by Peter Corris
‘You wouldn’t get out of the car park.’
He lifted his head, groaned and let it fall back. His voice was weaker. ‘Hardy, if you ring my wife she’ll have a doctor waiting for us at home. If he says so, I’ll go to hospital; but I don’t want to if I don’t have to. This is political.’
The last word was spoken so softly I had to bend down to hear it.
‘This bashing, it’s political?’
‘Yes’, he whispered.
It sounded like everything I usually like to avoid. But he meant what he said enough to take a risk and incur some pain saying it. That was worth something, also I admired his taste in novels.
‘I’ll bring my car around, it’s bigger. Take it easy.’ I jogged back to the road and drove around behind the lecture halls to the car park. Dempsey clenched his teeth as I lifted him into the back seat but he didn’t make a sound. Moving him I noticed more blood, down one side of his chest and on his back. I got him more or less stretched out with something soft under his head. He closed his eyes and I lifted the unbloodied lid with a finger; it looked all right.
‘Bag’, he said.
I got his case from the VW and took the keys out of the lock. There was a crook-lock lying on the floor and I put it on and secured it, then I locked the car. I looked back at him before starting; he opened his eyes and tried to give me a wink. I thought about the strong Scotch I’d left on Rosemary Dempsey’s table, and hoped it would still be there. I drove out of the quiet campus and through the almost empty streets as smoothly as you can in a fifteen-year-old Falcon.
Dempsey’s house was unnaturally bright, the way houses are when there’s a crisis on. Rosemary Dempsey had a neighbour, a woman as well-turned-out as herself, with her and they were drinking coffee and smoking when I walked in. When I got into the light I saw that some of Dempsey’s blood had got on my shirt. Rosemary went white when she saw me.
‘Oh, Christ.’ She jumped up and knocked her coffee over, the dark liquid soaked the cloth and dripped on the floor. ‘What happened? Where is he?’
‘Calm down’, I said. ‘He’s in the car and he’s alive.’
We got him into the house and on to a divan on the sun porch. The neighbour turned out to be a nurse and she got busy cleaning Dempsey up and checking him over. He was conscious, but in a lot of pain and not making much sense.
‘He said there was a doctor you could contact’, I said.
Rosemary looked at the other woman. ‘Zelda?’
‘The cut needs stitching’, Zelda said.
‘I’ll call Archie.’ She went out quickly and I followed her through to the sitting room. My Scotch was sitting where I’d left it and I took a good slug of it. Rosemary was holding the phone, waiting for an answer; she pointed to the Scotch bottle on the coffee table and gave me a full candlepower smile. She was a very attractive woman in a slightly sculptured way. I re-made the drink and went back to the sun porch. Dempsey’s colour wasn’t too bad, and Zelda was holding his head up to a glass of water.
‘Who’s Archie?’ I said.
She grinned at me. ‘Archie Pappas,’ she said.
‘He’s the local communist doctor. You knew the Dempseys were commos, of course?’
The wood under my feet was polished pine, the whisky in my glass was Black Label. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘Sure’, she said. ‘Raving reds.’
The doctor arrived just as I was finishing the drink. He was dark and squat with a spread waist. He butted a cigarette and bustled across to the divan. After looking at the cut which was clean now and gaping open, he got a medical torch out of his bag and looked into Dempsey’s eyes.
‘He’s bleeding from his side and at the back, doctor’, I said.
‘Who’s he?’ Pappas grunted.
Rosemary glanced at me blankly as if she didn’t know the answer, then she remembered-I was the one who’d brought her husband home and stopped her tearing her hair out. ‘This is Mr Hardy’, she said. ‘He’s a sociologist.’
Pappas kept on doctoring. ‘Oh, really, what’s your field, Mr Hardy?’
‘Criminology’, I said.
Zelda gave an amused snort but the doctor didn’t seem to notice; he prepared a syringe and I got the idea that I wasn’t going to get much information out of Dempsey that night. The needle went in and the doctor cleaned up. ‘He’ll be okay’, he said. ‘I’ve stitched the cut on his head and put a dressing on the ribs. There’s no fracture; concussion, but not too bad.’
‘No hospital’, I said.
He glanced at Rosemary. ‘No, not necessary.’
I stood aside and let Rosemary escort him out. He gave me a nod and went quickly, I heard Rosemary say something to him near the door but not loudly enough to catch it.
Zelda came over and stood closer to me than she needed to. I didn’t mind, she was tall and slim and she had nice eyes. She looked as if she’d have a sense of humour.
‘Funny doctor’, I said. ‘A criminal assault and no questions asked. Are politics really so hot around here?’
‘Sometimes’, she said. ‘Bill Dempsey’s in the middle of something very hot just now. I thought that was why you’re here.’
‘No,’
‘Well, I’m curious; why are you here, Mr Hardy?’
‘Cliff. I’m sorry I can’t tell you, a family matter.’
‘You tell me and I’ll tell you why Bill got bashed.’
‘Sorry, perhaps Mrs Dempsey…’
‘Mrs Dempsey what?’ Rosemary came back into the room and leaned against the door. She looked drawn and tired and her hair definitely needed a comb.
‘I’m prying, Rosemary. I want to know all about this mystery man. Tell him to talk to me.’
‘This is Zelda Robson, Mr Hardy’, Rosemary said wearily. ‘She’s my best friend and you can talk to her. She’ll tell me everything you say anyway. I’m sorry, I don’t think we can do much about your enquiry tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.’
‘Right. I’ll check with you. Just quickly, I take it you don’t know anything about your husband’s brother?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Okay, thank you.’
‘Don’t think me rude, please. I’m washed out, but thank you very much for what you’ve done.’
‘Come on, Cliff.’ Zelda had me by the arm and moved me across to the back door. Rosemary watched us go with an expression that was hard to interpret-it might have been approving, or maybe she’d just seen the film before.
We went across some grass, a paved courtyard and through a gate in a brushwood fence. Zelda’s house seemed to be a slightly smaller version of the Dempsey’s; it boasted a lot of timber and glass and was straining a bit too hard to be natural. She held on to my arm while she gathered up a bottle of Scotch and some ice cubes in the kitchen, and ushered me through to her living room. It was carpeted, with a sofa and a couple of big chairs; these were covered with skins and furs and you could have copulated in comfort almost anywhere in the room. She made us big drinks and we sat down opposite each other, about four ion-charged feet apart.
‘Well.’ Her voice was deep, almost mannish and the bones of her face and jaw cried out for fingers to run along them.
‘Cheers.’ I took a long sip of the Scotch.
She laughed. ‘I think this is called fencing.’ She tucked one bare foot up under her; she was wearing tight black slacks and a white silk blouse. ‘Bill’s trying to save a mine and a railway line and stop a road.’
‘That sounds like fun. Who’s he up against?’
‘Do you know anything about the mines in this neck of the woods, Cliff?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘They’re basic to the character of the place. Miners are terrific people. There’s a strong democratic spirit around here, the miners keep it alive and they’ve stopped this part of the world becoming a great big MacDonaldland. You know what I mean?’
‘Yeah, I noticed some of the towns coming down; they still look like people might live in
them. There must be big money trying to change all that, though.’
‘That’s what the Dempseys are fighting. There’s a mine in behind here, about thirty miles in. It s small but it pays its way and the coal comes out by rail. There’s pressure on to build a road and move the coal that way.’
‘Pressure from who?’
She held up her hand and ticked off on fingers. ‘The truckies want it, people who’ll be paid for the land want it, and believe me, some of them only bought the land yesterday. The big mines want it so they can argue that all the coal here travels by road and they need a subsidy.’
‘What about the unions?’
‘Some for and some against.’
‘Charming, and Dempsey’s leading the fight?’
‘Right. He’s held public meetings, organised petitions, written to everyone who can read. He’s writing a book on the politics and economics of it, hot stuff.’
‘Shouldn’t he be teaching at the university?’
She gave a short, barking laugh. ‘He works it into his lectures, he sets essays on it. He’s had students interviewing truck drivers and mine management.’
‘That’d make him popular. It’s one of this crew that bashed him tonight?’
‘Bound to be.’
‘Where does the Communist Party fit in?’
She leaned forward to pick up her glass; I could see down inside her blouse, see the line and shape of her breasts. ‘That’s another story’, she said.
‘Now you tell me why you’re here.’
I told her; but I wasn’t far into it before she crossed the gap and we were kissing and she was touching me and I was touching her. We went through to the bedroom and she took her clothes off and my clothes off and there was a good deal of laughing while we got used to each other. It didn’t take long; she lay under me and we moved well together, and we made a very good job of it. After, I held her small, tight breasts in my hands and she held me; she wasn’t shy.
In the morning we did the usual things-drank coffee, hugged and kissed and wondered what would happen next, if anything. I finished telling her about my assignment for the patriarch Dempsey, and I learned that she was divorced, with two children, of whom the father had the custody. She didn’t want to talk about that. I admired her figure and the quick, deft way she did things around the house while I waited to see the Dempseys again. On an impulse, I pulled out a copy of the newspaper clipping and pointed to the man in the crowd scene with his head circled.
‘Know him, Zelda?’
She took a quick, casual look. ‘Sure, who doesn’t?’
‘I don’t. Who is he?’
‘Tommy Gibbons, bad news.’
‘What’s his game?’
‘Don’t know what you’d call him, he’s a sort of bodyguard or protector.’
‘Who does he protect?’
‘Harry Belfrage; he’s a trucker and lots of other things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, security services, he moves money I think and guards buildings, you know.’
‘Yeah. This Gibbons, he used to be a unionist, why’d he change sides?’
She shrugged, it was nice to watch. ‘I don’t know; I don’t follow this sport myself, I just get it from Bill and Ro. What’s the connection? If Gibbons has any tie-up with the lost brother it means he’s a hood.’
I was staring out of the window at her well-kept but unfussy garden; she preferred trees and shrubs to flowers and there were big stones arranged in a circle that looked to be for sitting and drinking on. She snapped her fingers in front of my face.
‘I see there’s a great mind at work. Look, I have to go out soon, Cliff…’
‘Okay, can I ring the Dempseys?’
‘Ring? They’re just over there.’
‘I don’t have time for the chitchat, and I suspect he won’t be up to seeing me.’
She pointed to the phone, turned hard on her heel and went out. I made the call and got Rosemary, who confirmed what I’d thought. Bill was still drowsy and she wasn’t letting anyone near him. I said I’d call later, and hung up. I sat thinking for a minute and then located Belfrage’s business address in the directory. When I went through the house I found that Zelda had left. I wrote a note on a paper napkin telling her where I was staying and saying I’d ring her later, and left it under the Scotch bottle.
I drove back to the motel for a shave and a shower. They saw me come, knew I hadn’t slept there, saw me go, and not one of them batted an eye. As I drove off I remembered the first time I’d stayed, guilt-ridden, at a motel; the car had stalled and the luggage was faked and the manager had looked like he was about to call the cops. Now you couldn’t faze them if you checked in with Les Girls.
The Belfrage Trucking and Security Company was a huge area enclosed by a high cyclone wire fence. About twenty big trucks, Macks, Internationals and others, were parked on a strip of tarmac that looked big enough to handle a Concord. There were workshops and other buildings inside the compound and up near the front gate a long, low structure with a curved roof like a Quonset hut.
It was past ten o’clock on what was going to be a warm day. I sat in my car with a drop of sweat trickling down my neck and admitted to myself that I only had a vague idea of what to do next. To bust in on Gibbons and Belfrage demanding to see birth certificates seemed a sure way to land in the hospital, if not the harbour. I sat and watched, wishing I could smoke so as to convince myself that I was thinking. But I didn’t smoke anymore. Suddenly, I had something to watch: the door to the main building flew open and a dark, stocky man moved almost at a trot across to a Holden ute parked nearby. I was the best part of a hundred yards away, but I could hear his voice raised in anger and tell from his movement that he was not happy. Another man appeared in the doorway-a big, middle-aged character with a pink shirt and a face to match-and he wasn’t happy either. He was yelling and the first man was yelling, and then a bloke in overalls came sprinting on to the scene. He did a bit of yelling too, and some armwaving as he unlocked and swung open the big gate which held a metal plate with Belfrage Trucking and Security printed on it. The dark man gunned the ute and roared out of the gate; he bounced inside the vehicle as he drove over a gutter and passed within twenty feet of me heading towards town. I got a good look at him; he was the man in the photograph, aged a few years, and with his features distorted by ungovernable anger.
I got out of my car and moved quickly towards the gate. The two men were talking across a distance of thirty feet and the gate stayed open. The overalled man started to swing it to as he saw me. I held up my hand.
‘Business with Mr Belfrage’, I said. ‘That him?’
He nodded and let me through. I walked towards Belfrage who stood in the doorway watching me. He looked unhealthy; his grey hair was cropped short around his bullet head and seemingly thousands of veins had broken in his nose and face. He looked as if he was pumped-up and over-heated, ready to burst. I wiped my hand on my trousers and stuck it out in front of me.
‘Mr Belfrage, my name’s Hardy; I might want to lease a truck-quarrying job.’
He ignored my hand and turned back inside as he spoke.
‘Talk to Eddie.’
It followed that Eddie was the man in the overalls. I went over to him as he locked the gate. He was short, almost jockey-sized, with a sharp intelligent face under a red baseball cap. His overalls had BTS in big blue letters on the pocket. Unlike his boss, he shook my hand. I told him my business and he asked me a few questions about where the quarry was and what sort of material it yeilded. I was vague and tried to get him on to trucks about which I knew more than quarries.
I nodded back at the gate as we walked towards the trucks. ‘What was all that about?’
He grinned. ‘Tommy blew his stack. He must’ve fucked something up again.’
I laughed. ‘You have fireworks like that around here often?’
‘Now ‘n then. They had a blue like that a month ago, always settles down. Gibbo’ll get o
n the grog for a day. Now what about a Merc? Big bugger, should do the job.’
We talked trucks and I noted down details about tonnage and fuel and tried to look interested. After a while I eased back, saying I’d be looking around for the best deal. The sun was high now and it was hot. I wiped my hand across my face. ‘I could do with a drink; what’s the best pub around?’
‘We use the Travellers.’ He gave me directions and opened the gate. I asked him to tell Belfrage that I’d probably be in touch; he nodded, but I had a feeling that he didn’t believe me. I turned around once on the way back to my car and saw Eddie going in where the rude Mr Belfrage had gone.
The Travellers Arms was a nice old pub about a mile and a half away. The verandah on the second level was supported by thin wooden piles, ideal for the loungers from the public bar to lean against. It had an iron roof from which the red paint was peeling, and a scarred and battered facade that recalled two world wars and a Depression. There was an ancient horse trough opposite the entrance to the saloon lounge.
Gibbons’ ute was standing outside along with a scattering of other cars. I parked a little way off, unwound the passenger window and put the Smith amp; Wesson. 38 on the seat under a newspaper. There were ten men in the bar, not counting the beer puller. Two sat up at the bar talking, there was a group of five in one corner and Tommy Gibbons sat near a window with two other men. They were drinking schooners of old. I ordered a middy of new, sat down at the bar and pretended interest in my notebook. Gibbons had a long Irish face, and although his hair had retreated on the sides there was still plenty of it. He was wearing a sports shirt and slacks; his arms had been developed by work and his body looked firm. One of his mates was a skinny, ginger-haired character wearing a tattered tracksuit top and jeans, the other looked like a retired Rugby League forward; he was massive in the shoulders and upper chest, but a roll of beer fat around the middle made his torso cylindrical. They finished their schooners and Ginger came across to the bar for his shout. The heavy man leaned forward to hear what Gibbons was saying, and then made a muscle-bound flexing movement of his shoulders. ‘Well, why didn’t ya?’ he said.