The Ambulance Chaser

by Richard Beasley

  ‘How much do you need?’ she said bluntly.

  I had already done my calculations. Private security firms in two states. Investigators locally. Video and surveillance equipment. Some extra cash for odds and ends, like automatic weapons and hand grenades, widely available in Sydney’s southwestern suburbs at knock-down prices. I halved the figure and told her.

  She leant back in her chair. She opened the packet of cigarettes that was lying on her desk, half obscured by papers. Menthol jobs. She put her lips around it, lit up, caressed it, blew smoke over her shoulder. Nasty things, cigarettes, but Helena Abbott was an artist with a fag. She should never quit. ‘That much,’ she said, smiling. ‘It must be life or death.’

  I nodded. She opened a drawer in her desk. She took out her chequebook, ferreted around on the desk for a pen. She barely knew me.

  I shook my head. ‘You shouldn’t do it this way,’ I said. ‘It might take me a while to pay you back.’

  She started writing. Smoke wafted over her face. ‘I can’t trust you?’ she said through the fog.

  ‘I’m a bankrupt, and a lawyer,’ I said.

  She tore the cheque out, placed it in front of me. She took another drag. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’ll take two paintings from you – as security. When you repay me, you get the paintings back.’

  ‘Deal,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  Helena smiled. ‘Laura tells me you once wrote graffiti all over Bob Green’s Mercedes. Limited but effective vocabulary back then, as I understand it?’ I shrugged. Guilty. I’m with Muscio, I’m with all the feminists, but there simply are times when it seems like the only word that will do. I guess I’m a sexist after all. Helena looked at the cheque, took another drag on her cigarette, looked back at me. ‘Well, that’s worth at least this,’ she said, pushing the cheque at me. ‘As a secured loan, but interest free.’

  I picked up the cheque. ‘I’ll drop around two of the paintings later today,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘Okay,’ she said. She took another drag of her cigarette, looked at me under hooded, sultry, smoky eyes, then smiled again. Non-smokers don’t get it. On a scale of sexiness she was nine out of ten. Add the fag, and she was eleven. ‘What are you up to?’ she said softly. She purred it, actually. I thought she did, anyway. Perhaps I was hearing things, smoke in my ears.

  ‘I’m saving a life,’ I said. ‘Two lives. Possibly more.’

  She didn’t change expression. Just a wry smile. ‘Can you be less cryptic?’

  I could have been, but decided not to. Not that she wouldn’t have believed every word if I’d told her. No one sensible has any faith in the big end of town these days.

  Robert J Green and Partners had its head office in a renovated three-level terrace in Paddington, right in the heart of where it all started for him in the early seventies. The empire had since stretched its tentacles all over the city. Bob Green was the King of Sydney’s twenty best suburbs. The rest of the town was for losers.

  I struggled into reception just before noon. I’d been out to Harry’s place first, collected the paintings, drove his car illegally, dropped two at Helena’s gallery, then headed for Bob Green’s. It was more pleasure than business with Robert J Green. I was committed to a cause now, right or wrong, crazy or sane. Or all five. Or four. Whatever, somehow he fitted in. The time was ripe.

  The receptionist had pneumatic lips and tits. She was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘cliché blonde’. I managed to ask for Bob Green. I looked at her again.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m his makeover person.’

  She dialled a number. ‘Can I have your name, please?’

  ‘Blake. Christopher Blake.’

  More talking. ‘There must be some mistake, Mr –’

  ‘No mistake. He’ll see me. Tell him I wrote “chicken thrower” on his car. Another time I painted a shorter word. When I was older and much more mature. I’m a friend of Bill Doyle’s. I’m expected.’

  It was way too much information for her. Her brain had frozen. Her eyes flashed a message that said: Fatal Error. Push Any Breast to Continue. After a pause she put the phone down and said, ‘Upstairs. Turn right. Last office on the left.’

  It had once been the master bedroom. He’d had the wall to the adjacent bedroom knocked down, making the office palatial, the desk facing out to the lacework balcony. You noticed the Whiteley on the wall first when you walked in. A vast square of colour. That would be going soon. The desk next. Too long, too wide, too neat. Half a cricket pitch in square metres. You think anal. You think small penis. Well, I do.

  You noticed Robert J Green next. You noticed him because he glowed. He radiated. The years had been kind, but too many had been spent in the solarium. Bob Green had turned to burnt orange since I last saw him. Somehow it suited him. He hadn’t lost a hair in twenty years, although chestnut had become white. The white looked good against the orange. It didn’t compete with it. I caught the last moment of a preen when I walked in, out of the corner of my eye, his hand dropping down from fixing his brilliant locks just so.

  It was a Prince of Wales check today, white shirt, French cuffs, blue tie. An Armani blue. Simple, elegant pattern. I noticed a glint of gold on his left pinkie. In the dying nanosecond of the preen. When I was ten, the pinkie ring was an affectation I felt Bob Green could lose. A quarter of a century hadn’t changed my mind.

  There was still something about his mouth I didn’t like. He had lips like a woman. A slight pout. An I’m handsome pout. It made me want to punch him. I wished I’d brought a chicken with me. There was very little sag in his face yet, or even the chin. He looked trim, fit. He was the Cary Bloody Grant of the real estate game.

  He sat down when I walked in. Leant back in his chair and smirked. He started fiddling with the ring on his finger. I wanted a hatchet. ‘Mr Blake,’ he said. ‘The famous Mr Blake. You want?’

  Bob Green’s idea of a question. I sat down in front of the desk. A Mont Blanc pen was pointing at me. It was the size of a medium torpedo. We are now talking very small penis. ‘Did you finish that sentence?’

  He picked up the torpedo, signed a letter that was in front of him with a flourish, put it in an out-tray, and looked at me and smiled. He was left-handed. I’d forgotten. I thought about the night he threw the chicken. Yes, he was. Never trust a left-hander. They’re no good. Except Da Vinci. And Rod Laver.

  ‘I’m very busy,’ he said. ‘You’re here because?’

  There it was again. Such economical use of language. All those early years drafting For Sale ads with limited space. There was a faint smell in the room. I couldn’t quite place it. Helena Abbott’s artistic jungle had been full of coffee beans, menthol and perhaps Paloma Picasso. This was vaguely sweet but unnatural. It might have been money. Robert J Green made lots of money. You can get very rich in this town.

  ‘You’re looking for some new art for your office,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m in the art leasing business now,’ I said. ‘Obviously, you’re aware I’m no longer in the legal game.’

  ‘Oh, I’m aware –’

  ‘It’s $20,000 up front for two paintings. Three K per week after that. You get them for three weeks. It’s a bargain.’

  He kept leaning back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, fingers locked together in front of him. Still smiling faintly, he narrowed his eyes and said, ‘I have no idea what –’

  ‘Your ex-wife’s paintings. Sorry, your first wife. How many have there been? Anyway, Laura. My personal favourite – Mr and Mrs Green – that’ll go well in the foyer. And Privet for 2. Perfect for where the Whiteley is. I used to kiss your daughter in that spot. She told me things there.’

  ‘It’s time for you to go.’

  ‘Not without my money.’

  ‘Do I have to call the police?’ He was still relaxed, leaning back, tapping his fingers together now.

  ‘Call them.’

  ‘What kind of stunt i
s this? What petty criminal did you grow up to be?’

  ‘One that’s never assaulted anyone, Bobby Boy. Not yet.’ I have no idea where Bobby Boy came from. It seemed right at the time.

  ‘What drugs are you on?’ It had been about ten months since I’d been asked that question. By a cop on Anzac Parade. I’d driven my car, fortunately slowly, into a power pole. On the wrong side of the road. Anzac Parade is about 200 metres wide, so the question was fair enough. I had a blood alcohol reading in what is known in the trade as the dead zone.

  ‘Truth serum,’ I said. ‘Scopolamine and thiopental sodium. I wanted to make sure I got this just right.’

  I handed him a document. It was done up like an advertising flyer for Robert J Green and Partners. The kind of crap they send you about the latest incomparable property they have for sale. Incomparable except for all the other incomparable properties they have for sale, that is. Gabby had set it up for me on her home computer, I drafted it, printed a few copies at RSLC. I had assumed Sam the Spinner mode while composing it. Company Profile, I had started. Robert J Green, CEO. There was a photo of Bobby Boy. The text began: ‘Robert J Green is a wife beater.’

  I know. Old cliché. Hitting below the belt. Accusing a successful, upstanding businessman of that.

  There was the slap and the chicken.

  There were two black eyes I remember, an arm in plaster, and one split lip. The lip earnt Robert J Green a displaced fracture of the jaw courtesy of Doyle’s Mowing and Gardening.

  Then there was the day Heather told me all of it. In Privet for 2.

  So, fuck clichés. And fuck Bob Green.

  He read the document and lost the burnt orange tint. He reddened up a bit. A muscle in his cheek contracted into a ball, sinews slithering like worms. Probably around the fracture site. For a guy who shifted top of the line bricks and mortar in the ritziest square metres of Sydney, he looked a little tense.

  ‘This is a farrago of lies . . . this . . . if this goes to anyone, fucking anyone, you have bought yourself a defamation suit that . . .’

  Farrago of lies. If I’d had a gun, I’d have shot him. I swear.

  ‘Defamation suit all you like, Bobby Boy,’ I said. ‘If you don’t hire my paintings for the agreed fee, that goes into every letter-box I can find from Rushcutters to Bondi.’

  ‘You are fucking –’

  ‘And let me give you a tip about the defamation suit. Free advice from an ex-con. One: I’ll plead truth and public interest. Two: I’ll take my “give us freedom of speech at long last–public figure defence” argument to the High Court. Three: when I lose, my net worth is minus seven figures plus change. Go your hardest.’

  ‘I’ll have the best law firm in Sydney . . .’

  That’s another one that always cracks me up. The threat of the best law firm in town. Always the first or last refuge of the scoundrel. Who are these guys, anyway?

  ‘Get ’em, Bob. Call now. Ask for the department that gets blood out of stones. I want my fucking money.’

  This day had been a long time coming. Bill Doyle had started it. He had gotten his swing in. I had always wanted mine. For me. For Heather. I had never been brave enough, though. Now, well, there was that old saying: if it doesn’t destroy you, it will make you stronger. Being disbarred had made me stronger, less afraid. Still an idiot, but brave. I was immune from suit. Invulnerable. I am Bankruptcy Man. I want George Clooney to play me in the movie. Or Sean Penn. Alec Baldwin can take over as I mature. Any of the Hollywood liberal left will do. And Catherine Zeta-Jones co-stars, of course.

  ‘This is blackmail,’ Green said after a pause. His jaw was packing up on him. It looked like it was cramping. ‘It’s a criminal offence. I will call the police.’

  ‘You’re a boring prick, Bob,’ I said. ‘We’ve been over that. Call them. They’ll come. I’ll deny everything. Or maybe I won’t. I may get charged. I’ll be bailed. I will then drop fifty fucking thousand of these in letterboxes. Won’t that upset your competitors? How many new listings do you think Robert J Green and Partners will get after that?’

  Again, he was quiet for a moment. His skin was making a decision about red or burnt orange. I broke the silence. ‘Look, Bob. This is silly. These threats. We’re both adults now. This is business. You give me 20K, and I might just waive the 3K per week. We’ll see. You get two nice paintings as security. They’re downstairs now, and they’re worth double what I’m asking for. One in the foyer, one here. Then we’re sweet.’

  There had been idle gossip about Bob Green for years. There always is in impolite society. Just small murmurs, whispers, innuendo, scuttlebutt, tittle-tattle, the faintest buzz of hearsay upon hearsay thrice removed. He and the artist may have had a stormy relationship. That’s code for he hit her. He had ridden out these rumours, ducked most of the mud, counted the cash. He had become a success, a celebrity real estate agent. Sydney forgives you anything if you’re a financial success. If you’re top of the charts, you’re still on the A-list. Just don’t fail here. I could hear Green’s cogs whirring. This pamphlet might just fuck things up.

  ‘I can give you ten,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘How do I know you won’t take the money and rat on the deal?’

  ‘Bobby Boy,’ I said. ‘Do I look like a politician? One of your colleagues? I’m a struck-off lawyer. I’m way up the food chain on you. Of course you can trust me.’

  He paused. ‘I can’t hang those things up here,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘My wife.’

  I nodded. Bob Green’s third wife was from the Fiona Hardcastle School of Management. They had the same manicurist. Photo taken at some A-list party every week. Jaw angular enough to pick a lock with. He had a point.

  ‘If you make it twenty, you can hide them in one of your other agent’s rooms. Tell them to keep quiet.’

  I felt it would make a lovely monument to poetic justice if Robert J Green and Partners had Mr and Mrs Green hung in its foyer. The 20K would do, though. He picked up the World War II Japanese sub to write me a cheque. I stopped him.

  ‘No, Bob,’ I said. ‘Electronic transfer. Nine-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine dollars into these two accounts.’ I gave him a piece of paper. ‘Get on to your bank. Now.’

  He called me that word starting with C. The one I’d painted on his car. I let it ride.

  ‘It’s for a good cause,’ I said when he finished the call. ‘You may even get a tax deduction.’

  ‘Drugs, is it? I hope you OD.’ It’s that kind of wit that each year shifts hundreds of the finest homes on the harbour and its leafy surrounds.

  I waved goodbye to the blonde as I left. While I was headed for Harry’s car I noticed Bob Green’s Porsche at the back. Cabriolet. Canary Yellow. RJG 001 numberplate.

  As a child, I’d felt a four-letter word come on. As a man, it was a four-word sentence.

  Very, very small penis.

  Thirty-Four

  I rang De Luca first. I congratulated him on his new position. He did likewise. I still wasn’t feeling well. I would be in later in the morning, though, and I needed to see him.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘A new claim,’ I said. ‘Public liability. Horrendous injuries. Brain damage, loss of a leg, and quadriplegia. The complete catastrophe. Medical student, would you believe? We’re shot on liability.’

  ‘What? When did this come in?’

  ‘It depends what you’re asking me. The Statement of Claim was served a few days ago. I’ve been reading it in my sick bed. There are some medicals that were served too. Those ambulance chasers at Black, Ackerman act for the plaintiff.’

  ‘Are we only hearing about this now? When was the accident? We must have been –’

  ‘The insured put us on notice immediately. It looks like there was some internal stuff-up. The claims officer who got the original notifications left.’

  ‘Who? Is this in the bordereau? Why are you –’

  ‘Did you listen to me? I’ve onl
y just found out about it. Can we discuss it when I get in?’

  ‘See me as soon as you do.’

  I thought he’d be interested.

  After a shower, I caught a cab to Laura Green’s. She looked frailer already. Her voice was distant, even when she was close to me.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked when she took me into the library where she was resting.

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘You’re still going up north?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We fly out Friday morning.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?’

  She nodded. ‘There are people to say goodbye to.’ Somebody tell me what to say next. ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Making progress,’ I said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘While you’re away, can I stay at the house?’

  She looked at me closely. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘You still have your flat?’

  ‘I’ve been staying with a friend. I’m about to outstay my welcome.’

  ‘You’re always welcome here.’

  ‘Thanks. Bill will be here some of the time too. We thought we’d finish getting the garden back into shape.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘What are you really up to?’ Even frail, even with her voice weakened, she suddenly sounded strong.

  If I explained everything one more time I would stop believing it. ‘This will sound stupid, but I’m saving a life,’ I said again. ‘Don’t ask, please. Just trust me.’

  ‘That sounds noble. And mysterious. Whose life?’

  ‘Mine,’ I said. ‘I think.’

  ‘I’m very pleased, then.’ Nothing else was said for a few seconds. ‘You’re not going to get yourself into trouble again, are you?’ she said.

  ‘Probably,’ I answered. ‘But it’s for a good cause this time. If there’s going to be trouble, I can handle it. I’ve decided that I’m braver than I thought I was.’

  ‘I’ve always thought you were brave.’