Make Me Rich

by Peter Corris

  “I’d like to talk to you, Mr Hardy. Excuse us, Helen.”

  I didn’t want her to excuse us, but Guthrie was one of those experienced social movers who knew how to get his way without giving offence. I gave Helen Broadway my best we-haven’t-finished-yet look before Guthrie guided me into a quiet room. There was a table covered with a white cloth which had a nest of bottles on it and some baskets and plates with crispbreads and wafers of smoked salmon and turkey.

  Guthrie poured an inch of Jack Daniels into a glass and added an inch of water.

  “You can have your drink now,” he said. “Party’s nearly over, and I cleared it with Roberta. I want to talk business. You want to sit down?”

  I shook my head; I was leg-weary, but when I sat down I wanted to stay down. I leaned against a wall and took a sip of the bourbon, which tasted wonderful: I made a silent, private toast to Helen Broadway.

  “You handled that rugby clown pretty well,” Guthrie said. He didn’t have a glass or props of any kind; he just stood there in his well-tailored lightweight suit with a soft collar and a quiet tie, and exuded his own brand of charm.

  “He’d handicapped himself.” I held up my glass. “That elbow of his gets him into trouble in more ways than one.”

  He smiled and nodded. Then the smile fell away. “How would you like to earn ten thousand dollars?”

  I took another sip to give myself reaction time and looked down at him; concentrating on him now and not on the woman somewhere in another room. For the first time, I saw the strain in his face. He must have been over sixty, but his slim figure hid the fact. Now, very late at night, he had a greyish tinge and the white stubble on his face etched worn deep lines. He was old, tired, and deadly serious. That’s a combination to make you nervous and send you in the other direction. Worst comes to worst, you can lay a joke over it. I took another sip.

  “Who would I have to kill?”

  “Not for killing, Mr Hardy. For saving someone’s life.”

  2

  Paul Guthrie was exaggerating, of course; people usually do when they want something from you. But his problem was real enough. He was, he told me, sixty-two years old, a businessman with interests in sporting and leisure activities. He owned a couple of marinas in Sydney, leased game fishing boats to the rich, and had controlling shares in a ski lodge and a dude ranch. He used that expression with obvious distaste, which lifted his stocks with me. He’d rowed for Australia in the double sculls at the 1948 London Olympics.

  “Unplaced,” he said.

  “Still, a big kick.”

  “Yeah, it was. A bigger kick was coming home through the States and seeing how they were organising things there. Business, I mean. You never saw anything like it. Marinas sprouting everywhere, airfields; lot of ex-service stuff going into recreational use. That’s where I got the idea for the leisure business. It was slow to take off here, but it has now. I built it up sure and steady.”

  “Well, the Yanks were always long on ideas. You certainly got in early.”

  “Right. Too early, I thought for a while. I worked like a dog at it. Blew a marriage to pieces in the process. I got married again ten years ago. She’s twenty years younger than me, and had two sons from her first marriage. They were about eight and nine at the time. I didn’t have any kids, and I helped to raise those two. I think of them as mine.”

  The value of sentiments like that depends on the speaker. I rated Guthrie pretty high: he wasn’t big-noting himself about his business success, just filling me in. And he’d put it down to work rather than brilliance—always a sign that the person is a realist. Physically, he was impressive too; there was no fat on him and he looked as if he could still pull an oar. But his problem was eating at him, sapping his reserves.

  “The boys are the problem, that right?”

  “One of them, Ray—he’s the oldest, nineteen. Just under nineteen. I haven’t seen for four months.”

  “That’s not so long.”

  “It is for the way it happened. The other boy, Chris, he went up to Brisbane at the beginning of the year. He’s all right—went to university there. They’ve got special studies in race relations—Aborigines, Islanders and all that. That’s what he’s keen on.”

  “What about Ray?”

  He rubbed at his close-cropped grey hair, making it rough and spiky. “We had our difficulties. Started a few years back. We just didn’t get along as well as we once did. No serious stuff; just sulks and no cooperation. A real pain in the arse to have around.”

  “That’s normal enough.”

  “So they tell me. Now, Chris could be hard to handle too but he’d go off and hit the books. Ray’s no scholar. He’s not dumb, mind. Passed the HSC, but he wasn’t interested in going on.”

  I finished the drink and thought about another. I was tired, and still had some clearing up to do at the party. It was a sure bet that there’d be someone asleep somewhere to be woken up and poured into a taxi. Besides, he was reluctant to tell me the trouble and that’s an attitude I’ve come across before. Sometimes it takes three runs before they come out with it and tonight I didn’t have the time. I wanted to let him down gently, though.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Guthrie. It just doesn’t sound so different from a lot …”

  “It gets different,” he said sharply. “We had a bit of a row the day Ray left. He wasn’t under the thumb, you understand. Lived on the boat … I’m sorry, I’m having trouble coming to the point.”

  “You had a row.”

  “Yes. He stormed out. No word since. His mother’s out of her mind. I asked around. Couldn’t find him, and then I heard about the company he’s keeping. Bloke like you would know what I mean. Apparently he’s hanging around with Liam Catchpole, Dottie Williams, and Tiny Spotswood … that lot.”

  Those names changed things a lot. Catchpole, Spotswood and Williams were all crims. Not big-time enough to make their full names a household word—Liam Angus Catchpole or whatever—but consistent, professional wrong-doers. All had convictions, but it was rumoured that Tiny Spotswood had done things much worse then those he’d been convicted for. Bad enough, but there were other reasons to avoid them: I wondered whether Guthrie had the whole picture.

  “Bad crowd,” I said. “Bad example for an impressionable lad.”

  “It’s not the bad example I’m worried about. Those three are police informers.”

  “Right.”

  “And steerers!”

  He meant agents provocateurs, and he was right again. Catchpole survived by steering men into gaol. Dottie did the same with women and she had a sideline as a drugs provider and procurer. I knew Catchpole had had some connection with Glebe in days gone by, but the details eluded me. I knew of no one who trusted him—not the crims he associated with nor the policemen he provided with information. He was almost, but not quite, a pariah. Tiny’s muscle helped to make people civil to him some of the time.

  “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I asked. “Has the boy had police trouble?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “Never. I’d have to say he’s moody and stubborn—but honest as the day. And he’s not lazy—worked like a bastard on the boats. In my experience it’s the work-shy that run into trouble first. Ray’s not work-shy.” Now that he had it all out in the open, he was determined to convince me. “Look, Hardy, you know your way around. I’ve seen you in action and Roberta speaks very highly of you. She’s a good judge of character, though you mightn’t think it. I want you to take this on. Find Ray, talk to him. Find out what’s going on. Get between him and that slime somehow, before he goes wrong.”

  “He might have gone wrong already.’’

  “I know it. I’m prepared for that. But I’m sure Ray’s basically solid. There’s something … what do the kids say? … bugging him. I know it doesn’t take long to go off the tracks. All the more reason to step in. Will you do it?”

  It didn’t take much thinking about. I liked Guthrie, and the few times I’d seen Liam
Catchpole up close I’d wanted to go and have a shower. Youth is worth saving. It sounded like a more worthwhile way to make money than some of the things I’d been doing lately.

  “I’ll try,” I said. “The money you mentioned is too much—I’ll take seven fifty for a retainer, and work for a hundred and twenty-five a day, plus expenses.”

  “Bonus for results,” he said.

  “Fair enough.”

  We shook hands and I felt self-conscious as some departing guests looked at us curiously. Guthrie’s hand was hard and corrugated, dry to the touch. He stepped back; he seemed almost sprightly. “Just come here to try to cheer myself up,” he said. “Pat couldn’t face it. I didn’t think I’d do anything positive about Ray.”

  “Don’t get your hopes too high,” I said. “You can’t make people be good, you can’t make them be grateful, you can’t make them be anything. Not really.”

  “Why d’you say that? About being grateful?”

  “Most parents want their kids to be grateful.”

  “You got any kids, Hardy?”

  I shook my head. “I’d probably want them to be grateful if I did. And they probably wouldn’t be.” I grinned at him. “Too disappointing.”

  “I don’t want him grateful. I just want him … safe.” He handed me a card; his colour was better already—action did him good. He checked his watch. “Ring me later today. Okay? We’ll get started.”

  It was 2 a.m. I did a last check on the people and the silverware. Nothing seemed to be missing and when I put Mr and Mrs Olsson, who seemed to have shot for the “drunkest couple” title, in their cab I was through for the night.

  Roberta was snoring gently in an armchair. One brown breast had fallen out of her dress and she had one silver shoe in her lap. I shook her gently.

  “Roberta. Party’s over.”

  She opened one eye theatrically. “Wasn’t it awful?” she groaned.

  “It was fine—great success.”

  “I’ll send you a cheque. Thanks, Cliff.” She dropped the eyelid.

  I collected my jacket and took off my tie. In the kitchen I annoyed the clearing-up caterers by making myself a chicken sandwich. I took it out to the car with me, chewing slowly and wishing I had some wine to go with it. But I gave up keeping wine in the car a long time ago. As I started the engine I remembered Helen Broadway. I hadn’t seen her go and I didn’t know where she lived. I could ask Roberta—but not just now.

  3

  I got home to Glebe around 2.30 a.m. I’ve given up tucking the car away in the backyard; the strain of the backing and filling is too much and the local vandals seem to have decided my car isn’t worth their attention. The street is narrow, with a dogleg; my place is just past the dogleg. I let the wheels drift up on to the kerb and slotted her in—slapdab outside.

  I glanced at a newspaper Hilde, my tenant, had left lying around while I got a few last dribbles from a wine cask. We had a commission of enquiry into the early release of prisoners scheme on the front page, and a commission of enquiry into the conduct of boxing on the back. Both dodgy was about all the reaction I could muster. I took the glass up to bed; there was light showing under Hilde’s door; I knocked softly and pushed the door open. She was sitting up in bed, reading. A long strand of her blonde hair was in her mouth, and she was chewing it rhythmically as she read. She lifted her blue, German eyes reluctantly from the page.

  “It’s 2.30,” I said.

  “I’m reading Gorky Park.”

  “That explains it. Goodnight.”

  I slept late. By the time I got up, Hilde had gone off to do her dental research. She tells me that fluoride in the water has cut dental decay by 84 per cent, so that the emphasis in her trade these days is on preserving and presenting the dentition. When I asked her what that meant she said, “Capping and straightening.’’ I understood that.

  She’d left a pot of coffee on a low flame, and I got to work on that while I ran a routine check on Paul Guthrie through the telephone book and The Company Index. He lived in Northbridge, between the golf course and Fig Tree Point. It sounded like a well-preserved and presented address for a client to have. Guthrie Marinas Pty Ltd was at Balgowlah, Double Bay, and Newport. The ski lodge and dude ranch were probably called the Alpine this and the Western that. Guthrie Enterprises was listed as a private company; Paul Guthrie, principal.

  I rang him at 10.30; he came across eager and energetic; he made sixty-two sound like something to look forward to.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I have to go up to Newport to look a few things over. Like to come up? Go out on a boat?”

  “Is there any point?”

  “Yes, Ray kept a lot of his stuff on a boat up there. I suppose you could look through it. Must be a photo of him there—you’ll need that?”

  ‘‘Yes, I will. Anything else?”

  He paused. “Yes. His girlfriend’s there. Girlfriend that was. She’s a nice kid. I talked to her, of course. Said she hadn’t heard from Ray, didn’t know anything. But it might be worth your while to talk to her.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there. I’ve got the address.”

  He sounded nonplussed. “How’s that?”

  “I looked you up in the book and the commercial directory. You check out just fine, Mr Guthrie. You got my credentials, remember? And Roberta was a little past giving you a reference last night.”

  He laughed. “That’s smart. I’ll give you some money. What time suits you?”

  “Let’s say at the marina at noon. Nothing’s happened to change your mind about this, has it?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It sometimes happens that way. You act, like by hiring me, and something else happens. Never mind. Noon.”

  It was hot and Friday, which meant heavy traffic on the road and a slow, sweaty drive to Newport. I was passed by cool-looking people in air-conditioned cars and I wondered, not for the first time, whether I should get a soft top. I didn’t have a woman to ride in it with me—wearing a scarf and with her sunglasses pushed back on the top of her head—but maybe I could do something about that. Roberta Landy-Drake’s cheque would take care of the rent and the mortgage for a month; a couple of steady weeks work for Guthrie, and maybe then I could think about a soft top. I thought about it anyway as I drove sedately north, past the hamburger bars and surf shops, and eventually past the pub in Newport where we used to come in the bad old days with our genuine thirsts and phoney addresses, and pass ourselves off as bona fide travelers.

  The approach to the marina was through a bumpy car park beside a pub that hadn’t existed back in the sabbatarian days. I parked in a small patch of shade that would get smaller as the day wore on. The marina was an arrangement of boat sheds, office, workshops, and jetties all connected on different levels by steps and walkways. I walked down toward it, jiggling my keys and thinking ambivalent thoughts about boats.

  Guthrie was waiting for me on a wooden walkway that led to the moorings. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and canvas shoes. I was relieved to see that he didn’t affect the cap and scarf of the pseudo sailor, but I hadn’t expected he would. We shook hands and I realised that the hard ridges I’d felt the night before were from boat work. He might have sounded full of beans on the phone but he looked a little tired now, not at the peak of his form, and he was hiding his eyes behind sunglasses.

  “Going out to check some of the moorings,” he said. “Routine work in this game.”

  “Don’t you employ people to do that?”

  “Sure, but I like to keep my hand in. Along here, and watch your step.”

  The planks and rails seemed to be in good condition—no splinters, no flaking paint. There must have been more than a hundred boats tied up there—big, swank things like over-blown birds and neat, smaller craft with more interesting lines. The water was a deep green around the pylons and the boats were mostly white with blocks of red, blue and brown. The bright sun flashed on brass name plates—Pocahontas, Bundeena, Shangri-la.

 
Guthrie stepped over piles of rope and mooring lines like a mountain goat on a familiar path; I followed him carefully to where a handsome motor yacht was moored between high, rope-wrapped pylons. Satisfaction was painted in bold, white letters across the stern and at the bow on the side I could see. A flag was flying from a high mast and a couple of seagulls hopped along a polished rail on the side. As boats go, this was a beauty. Guthrie jumped down onto the deck from the jetty untroubled by the distance or the motion of the boat. I edged down the metal ladder a few steps, waited for the rise and stepped aboard carefully.

  “Not used to boats?”

  “Been a while.’’

  “This is the one Ray used to knock about in mostly. Not in bad nick, is she?’’

  I nodded. Everything looked well cared-for without being fussy. Truth was, I was accustoming myself to the motion but, to show willingness, I went under the awning that covered the rear section of the deck and looked around. I noted the life jackets safely stowed. Guthrie noted me noting and grinned.

  “Don’t know why, but I feel a bit better about things when I’m on the boat. Hard to believe he could go bad, the old Ray. Help me to cast off, will you? Then you can go below and poke around—look at anything you like.”

  We unlooped the ropes; Guthrie started and warmed the engines and then took the boat smoothly out into the channel. Although I grew up by the water, at Bronte and Maroubra, I wouldn’t say I had boating in the blood. The inner tubes from car tyres were the first craft I remembered, and I didn’t rate the inflatable rafts and boats we’d trained in as soldiers much higher. I spent a very tricky night and a day in one of those things up a river in Malaya, and being afloat wasn’t my favourite sensation. But at least I wasn’t a lunch-loser.

  After doing some suitable appreciation of the scenery, I ducked my head and went into the saloon section and from there down a short set of steps to the cabin. The circumscribed space held a two-tiered bunk, built-in shelves, and a cupboard. There were two portholes and between them a shaving mirror, a wineskin, a belt with a knife in a scabbard, and a heavy oilskin were hanging on hooks. The books on the shelves were mostly paperback thrillers but there were also a few navigation manuals and an anthology of sea poems. There was a plastic coat, a work shirt, a sweater, and a pair of very greasy and stained overalls in the cupboard. The bed was neatly made on the bottom bunk; the top bunk was covered with a single blanket.