by Jon Cleary
Danforth had a little trouble picking up that one; finally it filtered through that Mrs. Aldwych had an interest in words. He also had a little difficulty in picturing the crime boss enjoying morning coffee in a coffee lounge with his wife. He gratefully sipped the whisky Aldwych had offered against the cold evening air. “The missus—the wife is like that. Always does the crossword first thing in the morning . . . So I rang Arnold Debbs soon’s I couldn’t get you. I hadda get the word to someone.”
“I’ve just got back from seeing Arnie. Who’s this other guy who’s trying to bump off O’Brien? An ex-cop or something.”
“An ex-cadet,” said Danforth, as if he didn’t want a real cop suspected of being a hitman. “His name’s Frank Blizzard.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“We don’t even know who he is.”
Aldwych looked at him quizzically. He had never had much respect for the police’s ability, they had never been able to nail him on any charge. Sure, they had arrested him half a dozen times, but nothing had ever stuck once they had got him into court. “Can I help?” He sounded like Castro offering help to some banana republic. “Get some of my boys looking for him?”
“Where would they start to look, Jack? No—” Danforth shook his head. “The best man in the Department is looking for him and getting nowhere. And he’s on Blizzard’s hit list as well as O’Brien. Scobie Malone—you know him.”
Aldwych sipped his own whisky, pulled the woollen muffler closer round his thick neck. He liked sitting out here in the evenings, but lately his bones had begun to feel the chill. He was getting old and it hurt like arthritis even to think about it.
“I know him, a nice feller. But if he gets in the road we might have to get rid of him, Harry.”
“What d’you mean?” Danforth was startled, coughing as the whisky went down the wrong way.
Aldwych waited till the coughing had subsided. “Something’s gotta be done soon. I hear O’Brien is ready to talk his head off, ask the NCSC for a deal if he tells „em about us.”
“Us?” Danforth looked on the verge of another coughing spasm.
Aldwych smiled. “Not you, Harry. Me and my associates.”
“How d’you know all this, Jack?”
Aldwych smiled again, an old crime boss’s smile. “Harry, nothing is secret in this country. We’re the greatest blabbermouths in the world. You hold a closed meeting that’s got any politicians or bureaucrats at it and you’re gunna get more leaks than you get in an army camp on a winter’s morning. There’s always someone dying to piss what they know.”
“I never heard any leaks coming out of any meetings you’ve had.”
“We’re different, Harry. You don’t find any politicians or bureaucrats in our game, not at my level. They just work for us. Like you do.”
Danforth put down his glass: it was time to go. He did not like being held in contempt, though he knew it happened at certain levels in the Department; but he had never protested there and he would certainly never protest to Jack Aldwych. He stood up, his joints stiffened by the cold. “You got a nice house here, Jack. Why don’t you sit inside some time?”
Aldwych laughed, a rough rumble like an echo of the mastiffs’ growling of long ago. “I bought this place for the view. I’ll sit inside when I finally go blind.”
Danforth looked at him sharply. “Are you going blind?”
“No.” The laugh subsided, the mastiffs lying down. “I’ll die out here, but not for a long time yet. Not unless O’Brien says too much and they wanna send me to jail. What would you do if they sent you out here, Harry, to bring me in?”
“Commit suicide,” said Danforth, hoping Aldwych would recognize it as a joke.
“We’ll do it together, Harry. You can go first.”
When Danforth had gone, escorted down to the big gates by one of the minders, Aldwych went into the house. He sat down in front of the fire in the big living-room; the house was centrally heated, but he preferred a fire. He felt the warmth, like a memory of the blood of his youth, creep back into his limbs. He could hear Shirl’s television set upstairs in her bedroom, the volume turned up as if she were sitting down here listening to it; she was going deaf, but she refused to admit it, insisting that the world had just got quieter. She was an intelligent woman who had long ago put her intelligence into cold storage, had deliberately become simple-minded about the world in which she and Jack lived. She knew how he made his money and she knew his reputation, but she thought of him only as her husband, a good one, which he was. All she demanded was that Jack Junior, though he was his father’s secretary and driver, was never to be involved in anything that might send him to prison. Jack Junior would inherit the vast fortune his father had accumulated, but he must never be anything but respectable and, when his time came, a good honest citizen. So far Jack Junior was on course.
Aldwych sat pondering the immediate future. He was at risk, considerable risk, because he had tried to make his money respectable; he appreciated the irony of it. He was evil, a true criminal; he never tried to evade that knowledge. Yet he was a confirmed conservative, as most true criminals are. He had tried to educate himself late in life by reading books on political and social history; he had developed heroes, Churchill, de Gaulle, Menzies here in Australia. He found local politics dull, but that was because whatever local politicians said didn’t amount to a pinch of shit in world affairs. He had taken Shirl on several trips to Europe and he had noticed how many of the public buildings had balconies fronting large squares. European leaders had always had the advantage of being able to yell at vast crowds, of being seen in the flesh, of using the balcony as a stage; Australian leaders, on the other hand, always seemed to be at ground level, literally and figuratively. Of course there was TV; but that wasn’t the same. You felt no thrill sitting in your living-room listening to a local pol telling you not to worry, just to trust him and his government. If Philip Norval asked for blood, sweat and tears, the voters would suggest he go to the Red Cross; and then go out to the kitchen fridge for another beer.
Arnold Debbs was one of those at ground level; several times this afternoon he had sounded as if he were on his knees. He was, potentially, as big a risk as O’Brien; if the heat were applied, he would run for a deal. Jack Aldwych had begun to think he had made a mistake by moving out of his own circle.
Jack Junior came to the door, switched on the lights. “Dad?”
Aldwych blinked in the sudden illumination. “What is it?”
“George Bousakis is here.”
III
O’Brien had had difficulty in persuading the security guard that he wanted to go out alone. “It’s okay, Ralph. I’ve got a clearance from Inspector Malone—he knows where I’ll be. It’s personal.”
Ralph Shad looked dubious. “If something happens to you, Mr. O’Brien, it’s not gunna look good for our firm—”
“It’s not going to look good for me, either.” O’Brien smiled. “Relax, Ralph. Go back to the hotel and order a good dinner. Ask your wife or girl-friend in, if you like, put it on the tab. I’ll be home by midnight, I promise.”
“Do you have a car picking you up?”
“He’s waiting downstairs now and I’ll have him pick me up at 11.30. Don’t wait up. Go to bed as soon as Inspector Malone and Mr. Waldorf come back from the opera.”
But when he got into the back of the hired car and gave the Double Bay address to the driver, the Asian who had driven him two nights ago to the Town Hall, he suddenly felt nervous. Perhaps the nervousness of the driver had transmitted itself to him.
“Would you rather not be driving me, Lee?”
The driver took the car out into the traffic. “No, it’s okay, Mr. O’Brien.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Cambodia, sir, but my parents were Chinese.”
“Were you ever in danger there?”
“Oh, a lot, sir. That’s why I came to Australia, it was a safe country.” Or so I thought: it was as
if he had spoken the words aloud. “Another driver will be picking you up, sir. You’re my last job for the day.”
“Do I know the other driver?”
“I don’t think so, sir. He only started yesterday. His name is Fergus Calder, I think. He’s from Scotland. I can’t understand a word he says.” He sensed O’Brien’s sudden concern. “The company would have checked him out, sir. They’re very careful who they employ, much more than taxi companies.”
“Give me one of your company cards.”
His nervousness had increased. He would call the hire company, have them send a driver he knew. He did not want to be picked up close to midnight by a stranger, no matter how thoroughly the company had checked him out.
When he was dropped at the address in the side-street in Double Bay he almost ran across the pavement into the front gate of the townhouse. He stood for a moment, breathing deeply; he was coming apart at the seams, something he had never thought would happen to him. He stood just inside the gate for a couple of minutes before he felt steady enough to ring the doorbell and face Anita. She must see none of the frayed edges of himself.
The door was opened by Joanna, elegant in silver and black, looking at him as frankly as a buyer at the Newmarket stallion sales.
“We’ve never met, but Anita has told me all about you. Well, almost all,” she added with the smile of a woman who never expected to hear the full truth about any man. “Come in out of the cold.”
He followed her into the house, showing no eye at all for its furnishings; other people’s possessions never interested him. Anita was waiting for him in the living-room and came forward at once to embrace him and kiss him as if they were alone. Joanna watched them without embarrassment, almost with dry amusement, though she never laughed at other people’s love for each other.
When they drew apart she said, “I believe it. You do love each other.”
Anita smiled, explained to O’Brien, “She’s the family expert on love.”
“Or what sometimes passes for it,” said Joanna, never one to claim unmerited credit. She loved Floyd, in her fashion, but he was not her ideal: she had given up hope of ever meeting that man. “The house is yours till midnight. I’ll have to come home then—I’m not going to spend the night with the man I’m going out with, though he’ll ask me. We’re going to the opera, then he’s taking me to supper.”
“That’s a coincidence.” O’Brien had warmed to Joanna at once. She had a directness about her, though it wasn’t a hard approach. “I was invited to the opera tonight. Sebastian Waldorf—do you know him?—he’s staying with me.”
“Sebastian Tightpants? We had a thing going for a while, before I married again. I belong to the Friends of the Opera.”
“With Sebastian she was just friendlier than any of the other Friends.” Anita smiled affectionately at her sister.
“What’s Sebastian doing, staying with you? Are you old mates? Anita said you used to be in pop music, not opera.”
O’Brien had not told Anita about Blizzard’s hit list; she still believed that his only danger came from whoever had ordered Wednesday night’s attempt on his life. Up till now he had managed to conceal from her that Malone and Waldorf were staying with him at the Congress; he saw her now looking at him curiously. “We knew each other years ago. He’s just staying with me for a couple of nights, we’re catching up on old times.” He suddenly tasted alum, wished he could spit it out. “He’s singing tonight, The Magic Flute.”
“I know. He won’t look his best tonight, not covered in feathers—he plays a bird-catcher. That’s a laugh—he’s been chasing birds all his life. He should have called himself Randy Waldorf, but that would have sounded too much like a pop singer. Well, enjoy each other. I’ll ring the doorbell when I come home, just as a warning I’ve arrived.” She said it without a wink or a leer; she was still a lady in many ways. She kissed Anita, then looked at O’Brien. “Do I kiss you, too?”
O’Brien smiled, leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Good-night, Joanna. And thanks.”
“I’ve never stood in the way of true love. I’m a conservationist when it comes to that.” There was a ring at the front door. “There’s my man. “Bye.”
She went out, leaving O’Brien and Anita facing each other across a narrow space that vibrated with Anita’s hurt and curiosity. And fear. “You didn’t tell me about this chap Waldorf. Why?”
He reached for her hand, but she held her arms at her side. He was still diffident towards her at times, almost a little in awe, like a young man lacking confidence with his first girl. Only in bed, where the blood took over, was he confident.
“I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you worrying any more than you are now.”
“Worrying about what?” The hurt drained from her, but she was still puzzled and afraid.
Hesitantly, watching her carefully, seeing each word he spoke chipping away at her, he told her of the hit list and Frank Blizzard. She stood stiffly for a moment, then it seemed that she flung herself at him. He held her to him, all at once certain of her and of himself.
“Oh God, Brian!” She kissed him fiercely, bruising his mouth. “What else can happen to you? How much more bad luck can you have? What did you do, run over a nun or something?” she said, trying to be wry and not hysterical.
He grinned, the lapsed Catholic who hadn’t spoken to a nun in more years than he could remember. “My mother used to say that. My luck’s just turned, that’s all. I’ve had a good long run. I found you,” he said and, unwittingly, made it sound like a sad climax.
“Let’s go up to bed.” She took his hand, led him upstairs.
“Where’s your sister’s husband? Is he likely to come home and find us?”
“He’s on an oil rig somewhere in the Bass Strait—they have some industrial trouble down there. He called Joanna an hour ago. He won’t be home till Saturday night.” She had led him into a guest bedroom; she was delicate about using Joanna’s bed, though she knew her sister wouldn’t mind. The room had a double bed, not a king-sized one like Joanna’s, but it was wide enough for what they had in mind. Love-making is a game that can be played on the narrowest of battlefields. “Undress me.”
“I was never any good at this, I’m all fingers and thumbs—”
“Don’t tell me about your experience. Or lack of it.”
He smiled, totally confident now as he peeled off her clothes, doing it with more tenderness than she had hoped for. “This is like peeling a lotus—”
She kissed him gently. “You’re a continual surprise, darling—you come out with unexpected things—”
It had been a line from an old pop song sung by—he couldn’t believe the coincidence! By Bob Norval, from the Salvation Four Plus Sinner. His world was turning full circle. He had forgotten that other Norval, as had the rest of the world.
“What’s the matter?” Anita said.
He sat down on the bed in front of her, kissed her bare full breasts. Accustomed to younger women, he was still amazed that a woman of her age could be so slim and firm and beautiful. Though he was no longer young himself, he had lived too long, or lusted too long, amongst the young.
“Don’t let’s talk.” His voice was a husky whisper. “Not now.”
Their love-making was both tender and furious, as it should be. She was completely uninhibited, a deflowered girl from The Perfumed Garden; he was content to let her make all the suggestions, though no word needed to be spoken. He had remarkable stamina, a horizontal marathoner; they wore each other out, both winners, no losers. Afterwards they lay enjoying their wounds on the rumpled battlefield.
At last she said, not looking at him but at the ceiling, “What do we do, darling?”
He knew what she meant; there was no point in playing dumb. “There’s nothing we can do. Sooner or later we’ve got to say goodbye.”
“No!” She reached for his hand; he felt her nails dig into it. “Don’t talk about that! I mean, what are we going to do about
this—this hit list?” She stumbled on the phrase, as if it were foreign, a term she didn’t understand.
He continued to lie on his back, but turned his face towards her. Her dark hair was tousled, her face glowed, she had that young look that love and sex can bring back, no matter how fleetingly, to a woman. Then he looked into her eyes and saw the pain and hopelessness: she looked her age there.
“All we can do is leave it with the police. They’re doing the best they can.”
“Is that why Inspector Malone was with you the other night at the Town Hall?” He nodded. “And he’s on the list, too? Oh God. Does he have a family?”
“A wife and three children. They’re safe somewhere up in Queensland.”
“But you’re not. Neither is he. Would the man who’s trying to kill you have followed you here?”
He tried to reassure her, not confessing the fear he had felt when standing outside the front door less than two hours ago. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d thought that would happen.”
“Let’s go away somewhere.” But even as she said it she knew the hopelessness of it.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere. One reads about it every day—people disappearing,”
“Sweetheart, it would never work.” He had money in a bank account in Switzerland, more than enough for them to live comfortably anywhere in the world; the courts might sequestrate all his holdings here in Australia, but it wouldn’t matter. Money was not their problem and, it struck him only now, it was a subject she had never discussed. She had been accustomed to wealth all her life; he was troubled by the thought that she might have wondered at the greed that had driven him to accumulate his. But that was another subject she had never discussed. Their love was deeper than their knowledge of each other, but that, he guessed, might be the way of the world. He had certainly never known all that he might have of his two wives. “Someone would find us eventually. Anyway, you can’t leave your children and your grandchildren, not for ever.”