education and worked on my piano playing until I was game to perform in public?’
‘No.’
‘You just thought I segued from middleweight champ to rock star?’
I was getting sick of this. ‘Look, Jimmy,’ I said, ‘I don’t give a fuck about your brilliant career. I’ve got a client who needs to make contact with Marie O’Day and any kids she might have—to her and their advantage.’
He wasn’t used to being talked to like that and his first reaction was antagonistic. He swivelled on the bench and his handsome face took on the sort of look boxers wear when they touch hands before the fight. I didn’t react—not what he expected. He struggled for control.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I deal with too many arseholes.’
‘And too many people who’re scared of you.’
‘I suppose. You’ve got it right. Marie’s my cousin. She was leaving Leichhardt and she was short of money so I paid her bill. Wasn’t much.’
‘You ever heard of Kev Roseberry?’
‘Might’ve, not sure.’
‘He’s the bloke Marie took up with and had the child by. He trained some bloke you fought and that’s how they met.’
‘I don’t remember him. When I was fighting all I thought about was fighting. Full stop.’
‘Marie didn’t tell you who the father of the child was, and you didn’t ask?’
He shook his head. He’d relaxed by now and was half turned away, watching the people in the park. His voice was full of irony, sarcasm, anger. ‘You know what Abo women are like, fuck anyone.’
‘That’s a bloody stupid thing to say and you know it.’
He sagged against the backrest and all the aggression was gone. ‘They call me an Uncle Tom, you know, some of the people, because I don’t make a thing about being Aboriginal.’
‘That’s understandable, sounds as if you’ve got a problem with all that. I’m sure you’re not alone, but I’m not your psychiatrist. Roseberry’s dying of cancer. He’s got some money to leave and he wants to know about Marie and about her kid, Siobhan, if there’s any grandchildren and if they need help. No, make that if Marie’d accept it. She told Kev years back that she didn’t want to know him.’
‘How did he treat her?’
‘With neglect.’
‘Got a guilty conscience now, has he? Is he some kind of religious freak?’
I sighed. ‘I’m getting tired of talking to you, Jimmy. Can you tell me anything about Marie and Siobhan or not? Yes or no. Yes, and I’ll be grateful, no, and you can fuck off and I’ll tackle it some other way.’
‘You’re a hard bastard, aren’t you?’
‘Sometimes not, sometimes I have to be.’
‘What’s in it for you?’
I got up and started to walk back towards the path. A soccer ball came skidding towards me and I kicked it back as hard as I could. The kid closest to me shouted when it went past him.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
I got to the path and kept walking. I heard footsteps behind me. O’Day tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Come back to the house. I’ll help you find Marie, but it’s tricky.’
O’Day took me through the house to a back room he’d set up as an office-cum-recording studio. There were guitars lying around, a drum kit, a couple of keyboards and electronic equipment I couldn’t identify. He rolled and lit a joint which he offered me. I refused.
‘Got a beer?’
‘Juicehead.’
He fetched a can and we sat facing each other over a tangle of cables.
‘Marie’s had a lot of trouble in her life,’ he said. ‘Grog, blokes, illness. She went hyper-political and got into demonstrations, sit-ins, protests. She got bashed by the police and hurt pretty badly. She’s on a disability pension and just getting by. I help her out from time to time, but she’s proud and doesn’t like it. I do it through a third party. Also, she reckons I’ve sold out to whitey.’
‘What about Siobhan?’
From just puffing, he now drew deeply on the joint, sucked the smoke in and held it down. Then he did it again. He seemed to need the comfort of it, or perhaps something else. I took a sip of beer and waited.
‘She’s with Marie. She’s got a kid. They’re doing it tough.’
‘Where are they?’
‘She won’t accept charity from—’
‘Whitey, okay. This isn’t charity, Jimmy—it’s long overdue support money from a decent man trying to make amends.’
‘Marie doesn’t admit there’s any decent white people.’
‘And that’s as stupid a thing as what you said before.’
‘I know. Okay, I’ll tell you where they are and you can try your luck.’
‘You won’t come with me?’
He sucked hard on the joint again and shook his head.
‘Why not?’
He’d smoked the joint almost down to the end but he wasn’t done. He drew on it again until it must have singed his fingertips. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
He let the roach fall to the floor, got up, went to one of the keyboards, hit some switches and began to play. Straight blues riffs. He was stoned. He kept playing, seemingly in a trance. I looked around the room and saw a desk with a computer and printer wired up to other equipment. I opened a drawer in the desk and found a contact book. There was an entry for ‘Marie O’ with an address in Marrickville but no telephone number. I copied down the address and left him to do whatever he thought he was doing, wherever he thought he was.
My mobile rang as soon as I started the car. It was a nurse at the hospital where Kev was being treated. She said that Mr Roseberry’s condition had deteriorated and that he wanted to see me urgently. He’d asked the medical staff to hold off on palliative medication until my visit.
‘It’s that bad?’ I said.
‘I’m afraid so.’
I drove to the hospital and was ushered into Kev’s room. A man I didn’t know was there with Kev’s doctor, who I had met, and a nurse. Kev was propped up in the bed and the life seemed to be leaking out of him. His voice was a croak.
‘Sorry to rush you, mate. Is she alive, Marie?’
‘Yes, Kev.’
‘And the kid?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s all I needed. You’ll do the right thing, I know. Okay, let’s get this bloody thing signed. This is Ed Stewart, Cliff. He’s a solicitor and pretty honest for a lawyer. That’s a joke, Ed.’
Stewart smiled dutifully and produced a document which he, Kev and the nurse signed. The effort seemed to drain Kev to the dregs. He held out a hand and I shook it, gently. ‘Ed’ll explain it to you, mate. I knew I could count on you and …’
A spasm shook him and robbed him of the power of speech. He nodded at the doctor and closed his eyes. Th
e nurse shepherded Stewart and me out of the room. We stood in silence outside the door for a second before walking away.
‘I hope I’m up to making a joke as I go out,’ Stewart said.
‘Me, too.’
We went into a waiting room and Stewart showed me the paper. ‘This is Kevin’s last will and testament, revoking all others, while of sound mind, blah, blah. He had me draw it up this morning. It leaves his estate to be divided equally between Marie O’Day and her daughter Siobhan. And there’s provision for any issue Siobhan might have. You are named as the executor.’
‘What if I hadn’t been able to confirm that they were around?’
‘He seemed to have every confidence that you would.’
Kevin Roseberry died that night. As executor I was responsible for his funeral arrangements. I made them and tossed up whether to contact Marie and invite her along. I decided not. Dealing with her was going to be tricky enough without it happening in an emotion-charged atmosphere. Kev was cremated; I said a few words, so did some of the denizens of the pubs he’d frequented. We had a bit of a wake at the Toxteth Hotel and that was that.
Stewart, the solicitor, said he’d put Kev’s estate through the probate process and then it’d be up to me to arrange the distribution of the assets. No point in putting it off any longer. I drove to Marrickville, located the flat in a small block sitting in a sea of concrete, no balconies, and wearing an air of defeat. I knocked and the woman who answered was recognisable as Marie of the photograph, but only just. She was rail-thin and haggard; her dark, wiry hair had a wide white streak in it of a kind I’d seen before. Not a cosmetic touch—the effect of hair growing back on the site of a serious wound.
‘Yeah?’ she said, packing as much hostility as it was possible to get into the word.