Black Tide

by Peter Temple

  There was a moment of indecision, then Norm said, ‘Give us the fixtures there, Stan. Let’s have a squiz at the order in which we meet the mongrels.’

  Stan went off to his office and came back with half a dozen fixture cards. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Saints. Well, well. This mean I can sell the photos?’

  All eyes nailed him, slitty eyes, pitbull eyes.

  ‘No? That’s no, is it? It’s no.’

  ‘So,’ said Eric, studying his card. ‘It’s the handbags from Geelong. That’s full marks.’

  In the office, the phone rang. Stan went in, came to the door, pointed at me.

  With considerable trepidation, I entered the undusted, uncatalogued and unclassified museum to fifty years of pub mismanagement. Only a limited number of people called me here. I wanted it to be Linda and I didn’t.

  ‘Jack, it’s me.’

  Linda. No leap of the heart. Nothing good was coming of this. You always know.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘the weekend isn’t going to happen, everything’s in fucking freefall here. I have to be in Queensland tomorrow, this pollie Webb who’s resigned, his wife could just possibly be persuaded to go on camera: “My reluctant threesomes with hubby and Brisbane hookers.’’’

  She was speaking at twice her normal speed.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Devote yourself to it. Stories like that, it’s not an occupation, it’s a calling.’

  Silence. ‘Jack. I don’t have any choice about these things.’

  ‘I understand. I’ll just say goodbye then. We’re pretty much falling freely around here too. Floor looming up.’

  I put the receiver down, regretted it instantly, waited for her to call again, waited, waited, dialled the studio, gave the producer’s extension. A polite woman answered. Everyone was gone for the day.

  Home to the old stable, no prospects but frozen food and uneasy sleep. I sat in an armchair with a glass of leftover red and thought about Linda.

  I dialled the silent number. The answering service said: ‘Please leave a message. If you wish the number holder to be alerted by pager, please say that the message is urgent.’

  I said, ‘The message is: The chairs in my parlour seem empty and bare. Jack.’

  ‘Urgent?’

  ‘No.’

  In bed, I tried reading a novel called The Mountain from Afar brought by Linda on her last visit. Very soon, I could tell a) that it was about men and their fathers, and b) that I was at long odds to finish it.

  Men and their fathers.

  Had Linda been trying to tell me something by leaving this book? Was there something I should be aware of? Why was I spending time on Gary Connors? There was nothing at all in it for me. Did I identify Des with my father? Of course I did. His father had seen my father and mother meet, lust across the class barriers.

  I didn’t see Des as a father-substitute. I saw him as a decent old bloke who was going to be turfed out of his house because, against all the evidence of his experience and in a weak moment, he had trusted his son. Someone had to give him a hand.

  Where to start? Wootton’s inquiries might take me straight to Gary’s door. It was strange how many people of reasonable intelligence kept using their credit cards while going to great lengths to conceal their whereabouts.

  But Gary was an ex-cop. Ex-cops wouldn’t be that stupid. Still, he was stupid enough to be forced to become an ex-cop.

  There was hope.

  9

  Wootton didn’t sound like a man who’d spent the night in a luxurious hotel engaged in a deeply satisfying pas de deux with the compelling Sylvia Marlowe and then breakfasted on eggs Romanoff. He sounded like a man who’d spent the night at home in the spare room and then breakfasted on burnt porridge.

  ‘This favour,’ he said. ‘Person was travelling in Europe. Hotels, etcetera. Came back, paid for airport parking on April 2. Three local things on April 3. Ordinary. That’s it.’

  ‘Nothing since then?’

  ‘I said, that’s it. Can I be clearer? Is that an ambivalent expression? If that wasn’t it, I would have carried on conveying my findings to you. Wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Of course, Cyril. Silly reflex question. By the way, look up the word ambiguous. You’ll find it somewhere before expedient. And expeditious.’

  I rang Des Connors. ‘Des, Jack Irish. The day you gave Gary the cheque. When was that?’

  ‘Get me chequebook. Hold on.’

  Outside, a high-top truck was beeping as it backed up to the goods entrance of the former sweatshop across the street. I missed the women eating and smoking and laughing on the pavement in their breaks.

  ‘There, Jack? Third of April, that’s the day.’

  ‘Right. Des, Gary been married, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Two. He’s had two. First one, Judy, she’s a nice girl, he was lucky there. Sends me a card on me birthday, Christmas, never misses.’

  ‘Know where she lives?’

  ‘Dunno. Know where she works. Little milkbar place in town. Down there behind the museum. Makes sandwiches. I used to pop in there before the bloody hips started actin up.’

  ‘Called what? Know the name?’

  ‘Her name. Judy’s something.’

  ‘She owns it?’

  ‘Done all right for herself after she got shot of him. You thinkin of goin round there?’

  ‘Might. Have a chat.’

  ‘Won’t do much good. Don’t reckon she’s put an eye on the bugger for years. Hadn’t last time I saw her and that’s a while. Give her me love anyhow.’

  ‘What about the second one?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know her if she wore a number. Never saw her. Don’t know her name. Didn’t even know he’d done it again till it was over.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  I looked up Judy’s establishment in the telephone book, walked up to Brunswick Street and caught a tram into the city. As we lumbered into Victoria Parade, the sun came out and people turned their faces towards it like sunflowers.

  I had coffee with the ageing beau monde at Pellegrini’s, bought a book about duelling at Hill of Content. Duelling was not something I’d given much thought to but I liked the cover. Made me think of dealing with my sister: evasion and attack.

  I was also immediately taken with Judy’s Pantry. It was on the fringe of the business district, a short and narrow lunch bar strangely untouched by the rushing currents of food fashion. The people who bought lunch here didn’t want grilled capsicum, didn’t want goat cheese or sun-dried anything. They wanted things like battery chicken, extruded ham, slices of roast beef rich in chemicals, tangy tuna fresh from the can that day, chopped hard-boiled egg. And these things they wanted topped not with Sicilian caper salsa or harissa or Bhutanese sour cucumber relish but with a rip of tunnel-grown iceberg lettuce and two slices of cold-storage tomato recently ripened by the application of gas. And Judy’s customers didn’t care to have their fillings wrapped in focaccia, ciabatta, bruschetta or Peruvian machaya flatbread. They wanted it slapped on soft, milk-white bread, the bread of their childhood, bread with the texture of Kleenex.

  No rush yet. A woman was leaving as I came in, another woman was being served at the counter. The four pine tables down the righthand wall were unoccupied. It was just after 10 a.m. and the bain-marie was loaded, a good sign in a lunchtime food business. Good for the business, not the customers.

  Three people were at work behind the glass display counter. A woman in her sixties, long sorrowful Balkan face, was dismantling a greyish cooked chicken. A young man was assembling salad rolls, and a woman, late thirties, early forties, short bleached hair, attractive in a hard-bitten way, was serving the sole customer, putting a sandwich into a paper bag. ‘Don’t you get tired of eating the same sandwich every day?’ she asked.

  ‘Nah,’ said the customer. ‘Love it. Have it three times a day if I could.’

  When he’d gone, I said, ‘Is Judy around?’

  The woman gave me the pained look that greets salesm
en everywhere. ‘I’m Judy.’

  ‘Jack Irish. I’m a lawyer acting on behalf of Des Connors.’

  The pained look went. ‘How is he? He’s all right?’

  ‘He’s fine. Bit creaky in the hips, otherwise fine. This is about Gary.’

  Judy sighed, sagged her shoulders. ‘Beats me how a lovely bloke like Des fathered a prick like Gary. What’s he done?’

  ‘Got a moment? Could we sit down?’

  ‘Sure. Have a seat at the back table. Things don’t get lively till eleven or so.’ Peeling off her latex kitchen gloves, she said to the young man, ‘Andy, see to customers, will you?’

  Judy went into a back room, came out a moment later without her neck-high pink apron. She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and wearing them well. ‘Nice to have an excuse to sit down,’ she said. ‘Tell me the sad tale.’

  ‘Des lent Gary money.’

  She closed her eyes for a second or two, shaking her head. ‘Usually it’s the mums won’t give up hope,’ she said. ‘Dream is they’ll wake up one day and their little bastard’s turned into an angel. Not much money, I hope.’

  ‘Much. Left to Des by his sister.’

  ‘Well,’ Judy said, ‘that’s money past tense.’

  ‘Des asked me to have a word with Gary but he hasn’t been at home for a while.’

  ‘Home? Gary? Home? That’s a joke. Last place you’d look for Gary. Try whorehouses. Topless bars. Table-dancing clubs. He’ll be somewhere near women. Certain kinds of women.’

  ‘Was he still a cop when you met him?’

  She nodded. ‘Used to come in here. Lots of cops from Russell Street used to come in. Boy, did I think he was a spunk. And the manners. Oh, the manners. The shy way. The cap under the arm. Did he stand out from the rest of the animals? Like a cathedral choirboy in Pentridge. Mrs Kodja-that’s her behind the counter, she owned this place then-she used to say, “That boy, that Gary, take twenty years away from me, I tie him to my bed with a rope.’’’

  A couple came in. Judy heard the door, turned her head, waved at them, watched to see that they were being served, said without looking at me, ‘What Mrs K didn’t know was that Gary would have jumped at the chance to tie her to his bed with a rope. Never mind taking twenty years away. Add twenty, he’d be keen.’

  ‘Did he leave the force while you were married?’

  ‘I came home one day-we were living in Richmond, tiny flat-about six plainclothes cops searching the place. Gary’s standing there, in the lounge, holding his cap, winks at me. Anyway, they go, Gary says it’s nothing, some scumbag he’s booked was out for revenge. Tells the cops Gary took stuff-TV, VCR, things like that-from his house.’

  She sniffed. ‘I actually believed that garbage. I also believed him, still can’t get my head around this, I believed him, it was two days after, he comes around here, and he says, that look on his face, he says, “I’ve had enough, the force is totally corrupt, won’t be a part of it, I’ve resigned.’’ I thought he was a hero. Serpico. You ever see that film Serpico? About the honest cop?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The prick is Serpico in reverse.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘That’s what the other cops say. After I kicked Gary out all these lovely cops from Russell Street pop around the flat, concerned for my welfare, you understand, not trying to get into my pants, just checking that everything’s all right. Basically looking for an easy screw. According to these heroes Gary was consorting with some very bad people, should have been busted much earlier, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Don’t know the details?’

  ‘Never asked. Didn’t care.’

  ‘How long was it from the time he left the force to when you broke up?’

  ‘About a year: 1984.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear the stories till then. So you broke up for other reasons.’

  She leaned back in her chair, put her chin up. ‘You could say. Yes, other reasons. I’d put up with being bashed about. Don’t know why. Reason two, he was rooting my little sister. How did I find out? She told me. Why did she do that? Reason three. She was really, really upset. She’d walked in on him rooting my mother.’

  I nodded. The practice of the law teaches you that some things require no comment.

  ‘What sort of work did he do after the force?’

  ‘Worked for a transport company. Security. What else can ex-cops do? It’s that or deal drugs, armed robbery.’

  ‘Remember the name of the company?’

  ‘TransQuik. They were much smaller then.’

  Every time you turned a corner you seemed to be behind a TransQuik truck.

  ‘Know how long that lasted?’

  ‘Still there when I put his case out with the rubbish.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that gives me a bit of a feeling for Gary.’

  Judy smiled the smile of resignation. ‘Wish I’d developed a bit of a feeling for the shit before I married him. As a matter of interest, where does he live now?’

  ‘Toorak. Very smart apartment. Drives an Audi.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘And I’m still in Richmond with a clapped-out Corolla. Hope you find the bastard. Don’t suppose there’s any chance he could go to jail for this?’

  ‘No. You wouldn’t know anything about the second wife, would you?’

  Two more customers came in. ‘Would indeed. Got to get to work,’ said Judy, getting up. ‘Friend of mine goes to this hairdresser in Little Collins Street, UpperCut it’s called, these two Poms run it, trained by Vidal Sassoon, all that crap. Well, one day the one Pom says Chrissy, his best girl, the bitch, is getting married. To the most divine man, he says. Gary Connors, that’s his name. What’s he look like? It’s Gary.’

  I said, ‘Chrissy. When would that have been?’

  She puffed her cheeks, exhaled. ‘About ’85. Around there. She’s a Housing Commission girl, apparently, Chrissy. Broadmeadows. Not that that matters.’

  ‘You’ve been a big help, Judy. Thanks.’

  She touched my arm. ‘Give my love to Des. Tell him to come in any day he feels like lunch. Cab’s on me.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. Make his day.’

  Outside, the sun was gone and a cold, insistent wind was running through the town. I walked to Collins Street, chin tucked in, thinking about Gary. If he could defraud his father, he probably made a habit of taking people’s money. The other victims might be less passive than Des. Gary could well be on the run. That probably meant Des’s money was history, but there would be no knowing until Gary was found. I didn’t fancy my chances.

  At the office, I found the shopping dockets I’d taken from Gary’s kitchen. The most recent one was from a bottle shop in Prahran. On April 3, Gary bought a case of beer and six bottles of wine and paid an employee called Rick $368.60.

  Customers form relationships with their suppliers. Suppliers very much want to form relationships with customers who pay $368.60 for a slab of beer and six bottles of wine.

  A place to start.

  10

  Gary Connors’ source of liquor was near the Prahran Market and more wine merchant than grog shop. From behind the cash register, a slick young man smiled at me: white shirt, blue tie, long dark-green apron. I showed a card.

  ‘Mr Connors. Got two Connors. One’s really old.’

  I said, ‘He was in here on the third of April, bought six bottles of Petaluma chardonnay and a slab of Heineken.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘No. I represent his father. Mr Connors junior seems to be missing.’

  He took this seriously, frowned. ‘Rick reckons a bloke was after Mr Connors that day.’

  ‘Rick?’

  ‘Works here. He’s in the back.’ He went to the back of the shop, opened a door and shouted the name, came back. A tall youth appeared in the doorway: teenage skin, cropped hair, wearing the green apron over a white T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘Rick, Mr Connors, the one you deliver to in Toorak?’

  ‘Y
eah.’

  ‘About the bloke following him.’

  The youth took a few paces, stopped, sniffed, wiped his nose with a thumb. He had intelligence in his eyes. ‘I was at Ronni’s. On the corner. Saw Mr Connors get out of his car in the carpark.’

  ‘Remember the car?’

  ‘Yeah. Green Audi. Carried lots of stuff to it before. Anyway, he crossed the road, walked down this way and came in here. Then a bloke parks, blue Commodore, illegal park, on the lines, that’s why I noticed. It’s a joke around here-bout a million tickets a year in that spot. He jumps out, then he walks casual, like he’s just window-shoppin, round the corner. And he stops across the road.’

  Rick pointed to the other side of the street. ‘See the bookshop there? He looks in the window, looks over his shoulder. Then he goes inside, I can see him lookin out the window. And he stays there till Mr Connors comes out of the shop with Sticks.’

  ‘Sticks?’

  ‘Other bloke works here. He carried the stuff to the car. When they get down by the corner, the bloke in the bookshop, he comes out and he’s up the street, movin quick, not window-shoppin now. Not quick enough, the cop’s just puttin the ticket under the wiper. He gets in, doesn’t even take the ticket off. When Mr Connors comes out of the carpark, he hangs a U-turn and he’s off after him.’

  ‘What’d he look like?’

  ‘Sort of medium. Like a businessman. Suit. Dark hair, not long. Little limp.’

  ‘Limp?’

  ‘Yeah. Not much. Like a sore knee, sort of.’

  I found a ten-dollar note. ‘Thanks, Rick. I’m being paid, so should you.’

  He looked at the boss, took the note, nodded, left.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ I said to the man behind the counter.

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘By the way, Mr Connors ever talk to any other customers? You get to know people at your bottle shop, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure do. Haven’t seen Mr Connors’ mate for a while either.’

  ‘What mate’s that?’

  ‘Mr Jellicoe. Chat down the back there, where the fine wines are.’

  ‘Regularly?’

  ‘Every now and again, yeah. Two, three weeks. Mr Connors comes in when Mr Jellicoe isn’t here. But if Mr Jellicoe comes in, you know Mr Connors will be here soon.’