by Peter Corris
Lugarno
( Cliff Hardy - 24 )
Peter Corris
Peter Corris
Lugarno
1
‘How d’you feel about drugs, Mr Hardy?’
‘I’m all for them — caffeine, alcohol, paracetamol…’
‘Please don’t be flippant. You know what I mean.’
I did know what he meant, but sometimes I just can’t help being flippant. Sometimes too, it helps to give me a handle on what sort of a person I’m dealing with. Flippant back is one thing, serious and impatient is another. Martin Price was serious. He’d phoned mentioning the name of a client who’d mentioned my name to him. Not a bad conduit to me, especially as I remembered the client and he’d paid well. We’d set up this meeting at the coffee shop on Glebe Point Road next door to the Valhalla Cinema. He’d seemed a bit surprised at the venue, but then again I’d been a bit surprised at his chosen time — 8 a.m. on a Monday morning. I’d explained that the place was closer to where I lived than my office and that I wasn’t what you’d call an early morning person.
So there we were at a table out on the street with two long blacks. He was in his expensive but slightly wrinkled business suit, and I was in my jeans and leather jacket where wrinkles don’t matter. He was tallish like me, in fair physical condition like me, with a full head of hair and cleanshaven — again like me. There the resemblance ended. We’d only been there a couple of minutes and he was on his second cigarette. My last cigarette had been back when they cost about a quarter of what they cost now. Price had an almost full packet of Camels. He put it on the table along with his lighter — all loaded up and ready to fire.
‘You mean hard drugs — cocaine, heroin, speed, maybe ecstasy, although I’m not sure the last two qualify. I’m not all for them — dangerous, and life’s dangerous enough as it is.’
‘Exactly. Well, I believe… no, I know that my daughter’s selling them. And I mean heroin.’
He stubbed out his cigarette and drank some coffee. I drank some as well and bet myself he’d light up again as soon as he’d swallowed and put his cup down. He did. That seemed to invite me to speak.
‘How old’s your daughter, Mr Price?’
He exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Eighteen.’
‘An adult.’
‘Not really. She lives at home, doesn’t work, is totally dependent. On the surface.’
‘I get the picture. I think you need professional help of a different kind — counselling
‘No, you don’t understand. It’s a matter of who she’s selling the drugs to!’
I had a vision of pimples and school uniforms, knee-length shorts and skateboards even, caps worn back to front, and was still less happy. ‘Selling to children is a serious offence,’ I said. ‘But if she hasn’t been caught and charged you can still…’
For a smooth, apart from the smoking, prosperous-looking type, the bitterness and harshness of his laugh came as a surprise and got my attention. He drew deeply on his cigarette, blew out the smoke and seemed to have forgotten about his coffee. ‘She’s not selling to kids,’ he said. ‘I could deal with that in some way or other. She’s selling it to my wife!’
After that I got the full story, chapter and verse. Eighteen-year-old Danielle was the only child of Price’s first marriage. His wife had died young of cancer when Danielle was eleven. Five years later Price, who was in his early forties by then, had married Samantha, a model who was twenty years younger than him.
‘I… ah, met Sammy a couple of years after Annette was killed but we waited a few years to get married. I wanted Danni to be old enough to understand and accept it.’
Sammy and Danni, I thought. Chummy as all get out. ‘And did she?’
Price shook his well-groomed head. ‘No, not at all. She hated Sammy on sight and there’s been nothing but trouble since.’
I was making notes, being professional, although I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of this. ‘So your wife’s what age now?’
‘She’s twenty-six.’
‘Does she still work?’
That bitter laugh again. ‘Did she ever? No, I shouldn’t say that. Sammy worked for a while after we got married. Then she got pregnant. I thought Danni might like the idea of a brother, or a sister. No chance.’ Price heaved a sigh and lit another cigarette. Suddenly he looked older than the middle forties. He looked at the cigarette in his stained fingers. ‘I gave these bloody things up years ago — when Annette was pregnant. Took it up again worse than ever when all this shit started.’
‘Understandable,’ I said. ‘So there’s another kid?’
A shake of the head and a waft of smoke. ‘No. Sammy miscarried in the fifth month. She’d bought the baby clothes and all the gear, you know.’
I didn’t know. I had a daughter I hadn’t found out about until she was in her twenties, but I nodded sympathetically.
‘It rocked Sammy. Really tore her apart. She changed; got depressive, bored, sick…’
‘How’d Danni take it?’
It was soap opera stuff and I couldn’t keep a note of that out of my voice, but Price didn’t react. ‘She lapped it up. I think that’s when she moved in and got Sammy onto the drugs. I knew she’d been smoking dope herself since she was fourteen, but what can you say? They all do it. Turns out she’d got onto coke as well. I suppose her source could supply heroin too. Anyway, she got under Sammy’s guard and got her hooked. Danni’s got some money of her own and pretty soon she’s buying for both of them and Danni’s dealing a bit and supplying Sammy steadily so that she’s a hopeless addict. Danni’s tougher — I suspect she’s a user rather than an addict.’
‘How did you find all this out, Mr Price?’
‘Danni has… had a boyfriend. A kid named Jason Jorgensen. Decent kid. She dumped him when he got worried about the drugs. He came to me. I think he was acting partly out of hurt, but he still cares about Danni.’
‘Maybe not the most reliable source of information,’ I said. ‘Rejected lover and all that. But if he’s right you seem to have all the facts. Why d’you need someone like me?’
He stubbed out his cigarette and dusted off his hands as if that was going to be his last one, but it wouldn’t be. The Camels were still sitting on the table. ‘Jason says that Danni’s selling to a lot of people and that it’s only a matter of time until word gets around and she’s in serious trouble.’
I nodded. To my mind, drugs should be available to addicts on prescription. I’ve known wealthy professionals who’ve used drugs for years and have got on successfully with their lives because they’ve got the resources to buy clean product and shoot up cleanly. When I said that hard drugs were dangerous I meant that criminality made them that way — variable quality, contamination, unsanitary procedures and the vicious behaviour of corrupt cops, other dealers and desperate addicts. I spelled some of this out for Price and asked him again what he thought I could do.
Price’s apparent resolution lasted less than a minute. He lit another cigarette and fidgeted with his lighter as he spoke. ‘I’m going to get both of them admitted to a detoxification and treatment centre. I’ve put the legal procedures in train.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘You’re doing the right thing there.’
He ignored me. I could see that he had something still more important on his mind that a pat on the back wouldn’t help. ‘It’s worse than I’ve told you. Jason says there’s a young woman in hospital in a coma from taking something Danni supplied. She’s due to be questioned by the police. The doctors say she’ll be out of the coma and able to talk inside a week. She’s young and her family’s wealthy and… angry. Danni’ll face some serious charges.’
‘You’re right there.’
He killed the cigarette early and l
ooked at me through the smoke haze. ‘I want you to find out who supplied Danni with the drugs and get solid evidence on him.’
‘Or her.’
‘Jesus, what a world. Yes. Or her. If I can present that evidence when the police act, help them get a conviction, and show that Danni’s under treatment, my lawyer friend says there’s a chance she’ll get a suspended sentence and I can set about straightening things out. There’s not a lot of time I know, but I hope you’ll help me.’
I sat back and thought about it while he told me how my former client had said I was honest and resourceful and got quick results. I thought it’d look good on my card: Cliff Hardy, Private Investigations — honest, resourceful, quick… Except that sometimes you had to be less than honest, and resourcefulness wasn’t always enough and some things took time.
I stalled by asking Price what he did for a living.
‘In America they’d call me a lobbyist, here I’m a consultant. I advise people how to deal with government departments, get their projects approved, get them funds. That sort of thing. I used to work for a couple of ministers as an adviser.’
‘Which side of politics?’
That brought the first smile I’d seen from him. ‘Both,’ he said. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Not really.’ I’d had a reason for asking the question. For all I knew up to then Price might have been a politician himself or in the public eye in some way and desperate to keep his image clean. Hard to deal with those kinds of people because their number one priority is always themselves. But whether you called them lobbyists or consultants, people in Price’s game didn’t have to worry about their reputations. In fact a few rough edges probably stood them in good stead.
‘Does Jason know who the supplier is?’ By asking the question I’d indicated my decision to help him and Price let out an audible sigh.
‘I’m not sure. Possibly. But if he doesn’t know he’s bound to know someone who does. From talking to him I’ve found out a bit about this drug culture, so-called. It’s not all black and white the way the media has it. Some kids try it and don’t like it. Some like it too much and don’t do it again. Some take drugs when they feel like it and not when they don’t. The users have friends who don’t use. Some of them share and won’t sell.’
And some sell and won’t share, I thought, but I was encouraged by his attitude. I wasn’t sure that his plan was feasible in all its details but it had a humanitarian and sincere ring to it that persuaded me.
I’d prepared for the meeting by bringing my standard contract form; he signed it and wrote a cheque giving me a retainer of two thousand five hundred dollars against a daily rate of three hundred and fifty plus expenses, to be reviewed when the retainer was expended. I reserved the right to vary the daily rate upwards to a maximum of two and half times if I had to hire help, but the retainer would only be defrayed by the standard daily rate. He signed almost without reading it and I did the same — he because he was worried and stressed, me because I was embarrassed. The complicated contract had been drawn up by my accountant who’d told me that post the GST everything was going to get tougher and I had to have an edge. His edge was his higher fee for preparing my tax return.
Price had read the books. He’d come equipped with passport photographs of his wife and daughter and one of Jason dressed for golf and holding a trophy of some kind. He gave me his card which proclaimed him to be Martin (Marty) S. Price, Executive Director of High Flier Consultants Pty Ltd. The card carried his business phone number, his mobile number and his email address. If he thought a man who arranged business meetings in coffee bars probably didn’t have a computerised office, he didn’t comment.
Sammy appeared to have the cheekbones, mouth, eyes and hair for the job, and if her expression was a bit vacant-looking that probably didn’t hurt any. It’s never surprised me that models and racing car drivers seem to get together so often. Danni favoured her father; she was dark with strong features that missed prettiness but hit attractive dead centre — strong jaw, full mouth, straight nose.
Jason was what was once called willowy, when there were more willows about. Fair-haired, tall and slim, he had the sloping shoulders that seem to be good for golf as well as big hands clutched around his trophy. At about his age I’d won a couple of trophies for surfing, but they tended to be plastic dolphins mounted on plastic stands and there was no way I’d have been photographed with them.
It occurred to me that each of these people, my client included, looked exactly the way they should, given the little I knew of them. It worried me a bit. I was used to more off-centre kinds of characters, but maybe this case was just moving me up in the world.
The Prices lived in Lugarno, a suburb that was a sort of peninsula jutting out into the Georges River, and Jason was in Bankstown, not parts of Sydney I was very familiar with.
‘Lugarno,’ I said as I wrote it down.
In Glebe, people write their diaries and novels in coffee bars, give interviews to journalists, write notes for reviews of the food and service. No one took any notice of us doing business. Price seemed more relaxed now with business underway, cheques written, contracts signed. He was in his element concluding a deal, and it showed. He ordered two more coffees. He leaned back in his chair and unfastened the buttons on his stylish three-button single-breasted suit jacket. ‘Do you ski?’ he asked.
I’d surf-skied but I knew that wasn’t what he meant. ‘No.’
‘I do. When I was younger I skied all over Europe — Italy, Austria, Scandinavia, the lot. Switzerland. I had a wonderful time in Lugarno and when I found there was a Sydney suburb of that name, that’s where I wanted to live. Silly, huh?’
I shrugged. ‘Not really. Romantic maybe.’
That brought him jolting back down to earth. He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, well, what happens now?’.
I thought; I bank your cheque and make the rent on my office and pay the rego, but I said, ‘I’ll talk to Jason and see if I can find out what you want to know. How hostile is he likely to be?’
I got another smile, smaller this time. ‘How subtle can you be?’
‘Fairly.’
‘Do you know anything about golf?’
‘About as much as I know about skiing.’
Again, Price was in his territory, fencing. ‘Do I detect a note of class consciousness?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Price actually laughed. ‘Your reputation for directness seems to be well deserved. Jason’ll be all right. If he’s not at home he’ll be at the Milperra Golf Club where he’s got some sort of apprenticeship. He’s really concerned about Danni. I doubt if he’ll give you names but he could steer you in the right direction. I assume you’ve got useful contacts.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, the police.’
I nodded. I was working on that. After Frank Parker retired and I served a short sentence for obstructing the course of justice, my effective police contacts faded away. I’d recently struck up an acquaintance at the gym with a detective in the forensic branch and was trying to cultivate him. Time would tell. I detached the carbon copy of the contract and handed it to Price who folded it neatly and put it in the inside pocket of his suit coat. The brief flashes of animation he’d shown were fading away now and he’d reassumed the haunted, stressed look that aged him. I could tell that he wanted to leave but couldn’t bring himself to break the connection without some form of hope.
I helped him. ‘Lugarno’s a long way from Cabramatta and the Cross,’ I said. ‘Do you think Danielle gets her supplies locally?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. She has a car. She comes and goes.’
I poised the pen. ‘And your wife has a car as well of course. Makes and registration numbers please.’
He told me and that was all there was to do. We stood simultaneously and shook hands. His grip was firm but icy cold. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘We’ll see, Mr Price. We’ll see.’
After he left I wandered
along the street and banked his cheque. I had a number of small matters on hand, hanging really, needing winding up, and I determined to put in a day at the office to clear them. It’d be phone calls and faxes, invoicing and explaining; not my favourite activities. Price’s problems had got under my skin, partly, I suppose, because my own recently-acquired daughter had had similar problems, and partly because I was sure there was a lot more beneath the surface of the case than Price had told me, possibly more than he knew. That eighteen-year-old Danni had a passport interested me. I wondered when she’d travelled and where. And why would Price, who appeared to be pretty savvy, marry a woman who looked and sounded the reverse? The obvious answer was sex, but, looking the way he did and in the business he was in, Price wouldn’t have been short of that.
It was after ten and the Toxteth Hotel was open but I walked resolutely past. I don’t always keep to my pledge to stay off the grog until six p.m. but mostly I do. The backpackers were swarming on the footpath outside the hostels on the other side of the road — tiny Asian women with packs nearly the size of themselves, pale Poms with wide shorts and skinny legs and huge Scandinavians of both sexes who looked as if they could cross the road in four strides.
Putting off the clerical work, I sat on a bus bench and watched them as they piled into hired Kombi vans and four-wheel drives to take them to Darling Harbour, Bondi, the Blue Mountains, wherever. The Olympic wave, which had turned out to be less than a tsunami, had passed over us and we were into the new millennium for real. The city was back to what it had been — a mostly sun-bathed place where people came to see the sights, rather than for cheap drugs and underage sex. Still the lucky country, just, despite all the economists, wowsers and politicians trying to change it.
2
I was putting the finishing touches to a report on a small-time insurance fraud I’d investigated and casually watching the clock hands crawl towards six p.m. when the phone rang. I let the answering machine pick up the call, thinking that tomorrow would probably do for whoever or whatever it was. When I heard Tess Hewitt’s voice on the line I sighed and picked it up. Our affair of a little over a year had ended a couple of months back. It just ran out of steam and on my last visit to Byron Bay we’d quarrelled over small things and agreed to call it a day. She’d wavered a few times since; I hadn’t.