by Peter Corris
‘It’s twisted,’ I said. ‘This guy in Bronte kicked me, and your offsider here broke my stick. Do you know Freddy Ward’s heavy named Rex?’
‘I know him,’ Mac said.
‘He’s tougher than this bloke and I took him.’
‘How was your leg then?’ Bob asked.
‘I’ll look out for you when the leg gets better.’
It was thin stuff and not making any impression. The sweat of fear jumped out on me when I realised what an empty sound my last words had had. There was no response to them. The knee wasn’t going to get better. Their faces wore the curious, dispassionate look of the judges at the Nuremberg trials. Wheels were in motion, inexorably.
Sharon spoke for the first time in a tinny, sick little voice. ‘She might like that, the knee.’ What she said made no sense to me, so I ignored it.
‘I don’t understand why you picked me up,’ I said.
Mac waved his cigar hand expansively. ‘You will, mate. Forget about Singer and all that. There’s someone who wants to see you again.’
A door off to the right opened and Smelly came in with some sticking plaster across his face. He held the door wide and a smallish, dark figure glided into the room-Mary Mahoud.
25
Mahoud didn’t waste time getting down to business. One, two, three steps across the thick carpet in her desert boots and she was smashing me in the face with her fist. She had her arm back for the follow-up when Mac shook his silver head and said, ‘Bob’, quietly. It was a nice friendly name for a man in Bob’s line of work, and I felt quite well-disposed towards him as he eased Mahoud away with a bit of arm and shoulder work.
‘I wish I could say it was nice to see you,’ I said.
She sneered at me. ‘You’ll be sorry for everything.’ She wasn’t panting with rage and her eyes weren’t alight with triumph. They were dull, flat and malevolent. I gathered she blamed me for Manny’s death and hadn’t forgiven me for busting up her million-dollar gaol. It was a lot to hold against a man, and I had a feeling she had something unpleasant planned for me.
‘You’re crazy,’ I said. ‘You should be out of the country. Everyone’s hunting you, Federal cops…’
‘Manfred had all of that planned. A place to hide, but we thought we would have more time.’
‘You grabbed the money and ran.’
She raised her hand as if she was going to hit me again. She had simple solutions. But she changed the movement into a shrug. ‘Yes, I was afraid. I ran away.’
I understood her better then; she was feeling guilty about shooting through on Manfred and she’d never be able to justify it to him or herself. I was a good target for that disturbance, too. I turned to look at Mac and Sharon, but I made the movement a bit too suddenly and my dented head, torn ear and battered ribs all hurt.
‘Do you know what this bitch did?’ I said. ‘She had these old people in cages like animals. She fed them cat food while she banked their pensions. She let them die; probably helped some of them along.’
‘Probably,’ Mac said. ‘I read about it. No-hopers, plonkos, what do they matter? If the government’s crazy enough to give people like that money, there’ll be smarties around to take it off them.’
Sharon said, ‘Cat food? I didn’t read about that.’
‘You can’t read,’ Mac said. ‘It was on the telly, you should’ve seen it.’
‘Ugh, cat food.’
‘And pills and wine. They were zonked out most of the time.’
‘Humane, I’d call it.’ Mac gave his pot to Sharon again, patting her bum as she got up by way of apology for insulting her intelligence. Sharon swung her behind like a stripper on her way across to the bar. I’d been barking up the wrong tree trying to needle Mac. The talk had cheered him up; no-one was going to feed him cat food and cheap wine.
Mahoud got herself a tonic water and stayed near the window, sipping it. She didn’t look as if she had come to much harm in the time that had passed since Manfred sent her off for the van. The bruise on the side of her face had faded and I realised how misleading my description of her had been. The light in the house of horrors and the whole context had led me to exaggerate her mean, foxy look but out in the street, wearing those androgynous clothes, nobody would take a second look at her. She certainly didn’t look like a mass murderer. But then, neither had John Reginald Christie. One thing was certain, though; if she had any money on hand, she’d better watch it because I had the feeling that Mac around money was like a shark around offal. Maybe I could use that somehow. I moved the bad leg stiffly.
‘What was that about his knee?’ Mahoud asked.
‘Badly twisted,’ Bob said. ‘He’s got a sort of brace on it.’
Mahoud’s face took on some animation for the first time.
‘Manny did that,’ she said softly. ‘I’d like to twist it back the other way.’
‘Why not?’ Bob said. Sharon seemed to like that; she tried to sip and laugh at the same time and a cough was the result.
‘You’re too young to drink,’ I said.
‘You shut up!’ Mac snapped. ‘There’s a little package deal on here, Hardy, for your information. Miss Mahoud needs some documents which I can supply because she’s got the do-re-mi. She’s paid a bit more to meet up with you again. I was curious about you, too. My curiosity’s satisfied.’
‘Mine isn’t,’ I said. ‘And the cops aren’t far off. Bob only dropped some of them. They doubled up.’
‘Crap!’ Mac had his beer going down again and that always seemed to cheer him. ‘That’s garbage. You’re shit scared, anyone could see that. The cops are so short-handed they shit in shifts. You dumped them, Bob. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll be saying goodnight, Hardy. Bob and Terry can handle the rest of it, Miss Mahoud.’
She put her glass down hard. It made a ringing noise that swung every eye in the room her way.
‘No, I don’t trust them,’ she said, fiercely. ‘And I don’t trust you. He might be telling the truth about the policemen. I want you there too, Mr Mac’
‘Listen,’ Mac snarled. ‘I don’t do this sort of thing, not any more. You’ve got two good men and you’ve got my word.’
‘No, you come or no money.’
Bob stepped up, but Mac signalled him back. Smelly Terry used the diversion to sneak himself a drink at the bar. Sharon glared at him, but Mac drank some more beer and appeared to be thinking. He wiped his mouth and got up. I read volumes in that, and none of it good for Mary Mahoud. ‘All right,’ Mac said heavily. ‘You can come, too, Sharon.’
‘No!’ she squeaked. ‘No, I don’t want to.’
Mac slapped her twice. He swivelled to do it in the way wrestlers do, and he put some of that bulk into it. The girl staggered and he caught her.
‘I don’t want any unpleasantness, Sharon. Just do everythink you’re told.’
He didn’t include me in that. I was already beginning to feel that I wasn’t there, wasn’t anywhere.
‘Where are we going?’
Mac grinned at me and looked across at Bob.
‘I don’t think the place has a name,’ Bob said.
They bustled about collecting car keys and cigarettes, like people getting ready for a picnic. Terry picked up a slice of pizza and tucked it away. Mac looked at him indulgently; Terry was evidently going to come into his own soon, and I doubted that his speciality was bird calls.
We made quite a crowd in the lift. Sharon edged away from Terry for obvious reasons, but no-one else seemed to mind his lack of personal freshness. Bob carried himself admirably-loose and unencumbered, leaving himself plenty of space to do whatever was called for. Mac was grim-faced, Mahoud looked edgy and I had to concentrate on keeping upright.
Terry scouted the car park and gave Bob the high sign. Mac handed Terry his keys.
‘Get the Merc over here,’ he said.
Then there was a shout and two shots and bodies were moving apart as if a great, sharp
blade was slashing at them. I dived for the ground, the knee screaming as I went. An interior light in a car positioned near the Commodore flashed on and I saw Freddy Ward’s arm jerk up. There was a shot from behind and above me-I guessed from Bob-and the windscreen of Ward’s car was starred. Two rapid shots came from another direction and there was a grunt behind me. I thought I might as well make my contribution and I scrabbled at my trouser leg. Someone shouted ‘Stop!’ There was another shot and then echoes and then silence.
A voice, close to my ear asked, ‘What are you doing, Cliff?’
I let go of my pants, swore and turned my head to see Roger Wallace of the Wallace Brown Agency. He stands about six foot four in his three-piece suit.
‘Hello, Rog,’ I croaked. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘Word gets around, Cliff. When Freddy got out the guns and came after Mac, I knew you’d be in the middle. You owe me money; I had to take steps to protect it.’
‘I’m glad you did. Who shot who?’
He helped me up and I leaned against a Rover which felt solid enough to prop me up.
‘Let’s see.’ He lifted his head and looked across the neon-lit concrete. ‘Ward shot one of McLeary’s boys. He’s dead. One of my boys shot a guy in Ward’s car. He’s not dead.’
Freddy Ward and another man were standing by the car with the broken windscreen. One of Roger’s operatives was covering them a bit dramatically with a pistol. Ward looked pale and gaunt under the light. I blew him a kiss and his face went stony. I couldn’t see Rex or Tal. Behind me Terry was standing stock still near the lift, his hands reaching up for the illuminated sign that said ‘Elevator’. Another of Roger’s men was watching him but dividing his attention between Terry and a huddle on the ground that was bright and dark and making sobbing noises.
I limped over and saw that it was Mac with his head in Sharon’s lap. I looked at Roger and he shook his head.
‘Not shot. Heart, I think. Ambulance on the way.’
Bob’s legs were sticking out from behind a car. Those big bullets push hard.
‘Did you see a dark woman with us, Roger?’
‘Quickest mover I ever saw. She took off.’ He pulled out a packet of Marlboro and offered them. I put out my hand, remembered and pulled it back. I shook my head and other parts of me were shaking as well.
‘Cliff,’ Roger blew a stream of smoke in Terry’s direction. ‘What were you doing with your strides down there on the ground?’
‘It’s going to rain,’ I said. T was scratching my knee.’
26
The cops had never had so many licensed, bonded private detectives together in the one place at the one time before, and they made the most of it. The scene at Police Headquarters was like something out of Colombo and the cops swaggered or bumbled around, according to how they cast themselves. Roger Wallace got through it all with an icy smile on his face. His men frazzled a little towards the end and I frazzled a lot as my leg hurt me more and more. Analgesics and caffeine were fighting skirmishes in my system, bombing and strafing and laying waste to the territory. Roger’s men mocked me for not having a gun, but I couldn’t see that they needed any more guns. Frank Parker and I had an unspoken pact-he wouldn’t draw attention to my bleeper if I wouldn’t mention how easily the late Bob had dropped his men off in Redfern.
Frederick Allan Ward was charged with murder, which would be reduced to manslaughter because he had a good enough lawyer to see to that. A policewoman took Sharon off somewhere, I never found out where. Rex and Bob were dead, Mac was in hospital and Terry was charged with silly stuff like unlicensed firearms and attempted abduction.
Before everything wound up about three am, the news came through that Mac had died of a massive coronary. In the taxi on the way home I reflected that Freddy Ward’s chances of becoming the vice king of Macarthur Onslow land had taken a nosedive. That left Mrs Marion Singer. I thought about her just a little.
I went to sleep on the couch at four am, fell off it an hour and a half later and couldn’t get back to sleep. I made coffee as the sun came up, and my crashing about in the kitchen woke Hilde, who came down the stairs yawning and rubbing her eyes.
Her hair was all tousled and she had a warm bed smell. She pulled her dressing-gown tight. We drank the coffee sitting on the couch; my clothes were lying around on the floor and the leg brace draped across a chair looked like a cross between a jockstrap and a groin shield. I had a black, gravelly beard and sour breath. She finished her coffee first and did a quick, professional examination of my knee.
‘Sore?’
‘Bloody sore.’
‘Well, what happened to Michael Caine?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You still don’t know? But I got the impression your job was finished.’
‘I think it is. I think my client’s entirely satisfied and I’ve lost enough skin and sleep over the bloody thing, anyway.’
That day the hospital bill came and I sent it to Mrs Singer. I used the knee exerciser. I limped into town and bought a new walking stick with a rubber tip and a nice swing to it. My patience gave out that evening and I tried to phone Mrs Singer, but there was no answer. She called me the next day. I heard STD bleeps and an urgent note in her voice.
‘I want you to come up here, Mr Hardy. I’m at my place on the Hawkesbury.’
‘That’s nice, Mrs Singer. Can’t you just tell me all about it on the phone? I’ve got a few accounts to send you, of course.’
‘No, no. I have something to show you and we have a lot to talk about.’
‘I take it you’re satisfied.’
She paused. ‘All your expenses will be met in full. I really must see you. As far as I’m concerned, I’m still employing you.’
That surprised me. I didn’t exactly mind being paid for sitting around resting my leg, reading a bit and having a quiet drink or two, but it added to my confusion. I tried to draw her out on how my erratic activities had pleased her, but she wouldn’t play. She asked me to have lunch with her at the Beleura Waters restaurant on the river. When I hesitated, she suggested that the invitation was an order.
‘I can’t drive with this knee.’
‘I’ll send a car.’
What could I say? A Fairlane with a taciturn Scot at the wheel arrived at eleven am and we set off north.
He didn’t talk well, but he was a terrific driver. We moved smartly against the sluggish flow of traffic down into the narrow streets of Sydney. We got to the river about midday, parked, and I waited for the restaurant boat to pick me up.
‘What’ll you do?’ I asked the driver.
‘I’ll wait,’ he said. ‘I have a packed lunch.’
It was a bright, warm day. Spring comes to the Hawkesbury. There were patches of green and yellow on the rocky river banks where grass and wildflowers had gained a hold. The trees were aggressively native, gums that exhibited all the shades from khaki to grey. But we loved them. The other revellers numbered about half a dozen and included a state cabinet minister. Parliament was sitting that day as far as I knew, but the minister had a very pretty young Asian woman with him, so I suppose he could have been on a goodwill mission. I had on my best drill slacks and a denim shirt that I’d ironed. I also had my new walking stick and the bandage was off my ear.
The boat was a wide, flat-bottomed craft with a fringed awning over the seating section and a convincing Johnson outboard motor. A thin, elegant boatman handed us in and whipped the boat out into the current.
Half the people in the boat didn’t need lunch and the rest looked like professional dieters. The minister kept his hand on the Asian woman’s knee and looked into her almond eyes. I was glad I wasn’t driving. The restaurant had a reputation for drinkable wine.
The restaurant is a plain brick and stone affair set right on the river. It has a couple of hundred square feet of unfashionable louvre windows that should look terrible but don’t.
Mrs Singer was waiting for us at a corner table com
manding the best view of the river. She was dressed to kill in a white linen suit. Her silvery hair had that expensive disarray and her makeup was somewhere between bold and restrained. Up close, there were signs of strain around her eyes and mouth, but she put together a pretty good smile.
‘Mr Hardy,’ she said. ‘That stick and limp are maddeningly attractive.’
‘They look better than they feel, Mrs Singer.’
‘Marion,’ she said. ‘What will you drink?’
‘Gin and tonic, thanks, like before.’
‘Being bashed hasn’t affected your memory. I’m sorry you had such a hard time.’
She looked concerned, but not sorry.
The drinks came. She seemed determined to stay off business for a while, and I let her. She was laying on the charm and affluence with a trowel and there had to be a reason. The menu arrived and we chatted about that. She had a medallion of venison and a lettuce leaf. I had a steak. She ordered a bottle of German wine, most of which I drank while she sipped Perrier. She pointed out a few local characters as boats puttered by on the river. I noticed that she’d upped her tar content-she was smoking Rothmans and plenty of them.
No sweets by consensus; on to coffee and down to business. Marion hauled out her cheque book and wrote out a big one for days worked, expenses incurred and some for luck. Lots for luck.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Lovely lunch, too. Now, tell me how I earned it.’
The strain was showing more clearly now; there were tiny lines running down into that superbly defined mouth and her eyes had unhappy depths. She took a couple of sheets of paper from her handbag and passed them to me. A waiter came with cigars. I thought for a second, Why not? and then I thought, Why?
The sheets were typed on and numbered. The first carried a date two years and a few weeks before.